#because I haven’t left people faceless to them

[burinazar]

……

i…………feel bad about………something. the same thing as earlier. ugghh I hate how much this bugs me

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

In Love and War Pt II

Summary: Warlord!Rhys takes his mate back to his mountain camp and Tamlin's!sister!Reader has to decide the best way to try and escape

Content Warnings: Morally Grey!Rhys, talks of violence

Part I

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We ride for hours. The first two riders I’d seen join us after the first; they too have wings, tucked tight against their backs. Under different circumstances, I might be tempted to ask why they bothered with horses at all when they can simply fly, but thought better of it. The less I learn about them the better. All the easier to keep them in my mind as some faceless evil so I feel a little less guilty about putting an arrow in their eye when I escape. Rhysand has foolishly left me with my weapons, I'll put that mistake to good use when the time is right. 

By the third hour, we’ve left the bog and the forest behind, riding through what was once a sprawling plain but is now nothing but weeds. There is no magic left to keep this place fertile and thriving. Hybern’s Cauldron backed powers have stripped most of the land of its power, leaving ruin and famine behind in its wake. Little has managed to grow since, he’s been using the Cauldron to make sure a majority of the crops grow in his fields, where his slaves can tend them and ensure he gets the bulk of the harvest. There's nowhere to run out here.

Especially not when the rest of the riders regroup. There are twelve of them in total, all falling behind my captor as his great, midnight black stead takes the lead. 

I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, could not afford to keep one, but the ones that I had, back in my youth, had never been this graceful. Even with my added weight the horse gallops like it has wings, swift as the wind, its blue-black mane trailing gracefully behind it. I almost don’t mind the ride, minus the circumstance and company, as the sun begins to set ahead of us, the sky a symphony of purple, orange and pink.

Eventually, we come to a river, flowing with large chunks of ice from a not yet frozen ice flow further upstream, where they stop to water their mounts. 

My captor dismounts first, large, gloved hands gripping my waist to help me down. By the Mother, his hands are so large against my hips! I’m suddenly very aware of my own size. 

“Don’t try and run,” he warns.

I glance around to my lack of escape routes and roll my eyes. “Darn, I was planning on throwing myself into the river.”

One of the others, the male I’d spotted first I think, snorts beneath his hood. 

Rhysand grunts out a warning before leading his horse to drink and filling a canteen he had tucked in his saddle bag. His back is, foolishly to me, I could easily draw my knife and stab him right here, but a quick glance around tells me that really would end with me taking a trip down the river. All his men carry swords and knives and there’s one with a wicked looking dagger strapped to his thigh; I barely reach the chin of the shortest among them, and that doesn’t account for at least a hundred pounds of muscle difference between us. I know that I have thinned, my ribs poking out beneath the heavy, hole ridden sweater. Some days I feel… brittle. Today especially. I’m not winning any fights against one of them, let alone twelve.

No, I just need to be smart. Wait for an opening, steal a horse, and run as far away as possible. So far, whatever this monster thinks I’m supposed to be to him has saved me from harm, I don’t plan on sticking around to see how long that protects me. Even if I did believe in mates-- as if the Mother ever cared enough about me to give me a soul tie to anyone--I’ve seen the worst in people enough to know it didn’t mean much in the end. What’s a mate but someone obligated to be a breeding mare? What’s a bond if not a magically induced aphrodisiac? I have little doubt that I’m actually safe here; just alive and conscious because it’s too much of a hassle to try and drag my limp body around.

My scheming comes to a grinding halt as Rhysand returns with the canteen, water sloshing the edge as he holds it out for me. It hasn’t occurred to me just how dry my mouth is until I see that water. 

Of course, I’m not going to let him know that. “No thanks.”

“I’m not going to poison you,” he returns.

“Poison's the least of my concerns,” I retort.

He grabs my hand and pushes the canteen into it. “Drink.”

“Bite me,” I snarl.

His men chuckle at that, which must upset him because his wings twitch behind him. He draws a deep breath before saying, “Ask nicely, mate.”

I should dump the water directly on his head, and my hand twitches around the canteen as I debate it, but in the end I decide against it. This male murdered half my family in cold blood, whatever thin amount of protection I might have remains only as long as he doesn’t think I’m a threat. To escape, I need to be smart.

On that subject, does he even know who I am? Does he remember riding into our camp that night, sword drawn, slaughtering my people as they jumped from their mats? Or were we just another blurred face in the mass of lives he’s taken in the name of conquest? He’s as bad as Hybern. Even if he has forgotten, I won’t.

I twist the lid back on without drinking anything, ignoring the way my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“Don’t say I didn’t try,” he growls as he takes it back and slides it into his saddle bag. There’s a rolled up sleep mat, a blanket, and another sword all tied neatly to that bag. Nothing too heavy, meaning their encampment can’t be far. I need to find a way to get away before they reach it; there will be too many eyes there.

“Your bow,” he says, holding out his hand. 

My hand tightens instinctively around the belt across my chest, the leather worn and cracked from years of use. “No.”

“You can’t ride into camp with them.”

“Great, then you can just leave me here.”

It takes him two steps to be back beside me, and I’m embarrassed to admit how easy it is for him to snag the strap and yank it over my head, despite my best efforts to keep that from happening. 

“Give that back!” 

“The knife can stay, as long as you don’t do anything stupid,” he says like I’m a misbehaving child. 

He keeps his back to me as he ties my bow and quiver up next to his second sword, my stomach rolling at the sight of my things next to his. 

Rhysand orders his men to mount up as he turns back to me, and I get the impression he’s looking me over for more weapons beneath the hood. I still have no idea what he looks like. Ugly and scarred, like most warlords are, I imagine. I’d never gotten a good look at him that night, had only seen those three stars on his hood and that giant sword between his wings, dripping blood. 

“You won’t need any weapons,” he says, in what sounds like it’s an attempt to be gentle, but falls flat. “You’re safe with me.”

I’d have been safer with the kelpie. But I don’t say it, I don’t say anything at all as those large hands lift me back onto the horse, or when he swings into the saddle behind me. I don’t say anything when we cross the river, icy water biting through my thin pants, making my teeth chatter, or when the wind whips relentlessly at us as we leave the grassy plains and head into the mountains. The chill feels like a thousand needles being jammed into my skin, but I will bear it silently. He will not get the satisfaction of seeing me weak; will not be gratified by any sort of conversation for the duration of our journey.

Or at least, that was the plan. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, one hand gripping the reins as he uses the other to slide his cloak off his shoulders and over mine.

The material is thick, lined with fur inside, so startlingly warm between his own body heat and the fur that when it settles over me I give a little sigh of relief. The sleeves are too big, swallowing my hands as I try to pull it more fully over my body. “Thanks.” It slips out of me before I can stop myself.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he replies as he settles around me again.

The smell of him, jasmine and citrus and the sea invades all my senses. I want, more than anything, to get it out of my nose, to keep the knowledge of him far, far away from me, but yet, despite my mind’s protests, my body burrows deeper into it. 

There’s still no encampment or settlement on the horizon, the horses moving deeper and deeper into the mountains as night falls around us. As long as we’re not stopping to make camp, I think I’ll survive. 

“And you haven’t told me yours.” If there must be a conversation, best I can do to buy myself time is steer all conversation away from me.

“I’ve had many names, but most call me Rhys.”

Most called him Death Incarnate amidst a number of things that would make a sailor blush, but I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone call him Rhys. That was entirely too normal. 

“Ok, Rhys,” it tastes like bile on my tongue, acknowledging him as anything other than the monster he has always been called back home. “Where are we going?”

The moon shines bright above us, illuminating the slender path we take through the mountains, a steep drop off on one side of us, nothing but sheer rock wall on the other. 

“Home,” he replies. 

I can’t help the scowl that escapes me, but at least he can’t see it. “And where is home exactly?”

“You’ll see soon,” he replies as he expertly guides his mount up a rocky path. There is no hesitation in his movements; he’s ridden this path many times.

I run a hand over my forehead. “I don’t remember coming this far out.” It slips out of me. If he knows this path then we’re close to the Illyrian borderlines, where his warband can make a semi-permanent encampment. These are grounds I’m not supposed to be anywhere near, nor did I think I was. 

“Where were you headed?” 

My brother’s made his claim through the Grasslands, the ground barely fertile to feed the livestock in the summer. With winter coming fast, he’d tried pushing his boundary lines into the forests near what had once been the Human Lands. I meant to go through the woods, skirting around Hybern’s slave camps and slip into the Uncharted Territories to find some game. I must have skirted too far past the slave camps when I’d lost my map running from those Highway Men.

“The Uncharted Lands,” I say because I honestly can’t come up with a lie that doesn’t make it look like I belong to Hybern or Amarantha. The boundaries between the warbands shift too often, encroaching too close. Sometimes I can barely tell who’s who and this is the only world I’ve ever known.

“Why?” He asks as we crest an incline and lead the men over a long, smooth plateau on the mountain’s western face. The wind is worse here, snapping at us like whips and before I can even burrow into my borrowed cloak, he’s drawing the hood of it over my head.

His arm tightens around my waist as he barks at his men to start riding single file. 

“Was looking for food.”

The horse’s hooves echo between the valley of rock beneath us as we press forward, the precariousness of our situation buying me time to figure out my lie. If I’m not hunting for my brother, what am I doing out here? It’s been a long day; a long week honestly. The rumbling of my stomach and the wind at my face and the warlord at my back seem to occupy the limited space in my quickly tiring mind. The hood of the cloak doesn’t help. It is embedded with some sort of magic, because even though it makes everything dark and warm, I can somehow see right through the fabric, right where that cluster of stars are, as if they’re eye slits. Magic items are rare these days, and expensive, I could probably buy out the Grassland’s market of deer jerky for this item alone.

Eventually the plateau dips, taking us down the other side of the mountain, into the misty canyon below. If I didn’t know where I was before, I really don’t now. Mountains are Illyrian territory, as forbidden and unwelcoming as the Imperial City Hybern had erected in The Middle centuries ago. I need to be paying attention so I know the way back; my eyes are sharp, sharper than most, I should be able to make out a deer path or trail easily, even in the dark, but my eyes are so heavy.

I give myself a little shake. Gotta be paying attention.

The swaying, even gate of the horse reminds me of being a small child, sitting in my mother’s rocking chair as she reads me to sleep. She and my father had always loved telling us stories, my father his made up theories and tales from the road, my mother her books and poems. I try to sit up and adjust my position in the saddle so I’m not slouching forward.

“You do not ride often,” Rhys says, his grip pulling me back more solidly against his chest, so I can feel all the hard planes of him. He’s got to be freezing without his cloak, even if he is still wearing long sleeves and gloves.

“No,” I bite back the rest of the story; how my people had suffered with the loss of my father. How Tam hadn’t been able to organize our survivors in the aftermath, how he’d been unable to store enough food for us that first winter and many of our rider’s had deserted. How he’d had to decide if keeping our stables full was worth the price of the lives hunger was stealing from us; how we’d been forced to eat and sell a few of them, my father’s prized war horse included. 

“We’ll change that,” he says, half to me, half to himself. “I think I like having my mate ride with me.”

I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. At least I’m awake now. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

The mist settles around us as we step into the valley, even as the path ahead becomes nearly invisible, he doesn’t slow or get down to walk the horse. He knows where he’s going, has done this so many times he could do it blind. A rare gift many of our traveling cities don’t receive. Envy swells in my chest. I have never had  a place secure enough to set up a permanent camp. The Grasslands are our borders sure, but we move through them daily in fear of an attack, keeping ourselves vigilant for whenever Hybern or Amarantha decide they want more than they’ve already taken from us. Always changing our paths, our camp layout, always moving. How come this monster gets this luxury and my people don’t? 

“You are so hesitant to give it,” he muses, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Do I know it already?”

Shit.

“No, that can’t be right. Our bond is too obvious, I would have remembered.”

He’s as clever as he is quick on his feet, unfortunately.

“So I will know you by association, is that it?”

I should just fling myself off the horse and try to lose myself in the mist. If I’m lucky, maybe one of his men will trample me by accident and this horrible nightmare will be over. At least, if I’m dead I will not have to explain my failure to Tam, or face the alternative of being this male’s breeding mare. Neither is a future I wish to meet.

It is only then that an alternative solution occurs to me.

Tam said I couldn’t come back without food; I’d made a nuisance of myself back home and had swiftly suffered the consequences of it, and with winter coming in fast, my brother has to know he sent me on a fool’s errand. Perhaps intending to keep me out of his way for a while; or to finally get me to bend the knee and submit to his authority as warlord. I hadn’t been of age to take father’s mark, and my allegiance had fallen through the cracks in the years after. Until I was integrated, Tam couldn’t marry me off, as I suspected he wanted to do often, and was probably using this opportunity to try and make me see reason. A future I also loathed to picture. Perhaps, if I played my cards right here, then I could find something more useful than a deer to bring back. If I played along with this little mates concept, what could Rhysand show me? Couldn’t I use any knowledge he gave to my advantage? Surely Tam would find other uses for me than marrying me off with this sort of leverage. My brother was known for his grudges, if I found a way to offer up his enemy on a silver platter, perhaps I’d never have to worry about being married off again.

My stomach twists as the plot plays out before my eyes: This fool taking me into the lands my people had never been able to access before, convincing him to let his guard down, to show me where his people were vulnerable. I could get my hands on camp movements or their supply lines; I could count the fighting men or the horses, make list after list to take back in the place of a few meals I know deep down I’d never be able to find before winter. 

My parents faces flash before my eyes. My mother, so gentle and…sad. She had been sad long before my birth, always missing a home she couldn’t go back to because of Hybern. But she had always tried to be there for me. To sing to me and hold me. She had been good and kind and if she knew where I sat now… what I thought I might do…

And my father. He was cruel and cold and I’d spent a long time wondering if he’d ever loved me at all, but he had been a good leader. He had inspired the men, even on days that had been bleak. He’d been willing to shed whatever blood was necessary to ensure the survival of my people. If this opportunity had been presented while he was alive, he would have tossed a collar around my neck and dragged me to Rhysand’s doorstep himself. 

As for Tamlin, well if he so much as saw Rhysand’s arm around my waist as it was now he would have torn him to shreds. He would hate it, but I think my brother was as calculating and ruthless as my father had been. His protective nature could be overruled by what he deemed necessary to keep us alive. 

I’d need to play my cards right, if I was to make this work. “Yes,” and I force my voice to a whisper, my shoulders hunching in feign defeat. I will have to find ways not to look so utterly revolted about this male touching me; will have to bury all my base instincts to run and claw and fight every time he calls me his mate. But I can do it.

I will do it. For vengeance. For my angel of a mother. For the survival my father died for. I’d damn myself a hundred times over for a chance Tam had never found. 

He rests his chin on my shoulder, thinking and it takes every inch of willpower I possess to not shrug him off. A few hours together and this prick thinks he can just touch me so casually? As if I have no say in the matter because he is my mate and therefore owed whatever affection he sees fit to grant me?

“You can tell me, I promise I won’t hold it against you,” his voice is… gentle. Far more gentle than a man in his position should be and I have no idea how to respond to it. 

“My name is Y/N,” I saw softly, like I’m scared the wind will hear me. “Tamlin is my older brother.”

He stiffens behind me and I find myself holding my breath. This is it.

“He never mentioned he had a sister,” he says more to himself than me.

I almost audibly let loose a massive sigh of relief. “Yeah, well he isn’t too fond of me at the moment.” Never mind I didn’t know that he and Tamlin had ever talked on a mutual basis. Sometimes, usually over a mutually beneficial wedding ceremony, did rival camps come together and exchange weapons, food and sometimes training. If I remember correctly, I think there might have been times when we’d done so with the Illyrians, but never did Tam mention that he knew Rhysand personally. Rhysand was always a name whispered like a curse, as if saying it too loud would bring death and destruction upon us. 

“He sent you out here? Alone?” That last bit comes out like a growl.

“Banished, is more of the term he used,” I say under my breath, hoping the tone conveys embarrassment. 

“For what?” He hisses, his tone promising violence. It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Now what would convince Death Incarnate that I was something meek and fragile and in need of protection from my big, bad brother? If we really were mates, it would be in his nature to want to protect me, from both physical and emotional harm, but I needed to be careful. Too extreme a lie and I was likely to restart the war between our camps that had cost me my parents. I needed something to pack enough punch to convince him he needed to keep me close, to be looked after, but not so bad that it sparked a fight.

Perhaps my best bet was to appeal to the bond. “He wants me to take his mark,” I twist the sleeves of the cloak between my fingers as I speak. “So he can reap the benefits of marrying me off to one of Autumn’s commanders.”

Rhysand has gone still as death itself behind me and every nerve ending in my body feels like it’s on fire as whatever dark power lives within his skin comes to life. All my instincts scream at me to run, hide.

“But Eris is… cruel and I told Tam I couldn’t do it.” Eris was probably too old for Tam to try, but there had been talks, even when I was a girl, about how my father had wanted an alliance with Autumn, and Eris had his own history with the Illyrians. “He told me I needed to sort out my priorities and when I didn’t, he threw me out.”

“That’s just like him,” Rhysand snarls.

I bite down on my tongue to keep from snarling all the things I’d rather say in my brother’s defense. 

“How long have you been out here on your own?”

“About a week, I think,” I could say longer, but on the off-chance he has spies that could check that sort of thing--and I’m fairly certain the stories about Illyrians and their shadow agents are not far off--I’d rather play it safe. 

He brings his mount to a brief halt as two, looming carvings in the mountain’s face appear through the fog. The touring statues sporting the same great, talon tipped wings as Rhysand, stand guard over the pass ahead of us, their hewn sword held aloft. Sleeping wyverns lay at the base of each statue, their carefully carved eyes at eye level with us as the men fall in line behind us. The air is tinged with magic--overly sweet and oppressive-- as we approach, some sort of shield.

“From here,” he says softly in my ear, the mask still shielding the lower half of his face from the wind rough against my cheek. “You’ll never have to worry about being alone again.”

I’m going to be sick!  Play it safe. Play the game. For Tam. For Mom and Dad. I will myself to picture their faces again, to keep reminding myself what is at stake. 

Rhysand kicks the horse into motion again, passing through the shield with a flick of his gloved hand, soft ripples of magic parting for us like someone had pulled back a curtain. I’ve never seen anyone use magic so casually, so fluidly. Once all the riders have passed through, I feel the shield fall back into place behind us. No turning back now.

Ahead, the path begins to widen. At the far end of the path, still shrouded on either side by the mountains, sit two torches, the light guiding the way. When we reach them, the path dips dangerously into a valley, all filled with large, midnight black tents. More torches and bonfires light the cloth city, the sounds of drum beats and revelry beckoning from beneath us.

“I see the party started without us,” one of the men says from behind us.

“Devlon must have had a good run,” Rhysand muses as he takes us down into the valley. 

As the lights draw closer, I can start to make out the tribal markings and depictions sewn into the sides of the tents. There’s singing to go with the drum beats, all in a language that makes no sense to me, just like the markings. Something from the Mountains none of my people had ever been privy to. 

When we reach the outskirts of the city, we are greeted by two towering males, wearing little other than loose, dark paints and a smattering of blood red paint along their bare chests and faces. Each holds a spear, a dagger strapped to their muscled thighs. 

One barks something at Rhysand in Illyrian, his slate colored gaze fixed on me, still wearing the lord’s cloak. I’m grateful they cannot see my face, the fear I know will be clear in my eyes. It is hard enough to hide the trembling in my hands.

Rhysand dismounts to greet them, still speaking in Illyrian until they retreat into the maze of tents beyond. Despite the raucous laughter and music coming from the center, the rows of tents are organized into clear streets and sectors, some dancing bodies visible in between the rows, though most of the camp seems to be in its heart at the moment. 

He runs a gloved hand over the horses neck as he turns to face the men, their mounts dancing beneath them. “We will strategize in the morning.”

That is apparently dismissal enough, as his men bow their heads and kick their steads into motion around the outskirts of camp, soon disappearing into the darkness. My stomach drops as I realize I’m alone with my enemy for the first time all night. My anxiety only heightens as he takes the reins and guides the horse forward without a word of where we’re going.

I’m too scared to ask either.

Staying on the edge of camp means I cannot see any of what is happening within, though I glimpse bonfires and revelry often enough to guess. It is not unlike our own celebrations, even if the music is different.

Rhysand still doesn’t speak as we pass another group of sentries and head up a well worn path in the heart of the valley. The grass is lush here, would be up to his knees were it not for the cleared stretch lined by torches. It is quieter here, the music distant.

Overhead, the stars glitter like a million little diamonds, all the constellations I have memorized a stark contrast to the dark shadows of this hidden mountain world. We’re surrounded on all sides by mountains, shielded from view and harm by stone. It is so different to the rolling hills I am used to, it is nice to know that the stars, at least, have not changed.

The path leads to a secluded circle of larger tents, still black but stitched with stars not unlike the ones on the cloak I’m still wearing.

We pass yet another group of sentries as we approach, and only once we’re face to face with the largest tent in the circle does Rhysand finally stop.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I should have run. Should have thrown myself into the river. Should have risked a quick death trying to fight my way out of this than subjecting myself to this.

Rhysand grabs my waist again and lifts me off the horse as if I weigh nothing. Compared to his size, I’m sure I do. In the torchlight, this is the first time I’ve managed to glimpse his face. I’d been drastically wrong about his appearance. The monster that haunted my nightmares was not some old, scarred thing as I had pictured, I wasn’t sure he was even older than Tam. A young lord, his features sharp, but clean cut. Some of his raven black hair fell loose around his sun kissed face, framing a set of violet eyes so bright they practically glittered like stars in his head, the rest was braided with strands of blue and purple thread. By far the most beautiful male I’d ever seen in my life and I think I hate him a little more for it. 

“You must be tired,” he says finally.

I don’t know what to do or say, so I just nod, which I think might be a mistake because now we’re heading inside the tent and all I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears because I have made a terrible mistake!

By some magic trick, torches flair to life as we enter, the soft orange glow cast in eerie patterns against the sleek black leather walls. On one side of the tent is a bed large enough to accommodate someone with such massive wings, piled with furs and pelts of various animals. On the other end, a table with some chairs and various weapons and books and trinkets scattered about the top of it. There’s chests piled in the corner, locked and dusty like they haven’t been opened since they’d been moved in. The floor is covered in a dozen different rugs, all overlapping in an attempt to make the place feel cozier but the patterns and colors are all so different that it looks like a whacky patchwork quilt. Clearly a layout chosen by a male.

“I apologize for the mess,” he begins as he takes off the scarf tied around the lower half of his face and places it over the back of a chair. “I… was not expecting to come across anybody out there, let alone bringing anyone back.”

“What were you doing out there?” My voice shakes too much for my liking and I’m convinced I asked that far too quickly to not be totally obvious, but it’s too late to take it back now.

“Scouting,” he says with no further explanation as he tosses his gloves onto a heap of more gloves on the edge of the table. 

My muscles stiffen as I watch him warily. If he starts undressing I might really change my mind and try to run for it.

I am prepared to do what is necessary for my people, but that is a line I cannot cross yet. Not tonight.  

He steps closer to where I stand dumbly in the center of the room, drowning in his cloak, and he nudges the hood off my face with his knuckles. 

I have to remind myself to stop biting my lip as the fabric slides off my head. Even fully clothed, standing this close to him, with those violet eyes drinking me in like that, I feel very exposed and vulnerable. 

“You’re shaking,” he says softly, his hand drifting down the side of my cheek.

I hate that I shiver under his touch. Hate that my eyes go to his full lips and how soft they look in this torchlight. I hate that I find him beautiful, hate that I do not pull away as he cups my cheek. I hate myself for putting myself in this position in the first place. 

“I…” this is not an act, I really don’t know what to do or say here. My chest aches with the way he’s looking at me, like maybe there really is some strange, mystical thread linking us together and it’s coming awake the more he has his hands on me. Yet my mind balks and screams all the same and I cannot tell which of them is supposed to help me do this. “This is a lot.”

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he assures, his voice low and husky, a tone I think might be better suited to the bedroom. “You are safe with me.”

Safe.

As if he could ever make me feel safe.

His thumb rubs circles in my cheek, the calluses along his palm from years of sword play scratching pleasantly across my skin. Violet eyes rove over me, studying the plains of my face like he’s cataloging every detail. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

I let loose a breath as he heads back to the tent flap, where his horse is still waiting.

“For now, it would be best if you stay here. Don’t go anywhere without me. At least, not until you take my mark.”

And then he’s gone, finally leaving me alone for the first time in hours, but even if I wanted to do some snooping, I can’t. All I can do is stand there as my stomach rises in my throat. 

His mark.

How the hell was I supposed to go home bearing Rhysand’s mark? 

I rub my temples with my fingertips. I need to find something useful to take back to Tamlin and get out of here fast, because if I don’t, I may never be allowed to go home again.

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[lividstar]

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masterpost

៚ wc: 8.2k (total: ???)

៚ fluff, angst, fashion designer!hongjoong x model!reader (ft. personal assistant!seonghwa & photographer!wooyoung), slowburn, strangers to lovers, soulmates au if you squint, do french people actually say bonjour irl?

៚ playlist !

៚ Alone and aching for the connection that once felt so natural, you reluctantly turn to an unlikely companion: Pompidou, who listens to you pour out all the longing you’ve fought so hard to bury. While you grapple with the emptiness left by Hongjoong’s sudden withdrawal, he, too, finds himself lost, wrestling with the very feelings he’s tried to deny. Haunted by memories and choices he can’t quite reconcile, Hongjoong is caught between the familiarity of the past and the confusing reality of the present.

a/n: was supposed to upload this on the 27th cause that’s my birthday but i just can’t wait any longer 😅 keep an eye out for the littlest of details because nothing is as it seems in this chapter :P lmk what you guys think!

tags: @beabatiny @babymbbatinygirl

First of all, I hate myself. Second of all, I hate myself. Oh, and did I already mention that I hate myself? I just don’t know what to do anymore! It feels like it’s been a whole decade ever since I last picked up a pen to scribble on this godforsaken journal… I wish I could just go back to the time I was writing the page behind the one I’m writing on right now and just cancel my flight to Paris. This is all so frustrating, you know? Fashion Week is nearing, and I am not prepared at all—no, not even a little. I’m supposed to be spending my hours inside the studio practicing runway walks and testing out facial expressions, but no! I’m way too afraid of crossing paths with Hongjoong to even think about the consequences of not taking my preparations seriously! And speaking of Hongjoong…

He’s driving me to the edge of my sanity. I don’t know what’s going on with him—okay, scratch that, I definitely do. I just don’t get why he’s acting so avoidant all of a sudden… I mean, like, okay, I would understand his unprovoked need for distance between us if we actually kissed that night, but we didn’t. The farthest step we were able to take was just him holding onto the sides of my face and me looking at his lips like I’m a starved dog looking at its first meal of the day before Wooyoung fortunately interrupted us—so why is he acting up?

He’s like one of those girls you’d befriend in highschool who’d show up on the hallways suddenly judging your entire soul on a random Wednesday, and I don’t like it. Seriously, what’s his problem? He made me accustomed to his usual sweet and caring persona, and all of a sudden, he wants to act like this? What have I done wrong? Wasn’t it literally him who initiated the… whatever I’m supposed to call what happened that night?

I’m just concerned, you know. It’s been two weeks, and yet he’s still avoiding me like I’m the plague. I haven’t been receiving any messages from him at all lately, either. Even Madame Dupont is asking me why she no longer sees the “small young handsome boy” waiting for me outside the apartment building while leaning against his car. Wooyoung’s been trying to persuade me into confirming his theory that Hongjoong and I are going through a lovers’ quarrel for three days now, too. And guess who’s the most troubled of them all? Seonghwa. He’s been doing his best to put us back into speaking terms for a while now, and I don’t know why—I swear I didn’t ask him to do that.

Everyone is worried. Everyone but him.

You know, this brings me back to that unrecognizable faceless guy I see in some of my blurry flashbacks. I remember him asking me how long I’ve been bottling up my emotions, and when I told him I’ve been doing so for pretty much my entire life, he told me to consider writing in a journal.

What does the unrecognizable dude have to do with Hongjoong and his unreadable behavior? Nothing.

I just noticed that it’s been a while since I last wrote a journal entry, and… it’s been a while since I last let my emotions unravel. I remember the words that came out of his mouth that day.

“When you can’t figure out what you’re feeling, or if you need to let it all out, the only thing you have to do is pull this out along with a pen, and from then on, you can start writing away. Let yourself get lost in your own world.”

You know what, in a way, I think he and Hongjoong actually have something in common. I know I can’t say much because I only have one memory of this guy, but he spoke with as much wisdom as Hongjoong does. Also… “let yourself get lost in your own world.” That’s honestly the most Hongjoong-ish advice someone could ever give, given how he himself gets lost in his own world of artistry, too.

I just wish he’d stop ignoring me. I can’t help but feel like this is all somehow my fault… Am I just hurting myself by expecting things to suddenly go back to the way they used to be?

As you closed your journal with a weary sigh, your eyes drifted to the dim glow of your bedside clock reading 2:37 a.m. The room was silent, save for the soft hum of distant traffic, yet you felt far from at peace. It was a night for sleep, yet your mind wouldn’t quiet; thoughts of Hongjoong twisted and turned within you, refusing to settle.

“Why does it feel like this?” you murmured, pressing your palms into your face, as if that could somehow soothe the ache in your chest. You longed for comfort, for answers, even for a brief respite from the confusion that had become your constant companion. “If only that faceless guy could telepathically whisper some words of wisdom to me right now…”

Two weeks had passed since you last shared any words with Hongjoong—two weeks where every glance, every passing moment, felt laced with an unspoken tension that only deepened the rift between you. It was all becoming painfully real, the shift so clear to everyone around you. But no one knew the truth—the moment you almost kissed, the silent proximity that had left you dizzy and wondering. Even Seonghwa, in his genuine concern, couldn’t know the pang of vulnerability that had filled that night, the fear and excitement mingling as you’d come closer than ever before.

Your mind flashed back to the other day when the ache of his absence had been sharpest. You passed by him in a hallway, hoping for a flicker of his usual warmth, his soft gaze that once reassured you of your place in his world. But he’d brushed past with such indifference—not even nodding to acknowledge your presence, a chill in his demeanor that left you hollow. And then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with a rising sense of loss.

Without thinking, you picked up your phone and opened your gallery. Photos of Hongjoong filled your screen, and your eyes drift over candid snapshots—some of you and Hongjoong working late in the studio, others of him laughing or looking thoughtful, moments caught by your camera that now feel like glimpses into another lifetime. There’s a picture of him outside your apartment building, waving you goodbye one evening. Another shot of him hunched over his desk in concentration, unaware that you’d snapped the photo from across the room. Then, there’s a particularly precious one of the two of you, taken in his office—which was likely Wooyoung’s doing.

As you scroll, an ache blossoms within you, spreading in slow, insistent waves that make your chest feel tight. You can feel the sting of tears welling up in your eyes, and it catches you off guard. Why now? Why does he, of all people, have this power over you? You swipe at the tears, frustrated by the sudden swell of emotion. It’s not supposed to be like this, you tell yourself. Hongjoong is supposed to be your friend, your mentor, the one person in Paris who helped you find your footing when everything felt foreign. But as the images blur beneath the glisten of unshed tears, you can’t help but wonder if that’s all he’ll ever be—someone whose warmth once felt like home, and whose absence now feels like a loss you’re not ready to face.

The soft scratching at your window pulls you abruptly from your thoughts. For a moment, you freeze, glancing back at the phone you’d just placed on your desk. Carefully, you grab your journal—a flimsy defense, maybe, but it’s better than nothing. Heart pounding just slightly, you step forward, inching closer to the window.

When you peek over, you’re met with a familiar sight: Pompidou, the resident stray cat who had made the apartment building his kingdom, sits with one paw pressed to the glass, his usual unamused expression aimed your way.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, feeling the tension drain from your shoulders as you let out a soft laugh. Setting your journal on the bed, you reach over to open the window, letting him slip inside with practiced ease. He slinks past you with the air of someone who owns the place and makes himself right at home, hopping onto your bed and circling until he’s claimed his spot in the center.

You sit beside him, running a gentle hand over his soft fur. It’s strange how much you missed him. For the past few weeks, your room felt emptier without his occasional visits—without that extra little creature who just… understood you, in a way. And now, with Hongjoong’s absence haunting you, Pompidou couldn’t have come at a better time.

The thought hits you harder than you expect: here you are, at your lowest, relying on a cat for comfort simply because the one person you’re used to confiding in has become distant, almost like a stranger. The ache in your chest intensifies, and before you know it, you’re lying down next to him, resting your head on the bed and gazing at his calm, indifferent eyes. It feels silly, pathetic even, to be speaking your heart to a cat, but in this silence, with no one else to turn to, you let yourself unravel.

“Pompidou,” you whisper, voice barely holding steady, “I… I don’t know what I did wrong. Everything was fine, wasn’t it?” Your fingers tremble as they thread through his fur, a warmth grounding you in the midst of your unraveling. “I don’t know how we ended up here. He’s always been there for me, and now… it’s like he’s vanished. And I’m trying, I really am, but every time I reach out, it’s like he’s miles away.”

A sharp breath catches in your throat, and you look up at the ceiling, fighting against the tears stinging your eyes. “It’s probably all my fault,” you confess in a whisper that breaks. “Maybe I was too much, or maybe I should have… I don’t know, said something differently, done something better. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him to eat dinner that night so that…” A bitter chuckle slips out as you squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s funny, you know. All my life, I’ve been terrified of being alone, of people walking out… and now here I am, trying to be okay with him pulling away like it’s nothing.”

Pompidou shifts slightly, his warm body pressing into your side, a small reminder that he’s there, and he’s not leaving. You let your hand drop to your chest, feeling the dull ache that’s settled there. “I just miss him, Pompidou. I miss the way he used to look at me like I mattered. Now, he can’t even look me in the eyes. And I don’t know why I’m clinging to that, why I’m hoping he’ll suddenly turn around and go back to being who he was.”

The silence swallows you for a moment. “Maybe it’s because, deep down, I’m still the same pathetic teenager from Arcadia Bay who’s scared that she doesn’t deserve anything better. That she’s always going to be left behind, and this… this is just proof.” Your voice falters, words thick with pain you can no longer hold back. “And if he leaves, then maybe it’s what I deserve.”

“Maybe I was the one who left him in an alternate reality, and this is the price I have to pay for it,” you joke, but it only feels like a pathetic attempt to make yourself feel better.

The pain is so sharp it almost feels physical, a hollow ache that makes every breath feel heavier than the last. You close your eyes, fighting against the helplessness clawing at your insides, but the words keep pouring out, jagged and raw, as though voicing them might lessen the weight—even if it’s only to a cat who can’t respond.

“Do you know what’s worse?” you whisper, fingers clutching the fabric of your shirt over your chest as if you could hold yourself together by sheer will. “It’s that I can’t even be mad at him. I want to be—believe me, I’ve tried. I tell myself he’s the one pulling away, that he’s the one who’s changed, but then I start wondering… what if I pushed him to this? What if I’m the reason he’s slipping through my fingers?”

A soft tremor runs through your hands, and you curl them into fists, teeth gritted as you force the tears back. “I keep thinking… maybe he’s right to distance himself. Maybe there’s something broken in me, something that just drives people away. And the worst part is, I keep wishing he’d come back, like I’d somehow be enough if I could just—”

Your voice catches, breaking into a whisper as you bury your face in your hands, barely holding in the sob that threatens to spill out. “I just don’t understand. He was my safe place, Pompidou. For the first time in so long, I actually felt like I mattered. He made me feel seen. And now… now I feel invisible all over again, like everything we shared was just temporary, like it didn’t mean anything.”

Pompidou shifts closer, his soft purr rumbling beneath your fingertips as you stroke his fur, a small solace in the middle of this storm.

“I try to convince myself that I’m fine, that I can go on without him,” you continue, voice cracking as the words spill out unchecked. “But the truth is, I’m terrified. I’m scared that if he leaves… if he’s really gone, I’ll be alone again, just like before. And I hate myself for feeling this way, for being so… so weak.”

The tears finally break free, slipping down your cheeks in a silent flood. “What does that say about me? That I’m so dependent on him, that I can’t even imagine my life without him? I thought I was stronger than this, that I’d learned how to stand on my own. But now… now it’s like I’m right back to that scared, lonely kid I used to be, clinging to anyone who shows me a hint of kindness.”

You pull your knees to your chest, holding yourself as tightly as you can, as if you could somehow shield yourself from the emptiness swallowing you whole. “I can’t stop thinking that maybe this is all I deserve. That maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe he’s finally seeing me for who I am, and he’s realizing I’m not worth it.”

Your shoulders shake as the sobs escape, quiet and raw, each one cutting through you like glass. Pompidou curls closer, his little face pressing against your arm, as though he understands in his own way. But his silent comfort only deepens the ache, a reminder that the person you need more than anything isn’t here, and you’re left holding yourself together with nothing but frayed threads of hope.

With a shuddering breath, you finally admit the fear you’ve been trying so hard to ignore. “What if he doesn’t come back, Pompidou? What if this is it? I don’t think… I don’t think I can handle losing him. Not like this.”

Your voice drops to a whisper, the words coming slow and soft as you gaze out the window, eyes unfocused. “I just… I miss him, Pompidou,” you murmur, fingers absently tracing patterns against the sheets.

“I miss all the little things that made it feel like he was a part of me, like he was woven into my days without me even realizing it. I miss the way he’d send me random sketches, the ones that made no sense but made me laugh anyway, like he was letting me in on his little worlds. I miss… I miss how he’d always have this ridiculous drink order for me every time we’d meet up at the café where we switched up our notebooks with one another before we met for the first time. It’s like he knew exactly what I’d need, even if I didn’t.”

The memories wash over you, and you can’t stop the warmth from pooling in your chest as you picture those moments. “I wish we could go back to that time when things were… simple. When I could sit beside him without feeling like the whole world was shifting under my feet. When he’d laugh and look at me like I was… like I was something special, you know?”

Your voice trembles, and you tighten your grip on the sheets. “And the thing is… it was just easy with him. He’d be there, always making me feel like nothing could go wrong as long as we were together. He’d be there with his quiet, comforting presence, and I could just… be. I didn’t have to pretend or put on some mask. It was like he could see right through me, and somehow, he didn’t care about all the mess he found.”

You take a deep breath, the words spilling out like a plea. “I just want to go back, Pompidou. Back to before everything felt so fragile, before that almost-kiss, before this… this distance. I wish I could reach out and take it all back. I’d give anything just to have things feel normal again.”

Pompidou tilts his head, eyes blinking up at you, and you can’t help but laugh, a soft, broken sound that catches in your throat. “I know it sounds silly, doesn’t it? I mean, how could I expect anything to be the same after that? But I can’t help it, Pompidou. I want to go back to when he’d smile at me like that, when I didn’t have to wonder if I was the one pushing him away.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of each memory anchor you down. “I miss his laugh. I miss his stupid jokes. I miss the way he’d lean closer when he talked about his dreams, his voice getting all serious like he could see every detail in his mind. And I miss… I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere, like I belonged with him. I miss how he’d look at me with this warmth, like I was enough, just as I was.”

The words come out like a broken whisper, a confession you’ve been holding inside for far too long. “I can’t stop missing him. I wish… I wish I could go back to that last night before everything shifted. Before the night we nearly kissed, before I even realized what I felt. I wish I could’ve just stayed there, in that moment, without letting any of it change.”

You hug your knees, curling up as the ache settles deeper, heavier. “But I can’t. And now it’s as if I’m left with pieces of him in everything around me, and I don’t know how to put myself back together without him.”

You pull yourself up, exhaling slowly, and walk over to your desk. The room feels quiet, still heavy with everything you’ve let out, yet somehow emptier too, as if releasing the words has left you hollow. With a shaky hand, you pick up your phone and make your way back to bed, curling up beside Pompidou, who has already claimed his spot against your pillow. Settling into the blankets, you scroll through your contacts, your thumb hovering over Hongjoong’s icon.

It’s just his initials next to a simple photo he once sent—a candid moment he probably forgot about, something so ordinary that it’s precious now. The way he looked when he didn’t realize anyone was watching: a slight smile, eyes softened by something he found funny, maybe even a bit endearing. The sight makes your chest tighten, and you let yourself scroll up, reading through old conversations like leafing through the pages of a treasured book.

Each message brings back flashes of shared laughter and late-night ramblings, little moments where time seemed to pause, and it was just the two of you—untouchable, safe. You linger on a message he sent on a rainy afternoon, a random joke he thought would cheer you up. Your lips curl into a faint smile, but it’s bittersweet. There was a time when it was so easy, so effortless, like breathing. He had a way of knowing exactly when you needed a reminder that he was there. But now, that comfort feels distant, unreachable.

A tear slips down your cheek again before you realize it, and you hastily swipe it away, but the sorrow wells up again, slipping past your guard. As if sensing your pain, Pompidou extends a soft paw, resting it gently below your eyes, and you feel his fur against your cheek, grounding you in a way that words can’t. His small gesture tugs a quiet, breathy laugh from you, despite the ache in your chest. It’s as if he’s trying to catch your sadness, pulling it away piece by piece, his wide eyes fixed on yours with an empathy you can almost feel.

You let your head fall, hugging Pompidou close, allowing yourself to finally surrender to the pain and let it wash over you without restraint. The loneliness, the longing, the hollow spaces Hongjoong’s absence has left in you—all of it spills out as you clutch the feline tightly, letting his warmth and steady breathing lull you into a fragile sense of comfort. The room seems to blur, softening around you as the weight of everything you’ve been holding back presses into you.

The tears come faster now, unstoppable, and your quiet sobs fill the silence, raw and unfiltered. It’s just you and Pompidou, and for a moment, it feels like you’re not truly alone. There, in the quiet solace of your room, you cling to that small comfort, letting yourself feel every ounce of longing, letting yourself miss him—fully, desperately, hopelessly.

—

Meanwhile, Hongjoong stood in his office, the warm, nostalgic tones of “La Vie en Rose” playing softly from the record player behind him. His gaze fixed on the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, and he fought to keep his emotions in check. Each note lingered in the air, pulling him deeper into the web of memories he was desperately trying to forget. This song, of all songs—he could still remember how it had been playing when the two of you had stood together in the flower shop, laughing over bouquets and trading light-hearted jokes as if the world beyond didn’t exist.

Part of him knew he could walk over and turn it off. The music was his to control, after all. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to stop it. The melody was the last fragile thread that kept him tethered to you, a reminder of the warmth he felt in your presence, the comfort of knowing someone understood him.

The dim light from the city outside cast a soft glow over his office, illuminating the expanse of papers scattered across his desk, the outlines of unfinished sketches and hastily scrawled notes, all reminders of the whirlwind he’d buried himself in since he started pushing you away. Each corner of the room felt saturated with memories of you—and it was strange how a space that had once felt so alive now seemed hollow, absent of the warmth you’d brought into it.

He tried to focus on the skyline again, his eyes tracing the glittering lights of the city. It was an attempt to ground himself, to pull himself back from the turmoil inside him. But tonight, every bit of stillness he attempted felt false, every piece of composure barely hanging by a thread. All he could think about was you—the absence of your presence filling every empty space in his mind, as if refusing to be silenced.

He turned slowly from the window, allowing his gaze to wander over his desk. It was almost impossible to remember the last time he’d felt fully at ease in this room. The stacks of designs that had once held so much promise now felt like hollow accomplishments, each one only reminding him of the fire you’d helped him ignite. His eyes landed on a small pendant lying amidst the clutter. The flower encased inside had faded slightly, its once-vibrant petals softened by time. He picked it up, cradling it carefully in his hand, feeling a strange tenderness rise within him.

You’d given him that flower, pressing it into his hand with a shy smile as you murmured something about it bringing him luck. He could still recall the way your fingers had lingered against his, the brief but electric touch that had left him wondering if you felt it too. “For good luck,” you’d said, your eyes sparkling in that way they always did when you felt especially close to him.

Hongjoong swallowed, feeling a tightness in his chest as he held the pendant closer. How was it that something so small could carry the weight of so many memories? He closed his eyes, and the warmth of your smile flashed in his mind, as vivid as if you were standing beside him. But now, as he held the pendant, it felt heavier, like a tiny piece of the past he was terrified of losing forever.

In his mind, he slipped back to that night—the one that had started as an ordinary work session, yet had unraveled into something far more vulnerable. He could still feel the closeness of the room, the soft glow of the lamps casting long shadows as you both worked side by side, immersed in the quiet moment you shared.

You’d shared things that night that were never meant to leave the room. He could still hear your voice, low and hesitant, as you revealed the fears you held closest to your heart. “Being left alone,” you’d admitted, your words raw and unguarded. The truth of it had lingered between you, a quiet vulnerability that had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

When you turned the question back on him, he’d hesitated, feeling the weight of his own guarded secrets pressing against his chest. But in that quiet space, under the gentle glow of the lamp, he’d found himself opening up in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to in years. “Losing myself,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible, but enough for you to hear. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Now, standing alone in his empty office, Hongjoong felt the irony of it all washing over him. He’d tried so hard to protect himself, to build walls so high that even you couldn’t reach them. But now, it felt as if he had developed a new fear bigger than losing himself—losing you.

A quiet knock on the door broke his reverie, and he tensed, slipping the pendant into his pocket as he turned. Wooyoung’s face appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of Hongjoong standing alone, the haunting strains of La Vie en Rose still spinning softly from the record player across the room.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered to the player, where the melody had been looping for what must have been the better part of an hour. “Still here?” he asked quietly, a hint of concern threading his tone.

Hongjoong forced a slight smile, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Wooyoung stepped further into the room, his gaze sharp as it settled on Hongjoong. “You know…” Wooyoung began, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall, “the world can see how miserable you are. Including her—especially her.”

Hongjoong stiffened, the forced nonchalance slipping from his face as he turned away, staring intently at the record player as if it held all the answers he was struggling to find. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears.

“Hongjoong,” Wooyoung’s tone softened, a hint of exasperation breaking through. “I know you. I know how much you care about her. And I know you’re running from something you can’t outrun. But you’re not fooling anyone by pretending it doesn’t matter.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightened, his mind racing with all the reasons he’d built to keep you at a distance. Each one felt logical, safe, a way to protect himself from something he couldn’t quite name. But here, with Wooyoung standing there, watching him with that steady gaze, he felt every layer he’d built start to unravel.

“I’m not pretending,” he said quietly, barely audible above the music.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning softer, almost pleading. “Then what are you doing, Hongjoong? Because from where I’m standing, all I see is someone too scared to reach for what he really wants.”

Hongjoong’s heart twisted painfully, Wooyoung’s words hitting far too close to home. He felt the weight of everything he’d tried to suppress rising within him, a tidal wave of emotions he’d buried so deeply he’d convinced himself they were gone. But Wooyoung’s words had brought them to the surface, and now, there was no escaping them.

A silence stretched between them, and Hongjoong’s gaze fell to the floor. In that moment, he felt utterly vulnerable, as though Wooyoung could see right through him, could see the aching desire he’d tried so hard to deny. He didn’t have to say it—Wooyoung already knew.

Hongjoong’s fingers were still curled around the pendant in his pocket when Wooyoung let out a quiet sigh, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. “So,” Wooyoung began, breaking the silence, “are you really going to stand here, pretending everything’s fine?”

Hongjoong’s jaw clenched, his shoulders tensing. He wanted to brush off Wooyoung’s words, to deflect with some casual response that would keep the carefully built walls intact. But his mind was a battlefield, each memory of you cutting through his defenses like a blade.

“Everything is fine,” he replied tersely. He didn’t meet Wooyoung’s eyes, focusing instead on a spot just beyond his shoulder.

Wooyoung’s brows knitted together, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’ve been playing her favorite song on loop for the last hour. That’s why you’ve been holed up in here, avoiding anything that reminds you of her.” He shook his head, his tone equal parts exasperation and worry. “Hongjoong, you’re not fooling me. I know you, and I know you’re running from something—from someone.”

Hongjoong let out a low, frustrated sigh, finally looking up at Wooyoung. “Wooyoung, just drop it, alright?” He forced a tense smile, attempting to sound dismissive. “This… whatever you think is going on, it’s all in your head. We were just friends.”

But Wooyoung didn’t budge. “Friends?” He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it, just the weight of disbelief. “You really want to go with that? Because the way you’re acting… it doesn’t look like you’re just missing a friend. You’re avoiding her like she’s a stranger, but then you’re here, playing her favorite song over and over, clutching onto that pendant like it’s the last piece of her you have.”

Hongjoong’s fingers instinctively tightened around the pendant, and he felt a pang of frustration rise within him. He didn’t want to admit that Wooyoung’s words struck too close to home. “I told you, it’s nothing like that,” he bit back, his tone sharper than intended. “You’re turning this into something it isn’t.”

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, his gaze not faltering. “Am I? Because from where I’m standing, you’re acting like a guy who’s desperately trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t even believe.”

“Wooyoung—”

“Hongjoong, you can’t keep lying to yourself.” Wooyoung’s tone softened, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to cut deeper than the words themselves. “Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, but I do know that you care about her. You’re not fooling anyone by pretending this distance is ‘better’ for either of you.”

Hongjoong’s patience began to fray, his frustration morphing into anger. He shot Wooyoung a glare, his voice rising. “It is better, Wooyoung. She… she deserves better. She doesn’t need to be pulled into whatever mess I am.” He paused, catching his breath, his anger mingling with something closer to desperation. “I’m not what’s best for her. And it’s better for the both of us if I keep my distance.”

Wooyoung’s expression shifted, his gaze hardening as he stepped closer, unwilling to let Hongjoong brush him off. “So, what? You think pushing her away, acting like she means nothing, is somehow good for her? You really think she’s better off without you?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong replied, his tone final, but the conviction in his voice was starting to waver.

Wooyoung gave him a long, scrutinizing look, and for a moment, the silence between them was thick with unspoken truths. Then, Wooyoung shook his head slowly. “You’re lying to yourself. And honestly? It’s pathetic, Hongjoong. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

The words hit Hongjoong like a slap, and a flash of anger surged within him, simmering beneath the surface. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, his voice low and strained. “I’m doing this for her, so just… stop.”

But Wooyoung wouldn’t relent. “You’re not doing this for her. You’re doing this because you’re afraid. Afraid to admit how much she means to you. Afraid of what might happen if you actually let her in. Whatever you’re afraid of, whatever you think is keeping you from being with her… maybe it’s worth rethinking. Because if you keep running like this, you’re going to lose her. And then what?”

Hongjoong felt his control slipping, the carefully constructed barriers he’d built starting to crack under the weight of Wooyoung’s words. He clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to keep his voice steady. “This isn’t about fear.”

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice softened, a hint of understanding breaking through the frustration. “Hongjoong… I get it. You’re scared of losing yourself. Of losing control. But she’s not the one who’s going to make that happen. You are, by doing this. By trying so hard to keep her out.”

Hongjoong stayed silent, his chest tightening as Wooyoung’s words began to sink in. He wanted to deny it, to push back with the same conviction he’d clung to for weeks, but he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew there was truth in Wooyoung’s words.

Finally, Wooyoung let out a sigh, his tone softening even further. “Listen, man. I don’t know what almost happened, or why you’re so determined to stay away from her, but you have to ask yourself… is this really what you want?”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to that night in your apartment—the feeling of your hand brushing his, the way your gaze had lingered on him, the unspoken tension that had nearly pulled him into something he couldn’t name. He’d wanted so badly to close that distance, to feel your lips against his, to let go of the fear and doubt that had held him back. But just as he’d leaned closer, Wooyoung’s call had snapped him out of the moment, bringing him crashing back to reality.

“Do you even understand how much she’s hurting, Hongjoong?” And there it was again—the harshness in Wooyoung’s tone. “Seonghwa told me she’s tearing herself apart over this. She doesn’t eat right anymore, and she barely even sleeps. She spends her nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where things went wrong, wondering if she’s the problem.”

The words landed like a punch to Hongjoong’s gut, leaving him breathless. Images of you flashed through his mind—moments when he’d caught glimpses of your smile faltering, your laughter quieting, the spark in your eyes dimming little by little. He’d told himself it was just his imagination, that you were fine. But Wooyoung’s words shattered that illusion entirely.

“She thinks she did something wrong, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung continued, his voice filled with barely contained anger. “She actually believes she’s the reason you’re running. Every time you disappear, every time you pull away, she thinks it’s because of something she did. And the worst part? She doesn’t even blame you. She blames herself.”

Hongjoong’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as guilt clawed at him.

“Seonghwa told me she asked him if she was too much. Can you believe that?” Wooyoung’s voice cracked. “She actually thinks she’s too much for you. That she’s somehow burdening you, dragging you down. She’s convinced herself that if she were just… less, maybe you wouldn’t be running.”

Hongjoong’s breath hitched, a wave of nausea rolling over him as he realized the full extent of the pain he’d caused. You—who had always been so vibrant, so unapologetically yourself—were now questioning every part of who you were, trying to shrink yourself down to avoid scaring him away.

“She’s not even angry at you, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice barely above a whisper now, each word a dagger aimed straight at Hongjoong’s heart. “She doesn’t hate you for this. She just… she thinks she’s not enough. Or that she’s too much. Either way, she’s convinced that she’s the problem.”

Hongjoong closed his eyes, his mind reeling. He could feel the anchor of your pain weighing down on him; He’d done this to you—turned you into a shadow of yourself, left you grappling with doubts and insecurities that weren’t yours to bear.

“You’ve been so busy hiding behind your own fears,” Wooyoung continued, “that you haven’t even stopped to consider what this is doing to her. You’re so terrified of being hurt again that you’re hurting her—over and over, every day, with every step you take away from her.”

Hongjoong opened his mouth to speak, to protest, but the words caught in his throat. What could he possibly say to justify this? How could he explain that he’d been running not to hurt you, but to protect himself? It sounded so selfish, so small in the face of everything you were going through.

“And you know what’s really twisted?” Wooyoung’s voice dropped, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “She’d take you back in a heartbeat. Despite everything, she’d still look at you the same way she did before you started pushing her away. She’d still forgive you, still try to see the good in you, because that’s who she is. That’s how much she cares.”

Hongjoong felt something break inside him, a quiet, shattering realization that left him reeling. You would forgive him. He knew that. He could see it in his mind—the way you’d smile softly, the way your eyes would fill with understanding, even now. Even after everything, you’d welcome him back, arms open, heart exposed, waiting.

“She deserves better, Joong.” Wooyoung’s words were softer now, the anger replaced by a raw, unfiltered honesty. “She deserves someone who doesn’t make her question her worth. Someone who doesn’t make her feel like she’s somehow wrong just for being herself. And if you can’t be that for her… if you’re too wrapped up in your own fears to let her in… then you need to let her go.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened, a hollow ache spreading through him as he struggled to process it all. He didn’t want to let you go. He couldn’t. But the thought of holding onto you only to keep hurting you, to keep dragging you through his own tangled web of insecurities and fears—it was unbearable.

“She’s barely holding up. She hides it well, but Seonghwa can see it. He told me how she sits alone for hours, just staring off into space, like she’s lost something she can’t find. She keeps her phone close, hoping maybe, just maybe, you’ll reach out. But every time you don’t... it breaks her a little more.”

Hongjoong’s chest tightened painfully, each word slicing through him like a blade. He could see it so clearly now, every painful moment he’d forced you through. How you must’ve waited for messages that never came, must’ve spent countless nights wondering where things had gone wrong. The thought of you sitting there, lost in your own pain, while he’d been so focused on his own fears, was more than he could bear.

“And don’t think she hasn’t tried to talk to you.” Wooyoung’s voice turned sharp, accusatory. “Seonghwa told me how many times she’s wanted to reach out, just to make sure you’re okay, just to see if you’d give her even a scrap of reassurance. But every time, she stops herself. She doesn’t want to bother you, doesn’t want to seem needy. She’s holding back everything she feels because she’s afraid it’ll push you further away.”

Wooyoung’s eyes softened slightly, but the fire of his conviction remained. “You need to understand, Hongjoong. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about her too. You’re hurting her, and if you don’t start realizing that, it’ll be too late. She’s going to break, and I don’t think she’ll come back from it.”

Hongjoong felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. The thought of you shattering into pieces because of his cowardice was unbearable. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, to say that he was doing this for you, for the both of you. But deep down, he knew it was a lie. He was only trying to shield himself from the fear of loss, the same fear that had haunted him since that girl from his past had walked away.

“I can’t… I can’t lose anyone again, Woo,” Hongjoong finally admitted, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “What if she sees me for who I really am? What if she realizes I’m not worth it?”

Wooyoung shook his head, frustration flashing across his features. “That’s where you’re wrong. She already sees you, and she loves you for all the parts you’re trying to hide. You think you’re protecting her by staying away, but you’re only pushing her further into despair.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions colliding within him. “How do you know? How do you know she feels that way?”

“Because I’ve talked to Seonghwa, and he cares about her, Joong! He’s seen her cry over you. He told me she broke down one night, just sitting on the floor of her room, wondering why you were so distant. She kept saying she must’ve done something wrong. Do you want that for her? Do you want to be the reason she loses herself?”

The image of you curled up alone, tears streaming down your face while grappling with your worth, sliced through Hongjoong. The sheer guilt of it settled heavily in his chest, suffocating him. He had wanted to protect you, but in doing so, he had only hurt you more.

Hongjoong lingered in silence, the weight of his unspoken fears casting a shadow over the room. He could feel Wooyoung’s gaze on him, a

persistent pressure urging him to confront the thoughts he’d been too afraid to voice.

“What if…” The words caught in his throat, his voice strained with the vulnerability he couldn’t hide. “What if I take the next step, and she leaves? What if she ends up leaving just like—”

Wooyoung interrupted him by reaching forward, pressing his fingers gently but firmly to Hongjoong’s lips, shushing him with an authority that surprised them both. “I know what comes next, Hongjoong,” he murmured. “You don’t need to say it.”

Hongjoong stiffened, pulling back ever so slightly, a touch of annoyance flickering across his face. “You think it’s that simple?” he muttered, frustration bleeding into his voice. “You think it’s easy to just… forget?”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, though he held firm. “I think you’re holding onto something that’s long gone, Joong. And you’re letting it get in the way of something real.” He paused, leaning forward. “So what if the girl you loved back in middle school left you? You’re still letting her be the one who decides what happens now?”

Hongjoong’s mouth opened, then closed, his defenses crumbling under Wooyoung’s scrutiny. He could feel the words bubbling up, the excuses he’d used to justify his fears over and over, but this time, they didn’t come. The silence between them grew heavier, and he felt himself shrinking under Wooyoung’s eyes.

“It’s not about her,” Hongjoong finally managed, his voice a strained whisper. “It’s just… this was exactly how it started back then. The same moments, the same feelings, and then…” His voice broke, a haunted look creeping into his eyes as the memories clawed their way to the surface. “And then it all just fell apart the moment she left without a word.”

Wooyoung’s expression softened, his gaze filled with something close to sympathy, but there was no pity there, only an understanding forged through years of friendship. “Joong,” he said softly, leaning even closer as if he could bridge the distance that Hongjoong had placed between himself and everyone around him. “So what if some things feel familiar? They’re not the same person, are they? You’re not the same person, either.”

Hongjoong clenched his jaw, a flicker of anger sparking in his chest as he searched for a way to deflect, to deny the truth in Wooyoung’s words. “It’s… it’s not like that, Woo. You don’t get it.” His voice grew sharper, frustration edging his tone as he tried to hold onto the walls he’d built.

Wooyoung shook his head, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because it doesn’t look that way to me.”

Hongjoong looked away, his gaze hardening as he stared at the floor. “It’s not that simple, okay? You don’t know what it’s like to… to risk everything and then lose it.”

Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Hongjoong, I may not know exactly what you went through, but I do know one thing: you’re letting something from the past dictate your future. And that’s not fair. Not to you, and definitely not to her.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him as he felt the weight of Wooyoung’s words settle over him. Part of him wanted to argue, to cling to the fears that had kept him guarded for so long, but another part—a part he’d buried deep—knew that Wooyoung was right.

“What if I let myself try?” His voice was barely above a whisper, his words laden with the weight of years of doubt and self-preservation. “What if… what if I take that risk, and she ends up leaving?”

Wooyoung’s gaze softened, and he leaned forward, resting a reassuring hand on Hongjoong’s shoulder. “Joong, if she’s really the person you believe she is… then maybe it’s a risk worth taking. Because people leave, yeah. They walk away. But the ones who matter, the ones who are meant to stay—they won’t go anywhere.”

“You’re saying I should just… trust that?” His voice wavered, the question more for himself than for Wooyoung, as if he needed to convince himself that he could still believe in something other than his own fears.

Wooyoung’s mouth curved into a gentle, understanding smile. “Yeah. Trust it. Don’t let something that’s already gone keep you from what could be right here, right now.”

“What if I let her in? What if I let her see the real me? What if it’s not enough?”

“Then you fight for her,” Wooyoung replied. “You show her every day that she’s enough. You fight for her instead of running away. You have to be brave enough to take the risk, Joong. And if she does leave, at least you’ll know you tried. You can’t live in the shadow of your past forever.”

“But what if she sees me as weak?” Hongjoong countered, bitterness lacing his tone. “What if she thinks I’m broken?”

“Then you show her that even broken pieces can fit together to make something beautiful,” Wooyoung shot back. “You’ve built this wall around yourself, but you’re just hurting the one person who’s tried to break through. You need to trust her. You need to let her help you. She wants to be there for you, but you have to meet her halfway.”

The truth of those words echoed painfully in Hongjoong’s mind. He had been running, terrified of the vulnerability that came with love, terrified of the chance that he could be left once more. But he could feel the edges of that fear beginning to fray under the weight of his guilt, unraveling with every word Wooyoung spoke.

“You can’t let the past dictate your present, Hongjoong,” Wooyoung said, his voice softer now, a mixture of empathy and frustration. “You can’t keep running away from what you feel. If you do, you’ll end up losing her, and it’ll be your fault.”

Hongjoong’s heart raced as he thought of you—how you had lit up his life in ways he never thought possible. How your laughter had become a soothing balm to his weary soul. He couldn’t keep ignoring the truth that was staring him in the face. The realization washed over him like a cold wave. “What am I supposed to do?” Hongjoong whispered.

“Fight for her, Joong. Show her that you’re not afraid. Be honest with her, and don’t let fear win this time.” Wooyoung leaned closer. “She deserves that much, at the very least. Fight for her—before it’s too late.”

“But what if it already is?”

🪞 — lividstar.

[jedibinx]

Okay so here’s my theory surrounding the Trafik! music video. I haven’t seen anyone else’s takes on this so I apologise if any of what I say has already been said but I have been pondering for many weeks and forming my theory in my mind until it was coherent enough to let loose haha:

Okay, so, overall, I think that Trafik! is a commentary on life and the ‘rat race’. In the video we have pretty much every demographic covered within the cars. We have the elderly, the single people, families and Joost and his friend represent the working class. I think they represent the working class because they’re in a beat up car, it’s old, fast food wrappers, they’re car pooling and Joost’s friend is reading a porno which is a nod towards a stereotypical view of the working class (example, construction workers wolf whistling at passing women). 

At the start of the video we see a really nice car let through a construction site. This would, theoretically be the boss of the site who would represent the richer classes and the workers (H, Mikke etc) are the people who work for this rich person. The road works represent a barrier to a better life the traffic jam represents how everyone is stuck in the rat race, unable to get to a better life, and the workers represent how the higher class people use the lower class people to turn against one another and place barriers in place for them, keeping their hands ‘clean’, as it were. Okay, premise set up.

Enter Kaarija. He’s in a nice car, dressed nicely, representing the more privileged as he manages to get to the front of the queue by skipping over everyone else and gets right to the front. At the front of the queue he meets Joost and they begin to converse, Kaarija being somewhat antagonistic, using his ‘privilege’ in order to piss off Joost and everyone else but also showing how he has more power because he is able to touch Joost but Joost is stuck behind his windshield, or rather, he’s been trained to ‘stay in his place’ as the window is open but he doesn’t reach out for Kaarija despite being able to. 

Everyone within the queue are getting pissed off at one another, the children beginning to learn the same thing; get pissed at one another instead of at who they should be targeting their anger at, the one in charge, the one with power, the one who placed the barrier there in the first place. Representing how in society, we all turn on one another, media distracting us enough to separate us by class, race, whatever, so that we’re so busy hating each other that the culprits are left alone to carry on with what they’re doing. 

As the video goes on, Kaarija turns from antagonizing Joost to actually getting angry himself, almost like the realization has hit him, and Joost and the workers and everyone become friends, dancing and being chaotic together (protesting together?) and banding as one.

The end, I think that the thing in the sky is supposed to represent the better life. Like, look, you’ve realized that the rat race is a scam, you’ve banded together to make something happen, you’ve shown initiative and a brain so… here’s your better life. BUT… the ominous music? It may look attractive and shiny and amazing but underneath is a darkness that will easily consume you, if you don’t have numbers. Everyone is running scared at the end, and it’s just Kaarija and Joost, not enough people to fight against it, fight against the good fight or take it on from the inside, so they end up running from it as well, not having a choice. Therein the cycle starts again. 

So in conclusion: a commentary on how society is constructed and manipulated by the faceless people in power and how we are not strong enough to take it on alone, we have to band together and move the barrier as one. Especially if we no longer wish to live within Trafik.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk. 

[cierraonline]

I Don't Want To Die

chapter three: I don’t want to die

Masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter 

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA  

CALIFORNIA GRACE HOSPITAL 

You know that feeling when you’re just sitting in a room, and then your eyes start to blur, and you feel your body zoning in and out? Then your brain takes this dreadful trip, pointing out every possible thing that can go wrong. 

It’s that feeling where my world warps into a fictional reality, and I find myself in a dark room, standing on a stage, with a harsh yellow light beaming right on me—and only me. I look forward and see that I'm standing in front of an audience, but I can’t clearly make them out; I just see the shadows of their faces and hear the buzz of conversation. I know they're whispering about me, but I can’t fully hear what they're saying. Are they waiting for me to speak? Am I supposed to be performing? I don’t even know how I got on this stage. 

Stuck in this strange reality, I look for the exits, but there are none. Then, all of a sudden, the audience stands up, clapping and chanting my name. But why? I didn’t do anything. In fact, I haven’t moved an inch since I stood here. Finally making my first movement, I turn my head to the right and see him.

Tall with pride and arrogance.  

A blank face of empty space and void.  

Clad in a sharp suit that showed off his riches.  

Hand reached out for me to grab.

Putting my hand in his grasp, he spun me around gently. My once House of CB black strapless midi dress with a sweetheart neckline disappeared in trails of black smoke, and in its place appeared a short corset dress draped in sparkling diamonds.

The audience continues to clap and chant my name, but soon it's as if they’re at a distance, and all I can hear now is his voice—a voice of pristine charm. The kind of pristine charm your grandmother warns you about because people with that level of charm carry the blackest of souls.

“I can make you a star, Storm Siren,” he tells me. “With your talent and my help, you can be the greatest phenomenon since Michael Jackson…How does that sound, Storm?”  

A talent and rise like Michael Jackson can also lead to a fall like Michael Jackson—and the other fallen stars in Hollywood.

“Storm…What do you say?” He lowers his upper half, bending from the waist to look me in my face, but I couldn’t see his…because he didn’t have one. “Storm.”

“I…”

“Storm.”

“I…”

“Storm!” The girl’s eyes cleared, and the man with the offer was no longer there. Instead, it was her father. And the audience staring at her had transformed into her mother and the hospital neurosurgeon. The black room was now white with an iridescent light shining around.

“Yes?” Storm looked at her father with tearing eyes.

“Doctor Shepard here said, progress is progress, no matter how little,” Roman Siren looked down at his daughter with a neutral look of contentment but worry in his eyes as he recognized a look of fear in her own. “Everything is going to be okay. I got your mom. You go and make your dreams come true.”

“I don’t wanna leave, Mommy,” Storm shook her head. In Storm’s eyes, leaving her mother behind was like giving an opportunity for the faceless man to come and sweep her off her feet with fame, idolization, and riches, only to claim her soul. But with her mother at her side, she’d be there to defeat the man and protect her baby. “I want to stay here and help Mommy recover. I’m only fourteen; I have a lot of time left to do what I want. And when she’s back to normal, everything will be fine.”

“Storm,” the doctor spoke up from his position beside her mother, causing the girl to avert her eyes to him. “With the severity of the injury and how hard your mother hit her head multiple times when she fell down the stairs… the chances of her recovering to the extent of being one hundred percent back to normal…are lower than one percent.” He finished his statement with sincerity in his voice and an expression of desperation for the young girl to understand what was happening.

“But you said when she was first admitted it was ten percent,” her eyes began to flood. “Ten percent of hope, which is better than less than one percent,” her bottom lip wobbled in heartbreak. “You said if I believed Mommy would be okay, then she would.” Storm turned to her father.

“Sometimes being okay doesn’t equal going back to how things were,” Roman softly told his daughter, taking his thumb and slowly wiping her tears away. “Sometimes being okay…just means being at peace with the situation.”

“How can I be at peace when my mommy isn’t who she’s always been!” With that, the fourteen-year-old abruptly got up from her seat and stormed out of the room.

XXX

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA  

O’CONNELL HOUSEHOLD

“I think we should try to finish a song, and go, like—Give us notes, give us feedback. Let’s get this one done,” Finneas drives the conversation as the lead producer on the project.

“Got it,” the head of Darkroom label, Justin Lubliner, nods in agreement.

“And then still keep circling around with other stuff.”

“Don’t focus exclusively on anything, just whatever you guys want,” Justin tells them, liking the process the group has managed to set up for themselves. As an independent label, the founder’s idea is to let artists be artists and let them bask in their creativity.

“If they’re all moving towards something…” an associate of the label begins to say.

“I like what Justin was saying,” Billie comments, looking down at her phone, checking Storm’s location and whether any text messages had come through from her young friend.

“What’d you say?”

“What?”

“I like what Justin’s saying,” Billie repeats mindlessly, not realizing they wanted an open answer from her as her mind was still preoccupied with the whereabouts of her best friend, who was supposed to be in the room with them.

“What’s Justin saying?” Finneas turns to his sister but catches a glance at what had her distracted.

“No pressure.”

“Yeah, of course,” Justin emphasizes. “There really is no pressure.”

“All I’m saying is that if we wanna put anything out, we should just finish whatever that is,” Finneas reiterates for his sister. “If that’s ‘Crown,’ we’ll put that out, you know? Do you hear that at all? Like all of Storm’s work is completed; it’s mostly just us digitizing it and putting your vocals over it.”

“Yep.”

“If we focus on something, we can finish it, as opposed to doing a little bit and jumping to another thing, then doing a bit and jumping again. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Where is Storm?” Justin looks to the siblings. “I know we gave her leeway on attending this meeting because of her mother’s appointment, but as she’ll also be putting out the instrumental album at the same time, I’d like to hear just a little glimpse of the other half of the finished product. I heard the first half, just not the second half.”

“She should be here now, actually,” Finneas looks at the time on his computer.

“She’s outside,” Billie says, seeing the girl’s location marked just outside her house.

“Oooh, this is cool; we can hear the whole production,” Justin’s associate comments with a cheerful tone, clapping his hands as the group’s managers—Danny Rukasin, Brandon Goodman, and Brian O’Connor—nod their heads.

Before anyone can speak, the door to Finneas’s bedroom opens, and the person in question appears.

“Can I talk to you real quick?” Storm looks at Justin.

“Me?” he asks for clarification, noticing the young girl’s face and eyes were bloodshot.

“Yeah,” she nods, holding the door open for him to follow, which he does.

“What’s wrong?”

“I—I don’t think I can do this,” Storm shakes her head, a look of defeat on her face. “I—I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“H-hey,” he gently places his palms on her arms. “What’s going on?”

“They said there was hope for my mom to get better, but now they’re saying the chances of her going back to normal are less than one percent.” The tears begin to make their appearance again. “I don’t wanna do this without her.”

“Storm, everything is going to be okay,” Justin tries to comfort the girl and bring back the confidence that was present in the room when they first met. “If you’re scared of being alone, I can promise now that you’re not. Everyone in that room is here to support you and guide you in the right direction.”

“I-It’s not that,” Storm tells him.

“Then tell me, what’s causing this panic within you that’s making you give up on your dreams?” Justin asked in a nurturing tone. “Because the Storm I met was ready to hop over my desk and sign the contract—not for the money, not for the fame, but because making music is her passion, and she wanted to change the perspective on classical music…Remember?”

“I’m scared that if I do this and my mom isn’t there, I’ll end up like all the other greats in the industry who died,” Storm confesses, and Justin realizes the depth of her fear. Removing his hands from her shoulders, he moves slowly to the bedroom door and calls for backup.

“Brian, can you join us out here?” Justin calls the manager who will personally oversee Storm’s career, as each party has their own manager.

“Yeah,” the blonde man nods, rising from the producer’s bed and heading toward the door.

“I’m coming, too,” Billie states, unwilling to be left in the dark when it comes to her best friend. The two head out into the narrow hallway of the O’Connell household and take a seat across from the girl, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the floor. Switching places with Justin, Billie sits beside Storm and gently places her hand on Storm’s lap, breaking up Storm’s nervous habit of fidgeting with her fingers. “What’s wrong, Peaches?” Billie leans her head against Storm’s.

“Storm doesn’t want to go on with making the albums because she fears…” Justin pauses, choosing his words carefully so as not to alarm anyone, “that the industry might…mistreat her. I brought Brian out here so we can offer her some comfort and let her know that, as a team, we won’t let that happen.”

“I just want my mom to be there with me because she wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me,” Storm mumbles, her eyes fixed on her and Billie’s intertwined fingers. “She always protected me from monsters and nightmares…And now she’s not able to. So I feel vulnerable. I already had a parasomnia episode.”

“She also gets night terrors after these episodes,” Billie informs the men.

“Storm,” Brian moves closer to the fragile-looking young girl. “I know you want your mom there to fight the demons away, and I know she can’t right now because of the accident. So I’ll take her place and protect you. I promise that nothing bad will happen to you. You won’t end up like those fallen stars in Hollywood, because I’ll be there, standing in for her until she’s back.”

“You promise?” she whispers.

“Cross my heart, hope to die, and may my ashes be thrown into a volcano.” He holds out his pinky finger to seal the deal.

“Okay…just because you promised…and you can’t break a pinky swear.” She links her pinky with his.

“I’ll join in that promise too,” Justin speaks up. “You’re in full control of the career you want, and I’ll be here to give you the tools you need. It’s also my own promise to my dad, who was in love with your work before he passed. He always told me you’d be a star because no one had an ear for the heart of music like you. Every time he attended one of your orchestra shows, he said it felt like he was trapped in the emotion of the song—as if the emotion itself was human and telling him how it was created.”

“S-Someone once told me that same thing,” Storm looks up at Justin. “He was this old guy who would come to my shows. After each one, he’d guess the emotional intent, and he always guessed correctly. He said he felt trapped in the emotion, like it was singing its story to him. His name was Philip.”

“That’s my dad’s name,” Justin says softly, smiling. “His last wish was that I make sure you get the recognition you deserve, but also keep you safe from the dangers that come with fame…and I plan to keep that promise, Storm.”

“You heard the first half of the orchestra album,” Storm says, reaching into her pullover sweater and pulling out her phone. “Here’s the second half. This track is called ‘I Love You.’” The music begins to play, and the sound of the orchestra’s string section blends with Storm’s vocals, creating a vivid visualization of emotion in everyone who listens.

Maybe won’t you take it back?  

Say you were tryin’ to make me laugh  

And nothing has to change today  

You didn’t mean to say “I love you”  

I love you, and I don’t want to, ooh

taglist @allaboutnayeli @zendayasredbottoms @tacoboutstuff @jules19sstuff @siyuziii @danc1ngqu33n @christiniawcb @riddlette13 @thebignunfun @xxloveralways14 @lordfarquad-k @rhearipley-69 @danversrailme @amberg1998 @zzzz-zzz1 @htttpcasti @lidiyabest @wwelovergirl @lesbianpoetess @jamiemundy7773 @pixelorange06 @steampunkprincess147 @brbblog123 @h3artss44le @harajukub4rb1e @billiesrighthand

[skulduggery-pleasant-bp9]

Playing with a Coroner and a Detective is not wise - Skulduggery x Male!Reader Universe

Part 9 – The Vault

As they were outside, Ghastly and Skulduggery had their disguises back on and stared at something. M/n looked around quickly, but in a way, no one noticed, while his Sister started to panic. Then he saw the man and he pointed at him for Stephanie.

The man came to them, like he had all the time in the world. Stephanie came closer to her Brother’s side, who, was very close to Skulduggery. He looked at his Sister and gave her a calming smile. She didn’t return it.

“Mr. Pleasant, Mr. Bespoke..”, greeted the man as he reached them.

“Mr. Bliss”, they greeted back.

Stephanie inspected the man. He radiated out power. His pale blue eyes looked at her and M/n seemed to stiffen up slightly. Then his eyes went to M/n.

“And you two must be the siblings, which all the people are suddenly interested in.”

Stephanie couldn’t make a sound. She didn’t know, what she should have said, but she knew, her voice would have sounded high and thin, if she would have tried to speak. This Mr. Bliss had something on him, that awakened in her the wish, to get very small and cry.

M/n felt her unease and stepped in between her and Bliss, shielding her from him.

“Hey, whatever you are doing, stop it, yeah ? My Sister is at unease and that is not funny. If you use some stupid spell like this China, then stop it.”, M/n growled out slightly.

Mr. Bliss chuckled and looked at him.

“It don’t work on me, Sir.”, M/n deadpanned.

“Interesting...”

“I haven’t seen you in a while. I’ve heard, you have withdrawn from business.”, Skulduggery said, distracting all three of them.

M/n hated Mr. Bliss’ eyes. They seemed as empty as a void. No emotion left in them. He looked at Skulduggery.

“The Elders asked me to come back. We live in a time, full of restlessness.”

“Really ?”, Ghastly asked.

“The two men, that were watching Serpine, were reported missing two days ago. He is up to something, that the Elders aren’t supposed to know of.”

Skulduggery thought about that.

“Why didn’t Meritorius tell me anything ?”

“The truce is a card house, Mr. Pleasant. One little disruption, and everything falls into itself. And you are well known to make disruptions. The Elders hoped, that my interference would be enough of a scare, but I fear, they underestimated Serpine’s determination. They refuse to believe, that someone else could benefit from another war. And of course,, do they still believe, the Sceptre of Ancients, as a Fairytale.”

M/n looked at Bliss in confusion and wonder.

“So, you think the Scepter is real too ?”, he asked.

He looked at M/n.

“Oh, I know that it exists. If it can do all the things, that were told in the Legends, I don’t know, but as an object does the Sceptre very well exist. It was discovered in the youngest past, by archaeological excavations. As much as I know, did Gordon Edgley pay a high amount of cash, to get it into his possession, because it was a part of his researches for a book about the Faceless Ones. I think, he was determined to prove its sincerity, and after he succeeded, did he realize, that he can’t keep it, nor give it away. Gordon Edgley was with all his mistakes a good man, and if he had to assume, that the Sceptre had the destructible abilities, from which we’ve heard of, he surely had the feeling, that no one should own it, because it was too powerful.”

Stephanie found her voice now.

“Do you know, what he did with it ?”, she asked.

“No.”

“But you believe that Serpine is ready, to risk another war ?”, Skulduggery asked.

Mr. Bliss nodded.

“I think, in his eyes the truce did serve its purpose, yes. I can only imagine, that he waited for this moment for a while now, to seize the power, to uncover all secrets and get the Faceless Ones back here.”

“YOU believe in the Faceless Ones ?”, Stephanie asked.

“Oh yes. I grew up with that knowledge and I kept my belief in them since. Some of us just abandon the Stories, which are told about the Faceless Ones, others see them as educating fables and again others see them as bedtime stories for children. But I believe in them. I believe, that we were ruled by other entities once, which were so unbelievably evil, that even their shadows fled from them. And I believe, that they waited very long for their return, so they can punish our infraction.”

Skulduggery crooked his head.

“The Elders would listen to you.”

“You have to play by their rules. I found out, what I could, and gave all my knowledge to the only person, that knows, what to do with it. Everything else is up to you.”, Bliss replied.

“With you on our side, everything would be way easier.”, said Ghastly.

A small smile ran over Bliss’ face.

“When I have to step in, I will.”, he replied.

Without a ‘Good day’ he turned around and left. They stayed rooted there for a while until Stephanie spoke.

“He somehow was scary.”

“That’s what happens, when you barely smile. Mr. Bliss is, purely physically speaking, the strongest man on this planet. His strength tops everything.”

“So he is actually really scary ?”, she asked.

“Oh yes, very.”, Skulduggery confirmed.

They went to their cars.

“What do you think ?”, she asked Ghastly and Skulduggery as they arrived at the cars.

Skulduggery shrugged his shoulders, while Ghastly looked in deep thought.

“A lot of smart things.”, the Skeleton answered.

“Do you also think, the Sceptre is real ?”

“It seems so.”, Skulduggery said.

“If Mr. Bliss said it exists and that it was recently found too, then I do believe him. Bliss wouldn’t lie about that.”, Ghastly replied.

“So we have to get going and take a look at your collectibles now, right ?”, M/n asked.

Ghastly nodded.

“Why ?”, Stephanie asked her Brother.

M/n turned to her.

“Get your phone out and call me. We will drive to wherever Ghastly’s collectibles are and I will explain.”

She nodded and they got in. Then his Sister called him and he accepted, then turned on the speaker.

“Turn on the speaker.”

“Already done.”

“Okay, Skul, you drive first, so I just have to follow. Now listen, Sister. As this Bliss guy said, the Elders deny that there is anything wrong. They are too scared to do anything from assumptions and accusations only. They want evidence. We know now that Uncle G had the Sceptre last and that was most definitely the reason he was murdered. We need proof that it exists, so we need to find it and get our hands on it first, for that we need to find the key, which we still don’t know its location of. Last, but not least, we have to destroy it. We have to make the Sceptre nonexistent, and for that to happen, we need to go to Ghastly’s family’s collectibles, look through everything and try and find answers. There must be something that can tell us how to destroy it.”, M/n explained while they drove on the road.

“Okay...why do I have a feeling you are keeping something from me ?”, she asked suspiciously.

“Because I am thinking. Bliss said that two spies, which were on Serpine’s ass, went missing two days ago, just like that. I think I have to pay a visit to my workplace and ask my Boss about recently found corpses. I want to find out, if they accidently came into our hands. I will also have to re – inspect Uncle G’s body. I want to make sure that he was murdered and if yes, what I have to look for and if I can draw the same murderer to all three corpses, if the spies are there. That counts as evidence too, doesn’t it ? But I will need other people as my Team. I can’t work with my old Team on that. If they see anything suspicious, they will report it and I can’t make up so many lies that I will lose sight of my own truths.”

“But wasn’t Uncle embalmed ? That means everything is out, right ? Blood and everything.”, his Sister asked.

“Sis, I forbid them to do that, for this exact reason. The blood and everything is still there, which also means I will have to work with the stench the body will emit, but I have no other choice and it wouldn’t be my first time dealing with that either. Trust me, I know what I am doing.”

“God, Uncle hopefully won’t haunt you as a ghost.”

M/n sighed heavily.

“Like I said, if he decides to curse me, for disturbing him, so be it. I HAVE to figure this out.”

“Do you really think you have to do that, Corrupted ?”, Skulduggery asked.

“Yes, I do. We need all the evidence we can get, to wake those old people up from slumber land, so let me do, what I can. I didn’t study Autopsy for nothing.”

“Very well then.”, Skulduggery gave in.

Then there was a short moment of silence.

“How many people do you need ?”, Skulduggery asked M/n.

“At least three. Why ?”, M/n asked.

“I have someone in mind...”

“Who ?”

“Kenspeckle Grouse. He is a doctor and very smart. He might be able to help you. I would like to join too.”, Skulduggery answered.

“Maybe I should join too then.”, Ghastly mixed in.

“If you all go there, then I will too.”, Stephanie said.

“Sister, you won’t come along. You are twelve years old, for fucks sake. You don’t want to see cut open bodies and how I take out organs and run tests on everything. God, Mom would KILL me if she finds out that I let you even WATCH a series about such things ! You would get nightmares. Forget it.”

“I want to come along, if you won’t let me, I will tell Mom your actual job !”, Stephanie threatened.

M/n froze at that and glared at the road.

“IF you come along, you WILL listen to me, understand ? You disobey me and I will ground you for a long while. You got that ?”, he said darkly.

“Yep !”, she chirped.

“Good.”

“But how are Skulduggery and Ghastly going to hide their faces ?”, she asked.

“Let that be my worry. I have an idea.”, M/n replied with a smile.

Then he hung up and they continued to drive.

“What have you planned ?”, Ghastly asked.

M/n smiled.

“I never tested them on Mages before, so don’t expect it to work without flaws. Maybe I need to adjust a few things, but...I made something that project illusions over your body. The device is small and has a good battery. It can stay alive for over 12 hours, before you have to charge it again. I am unsure of what to call them yet. Maybe ‘cover up devices’ or something. You’ll love them, if they work.”

“Alright...but they won’t explode, right ?”

“They won’t.”, M/n replied, laughing.

“Then I am willing to try them out.”

“Good. Oh ! And please don’t tell my Sister that I am tinkering on stuff like this. It is bad enough that she knows that I am a Coroner. She doesn’t need to know that I am crafting stuff too...”, M/n muttered.

“Because she will blackmail you ?”

“Yep, one of the many things. The other would be her constantly asking me, to make her something she can gloat about... No thank you. As much as I love her, she can’t always expect ME to do everything.”

“Tough love, eh ?”, Ghastly asked with a chuckle.

M/n chuckled too.

“Very tough love.”, he confirmed jokingly.

“What else can you do ? You studied Autopsy, what else ?”, Ghastly asked.

“You will keep it a secret from everyone ?”, M/n asked back.

“Sure will. Now spill the tea.”

M/n chuckled.

“Officially I had three scholarships. One was Autopsy, the other was Mechanic and the last one was Robotics. I wanted to test myself, I suppose. I did all three of them at once and Uncle Gordon supported me. He was the ONLY one who knew. He arranged everything and all my scholarships were scheduled in one day. After I came home late at evening, I studied all three things at once, let Gordon test me and then I got, if I was lucky, at least two hours of sleep. I never really felt stressed or tired, even though I should have. At weekends I studied hard and slept longer, catching up on my sleep, but still, it should have been terrible, yet, it was entirely relaxing to me.”

Ghastly looked at M/n in awe.

“Wow, respect, Corrupted.”, Ghastly complimented.

M/n chuckled.

“What else did you do ? You said these three were ‘Official’. Was there anything that was unofficial ?”

“I mean, my driving license was. I learned sewing a bit too. I learned first aid and how to help in absolute emergencies, like, someone is bleeding out, I know how to slow it down properly. I studied a bit of medicine, I studied chemicals and liquids. I studied a lot in books, used rarely the Internet, and put my knowledge to tests. All of this, Gordon was aware of. He got me the books, he explained things I didn’t fully understand and he helped in a few things. Heck, he even taught me how to fight, stuffed me into boxing classes and another fighting sport, so I can defend myself. I guess, I learned a little bit of everything at this point. Even how to cook and clean properly.”, M/n explained, shrugging his shoulders.

To him it was no big deal, it never stressed him out. He could be put under immense pressure and he wouldn’t feel stressed. Ghastly though, was in utter shock and concern.

“Don’t you think, your Family made you do too much ?”, the tailor asked.

“Not really. Why ?”

“Well, most kids, like you, enjoy their free time a lot and don’t cope well under pressure and tasks all day.”

“Ghastly, I grew up way faster than other kids. And while it is true, that I rarely had free time, I was always asked if I was okay with everything they wanted me to do. I could have denied any time, but refused to. It’s not like they forced me. I always want to put myself under immense pressure, learn more and more interesting things and I want to find out where my limit is. Until now, I haven’t found it.”

Ghastly looked at M/n in worry, but didn’t want to poke around any further. He knew Gordon Edgley and he knew that he would never have put a child under immense pressure, if the child wouldn’t have asked for it.

Soon enough they arrived and M/n parked his car next to Skulduggery’s. They got out and M/n raised an eyebrow.

“It is hidden in the Museum ?”

“Yes, it is.”, Ghastly replied.

“How clever.”, M/n said dryly.

The two men chuckled, while the siblings were not that amused. Then Ghastly led them inside, with Skulduggery. They paid for it and then Ghastly led them away to a certain door. It was opened by Skulduggery and Ghastly entered first, then M/n and Stephanie.

Ghastly let a flame appear in his hand and together they all went down the stairs. Stephanie started to shiver, which M/n noticed. He put his left hand on her back and rubbed it. She looked at him and smiled a thankful smile.

Soon they entered a hallway, with heavy doors on both sides and they continued to walk, until they reached a door with a shield and a bear on it. Ghastly stood there and searched around in his pockets, after he found, what he was looking for, he fumbled around on the door. Soon it made a soft click and the door opened.

“Come on in.”, Ghastly said.

The three of them entered and Ghastly entered lastly. Skulduggery clicked his fingers and suddenly candles were burning on the walls in the chamber.

“Does all of this have something to do with the Sceptre ?”, Stephanie asked.

M/n looked around with wide eyes of awe. The chamber was filled with high stapled, heavy, thick books, artifacts, statues, paintings and wood carvings. He even spotted an armor of a knight on one of the walls, it was leaning on it.

“It all has something to do with the Ancients.”, Skulduggery told Stephanie.

Ghastly only nodded.

“That’s why there has to be something about the Sceptre too. That the chamber was so full, I didn’t expect though.”, Skulduggery added.

M/n snorted, while Ghastly gave Skulduggery a triumphant smirk.

“I had a very studious Family.”, Ghastly said jokingly.

“Won’t anyone hear us down here ?”, Stephanie asked worried.

“No one will. These Chambers are sealed. The sound seal is one of them. The other one is a very complex lock.”, Ghastly answered her.

“In other words, you could even scream bloody murder and no one would hear us.”, M/n deadpanned to his Sister.

“Oh, I knew that !”, she yelled at her Brother.

“You didn’t. You were confused as fuck, what a sound seal was. Even I could see it. And it’s fine, not many know what that is, I mean-”, he got interrupted.

“Well, sorry that I am not as fucking smart as you, asshole !”, she yelled slightly angry.

M/n looked taken aback at that. Ghastly and Skulduggery looked at them and Ghastly seemed worried. M/n’s shock and hurt only flashed for a second in his eyes, then he seemed cold and unbothered again, yet all three of them saw the short show of emotion. Stephanie covered her mouth in shock and regret.

“M...M/n, I’m sorry... I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t, right ?”, she asked softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He jerked it away and took a few steps away from her. He looked at the floor.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”, he muttered and pulled his hood up.

He hid his face under it and then turned away from her.

“It’s not ! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know you just want me to understand things properly. You just wanted to help.”

“I said it’s fine ! Leave me alone !”, he said violently.

She shut up and took a step back from him. She hurt him badly with her insult. She never snapped at him before, she knew how sensitive he was to insults from Family. God, Stephanie wished she could wash her mouth out with soap right now.

“Let’s start looking around. The faster we are done, the faster we can get back to my home, figure out if the corpses are there, inspect them and then I can mind my own business.”, M/n said with a very soured mood.

Ghastly was worried for him. That was a low blow from his Sister and it hit him right in the heart.

M/n was silent the whole time, they have been down there. They discussed a painting and solved a little puzzle box, in which M/n was very interested in, but as soon as he saw his Sister looking, he looked away and ignored them. In the Puzzle box was an echo stone. Skulduggery activated it and there appeared an older man, they asked him questions, while he also talked a lot about other things.

He answered them their questions. Who made the Sceptre, who made the Crystal in it, if the Sceptre can be destroyed, if the crystal can be destroyed and where it may be now. As he said that if Gordon was a wise man, he would have brought it back to where he found it, or placed it to someplace similar to it, in Skulduggery’s head went up a light bulb and he knew where it was.

The Echo stone then lost all powers and the man, called Oisin, disappeared again. Ghastly was in shock. So the Sceptre really existed and Gordon really had it last.

They left the Vault and then the Museum. M/n just jumped into his car, turned on the engine and waited for Ghastly to get his ass inside the car. He was not bothering to talk with his Sister.

“I think you hit a very sensitive spot.”, Ghastly muttered to Stephanie.

She lowered her head.

“I know that I did so. He...Corrupted doesn’t care if someone calls him bad names outside of Family and friend circles, but if it was someone from inside that...if it was used as an actual insult, he gets really hurt. I was just...I HATE that he is so smart and I am so stupid. He has to explain the simplest things to me, yet...he never gets irritated to do so. I just...I was angry with myself that I can’t catch up as fast as he can and understand everything as well as he does. I snapped and accidently let it out on him...”, she muttered.

“He will be silent with you for a while, if I remember what Gordon told me about him.”, Skulduggery said softly.

“He will be. I might be ignored for a few days...”, she admitted in guilt.

“We’ll see about that. Maybe I can get him to listen to me and then we will see. He likes talking to me.”, Ghastly said with a small smile.

She looked at the tailor.

“You can try your best...”, she muttered and then got into the Bentley.

“See you at Gordon’s.”, Ghastly told Skulduggery.

The Skeleton nodded and then jumped into his car. Ghastly got into M/n’s Firebird and softly closed the door, then put on the seatbelt.

“Are you okay, Corrupted ?”, Ghastly asked calmly, as M/n started to drive.

“Just dandy.”, he said with a sour mood.

“Be honest with me, please.”

“She didn’t mean to. It happens, I also snap like that sometimes. I just need time to sort my emotions out. I’m fine, Ghastly.”, M/n insisted.

“Are they a rollercoaster right now ?”

“They are. I am sad, hurt, angry, and all I want to do, is hide away, right now. I need a bit time and then I am back to normal, no worries.”

Ghastly looked at him with concern and then looked at the radio.

“May I turn on the radio ?”, he asked.

“You won’t like the music. I have a disc inside with my own music. I don’t like the news, nor the music from there. They interrupt it always way before it is done playing.”, M/n answered.

“I think I won’t hate it.”, Ghastly assured.

“Do what you want, I don’t mind.”, M/n said, shrugging his shoulders.

Ghastly turned on the radio and almost instantly did a song play, Ghastly wasn’t familiar with. M/n knew it though.

“NCS and the song is called Ricochet.”, he said.

“NCS ?”

“No Copyrighted Sounds. They make Music that are not copyrighted, helps YouTube content creators to use it as background music or even memes, without getting in trouble.”, M/n shortly explained.

“Huh. But it ain’t bad. I thought you were into heavy Metal.”

“Hah, those times are over. I was into that as I was nine to eleven years of age.”, M/n said with a small smile. Ghastly smiled. At least M/n wasn’t all too soured anymore.

[inmh01]

So I’m always happy to dunk on feminists who scream “SEXUALIZED!” at any woman who displays more traditionally feminine traits, because some of them think any women with a cup size larger than A is “sexualization” and frankly they are indiscernible to me from religious fundamentalists that think any sign of cleavage on a woman is inappropriate.

At the same time, what exactly is happening in your head when you think “a pair of faceless female robots with large breasts are inherently superior in design to other female video game characters because they get my dick wet” is a good tweet that doesn’t make you look like a weirdo?

I haven’t played Atomic Heart. IDK if the robots being sexualized is relevant to the plot or their character or not- nor do I care, because the devs can design their female characters however they like. Sexualize them all you want, I don’t care- sexy can be fun.

But conversely, devs do not have to make their female characters “sensual” or “feminine” to your tastes, because the defining factor of a good female character or their design is not if they get your dick wet.

IDK who the character on the bottom left is, so I can’t fact-check anything else about her character-design. But she doesn’t look masculine to me- she just looks like a woman with short-hair. And I shouldn’t have to tell anyone familiar with video games that a lot of devs are fond of finding ways to give women short (or very contained, like in braids or ponytails) hair so they don’t have to animate longer hair.

The top-right lady (Selene Vassos from Returnal) is modeled on this woman.

It’s a pretty close match. Are we now going to argue that her model isn’t feminine enough? Selene isn’t designed to be “sensual”, she’s designed in the same vein as Ellen Ripley: A female scifi action character who wears clothing that makes sense for her role. And yeah, those clothes aren’t always going to be particularly “feminine”, because that doesn’t make narrative sense.

Aloy is not meant to be “sensual” either, she is meant to be a post-apocalyptic warrior. Additionally, picking a deliberately awkward shot of her face from the State of Play trailer to downplay her femininity is a red flag that you’re not being intellectually honest. I’ve played this game: Aloy’s face is normal. Dude deliberately found a shot where her face looks weird because of the angle.

Also, you can get different outfits for her in-game. Some of them are less conservative than others and show off her body and curves more, but most all of them make sense in context for her to wear because they involve armor and animal hides.

And then of course we have the massive L of deliberately cherry-picking these four characters for bullshit reasons when I can just as easily post shots of Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters, Mia Winters, Jill Valentine, Claire Redfield (all from Resident Evil), Kara, Chloe, and North from Detroit: Become Human, Julianna Blake from Deathloop, Elizabeth Comstock from BioShock: Infinite, Dani Nakamura from Callisto Protocol, Bayonetta, any of the female characters from Until Dawn or The Quarry, most of the female characters from Assassin’s Creed and Final Fantasy...

I don’t see him congratulating the Resident Evil team on making Lady D sexy (or maybe that was because thousands of other people beat him to it? I recall Lady Dimitrescu’s sexiness being relatively uncontroversial) or the Final Fantasy XV devs for giving Cindy big boobs and a revealing outfit.

You get my point, right? He specifically cherry-picked four characters (and within that, cherry-picked specific pictures of those characters) that are not overtly feminine in appearance when he literally had dozens of other options to pick from- but those options would disprove his point.

tl;dr bad twitter post, Feminist Frequency would be grudgingly proud of your cherry-picking skills my dude, and female character design does not and should not always revolve around whether or not it tickles your pickle.

[bloody-bee-tea]

BeeTober 2023 Day 9 - Distraction

Albedo can hear Kaeya and Diluc arguing through the walls. It’s not unusual for them to disagree on something but when it goes on for longer than ten minutes, Albedo knows that they are not simply arguing but actually fighting.

They haven’t done that in a while, Albedo thinks as he carefully sticks his head out of his door. From his room he has a good view of the living-room, and the first thing he sees are the beer cans that litter the table.

They have been drinking then, before the argument started and that might explain why it evolved into a fight now.

Both of them can be a little hard-headed when they are drunk and they don’t mash well then.

Albedo sees both of them standing in the living-room, yelling at each other and he quickly ducks back into his own room. He doesn’t deal too well with people fighting around him and he’s certain they’ll figure it out between them.

There’s no need for him to butt in, he tries to convince himself, but it’s hard when he could already see the hurt on Kaeya’s face.

He hates arguing with his brother and yet he usually can’t help it, much to his own despair. And whenever that happens it usually ends with Kaeya—

Albedo cuts himself off there, because he doesn’t really want to think about it. It always hurts to remember how Kaeya goes out for a night of fun after a fight with Diluc but things between Albedo and Kaeya have been strange for a few days and it hurts more than usual.

Albedo presses his hands over his ears when the fight continues but it’s barely two minutes before he hears the front door slam shut hard enough that the glass on his desk rattles.

Well, that fight seems to be over for now.

Albedo knows it’s stupid, knows he shouldn’t do it, but after a minute of silence he gets back up to leave his room only to find Kaeya putting on his shoes already.

So he’s going out then.

“You shouldn’t go out, you’re drunk,” Albedo says, trying to keep his voice even, to keep the hurt out of it, and Kaeya’s head snaps up, his eyes still alight with anger even though Diluc has already left.

“I’m a grown-ass man, Albedo, I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

More like who, Albedo bitterly thinks because he just knows that Kaeya finds a faceless person to fuck after his fights with Diluc.

He guesses he should be happy that they are strangers and that it’s not something serious but his heart doesn’t care about that. It hurts either way.

“I know, I just—” Albedo stutters and he wonders when he got so tongue-tied around Kaeya. “I just worry.”

“I’m getting real sick of all of you worrying for nothing,” Kaeya spits out as he puts on his jacket. “I’m going out.”

“You can use me,” Albedo blurts out and he can feel how all the blood drains out of his face when his brain catches up to what he just said. But by then it’s already to late, because Kaeya has turned back around to him.

“What?” he asks, his voice dangerously low and Albedo thinks he already said that much, so he might as well see this through now.

“You don’t have to go out, you can use me, as a distraction. It’s—fine.” It’s not fine, it would be anything but, but maybe it would still be easier than seeing Kaeya leave and knowing he fucks the first person who shows some interest.

Kaeya has gone very quiet at Albedo’s words and Albedo doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or not.

“Fuck you,” he finally whispers out, and Albedo guesses he has his answer there. “I’m going to Jean’s,” he then tacks on and despite the way Albedo can barely hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears he’s relieved at hearing that.

It means Kaeya will at least be safe tonight.

Kaeya closes the door very quietly behind him—in quite the contrast to Diluc’s earlier departure—but it still makes Albedo flinch.

He fucked up. He fucked up big time, he thinks, and he very desperately tries to push his own hurt far away. Kaeya doesn’t want him. Albedo knew that before, has known it ever since Sucrose told him that it’s kind of obvious that he’s in love with Kaeya but it still hurts.

Kaeya had seemed outraged at even the suggestion of him fucking Albedo and that is a kind of rejection Albedo hadn’t needed on top of everything else.

It takes him a few moments to tuck all the hurt inside of him together and away, because he can’t dwell on that. He knew it would happen like that, he knew it was so goddamn stupid to fall in love with Kaeya and it’s not what he has to concentrate on right now.

What he needs to do right now is to apologize to Kaeya because he can’t have this sour their friendship. Or acquaintance, depending on how forgiving Kaeya is. They still live together after all and they will have to do so for the rest of the semester.

So Albedo has to apologize as soon as Kaeya comes home.

Albedo knows himself well enough to know that he’s going to miss it when Kaeya comes home if he retreats to his own room, so he busies himself with tidying up the living-room before he takes a seat on the couch. He selects a random channel on the TV, letting the voices wash over him as he replays the look on Kaeya’s face at his offer over and over again.

Albedo thinks he has never seen that look on Kaeya’s face and that makes it hard for him to name the emotion but there might have been hurt in there. Which makes no sense, so Albedo concentrates on the part that was much easier to identify and that was the rage that came after.

Kaeya had seen genuinely angry and Albedo isn’t used to having that expression aimed at him. Diluc is the one who makes Kaeya angry most often and Albedo wonders how he can stand it.

That one time is enough to make Albedo want to apologize for the rest of his life.

Albedo mulls over all the ways he can say sorry, practices speeches and phrases and hopes that it will be enough.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it’s not.

Albedo startles badly when he finally hears a key in the lock and a quick glance at the clock tells him that he sat on the couch for the better part of the night. It’s almost morning by now.

It could be Diluc coming home, Albedo suddenly thinks, but then a familiar blue head comes around the corner and Kaeya doesn’t even seem surprised to see him still up.

“Kaeya, I want to—” Albedo starts because he needs to get this over with, he needs to put this right immediately but Kaeya simply walks past him.

“Not tonight, Albedo. Go to bed.”

 He closes the door to his own room just as silently as he had the front door a few hours earlier but Albedo flinches again.

Kaeya won’t even talk to him.

Albedo hangs his head as he grips the upholstery of the couch tightly. He doesn’t move, can’t find the strength to do anything as he puzzles over how he’s going to make this right.

He must have lost a little bit of time freaking out because the next thing he knows is Kaeya coming out of his room again.

It’s already light out.

Kaeya seems visibly surprised to see Albedo still on the couch and that looks is quickly replaced with worry.

If he still worries about him, that means they must be able to fix this, right, Albedo desperately thinks and opens his mouth to try one of the several dozen apologies he has come up with.

“Have you been out here all night?” Kaeya asks as he makes his way over to the living-room. “Have you even slept?”

“I—no,” Albedo admits because how could he sleep when Kaeya is mad at him.

“Go to be, ‘Bedo,” Kaeya tells him but Albedo shakes his head.

“No, I need to—”

“I’m not going to talk to you like this. You look like death and you’re shaking. Go to sleep for two hours and we’ll talk, I promise. I’ll even make you some food, alright?” Kaeya says with a small smile that seems sad more than anything and Albedo blinks at him.

“Don’t leave,” he finally gets out and Kaeya blinks, clearly startled as if that thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“I won’t,” he promises and then tugs Albedo up from the couch and pushes him into the direction of his room. “Now sleep.”

Albedo can’t think clearly, his thoughts slow and sluggish from the lack of sleep and he thinks maybe Kaeya is on to something with this.

I just hope he’ll find it in him to forgive me, is the last thought Albedo has before his head hits his pillow and everything goes dark.

Albedo wakes up to a mouth-watering smell in the apartment and when his brain finally boots up he sits up in bed with a start.

Kaeya.

Albedo scrambles out of bed, almost running into the kitchen, where he finds Kaeya at the table, reading something on his phone, a plate of half-eaten food in front of him.

“Yours is in the microwave. Warm it up and sit,” Kaeya says without really looking at him and Albedo does exactly as he’s told.

“Listen, I want to—”

“Eat,” Kaeya interrupts him with a look and Albedo doesn’t have it in him to argue with Kaeya so he eats the food Kaeya made for him and tries not to burst into tears over that.

Albedo is half-way done with his plate when Diluc comes home.

“Morning,” he says when he sees them both in the kitchen and he puts a cup of coffee down in front of Kaeya.

Albedo knows that it’s from Kaeya’s favourite shop which is all across town.

“Your food is there,” Kaeya gruffly says and points to a plate that has entirely different food on it than Albedo’s does.

Albedo would bet his right arm that Kaeya made Diluc’s favourites and he guesses he’s right when Diluc’s face briefly softens.

“Thanks, Kaeya.”

“Yeah, same,” Kaeya says and briefly lifts the cup. “Now get the hell out of my face.”

Diluc does so with a small smile and not another word and Albedo is yet again thoroughly perplexed by their relationship, though he desperately wishes it would be this easy to apologize for him as well.

“Am I allowed to apologize yet?” Albedo says after a moment of silence after Diluc’s departure and Kaeya raises an eyebrow at him.

“I don’t know. Are you?” There is anger in Kaeya’s voice still, and Albedo shrinks in on himself. “Why the hell would you say something like that?” he then demands to know and Albedo can’t do anything but shrug.

“I know it was uncalled for.”

“Then I ask again, Albedo, why the fuck would you say something like that, knowing how I feel?”

At that Albedo flinches. It’s not a surprise to hear it—it shouldn’t be, Kaeya’s reaction yesterday made his feelings very clear—but it still hurts.

“I apologise,” Albedo whispers. “I shouldn’t have pushed myself onto you like that. I know you don’t want me.”

Albedo raises his head when he notices how still Kaeya has gotten and he is not prepared to see a look of surprise on his face.

“I don’t want you?” he asks, his voice a little too high to be called normal and Albedo frowns.

“I—what?” Albedo gives back because he no longer understands any of this.

“What do you mean, I don’t want you?” Kaeya asks and Albedo never thought him to be cruel but he might have to adjust his impression.

“Please, Kaeya,” Albedo whispers, avoiding his gaze but Kaeya is merciless and lets him stew in silence until he breaks. “You know I’m in love with you just like I know you don’t feel that way about me. I shouldn’t have offered, last night,” he finally gets out and pushes his plate away from himself.

His stomach is turning itself into knots and Albedo feels sick.

“You said I can use you, as a distraction, Albedo! Why would you do that if you’re in love with me?” Kaeya asks and there is the anger again.

Albedo really doesn’t deal with Kaeya’s anger very well it seems, because his hands start to shake and he quickly hides them.

“You keep going out,” Albedo mutters and wrings his hands under the table. “Better this, with me, than knowing you go find someone else,” he admits.

“This doesn’t make any sense at all,” Kaeya breathes out. “Albedo, you know I’m in love with you. Rosaria said you have to know because I’m so goddamn obvious about it and you not saying anything about it is an answer in itself, right?”

It’s Albedo’s turn to freeze now.

“You’re what?” he eventually gets out and his eyes snap back to Kaeya’s. “I don’t—understand,” he then admits and Kaeya drops his face into his hands.

“I’m in love with you.” His voice comes out muffled but Albedo still hears the words.

He hears them, but they don’t make much sense.

“But you’re not. You never said anything. Sucrose said—I’m obvious, too!”

“We’re both oblivious, more like,” Kaeya says, his voice strangled with despair. “We’re never listening to our friends ever again!”

“You thought I knew about your feelings and were letting you down easy,” Albedo whispers out. “And I thought you knew about my feelings and were letting me down easy.”

“We’re so goddamn stupid,” Kaeya says with a nod. “Also, ouch that you think I go out to get fucked.”

“You—don’t?”

“Fuck no, Albedo, I go out to get drunk to forget that you don’t want me and then I crash at Jean’s. Lisa is getting real goddamn sick of me.”

“Don’t go out anymore, then,” Albedo rushes out and melts on the spot when Kaeya smiles at him.

“I don’t have to drown my sorrows anymore, now, do I?”

He puts a hand on the table, a clear invitation, and Albedo doesn’t waste a second to thread their fingers together.

“You don’t,” he agrees with a tentative smile that grows bigger when Kaeya raises their clasped hands to his lips and presses a kiss to Albedo’s knuckles.

He jerks slightly when Diluc’s door opens but relaxes again when Kaeya doesn’t let go of his hand at all and instead presses another kiss to it. Diluc takes one look at them when he enters the kitchen, empty plate in his hands, and rolls his eyes.

“About goddamn time,” he grumbles.

“How about you shut the fuck up,” Kaeya cheerily gives back without sparing his brother a single glance and Albedo chuckles.

“Good for you. Or something,” Diluc says, flipping Kaeya off before he returns to his own room.

“I’ll have to make his favourite dessert tonight,” Kaeya sighs out when he’s certain that Diluc can’t hear him anymore and Albedo frowns.

“Why?”

“He didn’t say ‘I told you so’. We fought about this, yesterday.”

He tugs on Albedo’s hand as if that explains everything.

“My hand?” Albedo asks, just because he can but mostly because it’s been a while since he’s seen Kaeya’s smile.

“You. Us. This thing between us,” Kaeya gives back in explanation. “He told me I was being stupid listening to Rosaria and jumping to conclusions.”

“Maybe he should have fought with me over that, too,” Albedo muses. “Might have gotten us somewhere sooner.”

“I am not stubborn.”

“Never said that,” Albedo immediately replies with a laugh and he feels so relieved he could melt into a puddle.

It’s not just about the fact that his feelings are reciprocated; the last week it felt almost as if he was losing Kaeya altogether and to be able to laugh with him like this again—

“I love you,” Albedo blurts out, because it’s true and Kaeya should know it.

He should always know it.

Kaeya’s face immediately goes soft at hearing it and Albedo wants to see that expression a lot in the future, he decides.

“I love you, too,” Kaeya gives back and Albedo shamelessly leans over the table to steal a kiss for himself.

He’s allowed now, and he’s not going to let a single opportunity go to waste. And when Kaeya almost follows him back for a kiss of his own, Albedo knows they are on the same page about that.

As they should be.

[elysia-nsimp]

OC introduction: Prince Jonah Cainwell (Twisted Wonderland)

(featuring comet!)

Basics

Jonah (he/him) is the Student Council Vice President (replacing the faceless character from glomas) of Nobel Bell College, based off of Prince Hans from Frozen. He is a cishet man 😒😒 (I’m kidding he’s bi he just doesn’t know it yet), and 18 years old.

Jonah’s around 6’1, so just a tad shorter than Rollo himself. He’s a pretty average build and weight for his height. He’s not super athletic, but he stays in good shape.

So, we don’t really know a lot about NBC’s classes, so I’ll be going off the idea that it has similar classes to NRC’s roster. That being said, Jonah would excel at ancient incantations and curses, as unlikely as it is for those to appear in NBC. He enjoys mythology, and excels at history and art. He’s likely in some kind of business class as well, which he’s also good at. He’s shockingly good at a lot of subjects, but

Hobbies, Talents, Preferences

As stated above, Jonah loves art. He makes glass mobiles and wood carving kits in his free time, and sells them in the markets when he’s not in school. He’s started many small businesses to get money here and there, including a cardboard cheeseburger stall in the school cafeteria because they don’t sell those and apparently people wanted them.

Jonah is known campus-wide for his ability to bend rules to his will through malicious compliance. He has never broken the letter of any law, but he does find workarounds for any rules he doesn’t like or approve of (usually if it’s unjust in his eyes or it’s for the betterment of the student body (this is where the cheeseburger thing came in, the school itself is not allowed to sell them nor are people allowed to sneak off campus to get burgers.))

There’s an on-going joke that Jonah is a boat enthusiast because he mentioned ONE TIME that he thinks boats are a cool way of traveling the soleil. He likes them a NORMAL amount, but all his peers tease him and blow up how much he likes boats. He thinks this is funny, and plays into it with theatrics.

Backstory

Jonah is the youngest of a total 7 siblings so, although a prince, he will never make it to the throne. Jonah doesn’t particularly care about titles, he kind of disregards the Prince title as is, but what he DOES care about is power.

Throughout his childhood, he was very much emotionally neglected due to him basically being backup to the power of 6. This led to his siblings picking on him for most of his life. As soon as he was accepted into Nobel Bell, Jonah packed his stuff and left ASAP.

He’d cut his family off, but he “wants a backup source of income” in case he runs out of money from his little spur-of-the-moment business ideas. That being said, he does not like them at all. None of them.

Due to his not great upbringing, he’s kind of cynical person. He speaks mostly through sarcasm and backhanded compliments, though it’s for the most part just intended to be teasing. Jonah actually is a genuinely nice person… he just… has a power complex.

Actually, that’s why he’s vice SC president. He wants nothing more than to be in power, because he never had that growing up. He does want to rule a kingdom or country or something, but he can settle for a school for now…

Jonah is also a hopeless romantic. He’s been searching for true love’s kiss for years, hoping some beautiful princess will whisk him away from the trials and tribulations of life… one day, he hopes to travel the world with his future partner. Until then, he waits for the door to open. /ref

Unique Magic

I haven’t decided on the incantation yet, but Jonah’s UM is called Frozen Heart and it can create and fix inanimate objects with ice (think Elsa’s ice dress). Jonah specializes in ice magic!

Relationships

Rollo Flamm

Jonah has conflicting feelings about Rollo. On one hand, he considers Rollo a friend and a peer, and someone he respects greatly. On the other hand, MAN is he jealous of Rollo’s position. This ends up coming out as Jonah constantly pushing Rollo’s buttons (see the cheeseburger thing, it pissed Rollo off but he couldn’t do anything because it was barely in the rules) and messing with him for fun.

…he’s also very obviously in love with Rollo but HE DOESNT KNOW HES BI YET anyway you didn’t hear it from me /j

Azul Ashengrotto

They met during glomas. They became fast and frankly terrifying friends. Keep them away from each other they WILL plot and scheme together.

Other Works

Playlist!! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3HW7AeQ3rzvyrHsqGwXTSA?si=g2hc2RJySEK3BXmUjWIM0g&pi=u-T0kdIKb9T1q0

Media

no he will not wear the hat it messes up his hair :(

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Arty Morty

Published: Apr 28, 2024

“‘Woke’ isn’t dead — it’s entered the mainstream” says Gaby Hinsliff, a columnist at (where else) The Guardian. To which I ask, what’s the difference? Any music nerd will tell you: a countercultural movement is dead the minute it goes mainstream.

Take the early ‘90s “grunge” phenomenon. It lost its edgy appeal once the look was subsumed into the suburban retail fashion supply chain, and the fad quickly passed after that. “Alternative music” was a misnomer by the mid-’90s: in what way was it “alternative” when it dominated the Billboard charts? By 1997, the corporatized counterculture that had come to define the era was lampooned on (where else) The Simpsons, when they introduced Poochie the surfin’, rappin’ dog “with an attitude,” a crass attempt to remain “hip with the kids” in the satirically self-described “worst episode ever.”

[ “Wokeness” is the worst episode of political counterculture, ever. ]

“Wokeness” is certainly a countercultural phenomenon. Like “alternative,” the term “woke” only makes sense relative to the mainstream: to describe people who position themselves politically far to the left of whatever ideas have already been embraced by the establishment. So it’s more of an intensifying adjective to other causes and issues rather than a coherent political worldview in its own right. Being against racism or homophobia by itself isn’t woke; being way more against racism than everyone else, and against all the possible queerphobias — even the ones you normies haven’t even heard of is. Being in favour of making the criminal justice system more fair isn’t woke because it isn’t distinct enough from the common sense view. To make it woke, you have to be in favour of doing away entirely with the prisons and the police. You get the idea.

“Woke,” both the word and the movement, always had not-so-subtle transcendental, spiritual connotations: a shade adjacent to nirvana.

This is a point that Hinsliff struggles to grasp. In her column she tries to define “woke” as, variously:

“the broader push for social, racial and environmental justice”

“the idea of being more open to sometimes uncomfortable challenge from minority perspectives that were previously suppressed”

“saving the planet”

“uncovering forgotten histories”

“inclusivity at work”

“ ‘be kind’ ”

“getting more used to acknowledging conflicting views based on different life experiences”

To which Ophelia Benson (who else) keenly observes that, for starters, Hinsliff is mixing up “radically different things”:

Social justice is not the same thing as “environmental justice” and climate change isn’t fundamentally political. What to do about it is politicized (but shouldn’t be), but the change itself is not responsive to whether we shout “fascist!” or “wokerati!” at it. Those are two radically different things, so there’s no point in calling the pairing of them anything.

This is the inevitable path of a movement that exists solely to be more activist-y than everyone else: the condensing of all ostensibly progressive causes into a great, faceless ideological black hole. The logical endpoint of the moral-bidding-war meltdown of “wokeness” is a singularity: a state of mind which, to those inside, is a realm of infinite, utopian virtue. To everyone else it looks literally pointless. “Woke,” both the word and the movement, always had not-so-subtle transcendental, spiritual connotations: a shade adjacent to nirvana.

(Speaking of grunge!)

That tracks with the direction “wokeness” is going: one big nondescript fist of self-righteousness.

[ Until recently, a mural on Toronto’s gay village community centre, The 519, depicted a leatherman in fetish gear, a lesbian in a wheelchair, and a teen girl binding her breasts — a perfect encapsulation of “queer” activist extremism. ]

Here’s a little anecdote, an example of wokeness subsuming everything ostensibly progressive until it ends up meaningless and useless. About 20 years ago, the city-funded community centre at the heart of Toronto’s gay village put up a mural which loomed over the neighbourhood. It depicted, along with a lesbian in a wheelchair, a middle-aged leatherman clad in fetish gear, and a teenage girl straining to crush her breasts into a binder. The message was clear: adult men’s fetishes and distressed teen girls’ trans identities would now be central parts of the community’s activism.

And sure enough, that’s exactly what the community centre focused on in the ensuing years, as the activists shifted over to “queer theory,” with its emphasis on sexual permissiveness and hostility to biological sex distinctions.

(To be clear, I have no beef with the gay leather scene. I just don’t think it’s in need of publicly funded support, and I don’t think leather daddies are in any way marginalized. Binders, on the other hand, I have all kinds of beef with.)

Credit where it’s due: they do pick apt murals. The next shift among “queer” activists was to embrace all-encompassing, universal, woke ideals. That’s been reflected in the community centre’s new mural, which recently replaced the one with the lesbian, the leatherman, and the trans “boy.” Just as the first mural presciently captured the shifting cultural mood inside the building, so too does the second: now it’s a raised fist — a universal symbol of righteous protest — filled in like a quilt with patches that depict the “progress” flag, various shades of the colour brown (skin tones, one presumes), animal hide prints (animal rights?), blue waves (the environment), and miscellaneous patterns whose symbolism I can’t decipher. That tracks with the direction “wokeness” is going: an incoherent melding of anything conceivably virtuous into one big nondescript fist of self-righteousness.

[ The Toronto gay village community centre’s new mural is one big nondescript fist of self-righteousness — a perfect encapsulation of “wokeness.” ]

I’ll bet that the people who work inside the community centre think they’re at the epicentre of all virtue now, and that their noble mission has naturally expanded from when it served gays and lesbians in the time of rampant AIDS and gay bashing, to LGBT outreach, to LGBTQ+ propaganda, to 2SLGBTQQIA++ hysteria, and now at long last they’ve arrived at righteousness in its true, pure form, having transcended all individual causes. Woke nirvana.

But I know for a fact that the gay people who live and work in the neighbourhood have little or no use for the community centre’s services anymore, because it’s strayed so far from the community it was founded to support. I am one such person, and I wouldn’t darken their bloody doorstep. My own “community centre” has nothing to offer my community now but insults and condescension. In its lurch to woke extremism, it’s become not just useless to us, but hostile to us, and in so doing it’s set itself up for its own undoing.

That’s a sentiment we’re seeing across society: people are fed up with the extremists.

To go back to Hinsliff’s Guardian article, does this mean that wokeness is being embraced by the mainstream, or killed off by it? In the aftermath of the Cass review, Hinsliff can’t dispute that there are “tough lessons to be learned” about moral absolutism “that can be fatal to progressive causes.”

But Gaby, I shout at the screen, it’s the moral absolutism that’s being rejected, not the causes themselves. People cared about the environment and gay rights and gender nonconforming people and women’s rights and all the rest before “woke” came along, and they’ll continue to care about all of it long after “woke” is gone.

The moral absolutism is the wokeness.

Hinsliff panders to the Guardian readership by offering a self-flattering alternative view, which says that the woke movement is moving along just as it always intended, having more-or-less already achieved its true goal, which was only ever to gently nudge the Overton window, to take the establishment a baby step to the left, rather than smash the whole system and burn as many witches as it could find:

Woke is no longer wildly anti-establishment; increasingly it’s becoming the boring old establishment, to the point where teenagers will doubtless soon be ripping it apart on TikTok, since turning into baby conservatives is the only thing really guaranteed now to confound their parents. It is radicalism that initially breaks down doors. But what usually ends up walking through them is a version with the sharp edges smoothed off that most people find they can live with, and that’s where woke is heading now. It’s not dead. But it is evolving, and that’s how living things ultimately survive.

Now, you might argue that this is a difference which makes no difference, the distinction between “wokeness is dying because the mainstream are fed up with woke people’s extremism” and “wokeness is actually secretly winning by merging itself into the mainstream and changing it a bit for the better.”

But that’s wrong. There’s a big distinction, and it’s an important one. When we look back, one of these views will put the people behind wokeness in their rightful place in history alongside the McCarthyites and the lunatics of the Salem witch trials: villains at the heart of some of our darkest, most terrible chapters in history. The other view, which Hinsliff is pushing, will paint the people behind wokeness as heroes, whose acts of extremism were merely noble sacrifices “to break down doors” for the greater good of progress.

To which, and I absolutely hope that someone manages to get this in front of Gaby Hinsliff so that you, Gaby, can read these words yourself:

Fuck you.

The woke activists who sent death threats to Kathleen Stock, to JK Rowling, and to countless other women for simply speaking their minds and telling the truth? They are not heroes, Gaby. They do not deserve praise for “breaking down doors.” Some of these activists literally wanted to kill women.

The countless vulnerable young people — often gay, autistic or both — who were coaxed by woke people to undergo unnecessary, experimental, irreversible body modification surgeries? They’re victims, Gaby. Their victimhoods, their stories, are what need to take historical precedence above all else.

You blithely dismiss the victims’ plight, the ongoing pain that they will suffer for the rest of their lives, as collateral damage.

And there are so many more victims — too many to list them all, but here are some: women residing in prisons and shelters; women who just want to use public washrooms and changing rooms in peace, dignity and safety. Lesbians and gay men who just want to socialize as a community and maintain their sexual boundaries. Academics who dare to raise questions. Employees in all kinds of workplaces, afraid to say the “wrong” thing, or fired for having done so.

Graham Linehan, for fearlessly saying what needs to be said, when almost no other celebrity or media figure has had the guts to.

And me. I’m a victim, too. I won’t be getting my friends back, the ones who threw me out of their lives in my most difficult time of need, after I spoke up for gay rights. And I won’t be returning to work in the gay community or the arts community, both of which I was a part of for so long.

You spit in all of our faces when you characterize our woke tormentors as the real heroes.

This is surely just the beginning of a widespread attempt to put a positive spin on the woke cult’s dying legacy by those who were complicit in its ugly doings.

The Guardian always turned a blind eye to the savagery routinely deployed by the woke against perfectly decent people — the paper still employs the profoundly detestable Owen Jones, for example. The cruelties doled out by men and women like Jones never served the noble causes they purported to; they were always mere ploys to put themselves in a more advantageous position on the woke playing field.

I think everyone’s starting to see that now. I don’t think the spin doctoring ploy is going to fly. No one’s going to look back at “woke” with any fondness or gratitude.

If anything, people will want to move on and forget it ever happened. I can understand that.

But me, I have a different plans. I don’t intend to let people ever forget the victims or the culprits of this mass psychosis.

To the woke assholes who were so cruel in their performative commitment to “social justice”: you’re going to have to face some social justice of your own, some day soon.

[olliedollie1204]

a winter's tale (chapter 2)

Remus goes to a winter break party… so does his love-stricken brother, his meddling roommate, his nosy-ass friends, and, oh yeah, his totally-not-a-crush. What could go wrong?

(Read here on AO3) (Read chapter 1 here)

Remus had no idea what he was drinking, but it was hot and sweet and spicy and it burned on the way down— exactly what he was looking for. Gleefully he chugged the rest of it and threw the red solo cup on the ground, making it bounce unceremoniously.

“Fuck you, Professor Callahan!” he screamed, and the circle of equally drunk college students around him cheered in response. One of the benefits of going to an end-of-semester house party was that virtually everyone was on the same page, that making it through yet another term without dropping out was nothing short of a triumph.

“Pick up that cup, you look like an animal,” Janus said directly in his ear, speaking loudly while still not shouting over the music.

“A party animal!” Remus replied.

“And a pitiful college cliche.”

“Jan-ny, can you get off my dick for two seconds?”

“Are you looking for someone else to take that spot?”

Remus snorted. “Fuck yeah! As long as they’re significantly more sober than me right now.”

“Oh, please, you’ve had two drinks,” Janus said. “You should see Virgil. Last I saw Roman was holding his hair back while he puked his guts out.”

“Shit! Was it nasty?”

Janus gave him a withering stare. “Yes, because I obviously stood beside him and watched. I have no idea, Remus. I just gave Roman a peppermint to give him when he was done. So much for Roman’s plan.”

UGH. No more talk about plans!

“Aright, I’m done talking about boring shit.” Remus grabbed Janus’ drink and quickly downed it, ignoring his friend’s affronted gasp before pushing the cup back into his hands. “Where are the others?”

Janus snatched the cup back, scowling into it. “Well, Patton set up shop in the kitchen handing out those candy apples he made. I haven’t seen Logan.”

Remus blinked. “No Logan?” he asked, realizing at the last second that he sounded far too much like a child who’d just been told Santa left the mall to go have a smoke.

“No Logan,” Janus confirmed. He raised one eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

No. Fuck. Okay. That was fine. It was fine— if Janus hadn’t seen him that meant he wasn’t here, because Janus always made it a priority to scope out the entire party like a bloodhound, figuring out who his fuckbuddy target would be for the night. And he’d obviously seen Virgil and Patton, and together with Logan the three of them always rode together (and really, Remus thought that was unfair, for the three people most likely to volunteer to be designated drivers to all ride together— he and his roommates always ended up Ubering just so they could all get equally drunk). So Logan wasn’t here, and that was fine, and definitely not super stupidly disappointing for any reason.

Remus did himself the favor of not saying any of that out loud, and Janus sighed.

“Well, I’m getting another drink,” he said pointedly. Remus grinned at him, and he rolled his eyes with exasperated fondness. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That is a much shorter list than you’d like to admit, Jan-Man!” Remus replied cheerfully, turning away and dipping back through the crowd before Janus could respond.

It was pretty crowded, which Remus honestly kind of loved. Crowds were a good sign of many things— first, that the hosts hadn’t run out of drinks. Important. Second, that the party was still going. Equally as important.

After that his list sort of devolved from neat bullet points into vague feelings of contentment that arose whenever Remus found himself pressed between unknown bodies in an unknown building on an unknown night. It wasn’t about sex (despite what everyone who knew him would believe)— it was intimate, sure, but the intimacy arose from the unyielding mania that came from rubbing against a throbbing mass of nameless, faceless bodies, sweating and grinding and shaking from emotional excess.

… Fuck. Maybe Remus should take a page from Roman’s book and start writing poetry. Logan liked poetry, didn't he?

“Shut the fuck up!” he said out loud, not that anyone could hear him.

Maybe he could text him? No, that’d be stupid. He was at a party, he was supposed to be enjoying himself. And Logan didn’t even really like parties anyway! Why would he want his friend to subject himself to an environment that he clearly only tolerated on a good day, just so Remus could… what, talk to him?

“You’re thinking pretty loud there, buckaroo!” a voice interrupted him before some bright red thing was shoved under his nose. “Candy apple for your thoughts?”

Remus looked up. “I think I’ve had enough of your candy apples to last a lifetime, Pat.”

“Not my fault you kept eating my trial apples after I told you they’d give you a tummy ache,” Patton replied, just a hint too smugly to come across as perfectly innocent. It made Remus very proud.

“How’s the party?” Patton continued.

“You’re here too, Padre, you should know.”

“Oh, you know this isn’t really my scene.” Patton waved his hand through the air. “I only come to these things to hang out with my friends! But looks like most of our group had other plans for tonight, huh? Everyone’s having some pretty important conversations, huh?”

He looked at Remus meaningfully, and it took several seconds for Remus’ brain to figure out what he meant.

“What, you mean— Roman and Virge?” His eyes widened, and he slammed his cup down on the table with too much force. “Wait, do you know something?”

Patton’s eyes widened. “Oh! Well— yeah, Virge has been talking about confessing all week—”

“Virgil has?” Remus nearly shrieked. A guilty look passed over Patton’s face; he really couldn’t lie for shit.

“Oh, oh shoot, Remus please don’t tell anyone, please tell don’t Virge I told you—” he babbled. Remus’ grin felt like it’d split his face.

“Are you kidding me? Roman has been fucking moping for weeks over this party, he got it into his head tonight was the perfect night for it—”

“Virgil, too,” Patton replied, gasping a little as his smile came back. “Oh my God, that’s so romantic! This is such an exciting night!”

Remus nodded, turning toward the direction of the bathroom and craning his neck. “Wonder if that’s what’s happening in the vomitorium over there. Usually Logan takes over on Virgil puke duty— Roman’s lucky he’s not here to do it tonight, because now he can make his lovey-dovey speech to Virgil a literal barf fest—”

“Logan’s here.”

Remus stopped talking. Patton blinked at him.

“Logan’s here?” he repeated, as if Remus hadn’t heard him. “He— he’s been here the whole time, he came with Virge and me.”

Um. What the fuck? “Record scratch?”

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No!” What the fuck? Logan was here? Janus didn’t usually lie so boldly to Remus’ face anymore, and he couldn’t even think of why he’d bother lying about Logan not being here.

Patton frowned. He put down the candy apple he was holding and fished his phone out of his front pocket.

“I’ve been texting him, but he hasn’t responded. I thought he’d found you already, I thought you two were talking about—”

He stopped himself suddenly, shook his head. “Never mind!”

Remus’ brow furrowed. Yeah, Patton couldn’t lie, it was true, but each and every one of them in their friend group could smell his bullshit repression a hundred miles away.

“What did he want to talk about, Patton?” Remus asked— maybe demanded, if he were being honest. Patton busied himself with his candy apples again.

“I really think you should go find him, bud, this isn’t my business—”

Remus was about to complain, but a flash of light in his peripheral made him realize the bathroom door had opened, the yellow light spilling out across the darkened living room.

“Later!” he burst out, spinning on his heel and shoving his way back into the crowd.

[fixfoxnox]

Also let me scream into the creative writing Void

THE GHOST’S DEAD FIANCE???

Chef kisses, left no crumbs

I love how you are defying the past! GhostRoach and dead fiance! Roach rule by twisting it up making them establish and alive all while soap is like “i need to have them both carnally” FUCK YOUR PAST! GHOSTROACH

(Not a request btw) Although I also wanna read a dead fiance! Soap because I think that’ll be hilarious in a “how does that make you feel GhostSoap shipper with Past! GhostRoach hmmm? How you like them apples??” But like i need them to have a good communication and instead of roach being hurt that he cant have ghost its more of Roach helping Ghost to heal in a healthy way that makes them have a good relationship from the start and then them establishing a healthy relationship later too

I was also laughing so hard when Roach asked Ghost if he’s been telling everyone he died, bro was about to break off the wedding (I also love how u made them fiances here my roachghost heart healed a little) its giving “i can still hear his voice” “quit telling everybody I’m dead”

I do have a question though, is roach also military in this? Or is he retired or have a different job?

MONSTER AU

When your boyfriends are fast food ❤️

ASDSFHDKDLFL I AM in love with Monsterfucker, I will eat it up everytime especially if its love between different monsters?? Slurping that bitch up like its soup

Also i need to yell about the fact that Ghost is a Vamp-Demon hybrid here?!!! And that he scares people but then Roach meets him for the first time and he fully wants Ghost and Soap goes along with him💀💀💀 me too roach, me too, its giving, you should be more scared of the person holding the leash than the dog itself (im sorry I had to) like imagine living out your whole life and people are scared of u even tall behemoth of men, but then this small funky mousy haired guy just looks at you with so much lust?? Ghost I would fold ngl

STREAMER/CAMBOY

I know u haven’t written this yet but Im going to yell about this anyways because this has got to be my fav AU, i really just love streamer love stories despite the whole reborn not being canon that was still a hilarious take, Ghost would make so many “in my days” joke every time someone tries too hard in a game

And I absolutely am stealing this from real people’s experience; but what if Ghost is a faceless streamer and when he just started getting to know Roach, trying to flirt with him, he face reveals in front of Roach while roach is streaming and roach is just speechless and going redder by the second all while his chat is going insane

Im gonna go to my corner now and buzz around while i brain rot

Ahhhhh!!!

On Ghosts Dead Fiance:

I just love when Soap see's Ghost and Roach and is just immediately in love (especially with Roach) its my favorite dynamic ever and I think he's just enough of a himbo for that to happen sjdjdjdj

I would still like to eventually do a flipping it on its head in the method of killing off Soap version, but we probably won't get that until I get enraged by dead Roach content again ahsh

And I'm 100% going to make them more healthy than any of the SoapGhost fics but I'm also gonna throw in a line like "because of you I forget that I was ever even in love with Soap" just to pass people off because I'm evil like that

Then in the comments I'll hit 'em with "wow guys, Soap sent Roach for Ghost guys 🥺 he knew that he was better for him"

Also Roach is meant to be retired in the story, hence why Ghost has one of his dog tags. Since Roach wasn't going to be out in the field anymore (personal choice he made because he was tired, and he works CIA now with aunt Laswell) he decided to give Ghost one of his tags so he would "always have a piece of me with you"

On Monster AU:

*scary powerful monster walks in the room*

Roach, immediately: I'll just take that, thank you very much *seduces him*

Roach and Soap and even Ghost in this Au are definitely the be more scared of the person holding the leash than the dog itself thing. Roach has these two men wrapped around his finger dude and he's so good at playing innocent here

I think I mentioned but his whole thing is like seducing people while making them think that they're seducing him. He just chooses his partners though and gets Soap to growl at any unwanted people (most people) while he enjoys his two hot fellow monster boyfriends 😌

Also love making Ghost panic and run out of the room like a bat outta hell because he knows if he stays he will absolutely end up sleeping with these two members of his team who he's not even properly met yet. Poor guy is in for it though cause Roach isn't going to let him get away that easily

On Camboy/Streamer AU:

LISTEN I THINK ME AND YOU MAY BE THE ONLY TWO EXCITED FOR THIS AU BUT IM SO GLAD SOMEINE ELSE LIKES IT AS MUCH AS ME

IM GENUINELY SO EXCITED TO WRITE IT SKSKKDJDJ

If I didn't have to write part of an essay today I would be drafting up part of it right now because ACK

JUST THESE BOYS BEING IN LOVE AND SLOWLY GETTING PUSHED TOGETHER AND AHHH I LOVE THE IDEA OF GHOST BEING A FACELESS STREAMER WHO DOES A FACE REVEAL FOR ROACH WHILE ROACH IS ON SCREEN

I just know they'd have a shit ton of fanfics written about them

Also on the line of if this Ghost was reborn Ghost I've been thinking about that more and like...streamer AU's Gaz and Soap being his gaming buddies (Price is Gaz's controversially older boyfriend who hangs out with them on stream occasionally)

And I can just see people shipping Ghost and Soap from the streams and someone is like "Are you two dating" and Soap just playfully drops "No, Ghost is whipped for another streamer, take your bets on who"

And it starts a whole big thing and when, eventually, Ghost and the squad start streaming with Roach everyone just knows that this is the guy that he's whipped for

LISTEN I MAY HAVE TO DO AN AU OF THE AU FOR THIS SJDJJDJD YOUR MIND DUDE, YOUR MIND

[justalia]

this is kinda long, but i’m at the point where i feel like i just can’t apply states correctly (which given how states work that itself is probably a state but i digress). i would greatly appreciate your help if you have the time

i’ve read neville many times. but i’ve just never been able to feel fulfilled in imagination and i genuinely don’t understand how you would. i can’t visualize, so i really only have internal dialogue. plus i have never been an imaginative person and i’m very much left-brained. even when i was in school if my brain wandered off i was just thinking about what i would eat for dinner or something. people talk about having imaginal arguments with people and i don’t even do that? my imagination is literally just like an internal version of how some people talk to themselves.

my sp and i lived together and were talking about getting engaged before i accidentally manifested a breakup. i don’t get how to fulfill myself cause i just feel like i miss the human experience of being together. i can’t visualize, i despise scripting, and inner conversations are unnatural to me, so i can’t give myself the experience of waking up next to him, or talking to him, or going on dates, or being intimate. but i know from studying the law we desire the feeling. so i ask myself how would i feel if we were back together and were doing all those things? and it’s just crickets. i get the wish fulfilled can feel like nothing. but if i’m sad and missing him and try to shift my state and still feel sad then i know i’m not changing self.

i’m frustrated to the point of tears. i know the 3d will just continue to reflect my state and show me more stuff i don’t like. but even with the 3d not being the goal (which ik it isn’t) i feel like i can’t be happy in imagination either. i’m burnt out from trying to make myself feel better but ik staying in my current state isn’t going to help in any way. idk if you’ve seen rem’s distraction technique but im tempted to try it because it seems fitting for my situation. i just don’t know that affirming it’s done and distracting myself but continuing to feel sad is actually shifting my state. i really don’t know what to do anymore

okay let me help you out.

first of all from what you’re saying i feel like you still haven’t fully processed the emotions the breakup caused and you’re desperately trying to feel better and feel positive bc that’s what you think shifting the state is.

what you first need to do is fully process and let out all of your emotions regarding your 3D without putting on yourself the pressure of “i need to switch state or it won’t manifest and things will stay the same”.

STOP STRESSING YOURSELF OUT.

you’re putting pressures on yourself that you shouldn’t even have. you’ve studied the law you know how it works now you only need to apply.

you know that time is a social construct and imagination being the only reality means there’s only the present moment.

IT’S OKAY TO MISS YOUR SP. allow yourself to feel those emotions PLEASE stop bottling it up.

i know i have tired myself to death trying to push aside these emotions thinking it was me reacting to the 3D.

ALLOW YOURSELF TO FEEL.

what matters is that you intend to shift back to the state of the wish fulfilled as soon as you feel better.

if you know that the 3D is not your goal why would you be so mad at yourself for feeling certain emotions if you know that as soon as you’ve let them out you can have what you want immediately?

stop forcing yourself to feel things.

the reason why you don’t “FEEL” that you’ve switched state is bc you’re identifying with the 3D version of yourself.

knowing that you are faceless and formless consciousness and that all you want is only consciousness as well why would you miss something you have?

i’m not saying you should repress your emotion of missing your sp, i’m simply saying let it out, feel it, return to a neutral state focus on feeling neutral and as soon as you feel ready to just switch to your desired state.

the only reason you’re so hard on yourself is bc you’re still seeing the 3D as your goal.

stop looking for techniques thinking it will help in any way.

you know what the “rules” are, identify with imagination and know that you have it. period. that’s it.

[linawritesocs]

my ocs (+ ships) as palette names!

here it is!! all titles are from this post AND HONESTLY I LOVE THEM SO MUCH SOME OF THEM SOUND LIKE REALLY COOL CHAPTER TITLES

all palettes were assigned based only on the titles and not the colors! though some palettes (the (name)-core ones) do have my ocs' vibes ndjdkddk

avery: wishing to rant about fanfiction but not wanting to show how much of a nerd you secretely are, you can’t just ask a guy why he’s in love, some days i’m afraid i will cut my eyes by the sight of glass shards (yes i picked this one only bc of his surname jdksksdkl IT DOES HAVE HIS VIBES THOUGH)

vance: only the floor candy can sustain me (vancecore), the act of balancing a bottle of juice on your head, some days i feel like a lobster on a skateboard 

merrill: next time maybe don’t go into the forest at night hm buddy? just a thought, you are who we say you are because public opinion beats self worth every time, putting on a show to seem alive / when i don’t feel alive (wow these last two are SAD) 

allen: focus on me (ignore the blood), do you remember when you told me that you love me when you told me that you love me when you told me that you, murder and other expressions of love 

roland: stand still as the darkness grows roots in your mind, i loved you i did so how did we end up like this, men like us die alone because we think we deserve it (;w;)

fake!jay: hey quick question are we really about to commit arson? (literally his dynamic with allen), the doctor tried to check my heartbeat only to find out i don’t have one (a reminder that he's not really human!), the privilege of being born somebody else (THIS ONE. OH GOD THIS ONE) 

real!jay: the lack of self esteem i’ve felt since i learned how to read or write (;w; AGAIN), soda cans are great i love accidentally spilling liquid on myself, when i was a small child i held an iguana once 

austin: i’m always at least a little bit scared hopeless and frustrated, a classmate of mine once borrowed one of my pens and then decided it was such a good pen he’s just gonna keep it (austincore), crying because cats are cute and deserve the world 

minnie: this is the third time someone put strawberries in the bathtub who keeps doing this please stop (minniecore), the horrifying ordeal of having loud neighbours, unexplainable excruciating pain that started suddenly and will never go away 

hayden: an unhealthy relationship with one’s own identity (THIS IS LITERALLY HAYDEN), what flavour is your mind (a reference to him trying to understand other people's personalities more so that it's easier for him to manipulate them), the only thing greater than my ego is my impostor syndrome 

riley: i’m a weirdo who likes to eat chalk, have you found yourself or your loved ones suffering from a case of empty eyes, an overemotional state projected upon the unsuspecting public (LITERALLY HIS UNIQUE MAGIC)

angel: this will hurt you more than it’ll hurt me - and that’s okay!, the girl in a blue dress that lives in every village ever (angelcore), the magical princess’s strawberry-scented battle axe of infinite bloodshed 

bunny: wasting your life feeling like an underperforming tool in someone else’s hands (her relationship with angel..), the eye lips eye emoji face fills me with unbridled rage, what do you MEAN there was a fire 

seth: your house has no anomalies but i’m reporting you for bad taste in art (YEAH THIS DOES SOUND LIKE SETH), you love them now you’ll hate them later (sethcore),  i haven’t left the house in months (his backstory 😔)

and now, the oc ships!

avery x allen: what are you doing in my house / now now i don’t usually make it a habit to - stop yelling - break into people’s homes but as you can see sometimes i do, once again i am forced to ask what in the world did you bring into our home / what do you mean what did i bring it’s very clearly a radioactive waste barrel don’t pretend you don’t know that, the tall faceless lad out the corner of my eye who watches me sleep while pointing at the door 

vance x riley: the man who looked at me so sweetly in soft flavours of deep beige, wish me luck honey (i couldn’t ask for more), just friends but we kiss sometimes 

merrill x cater: can you help me find what’s wrong with me, men like us aren’t supposed to feel these things, it’s past my bedtime and i’m thinking of you (i don't talk a lot about this ship but trust me, i love them SO MUCH)

merrill x austin: of all the things you could be doing why are you romancing soda cans, wish we could go out for coffee but you hate me and i hate coffee, sorry that your rant about how the game i like ruined the whole series forever didn’t make me like it any less 

allen x nemis: my girlfriend said i eat corn weird which now that i think about it would explain why i’m consistently covered in butter (listen it does sound like them), look at her go biting everyone who comes near her like a champ, here’s cheers to the man who stole my heart away 

allen x hayden: let your tender hands rip me apart, what’s a little murder between friends, i’ve been chugging poison waiting for the day you inevitably take me up on my offer and take a proper bite out of me (THIS ONE. POWERFUL)

minnie x sebek: your love has brought me to the point of no returning, don’t try to tell me how i’m supposed to breathe, people ask me how i manage to think of you everyday and to be completely honest i never know what to say because it feels so natural 

hayden x elpys: i need you to understand that i really do want what’s best for you - and that simply isn’t me, you are a dream in a crowd of nightmares, you must have real self confidence mortal to attempt flirting with something all holy 

seth x riddle: dunks you in tea LOL, get your shoes off my bed you animal (these ones are chaotic and i love it), he to whom the cake’s dedicated 

seth x rollo: i touch you and my hands burn my hands burn my hands burn (what have you done) (yeah it was painful to type this one), give me salvation i swear i won’t bite, well first of all i am positive what you did is a criminal offense / and second of all why didn’t you invite me (hiii i love "seth x rollo as a villain couple" so much <3)

[themelanindigitalwave]

The Struggles and Triumphs of Black Creators: Building a Community That Truly Supports Us

In the vast world of digital content creation, the journey for Black creators is often an uphill battle. While we tirelessly support creators of all races, the harsh reality is that the same level of support is not always reciprocated. We find ourselves in a situation where we must rely on each other, uplifting our own community because outside recognition and support can sometimes feel out of reach.

This post isn’t about creating division—far from it. It’s about acknowledging a truth that many of us face every day. The truth is that support from one community, as strong as it may be, is sometimes not enough to break through the barriers that stand in our way. As Black creators, we pour our hearts and souls into our work, yet the broader recognition we deserve often seems elusive.

The Challenge of Navigating Popular Courses

When I first started my journey as a content creator, I noticed something troubling. The digital marketing space is flooded with popular courses that everyone seems to be promoting. But after digging deeper, I realized that these courses often lack real value. Worse yet, many of the people promoting them haven’t even taken the time to fully engage with the material. They can’t answer the critical questions you may have because they’re more focused on the sale than on your growth and success.

This experience left me feeling disillusioned. How could I, in good conscience, promote something that doesn’t truly serve our community? I made the decision early on to steer clear of these so-called “popular” courses and focus on creating and promoting content that genuinely resonates with Black creators. We deserve more than just generic advice—we need resources tailored to our unique experiences and challenges.

Building a Safe Space for Melanin Creators

In this space, I want to do more than just talk about the problem—I want to be part of the solution. My goal is to create and support products that truly resonate with our community. I want to provide resources that are not only beneficial but also specifically designed with our needs in mind.

But more than that, I want to foster a safe space where we can grow, educate, and support one another. A space where Black creators can find the tools, advice, and encouragement they need to succeed. A space where we can be honest about the challenges we face and work together to overcome them.

Moving Forward Together

The journey of a Black creator is not easy, but it is powerful. By coming together, supporting one another, and being intentional about the products and resources we create and promote, we can build a thriving community that uplifts us all.

If you’re tired of the empty promises of popular courses and are looking for real value tailored to your needs, you’re in the right place. Let’s continue to grow, educate, and support each other on this journey. Together, we can create something truly remarkable—a community where our voices are heard, our work is valued, and our success is celebrated.

Visit my website to explore resources and products designed to empower Black creators. Let's build this space together, where our collective support is more than enough to reach new heights.

[i-will-steal-your-intestines]

I miss my friends, and I feel so lonely.

we barely talk anymore.

one I haven’t seen since last year when she moved to a new city.

another is busy with uni life and we haven’t met up in the longest time and it’s been weeks since she last texted or replied, and with each text, the amount of time she takes to text back grows longer.

the third, is also busy with new changes to her life, and I’m worried she’ll eventually stop texting or calling at all.

I realise now that most of them are busy doing their own thing and going through big changes in life. making new friends. going through new experiences…and I’m happy for them…I really am. I’m happy they’re happy, and I only wish them all the best things in life, happiness, wealth, health, and success. plenty of love too.

it’s just that..what will happen to me? what about me? am I going to be left behind and forgotten? have they gotten bored of me? overgrown me?

am I going to be alone again?

I tried so hard. I really did.

am I so…do I mean as much to them as they mean to me? I’ve always wondered.

i always wished I were the type of person who was memorable. the type of person who left an impact or an impression on people.

I have so much love to give, that it’s overflowing and I feel suffocated by it, but why is it that people barely have any to give to me?

i’m always ready to make time for the people I care about. to listen to them. to care for them. to make an effort for them. I love them so much and I try so hard. why does no one remember me?

am I that insignificant?

I realise that with friends, you can always make more. but none of my friends, past, ex, or current, have ever been replaceable to me or forgotten. I remember them all. even friends I met online I remember. I do not forget, and it will never be the same, because they have all left impressions on my heart.

but do they remember me?

I mean so little in people’s lives. I barely make an impact or impression. even the wind makes more of an impression than I do. I’m just a speck that grows smaller and smaller, and soon I’ll just be a faceless blurry memory with no name. just there. but not important. never important. never significant. just a something, an awkward little something, as I always have been.

i am not someone worth remembering. I am left behind again. always behind.