#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

[aquamarixx]

breaking the internet

chapter six a series of misunderstanding and lack of communication finally leads Hiori and Miss Journalist to talk, once and for all. blue lock longfic series pairing hiori yo x reader contains slow slow slow burn, post blue lock timeskip, afab!reader, hurt/comfort, implied !NagiReo, suggestive nsfw masterlist

For weeks, there’s been nothing but radio silence. 

You lost count of how many times you’ve typed a reply to Hiori, only to delete it afterward. Again and again. 

Each time, the words feel wrong. Too stiff, too needy, too defensive. No matter how you framed it, everything sounded wrong. What could you even say that wouldn’t make everything worse?

Plus, he didn’t follow up either. 

Every day, you’d sneak a peek into your Winstagram chats, only to see the same conversation where you left off. He’d view your stories, sure. A proof that he’s still there, just… watching. But other than that, nothing. 

On weekends, you’d log onto Steam, hoping to catch him there while you convince yourself to unwind. Every time you do, a few minutes after you log in, his name would pop up on your notifications.

hiyooooooo is now online

Your cursor hovered over his profile picture more times than you cared to admit. But fear—no, humiliation—held you back. You’d tell yourself it was fear of rejection, of misstepping. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just that. Maybe it was guilt too.

So you’ll sit straighter in your chair, hands gripping tight on your mouse, waiting. Waiting for a game invite, a little message, anything.

But nothing ever came.

Gaming was supposed to be your escape, something you both shared but it seems like it can’t break the cold shoulder treatment you’re getting from him. 

Maybe I just need to see him. Or talk to him in person, you thought, clinging to the idea as though it might fix everything. Maybe it will. But still, easier said than done. 

Desperation leads you to ask your editor for a beat change. Anything but Manshine City. The name alone made your stomach churn. You just need some distance from it until you clear the air between you and Hiori. Especially since you two haven’t spoken since the Nagi incident. 

But Mercury in retrograde or whatever cruel force dictated your life these days, have other plans. Because your editor doesn’t budge. And to make matters worse, she hands you your next assignment.

“You’re covering another Manshine City game,” she said, her tone apologetic as it can be.

You want to protest. But before you can even spit out your rehearsed excuses, she cuts you off.

“They saw the numbers your Bastard München pieces pulled in,” she explained apologetically. “It’s PR gold for them.”

Her words hit you like a sucker punch. All the carefully prepared justifications in your head evaporated, leaving you standing there, mute and cornered.

Turns out, your editor and the Manshine City marketing manager are college buddies. She admits that the marketing manager cashed in a favor to get you to cover the team after seeing how you somehow brought good impressions to Bastard München. 

As much as you want to get mad at your editor, you can’t. This was the woman who took a chance on you. The same woman who took you under her wing, believed in you when no one else would. How could you even say no to her?

You shake your head. It wasn’t your editor’s fault, really. That’s just how this business works.

And isn’t it good? People are asking for you, specifically. Isn’t that what you wanted?

Then why doesn’t it feel good?

You should be feeling good about it, right? Swelling with pride, even.  Finally, people were putting a name to your work, treating you as more than a faceless, invisible byline. More than just an unfamiliar face in the video content.

Yet somehow, this void inside of you swallows every shred of accomplishment. And it leaves you unsatisfied and wondering if you truly deserve it. 

And maybe—just maybe—it’s because you can’t untangle work from everything else. Because the lines are blurring, and you’ve let Hiori seep into every corner of your life. You’re not even sure you mind.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? He’s the one who made you believe in yourself, who made you feel like you could be more than just a name at the bottom of an article no one reads. He gave you the confidence to think you belonged here. And now, the thought of him lingers like a shadow, casting doubt over everything you do.

It’s not his fault. You know that. But it feels like the push and pull between your career and the “thing” you have with him is tearing you in two. That undefined, messy connection was supposed to be your escape—a rare piece of joy in the relentless grind of your career.

Instead, it feels like you’re being forced to choose.

Career or connection. Ambition or affection.

The tension in your chest is sharp and unrelenting.

No, you didn’t have time to dwell on that. At this point in your career, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Your personal life? Your preferences? None of that mattered.

You just had to suck it up. And do your job.

The stadium continues to buzz with energy as Manshine City wraps up their match with another clutch win. You just finished interviewing Nagi and Chigiri, notebook clutched in your hand.

Exhaustion pulls at you, but you linger a bit longer, tempted by the upcoming match between Bastard München and Italy Ubers. You have to get going if you want to get started with writing at home and sleep early.

Before you can give in to that temptation and the idea of seeing Hiori even from afar, Reo and the Manshine City marketing manager pull you into a conversation about potential content collaborations.

Despite their excitement showing, you’re pretty much drained. Instead, you offer your goodbyes, attempting to avoid getting roped in further to their impromptu planning.

“Stay, Miss Journalist, stay!” Reo calls out dramatically before he drapes himself over Nagi like a cat. With an apologetic smile and a small wave, you quicken your steps to get further away. 

As you turn, you freeze when you nearly collide with someone. Hands catch you by the shoulders, steadying you before quickly letting go. 

“Hiori…” you breathe as you lock gazes with him.

For a moment, you swear he looked… hurt. But it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual calm mask. He takes a step back, scratching the back of his neck, his gaze darting away from you. 

You’re just about to speak but Chigiri’s voice slices through the tension. 

“Hiori, hey!” Chigiri bounds over, oblivious to the atmosphere. His bright energy collides with the moment like a sledgehammer.

Hiori forces a strained, lopsided smile. “Hey.”

“You’ve met Miss Journalist, right?” Chigiri gestures at you with a grin. “Sorry for stealing your fan.”

Hiori eyes the Manshine City jersey draped on your shoulders. A casual gift from the team manager, thanking you for the support and hard work. 

His jaw tightens ever so slightly, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. You feel your stomach twist uncomfortably. 

“Oh yeah? I’m hurt.” A laugh escapes him but his sarcasm is unmistakeable.  

“I-uh, I’m a Bastard München fan at heart, y’know that.” you stammer, gripping your notebook so tight. 

“Well, we don’t mind changing that, do we, Nagi?” Reo teases, his smirk sharp.

Nagi, ever the enigma, tilts his head lazily. “Hmm, changing someone’s mind is a hassle. But Miss Journalist seems worth it.”

That statement doesn’t help.

What the hell is going on in that guy’s head? Are they really riling up Hiori? 

“Wanna make a bet?” Reo’s voice is light, but the edge in his tone is clear.

“I don’t think she needs a bet to know who she likes better,” Hiori cuts in, his voice sharper than usual.

Usually, Hiori won’t be provoked by such trivial things. He gets enough shit like that within his team already. And it doesn’t faze him.

But this—this is different.

Because somehow, you’re involved and in the middle of it. And because it’s you.

He hates the way Reo’s arm brushes against your shoulder as he tries to invade your space. He hates the way Nagi’s detached comment earns a small laugh from Chigiri as if they’re onto something.

And most of all, he hates the image of you in that damn jersey. Or any other team’s jersey. 

Not to mention, he never saw Nagi take an interest in you before. Nor Reo. Not that you’re not attractive. Because you are. But this possessive feeling, is it even right?

It’s irrational. He knows that. He has no right to feel this way. But the jealousy festers anyway, fueled by weeks of silence between you.

“Scared she might like us like us more?” Reo continues to taunt him, his grin widening as he zeroes in on the crack in Hiori’s composure.

Hiori’s fists clench tighter. “Yer delusional,” he snaps, the words biting.

Men. Are. So. Full. Of. Themselves.

You’re not a prize. You’re not some trophy for their ego-driven competition.

Or whatever pissing content is happening between the guys.

Without a word, you turn on your heel and walk away, your steps firm and purposeful. But before you round the corner, you throw a seething glare in Hiori’s direction.

He sees it.

And it hits him harder than anything Reo could have thrown.

Hiori stares at the untouched plate of food in front of him, the hum of conversation around the dinner table fading into a dull, distant noise. His teammates' laughter and energy fill the space in the way only Bastard München could.

But he can’t focus. 

The moment from earlier—Reo’s teasing smirk, Nagi’s casual remarks, and the way you looked at him with such anger—loops in his mind like a highlight reel he couldn’t escape.

He doesn’t know what to do with the emotions simmering under the surface. The possessiveness, the jealousy. 

It doesn’t make sense, not when the two of you aren’t even together. Both of you haven’t talked about feelings, about whether you even felt the same way. 

So why did it feel like something sharp had lodged in his chest every time he thought about you with someone else?

His fingers drum lightly against his thigh as he fights the urge to check his phone again. He’s already done it too many times, looking at your messages, and wondering if he should text you. The silence between you has stretched so long that Hiori isn’t sure how to bridge it.

Am I being pushy? He thought, the question hanging heavy in his mind. 

Is it selfish to want more when we haven’t defined what this is? Am I not being a creep?

And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting.

To understand the little things that make you smile. To know you outside the boundaries of work. To know you in a deep, personal, and intimate setting.  

To be the reason for all those moments.

The weight of the thought crashes into him. His chest tightens as the room around him seems to blur—teammates laughing, cutlery clinking, voices overlapping—fading into a hollow echo. The world slows, yet his pulse quickens, each beat louder and heavier than the last.

And then, it hits him.

“I do like her.”

The words slip out of him before he even knows he’s saying them.

The jealousy, the longing, the unspoken hope he’d buried deep enough to convince himself it wasn’t there. But it was. It always had been.

The realization doesn’t just hit—it collides, with the force of a meteor smashing into the earth. It leaves him shaken, reeling, and terrified in all equal measure.

Oh god, I like her.

He’s been running from it, denying it, pretending it wasn’t there. But there’s no escaping it now. No undoing it. It’s real, undeniable, and alive inside him, threatening to consume him if he doesn’t let it out.

His gaze drops to his hands, fidgeting against his jeans. He hates the jealousy twisting in his chest. It wasn’t fair—to you, to the relationship you shared, undefined as it was.

Is my possessiveness hindering her job? She’s here to do her work, and I’m… what? A distraction? A complication?

The weight of the thought makes his stomach churn. And then there was the nagging doubt he couldn’t shake: Does she like me for me? Or is it just Hiori Yo, the athlete? The player?

His teammates’ laughter jolts him out of his thoughts. He blinks, realizing he missed half the conversation. He forces a tight-lipped smile as Isagi nudges him, but his mind wanders back to the phone in his pocket. 

He reaches for it, his heart quickening at the sight of your name on the screen. A message from you.

/yn_offthepage: what the fuck was that about earlier?

He freezes, his thumb hovering over the notification. He hasn’t heard you curse even once. Even through the text, he can hear your biting tone inside his head, ringing.

The screen dims, and Hiori lets it. The weight of his uncertainty presses heavily on him. For now, he couldn’t bring himself to open the message.

Later that night, back in his room, Hiori sits at his desk, staring blankly at his PC screen. Even the idea of gaming felt hollow. His mind was too restless.

His eyes wander to the image of you and him sitting at the pitch all sweaty. It was the candid shot someone had taken during the content shoot where he taught you how to dribble.

You were looking afar with a big smile on your face, and he was looking at you with so much yearning, the smallest smile tugging at his lips, betraying him.

The sight of it stirred something in him. A longing, sharp and bittersweet. He wanted to know if you ever looked at him the way he looked at you at that moment.

But what if opening up ruined what you already had? What if his feelings crossed a line you weren’t ready to acknowledge?

Hiori sighs, leaning back in his chair. The questions linger, unanswered. 

For now, all he can do is sit with them, hoping he’d find the courage to face you—and himself—soon.

Your schedule finally winds down when the JFA hosts a midseason party disguised as a roadshow for the upcoming months and next season.

It’s a rare opportunity to step away from the chaos of your work, and you’re willing to take it. Networking, getting insider info straight from the lion’s den—and of course, free food and drinks.

Especially the free-flowing alcohol.

Despite the “casual” label slapped on the event, it’s still as lavish as you’d expect. Thank goodness there’s no formal dress code. You settled on your favorite gray high-waisted trousers paired with a tight-fitting black sleeveless turtleneck. Professional but bold, with just enough skin to leave an impression. 

You can never go wrong with a little show of confidence, after all.

At the venue, you exchange pleasantries with Anri and Ego. The three of you make for an unusual trio, seated together like this. While you take notes as part of your routine, Anri occasionally scolds Ego for yawning or delivering sharp quips from the side. 

The roadshow presentation is a mix of team management personnel, media representatives, investors, and a few JFA partners. As usual, the rest of the crowd is either running late or loitering outside, waiting for the afterparty to begin.

At least, you’re at ease knowing that you won’t bump into any players. Not just yet.

As soon as the program ends, the three of you continue to chat at the bar counter over drinks. But before you can even swap gossip with Anri, she’s whisked away by a group of Blue Lock graduates—punctual players from Italy Ubers. That leaves you alone with Ego, who sips whiskey neat while you nurse a Long Island iced tea.

“You’re doing better than the last time we met. Not bad for an unpolished gem,” he remarks dryly, lifting his glass.

It’s a backhanded compliment, but you can’t help the small flicker of pride it sparks.

“It’s... okay, I guess. But honestly, I didn’t expect how tough it’d be. The lines between work, passion, and personal life blur so easily.”

You ramble about juggling deadlines, clashing assignments, and the weight of endless expectations. Ego listens in silence, his sharp gaze unwavering.

“Then be an egoist,” he says bluntly, cutting through your ramblings like a knife. “You think those brats are just selfish jerks? They are. But egoism is what keeps them on top.

“It’s what makes them grow, thrive, and become the best. You’re no different. You have to feed your ego too, or else you’ll be devoured and spat out until you’re an empty husk of yourself.”

His words settle heavily in your chest. Before you can respond, Ego stands up, gives a half-hearted wave, and strides toward the exit, muttering something about how his tolerance for the evening’s schmoozing has reached its limit.

Scanning the room, you notice Anri still deep in conversation with some JFA people by the dance floor, while others mingle in scattered groups. The bar counter feels empty now, save for you and the two bartenders.

It’s a good time to pause and gather your thoughts—or maybe strike up a conversation with someone if the alcohol kicks in enough courage. 

For now, you sit quietly, Ego’s words echoing in your mind.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s time to stand up for yourself—to push for better assignments, to confront Hiori, to stop burying your frustrations under layers of professionalism and fear.

Liquid courage starts to course through your body, loosening your hesitation. You pull out your phone and quickly type a message to your editor.

“I want a new assignment. I think I deserve that much, don’t I?” You hit send and switch your phone to Do Not Disturb before you can even second-guess yourself.

Before your musings can go deeper, someone slides onto the stool to your right. You glance up to see Reo with his cheeks flushed pink and his smile wide with mischief. 

Behind him, Nagi trails, hands stuffed into his pockets, his disheveled hair giving him an even lazier charm. The scent of whiskey clings to them both, Reo more noticeably so.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our favorite journalist,” Reo greets, his voice dripping with playful charm. “What are you doing here all alone? Don’t you know parties are for mingling?”

You glance up, managing to offer a small smile. “And here I thought parties were for free food and drinks.”

“Touché,” Reo laughs, leaning against the bar counter. “But c’mon, there’s more to this party than just snacks. Like us, for instance.”

“Us?” you echo, your brows raising slightly.

“Me and Nagi, of course,” he says, draping an arm over Nagi’s shoulder. “You know, we were just talking about you earlier. He thinks you’re cute.”

Nagi gives a small, noncommittal shrug, his half-lidded eyes fixed on you. “He’s not wrong.”

You blink, the casualness of his statement catches you off guard. Before you can process it, Reo leans in closer, his grin widening. “You should come dance with us. I mean, what’s the harm? A little fun never hurt anyone, right?”

Your laughter is polite but nervous as you shake your head. “I’m fine here, really.”

“Oh, come on,” Reo presses, nudging Nagi toward you. “You look real nice tonight. Don’t tell me you’re just going to sit here all night while looking like that.”

The warmth of Reo’s arm brushing against yours sends a strange buzz through you. Nagi watches quietly, an amused glint in his eyes, as though content to let Reo take the lead in whatever this is.

“You don’t have a boyfriend, right?” Nagi asks suddenly, his voice calm but cutting through the noise around you.

The question startles you, and your answer comes almost automatically. “I don’t.”

“Good,” Reo murmurs, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. “Then no one’s going to mind if we take you home tonight.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and electric. You almost choke on your drink, coughing slightly as you gape at him. “Wait, what?”

“Take you home,” Reo repeats, his smile slow and deliberate as if testing how far he can push. “You, me, and Nagi. What do you say? We’ll make sure it’s worth your time.”

Nagi’s lips quirk into a faint smile, watching you with an unreadable expression. “Reo’s kidding… mostly.” His tone is dry, but there’s an edge of intrigue that makes it hard to tell where the joke ends.

Your pulse quickens, confusion and a strange heat mingling as you glance between them. Reo’s boldness is dizzying while Nagi’s quiet amusement only adds to your disorientation.

“I… I’m flattered,” you stammer, your voice wavering. “But I’m not interested.”

“Aww c’mon! Give us a chance?” Reo pleads, lightly touching your bare arms.

“I’m really-” 

You wonder if this is just a game to him or something more. But before you can untangle your thoughts, a firm hand lands on the counter to your left, the loud cutting through the tension like a blade.

You turn your head to see Hiori, his smile strained but unwavering. His gaze flickers between you before settling on Reo.

“Mind if I borrow Miss Journalist for a while?” he asks smoothly, though his words leave no room for argument.

Reo raises his hands in mock surrender, his grin unfaltering. “Alright, alright. But I’ll get my dance one day, Miss Journalist! Think about it!”

Hiori doesn’t wait for a reply, instead, he places a gentle but firm hand on your lower back, guiding you away from the bar as Reo and Nagi watch the both of you saunter away. 

"Hey," a small smile plays on Hiori’s lips as he greets you. 

"Hi."

The balcony door slides shut behind him, muting the pounding bass and chatter from the dance floor. It’s just the two of you now, isolated from the noise, the cool autumn air biting at your skin.

You take a good look at Hiori. A white t-shirt tucked into matching trousers, paired with a soft navy cardigan that clings to his frame. He looks effortlessly put together, as always.

"Ya alright?" he asks, his voice laced with concern.

"Yeah," you lie, the words feel heavier than they should.

"What was that about?" Hiori frowns, tilting his head slightly.

"I… think Reo was asking me to uh… sleep with him and Nagi? Are they like, together?" you blurt out, half-laughing, trying to lighten the tension you can already feel brewing.

"Yeah, they are. Pretty low-key 'bout it. Wild, huh?" he chuckles, and for a moment, the tension eases.

But the silence that follows grows heavy. For a minute, neither of you talk. The soft whistle of the wind and the distant hum of the city fill the void between you, but neither of you moves to break it. Finally, you speak.

"You don’t text me anymore," you say suddenly, the accusation sharp.

"Ya never replied," Hiori counters just as quickly, his tone flat but the edge unmistakable.

You bite your lip. "I didn’t know what to say. It felt like you were accusing me of something."

Now, Hiori looks guilty, his lips pressing into a thin line.  "Just… just stop tryin’ to avoid this. Shuttin’ me out isn’t going to fix the problem."

"I wasn’t shutting you out," you argue, but even you don’t believe it. "I just—didn’t know how to respond. It felt like no matter what I said, it wouldn’t be enough."

"And ya thought ignorin’ me was better? Just pretendin’ nothin’ happened?" His voice rises, frustration simmering to the surface.

"What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, it was just work. I’m not interested in Nagi or Manshine City.’ What am I to you to have to defend myself like that?" you snap back, your voice trembling. 

"I don’t know!" Hiori snaps back, his frustration breaking through. "I thought we were close enough to say things like that to each other!"

"And your message had no emojis!" your words overlap with Hiori. It was definitely a petty statement but at this point, your emotions are spilling over in ways even you don’t understand.

Hiori’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a dangerous softness. "Didya ever care about me?"

"Because it doesn’t feel like ya do. Ya ignored me when we won. I looked for ya. I know ya saw me. But ya wouldn’t even look my way.." His voice cracks and you see the hurt he’s been burying. 

"Do ya know what that felt like?" His voice is a whisper, pleading. 

You know the answer. That it hurt like a bitch. Because you felt the same pain when both of you went on the silent treatment for weeks. Embarrassment flooded your chest.

This could’ve been resolved easily by just talking things through. This confrontation could’ve been avoided and saved you both the time. But no. 

Instead, you let the hurt fester even further, creating this invisible barrier between the two of you. And now, the blame game is on. And it doesn’t even make sense. 

"It wasn’t about you!" Before you can even think, your words tumbling out in desperation. "It was for work. I-I didn’t want to be seen as the Bastard München… fangirl."

"Why not?" Hiori’s voice rises, taken aback by your words. "We ain’t good enough fer ya? Or is it just me? Am I not good enough fer ya?"

The words hit you like a tidal wave, leaving you momentarily stunned. "I didn’t say that," you whisper, your voice trembling.

"And why should that matter?" Hiori snaps, his voice raw with emotion. "Why does it feel like yer always running away from me?"

Even Hiori himself can’t comprehend why he’s so frustrated. He’s felt betrayal from his parents before. For them caring more about his stature as an athlete than his well-being as their son.

But this one’s different.

He knows how petty he is being. But he can’t help himself not be vulnerable around you. All reason, all logic thrown out of the window because of you. 

All he can think at this point is how good it felt talking to you about work and games. How good it felt when you would talk about football with him with such a glimmer in your eyes that it fascinates him to see how you view the sport. 

How it felt good when you would run up to him to interview him and the team as you guys exchange knowing smiles, fingers grazing just barely. All he knows is that you are magnetic. 

Even right now, all he can think about is being close to you. 

You turn away from him. A shiver runs down your spine, regretting not wearing something more warm for this party.

I can’t do this. Not now, you thought. 

“Please leave me alone. For now. I can’t do this, Hiori.”

The autumn air nips are your arms. Instinctively, you cross your arm in hopes of warming yourself, eyes gazing away from Hiori still. A warm hand envelopes one of yours and you feel the thick cardigan drapes over you, shielding you from the cold wind. 

Hiori’s gaze softens, but his voice remains firm. "M’not leaving until ya tell me what’s going on. Why are ya pushing me away?"

Your shoulders slump as the weight of it all crashes down on you. "Because I feel guilty, okay?" you say. "I don’t want you to think I’m using you."

"People talk," you continue, your voice breaking. "All I hear is how I’m some opportunist, bandwagoning on Bastard München—on you."

You swallow hard, your chest tightening. "I don’t know what this is," you finally admit, gesturing between the two of you. 

"I don’t know what we are, or what I’m even allowed to hope for. And I don’t want to push you or cross a line, but it’s—" Your voice breaks, tears threatening to spill any moment.

"It’s like I’m trying to walk on this invisible tightrope, and I’m scared of messing it all up."

Hiori’s gaze softens, but you keep going, unable to stop now. "I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know how to navigate this—whatever this is—without hurting you or myself or both. And why should you care, right?" you add bitterly, the words tasting like poison.

Hiori steps closer, his voice breaking. "I care. Yer the one person who made me feel like more than just a player. And it hurts like hell to feel like I don’t matter to ya."

"You do matter," you whisper, your voice trembling. "You’re the one thing I think about when I work, Hiori. You’re the reason I believe in myself. But you’re… you’re s-so out of reach, and I’m terrified of ruining what little we have."

Your voice quivers as you reply, "And I don’t know how to fix it, Hiori. I don’t even know where to begin. And it’s not fair to you. You’re you—amazing and steady and… everything I’m not."

He closes the distance between you, his hands gripping your shoulders. "Dontcha get it? I don’t need us to have all the answers now. Just need ya to stop running."

Tears stream down your face as the weight of his words sinks in. "I’m scared," you whisper.

"And ya think I’m not?" he shoots back, his voice cracking. 

"Yer all I think about, and it terrifies me. But I don’t care. I’m here. I’m stayin’. And I’ll wait as long as it takes fer ya to figure out who ya are—because I already know who ya are to me."

For a moment, the world holds still. Then Hiori closes the distance between you, his hands cupping your face gently. He hesitates, searching your eyes for permission, and when you don’t pull away, he leans in.

"Yer amazing," he whispers, breath hot against your lips. "And ya don’t even realize it."

The kiss is soft at first, testing, but quickly deepens as the emotions between you spill over. His lips are warm, grounding you, and when his tongue brushes yours, it leaves you breathless.

You melt under his touch. The kiss itself is intoxicating, as if you’re drowning, lightheaded by the swirling emotions and the budding heat within you.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. "I like ya too, y’know" he murmurs. "M’sorry fer doubting ya. Fer making ya feel like ya had to carry this alone."

He kisses you again, slower this time as if savoring the moment. "I’m sorry for being a coward. For not talking to you."

You clutch at his shirt, your tears mingling with his kiss. "I’m sorry too," you whisper into his mouth.

He smiles faintly, brushing a tear from your cheek. "All this because my message didn’t have an emoji, huh?" he laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips.

You let out a shaky laugh, the tension between you finally giving way to something lighter. In this moment, with him, you feel the weight of your worries start to lift, even if just for now.

In this moment, with him, you wish the night would never end.

amari's notes: struggled to write this one, i wanted to really get this chapter out quickly but i wasnt satisfied with my first drafts so i had to rewrite it so many times. i really wanted this to come out well. this chapter is close to my heart, esp when hiori and miss journalist talk about their insecurities. anw, I’d love to hear your thoughts, so feel free to leave a reply or drop an ask. i'll greatly appreciate it! Hope you all enjoy this chapter! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

[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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៚ 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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[shadesofdigital]

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.

[rorakora]

I’m gonna start by saying this is a valid analysis, and I think understand what you mean. And also that I haven’t listened to the whole fireside yet (just a clip they posted), so if I’m missing big things I apologize.

But I think the context of the rest of the story is left out here and changes a lot.

Because everywhere else they go, there are just as many flaws, just as many ignorant people and harmful systems.

I need to listen to the newest episode a few more times (I’ve listened to most of the show multiple times), but it did not stand out to me as a notably different treatment of people. I’m rural, have been my whole life, and this did not stand out to me as unfair.

Rural especially America (because that’s what I can speak on) is as a whole more conservative, and a host of other harmful behaviors. That’s a generalization and unfair to always assume, and I have a lot of problems with the way urban people talk about rural people and places, but these places are conservative, partly because of the way rural communities are treated, which reinforces itself.

But think about The Citadel. They spend a whole arc there, and show how uncomfortable the actual foundations and daily lives of The Citadel are, beneath all the surface beauty and innovation and convenience. They show the exploitation, the surveillance, the bureaucracy, the all around imperialism.

Or Port Talon, how the communities are kind of disparate and uncommunicative, how this apparently rogue imperial project has affected them, but how most people are just trying to get by. Plus getting into the Azure Battalion somewhat, showing lower ranking military.

And then think about Toma, about Ame’s home, about Ame. Ame is rural. It would be a whole other discussion to talk about her life there, being alienated even in this community that’s supposed to be small and tight knit, because of who she is and how she approaches the world.

But I think the nuance of that, combined with the urban places of Umora not being glamorized or (imo) held any higher than the rural places, is important. We don’t just get to see shitty and dumb lower ranks and rural people. I think the cast are good at not dehumanizing or just dismissing characters who act ignorant and shitty. Those people being kind and helpful doesn’t mean they can’t also be extremely biased and think and do bad things, especially under the pressure of an active war and not having access to the same information as other places.

Plus the focus during the end of arc one on the soldiers who were killed. They are not just a footnote or unimportant, and the main 3 are confronted with that. The narrative doesn’t dismiss them even though to us they are literally faceless and nameless. We didn’t know them, and they’re important regardless.

We’ll have to see how the next few episodes go, and I’m not saying this concern is unfounded or that there is no bias here, that it can’t be improved, but I think picking just this example doesn’t take in the bulk of the important nuance.

To be clear up top, I really love Worlds Beyond Number, and I love the stories and the authenticity and groundedness of it. But listening to this last episode and then the fireside was doubly difficult because:

- I come from a military family that is not officer class (aka my fam would have been imperial infantry and not wizards)

- I grew up rural around lots of farmers and hunters

And some of the statements around both rural people and rank and file military (while likely very true in the story and in this world) in the fireside rubbed me the wrong way. I love Brennan and his mind and worldbuilding, and I understand the purpose of this episode was to lean into the tensions in Ame’s worldview and the truth of Eursolon’s backstory, but damn. The whole ‘these people are stupid and ignorant’ thing sucks, because yeah, there are stupid and ignorant people for sure that are rank and file and rural, but also the perspective feels quite privileged. We got to see good wizards AND bad wizards, but we only get to see shitty and dumb lower ranks. And that’s not the truth I knew growing up military, at all. We got to see very kind but stupid farmers, and while the kindness was a bonus the stupidity across the bar sucked, because some of the smartest people I ever met didn’t make it through grade school.

There was talk in the fireside about xenophobia, and it just felt kinda bad that this person I see as a very clever smart and educated person couldn’t see some of the hypocrisy in that.

So to counter some of what I heard, I want to put out some of my experiences.

Military

- there are xenophobic idiots in the lower ranks, that’s for sure, but there are also a lot of people who are much more involved in the ‘boots on the ground’ field work, especially in peace-keeping, in the lower ranks. This includes cultural exchange and engaging and helping the populace. They often see more and know more, speak the language, and learn proper customs.

- Promotion is supposed to be a meritocracy, but often it is not. If you buck against the system and call out its errors, you won’t be promoted, much like my mother, who was a woman, a corporal, and got the wing commander’s commendation more times than most officers in her squadron, started a mediation program, and was an outspoken feminist who was constantly pushing for justice and fairness.

- typical, lower ranks consider anyone above a seargent fairly ‘out of touch’ with reality, and may have to do their best to work around bad orders, because often, officers are seen as ‘not getting their hands dirty/knowing the truth of a situation’.

- typically higher ranking officers are arrogant and rude and have an elitist mentality, thinking they are better than the lower ranks. In my experience, this is often not the case, as higher-ranking officers typically pay their way for their rank (can afford officer training) which is typically not something available to they generally poor and lower class rank and file.

- sometimes people in lower ranks think very simplistically, and are not good people, but that’s a general outlier in the same way that it is for other groups of people. The bell curve applies to pretty much everything.

- many people in lower ranks join up because they are poor and need money, and the military pays for schooling and is an opportunity to travel. They typically don’t join up because they’re stupid, crude, crass fuckos who like to hurt people. The military is predatory and it feeds on the poor and lower-class citizens who don’t have much social mobility. They’re often not stupid, but they are typically pragmatic, and yeah, the language can be crass, but speaking crassly speaks to culture not goodness.

Rural

- intelligence is, in my opinion, situational. I might be able to quote Shakespeare and get into a deep philosophical debate but that’s not doing me any good when I need to help a cow that’s scared and in pain give birth to a breeched calf. But this very cool farmer I knew could talk down this cow and know just where to position his hands to turn a calf inside the womb. Show me a typical master’s student who can do that.

- I knew people who could read weather sign, bird sign, tree sign, and bear sign, who could read the woods and the trails like a picture book. They might not be able to speak much about the science of climate change, but they damn sure know it from a micro level by being able to spot the size of tree buds in the winter to know spring’s coming earlier, and that’s bad for a lot of plants and animals and the ecosystem that sustains itself, which they are intimately aware of.

- I also knew farmers and rural folks who were highly educated and moved out to the country to enjoy the wide open spaces and privacy, who had big libraries and talked about history with me, who fed my curiosity and helped me stay humble and ask questions.

- I knew rural folks so poor they lived in a shack and ate squirrel, and I also knew how everyone in the community took care to give their kids’ piano lessons because it was the only money coming into that household, and took care to just have accidentally bought a little more than what they needed of this or that and ran it down to that family.

- I also know we were so poor sometimes that I went without a winter coat in northern Alberta for 3 years, but that I was always given lots of hats and scarves and mittens and sweaters by the neighbours.

- I also knew lots of shitty, stupid, sexist and racist people who were essentially brainwashed by a cult and who were never taught to think critically or encouraged to do so. I know that they are afraid of the world because that’s what they’ve been taught. And yes, it’s on them for never getting out and being way more comfy in their bubble than outside of it, but that’s what being in a cult does, it stacks the deck against your own intelligence and curiosity.

- I knew too, many of rural folks who would have been extraordinarily embarrassed to be impolite and refer to a trans woman as a man, or vice-versa, because manners and politeness matter a whole lot in a small community. At the same time, there was definitely the opposite as well, and I knew kids who gotten beaten up regularly for being 2SLGBTQIA+.

It’s complicated, complex, and nuanced everywhere. No group is a monolith, even if it feels justified and easy in the world we live in to lump all ‘like’ people together. I just really hope in the next few episodes we see some nuance in the infantry and the officers, as well as with any rural folk they engage with too. They’re all usually so good with a nuanced take, and I really really hope this was just one episode and an off-the-cuff, didn’t-really-think-about-what-he-was-saying discussion.

And I get it. To my knowledge, Brennan grew up in New York (or at least a city?) and may have not had a ton of experiences living rural outside of the summer camp he was a counsellor at, so he may not have had a lot of time or opportunity to engage with rural people at a true community level. I don’t know his engagement with the military community either, and my experience is with Canadian and not American military, so there’s likely some difference and nuance too.

I dunno. I have a lot of hope and faith in this very cool group of storytellers, and they have not disappointed me in the story thus far, so I believe we’ll see some great nuance to come. Just had to put it out there.

[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.

[dogthorcesschet]

05.22.2023

I used to be so hopeless romantic.

likable.

Energetic and enthusiastic.

Nowadays I just want to be alone.

Be with less people.

Less interactions.

Seeing less people over all… Mostly, it’s probably because I don’t like myself very much anymore.

Rather than confidence, it’s more avoidance.

And I know I don’t really wanna be alone. Because I feel so lonely all the time.. And there’s this void that I don’t know how to fill. I just don’t have the appetite to show any other expression rather than this blunt blank face. Faceless rather, you may say.

And if I were to even try, I wouldn’t know where to begin.

So here I am.. Communicating my deepest feelings. No hope of it being read by anyone other than myself. I just feel comfort in knowing, I have my own secret hiding space that I can talk about anything I please and no one can judge me or give me any advice I haven’t already told myself a billion times. And after all, there’s no one else I can trust to give me the right answer but myself.

My story isn’t meant to be a sad one.

I know there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

But right now, all I see is darkness.

Yet, I breathe.

And keep on taking a step forward.

Forward to the unknown.

Where ever that may lead me, I know God is watching over me.

I know this to be true, because he’s been revealing plenty of things to be true. Showing me every kindness from the most random people. Giving me hope through spontaneous events and making them memorable.

I envy people who can call other’s their family.

People who talk to them on the daily and ask about their days and make each other laugh about jokes no matter how corny and corky.

Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one trying to make something out of nothing with the people around me, I guess you can call them my family. But their definition of family is different from mine. We’re related by blood, but that doesn’t make us family. I mean, I confess, we once were a family. Now we’re all just strangers to each other. Knowing only our names about each other. Secrets kept from each other. Lives lived away from one another. Distance slowly separating us. Creating new families with friends who’s never met each other. Slowly deteriorating what once was abundant in love, care, shared laughters and moments. Things we now can’t get back. It saddens me to think about how all this was stripped away ever since my Tito Rigo passed. Frankly, ever since Mark came into my life. Actually, even way before that. It has been ever since I finally got to see my Poppa in Canada after all those 9 years we’ve spent so far apart. Surely, I’m not saying I’m ungrateful for being able to see him on my 18th birthday along with reuniting with his side of the family out in the west coast. All I’m simply saying, is that ever since I came back from that trip, I’ve never been the same. I came from this really bright, astonishing chandelier, to this exhausting, dull light bulb that lies on a lamp no one dares pick up from being too afraid to touch because of the curse I might leave them with. Highly likely because it’s located in an abandoned house, haunted by simultaneously traumatic events, each one comes worst after the other.

So, how do I deal with it? Well, just as any cursed thing, I deceit them into thinking I’m alright. That life’s nothing but a dark humor I’ve managed to take an account for myself over those years of piled scars, mentally and emotionally. Somehow, telling them these pitiful jokes about myself has left me, only to laugh right back with them. Though, I’m not sure whether we’re laughing about the same things. They might laugh at my pain, but I laugh at the sound of their cheer and to think I’ve given them something to be happy about.

But see, I’m not asking for pity or comfort. I think I’m way past that safe zone. Consider me a lost lone wolf, who went too far astray from its pack. Announced dead perhaps. Long forgotten.

[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.

[lcvernat]

Our Tainted Love Chapter One | Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist | Chapter Two

Series Summary: Natalia Romanova had one mission: kill the princess. It was meant to be simple for someone of her skillset, and it would've been simple, but Natalia made one tiny mistake that could cost her everything: she fell for you. Yet she had no choice, you were her mission and she had to complete it.

At the end of the day, a love between an assassin and her target was destined to end in bloodshed.

Word Count: 4.2k

Content Warnings: fluff and angst, strong language, brief mention of violence & blood, the red room & dreykov, original female characters

A/N: i am very excited to start this series (but also slightly nervous considering how many people seem interested in it and i hope it meets your expectations)! this chapter is mainly an introduction to everything, and the actual action will begin next chapter. i still hope you enjoy this chapter nonetheless!

Warm and wet blood covered her hands as she plunged the dagger into her victim's chest. He struggled, gasping for breath, choking on his own blood until it all stopped and his body went limp. He didn't have a face, none of them ever did. They were just things she had to discard of.

Natalia blinked awake, her eyes opening to stare blankly at the ceiling. The sound of sharp heels on the hardwood floor earns her attention and she turns her head to find Madame B walking through the dormitory in the early morning light, unlocking the handcuffs that kept the Widows chained to their bed each night. Their purpose was to prevent escape, but also to remind them that they have no freedom even in their dreams.

Her victims always haunted her in her dreams. Faceless faces with no names. Nightmares would probably be the better word for them, but she’s long since stopped waking up in a cold sweat each morning. They don’t faze her anymore, not really. They haven’t fazed her in a long time, she’s just learned to deal with them and everything else in her life because she’s well aware she has no chance of escaping. She used to have some hope when she was younger, before she graduated. Back when she had some semblance of humanity left in her. Her wishful thinking soon proved to be pointless. No knight in shining armour is ever coming to rescue her or the other Widows trapped under Dreykov’s command. The Red Room has successfully morphed her into the cold, heartless monster they wanted her to be.

Madame B unlocked her handcuff and she sat up, rubbing at her wrist. The mark permanently engraved into her skin. The old woman headed back to the door before she turned around, "Romanova," her sharp voice cut through the quiet chatter coming from the Widows as Natalia turned her head to look at the woman, "Dreykov requires your presence in his office after training."

With no further information, she left, the sound of heels diminishing as she got further down the corridor. The other Widows turned to look at her as they whispered curiously amongst each other. Being called to Dreykov's office was rarely a good thing. Primarily because there was no reason to be called to his office unless you were in trouble, which obviously never ended well. Missions got delivered to them in files handed to them by guards or occasionally Madame B. Dreykov himself rarely ever left his office, and the only times he did leave was to oversee the younger Widows training so he could pick out the weakest links and discard of them.

So, to say that Natalia was confused as to why he had requested her presence in his office would be an understatement. She wasn't called 'Dreykov's star pupil' by the others for no reason. She never failed any mission, and her missions were always completed perfectly with quick efficiency. Quite frankly, she was the best out of all of them. She can't think of any reason that she would be in trouble for, so why did he call her to his office?

Hours later, her training completed, Natalia made her way to Dreykov's office, escorted by a guard. She put up a front as she usually does and pretended she wasn't nervous, but Dreykov always knew how to incite fear into his Widows, even if they were cold and ruthless assassins. He still terrified them. So, Natalia couldn't help it that her hands had started to sweat the tiniest bit.

The guard knocked thrice on the office door and the sound of a gruff, harsh voice calling "Enter" was the result. The guard opened the door for her and she walked in, Dreykov looking up from the paperwork on his desk as she entered. "Ah, Natalia, dear, yes of course," he said as the door closed behind her. He gestured with one hand in front of his desk and Natalia obeyed, walking over to stand in front of him.

"Now," he sat his pen down and joined his hands together on the table, "you may be wondering why I've called you here, correct?"

"Yes, sir," she nodded.

"Don't worry, you aren't in trouble, my dear. You are my best Widow, and you've never failed a mission before. You always complete them perfectly, I have nothing to reprimand you for."

Natalia stayed silent. Dreykov took his time getting to the point, taking his glasses off and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. Putting his glasses back on, he continued, "An announcement came from the castle earlier this week. The princess is to be married, and there is a ball tomorrow to find a potential partner. Why am I telling you this, you may ask?" She doesn't recall asking, "because I am assigning you a mission. You are to go undercover, and kill the princess."

Oh. She wasn't expecting that. Why wouldn't he just make a guard deliver it to her in a file like usual? He got up from his seat then, walking around to stand in front of her. Natalia swallowed, flexing her fingers in an effort to not clench her fists together. He sure knew how to make someone uncomfortable.

"I decided to call you here to tell you of this mission in person because it is extremely important that it is completed. Which is why I have entrusted you as the Widow to do it. You are my best Widow, no doubt. The others are good, yes, of course they would be. They are my Widows. But you are by far my best creation. Ruthless, efficient, you are simply a perfect assassin, aren't you, Natalia?" He started to walk around her as he spoke. She kept her gaze trained in front of her, "I am sure it will be quite simple for someone of your skillset."

He stops in front of her again, "You, and the other courtiers, will be able to stay at the court for six months after the ball in an attempt to get to know and court the princess. All I need from you is to kill the princess. How you do that is up to you. Understood?"

She nods.

"Good. Now, my Natalia," he brings a hand up to caress her cheek, and it takes everything in her to stay still and not flinch, "this will mean that you will be away from us for a long period of time. So, I expect frequent updates on your mission. I have already placed someone undercover as a guard in the castle months ago, as I've anticipated this happening sooner or later. He will be the person you give your letters to, and he will deliver them to me."

Dreykov pats her cheek before lowering his hand and returning to his seat behind his desk. He rummages around the files on his desk before retrieving one and extending it towards her, “In here is your cover story. It is quite a simple one, but I'm sure you know it is still important you memorise it,” she nods and takes the file as he continues speaking, “I have enough trust in you to not get caught, as you never have before. Do me proud, my Widow, and you will be rewarded once you return. You can spend the rest of today planning, and you leave first thing tomorrow. You may leave now,"

"Thank you, sir," Natalia nods her head, even though he isn't looking at her and has returned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk, and exits his office. She barely has time to collect her thoughts and think over the mission she has just been assigned because a guard is already outside to escort her back to the dormitory. They walk back together, the mission file clutched tightly to her chest.

She'll need to plan. She doesn't think it'll be too hard, as she's went undercover for missions before, but getting noticed by the princess when there is going to be at least a hundred other people there trying to court her is going to be the difficult part. She'll need to gain the princess' attention at the ball tomorrow, somehow. Yet also still blending in as to not draw attention to herself. The killing will be the easy part. She just needs to know how she's going to get to that part.

They arrive back to the dormitory and she enters, the guard closing the door behind her and standing outside. Natalia makes her way over to her bed, ignoring the looks the few Widows occupying the room gave her. She opens the file Dreykov handed her and starts to read it.

Her cover story read; Natasha Romanoff, orphan, parents died in a fire when she was young, lived in an orphanage until she was an adult. She now lives on her own and makes a living by being a ballerina.

Easy to remember, plus she knows how to do ballet, all the Widows do, so it’ll work. Her new name is only slightly different to her birth one, and she likes it. Something about the name feels right to her.

Now all that’s left is the plan, or at least, the start of one. Nothing will be quite set in stone yet, she doesn’t know what will happen during her stay at court. Anything could happen, really. She just hopes everything will go smoothly for her.

"Oh, this is so exciting!" Wanda sighs excitedly as she falls down gracelessly onto your bed beside you. "I'm so happy you've finally agreed to start the whole courting process. Imagine how many people we're going to meet! And they'll be here for what, six months?"

You nod, "Yes, Wands, six months. But remember, this isn't your chance to just meet a lot of new people. By the end of the six months, I need to have someone I want to marry. Which is going to be hard. How do they expect you to meet someone, fall in love with them and want to spend the rest of your life with them all in six months?"

You sigh as a frown starts to make it's way onto your face. Wanda notices and pokes your cheek before she sits up, "Hey, no frowning. I know it's kind of crazy but I guess it's just royal law? Or something?"

You chuckle at Wanda's poor attempt to make you feel better. The poor girl knows next to nothing about royal laws or anything about the court. Honestly, though, neither do you. You might be the princess of the kingdom, and someday it'll be your duty to handle all of the royal affairs, but right now you can barely sit through 10 minutes of a meeting. Seriously, you've tried and ended up falling asleep.

She turns to you then, her face serious as she stares at you, "Do you actually want this though?" She asks as she reaches over to take hold of your hand, "I mean, the ball is tomorrow so there's not a lot of time to change your mind. And I know you've been putting this off for a while now. Is this really what you want?"

You smile gently at her and give her hand a reassuring squeeze, "Yes, I promise I want to do this. I know I've been putting it off for a while now, but I feel like I'm finally ready. I guess I just want to actually marry someone I like, and not just marry them because it'll be beneficial for this or that reason, you know? So, I just hope I actually do end up meeting the love of my life, I guess."

Wanda nods, "Yeah, I get that. I'm just glad this is something you actually want to do."

Squeezing her hand once more, you nod, “It is, I promise,” you reassure her.

You two lapse into silence for a few moments after, the weight of what's actually going to happen tomorrow settling into your bones. You knew what you had signed up for, and you were even the one to finally bring it up with your parents around a month ago. But when the announcement had went out this week, even though the court had been doing preparations for a month, it made everything feel all that more real. It was anxiety inducing, you weren't going to lie. The whole process is going to take a lot of time and energy, and the thought of having so many people staying in the castle who are trying to court you makes your stomach turn a tiny bit.

You pull your hand away from Wanda's to absentmindedly pick at a loose strand in your bed cover. Wanda turns to look at you, noticing the slight frown on your lips as you're lost in your thoughts. Even if this is your choice, she knows that doesn't make it any less nerve wracking for you. She claps her hands together excitedly, the sharp sound of her palms connecting making you jump, effectively snapping you out of your train of thought, "Okay! How about, for one more day, when this place isn't absolutely crowded with guests and people falling head over heels in love with you, we spend it having fun?" Wanda asks, already getting up from your bed and offering a hand out to you.

Her words make a smile grow on your face as you place your hand in hers. "Yeah, that sounds nice," you say as you stand up, following her as she drags you out of your room. At least you could always count on your best friend to find a way to cheer you up.

Natalia spends the rest of the afternoon and early evening forming a plan in her head. Even during their 'dinner' (if it could even be called that, considering most of it was barely edible food, only enough to keep them alive and useful), she had been lost in thought as she picked at the stale piece of bread that had come along with her soup (that was disgustingly cold and she could barely manage two spoonfuls so she gave up trying to eat it), ignoring the curious glances she got from the other Widows. While none of them considered each other 'friends', some created alliances with the others, just so they wouldn't feel so horribly alone. Natalia never bothered to do that. She'd rather be alone than create an alliance with someone that would literally stab you in the back with a single command.

As she lay on her bed now, staring up at the ceiling, the sun slowly starting to set outside of the window, a slight plan was starting to formulate in her mind. She needed it to be flexible, not knowing what was going to happen or who, if anyone, could potentially get in the way of her mission, but it was still something. The mission file had said she would be provided with all her clothes and gowns that she would require in order to create the illusion that she belonged there tomorrow morning before her departure, so at least that was one less thing she had to worry about.

She would arrive, just like all the other potential courtiers, and act as nonchalant as possible. She couldn't appear too eager, it might draw too much attention to herself too quickly. She needed to attempt to blend in, the less people that noticed her before she was absolutely required to be the center of attention (which would inevitably happen if she succeeded in getting close to the princess), the better. Then, she'd need to grab your attention during the ball somehow while also avoiding dancing with you. Honestly, she's mostly counting on you to be intrigued enough by her that you'll try and find her after the ball. From then on, it's really up to you to trust her enough that she can get you alone and then she can kill you. She has six months to do that, it should be manageable.

It's not the most secure plan she's ever made, but for a mission as long-term, dangerous and high-stakes as this one, she doesn't know how she's meant to come up with a full plan. It's risky if she does, because if she relies only on her plan and it all goes to shit, she's got nothing. She's confident she can do it, Natalia isn't known as the best Widow the Red Room's ever produced for no reason, but it's definitely not going to be a walk in the park. Of course, her life never is. But really, how hard will it be to trick a princess who's been pampered her whole life and has never had to know the dangers or hardships of living?

When Madame B enters the dormitory to put their handcuffs on, Natalia knows she's probably not going to be getting any sleep tonight. It won't matter anyway, on nights she does fall asleep, it's always a restless sleep and she wakes up feeling more tired than she felt before she went to sleep. She doesn't move her gaze from the ceiling as she raises her hand so Madame B can put her handcuff on.

The old woman bends down to put on the handcuff. She's close enough that Natalia can feel the woman's breath on her face. "Dreykov is counting on this mission to be a success," Madame B whispers harshly in her ear, only then does Natalia move her gaze to look at the woman's face, "do not disappoint us," her voice is low enough so only Natalia can hear.

As if she needed that reminder.

She doesn't bother replying as Madame B straightens up again, brushing her hands on her shirt before she turns to finish handcuffing the rest of the Widows.

If she fails this mission, she may as well already count herself as dead. There is no way Dreykov would let her live if she both failed to kill the princess and jeopardized his entire organization in the process. Her skills be damned. It was startlingly obvious to her now, she had no other choice.

Natalia had to either kill or be killed.

You and Wanda had stayed out the remainder of the afternoon and the entirety of the evening. It was now pitch black yet neither of you made a move to go back to the castle. You were in the royal gardens, so it was only a quick walk anyway, and you were still in the vicinity of the castle, likely with guards scattered around, remaining unseen. It wasn’t as if you were in danger or anything, you’d never be in danger here.

You pointed up at the sky, currently lying on the slightly wet grass with Wanda beside you. You didn’t care that your dress was getting dirty, even though you knew your lady-in-waiting, Maggie, would probably die of a heart attack once she saw it. “Look," you say, “it’s the Sirius constellation,”

Wanda looks at where your finger is pointing and her nose scrunches in confusion as she tilts her head, “I don’t see it,”

You blow out an exasperated breath as your hand drops to rest on your stomach, “Did you ever read that book of constellations I gave you?”

Even with the moon and stars being your only source of light, you can still make out how Wanda’s cheeks turn a vibrant shade of red at your question, “Would you be mad if I said no?”

All you can do is laugh, “You’re insufferable,”

“That’s mean.”

“It’s the truth. I’m never getting you another gift again.”

“Jackass.”

A chuckle escapes your lips before you prop yourself up onto your elbow to stare at Wanda, “I think we should head back now before they send a search party out for us,”

Wanda hums before nodding. Not that either of you really want to leave, but you’re sensible enough to know that it is getting quite late and tomorrow is going to be a very busy day. You stand up and stretch your arms above your head, Wanda following suit.

“How much are you betting we’ll get back to our rooms unseen?” Wanda muses as you both slowly make your way out of the royal gardens, heading in the direction of the door that leads into the kitchens. It’s meant to be reversed for servants only but you and Wanda use it regularly to sneak out.

“Hopefully but probably not likely,” you reply, making her snort.

You both slip silently through the door, the kitchen thankfully deserted at this time of night. "Okay," Wanda whispers, "spy time," she winks at you playfully, making you shake your head at her antics as you both hope to make it back to your rooms unseen.

Thankfully, most of the hallways of the castle are deserted save for a a couple of nobles wandering about. You doubt they'd tell anyone though. You did pass one of the guards, Clint, who gave you both a disapproving look as you walked by. Technically you weren't allowed to go out anywhere without at least one guard with you, and you're definitely not allowed to be outside at night, accompanied by someone or not. It's 'too dangerous' apparently, but that doesn't mean you listen.

"At least we haven't been seen by someone who would slap us around the head if they saw us," you whisper to Wanda, "unless Clint snitches."

"Clint will probably snitch," Wanda confirms, "he definitely didn't look to-" she was cut off as you both rounded the corner only to come face to face with Maggie, who is definitely not happy at having caught you two, clear by the death glare she's aiming at you and Wanda.

"Oh no," is all you can say.

"Oh no," Maggie agrees. Wanda makes the right choice in not saying anything. Maggie takes a deep breath, probably an attempt to control the anger that is currently radiating off of her, as you steel yourself for whatever she's about to say, "how many times have I told you two that you can't sneak out at night?" Her tone is sharp and you've known her for long enough to know that she is definitely not in the mood for any of your jokes tonight.

"Come on," you sigh, "we were just out in the gardens. Nothing's going to happen to us out there, or even in here. There's too many guards for that to happen!"

At the mention of you being outside, Maggie's eyes drift down to the bottom of your dress, which you can now see is clearly splattered with mud. The woman lets out a pained gasp, putting her hand over her chest dramatically as you grin sheepishly.

"Oh my goodness," she breathes out before shooting you a sharp glare, "Y/N L/N. That dress was brand new," you open your mouth to say something but she cuts you off, "no. I don't want to hear it." Closing your mouth, you desperately glance over at Wanda, begging with your eyes for her to help you. All she does is shrug.

"You know what, the dress doesn't matter right now," Maggie continues, "it is still dangerous being out without a guard. Even being out with Lady Maximoff. Yes, you are very well protected here, but you are also the princess. You need someone around you at all times. Especially starting tomorrow."

You look down at the floor resignedly. You knew she was right, you probably did have to start being more careful now that people from all over the kingdom are going to be arriving tomorrow. Shuffling your feet awkwardly, you look back up at her, "You're right. I'm sorry, Maggie. I'll have a guard with me at all times starting tomorrow. Promise." You weren't keen on the fact that this felt very much like the times when you had gotten scolded as a kid, but even you knew when you had to be less carefree and more mature.

"Good," Maggie's gaze softens before she gestures behind her, "head back to your room now, you have a long day tomorrow and you need sleep. I'll be by in a couple of minutes to pick up that dress," her tone is disapproving when she mentions it, but it holds less bite than a couple minutes ago, which is something.

You nod as she turns to Wanda, "You too, get some sleep, go," she makes a shooing gesture towards you both as Wanda gives your hand a reassuring squeeze before heading off in the direction of her own room.

You smile gratefully at Maggie before heading to your own room to get some well needed sleep.

The next six months are definitely going to be very long.

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[hxhhasmysoul]

Is Jujutsu Kaisen feminism for 15yo boys?

The short answer is yes, so you can skip the rest of this ridiculously long post.

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Disclaimers:

If you haven’t read the manga up until chapter 204 you’ll see spoilers here, also you probably won’t know what/who I’m talking about at times.

I have adhd, this is rambly af, this post is actually for me to organise my thoughts and not a hot take I want to convince others to buy into. but anyone is welcome to read if they have the patience.

They/them pronouns for Akutami because if the cursed cat isn’t explicitly assigning a gender to themself, hell if I will. 

They/them pronouns for Kenny. 

Now let’s watch this post age like dairy. I so hope it won’t, Gege please don’t disappoint me.

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Let’s go. 

There are a few things that make me obsessed with juju. 

1. The fact that its plot and story structure are my wet dream - all these factions and individuals who are doing their own thing. All of these plots intertwining and coming together.

2. My sweet child Yuuji. *coughs* I mean, juju’s focus on characters. I’m very normal about Yuuji, I fucking swear. 

3. The art, it’s simply beautiful but I also have thoughts.

4. The bs power system, I live for that stuff.

5. It’s aggressively progressive. 

So lets focus on point 5.

Is juju as politically left as I am? Fuck no, not even close. There are things I wish it was braver on, like for instance the queerness. Fuck, braver on its leftism and feminism too. Is it very current and openly and aggressively progressive? Very much so.

If we look at the biggest antagonists of juju we get:

1. Toxic masculinity personified. A hyper-individualist. A 1000yo manosphere youtuber. A guy who thinks that strength should dictate hierarchy. A man who thinks he can hurt whomever he wants for his own pleasure and amusement because everyone is beneath him. A man who doesn’t care for anyone else but himself. A mass murderer and nihilist. 

2. A 1000yo person of unknown gender who presents most often as a man. An eugenicist. Someone entitled to women’s bodies and their reproductive rights. Someone who thinks their own children are only as valuable as they fulfil their ambitions. Someone who thinks they can hurt anyone because their goals are superior, because people are instrumental to them. And also a fucking classist piece of shit. (honestly idk why half of the fandom reacted surprised to the hyper capitalist moment in the recent chapters, as if in their first scene in the entire manga they didn’t say: this is a nuisance but at least it’s the poors that are being burnt to death before my eyes. - Gege didn’t need to add this line there, it’s not relevant to the conversation that is happening then but the line is there anyway.)

3. Two awfully sexist clans which have huge superiority complexes and are built on bloodlines and traditions and breeding for power. 

4. A bunch of mostly faceless old people who pull the strings from the shadows and do everything in the name of the status quo, constantly using tradition as an excuse. Who are afraid of the new, of the changes in society of new technologies. They won’t even accept them when they create powerful sorcerers. 

5. A male presenting personification of human hate and fear of one another. Who again, feels entitled to the bodies of others and doesn’t respect the bodily autonomy of others. Who’s a destructive and cruel nihilist. 

6. A young man who got radicalised into fascism because he was faced with the horrors of the status quo, of toxic tradition and backwater thinking and drew the wrong conclusions as to how to fix it.

On the other side we get kids and tired and/or silly millennials. And isn’t that just like real life, where the inaction and misdeeds of the previous generations blows up in the faces of today’s teens.

1. Teenagers. Teenagers who either don’t have family connections and come from lower classes. Or outcasts from their rich and powerful families. Children betrayed by traditions and the status quo. Children used or targeted by old people, ostracised, disrespected and violated. Children who have to suffer and die because the old people are only concentrating on maintaining the status quo. 

2. Gojou, this ex edgy teen who saw his bf (I won’t police how you read that) get redpilled and radicalised into fascism. It was all fun and games, stanning the joker and tyler durden until Getou decided to seriously go full on fasc with it and Gojou was like: man for real? I thought we were memeing here. So then Gojou turned into one of those “this is how I got off the far right pipeline” videos. Gojou is actually this rich privileged boy but he’s trying, he really is taking his best shot at progressivism. (sealed)

3. A feminist who’s calling out and fighting worthless old farts who feel entitled to women’s bodies. And who wants to change the world to make life better for everyone. 

4. A socially conscious man disillusioned with capitalism who takes a lot of responsibility for other people. (deceased)

5. A victim of eugenics who tries to be a good older brother to his brothers, also victims of eugenics. (the only one here who’s actually over 30)

6. Some other, less important, decent people in their twenties.

There are few people over 30 in juju that deserve any respect.

1. Headmaster Yaga, single dad. Does felting as a hobby. (deceased)

2. Yoshino Nagi, good single mum. (deceased)

3. Iori Utahime, a woman trying her best to do right by the teens despite having to work with Gojou.

4. Higuruma Hiromi, an idealist, mentally broken by the realities of the criminal justice system. Hobby: 5 min therapy sessions. 

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Juju isn’t in any way shy about the fact that we should not respect elders when they fucking destroy everything. It’s established very early on that regressive traditionalists suck. That passive adults suck. That the status quo sux. That it should be the duty of adults to protect the children and not to make the world worse for everyone. That educating the youth and instilling different values in them is what can save us all, if we’re not beyond saving. That we need social change. We even get teen Noritoshi’s story, a cautionary tale about respectability, about trying to satisfy the requirements of the system to protect your own and how that is doomed to fail. And my leftist soul resonates with all that. 

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So in this clear leftist propaganda there is also feminism.

And Gege does their best feminism when they aren’t trying, especially when they aren’t trying to verbalise it. My suspicion is that with this much internalised leftism Gege has internalised a lot of feminism but at a  conscious level the fact that Gege was most likely socialised male takes its toll. 

What I mean by that is that Nobara’s girlboss rant at Momo is weak. But I will give it a pass because Nobara is 16 and nothing about her screams discourse junkie so you know, it fits her character. Because even at it its least inspired the feminism in juju deserves a passing grade. Gege is trying.

There’s also the sad truth of shounen that women just aren’t meant to be prioritised in it, that it’s not the genre expectation. The fact that Maki gets so much focus and page time, that she has her own fucking arc, it’s already a lot for shounen. The fact that she’s built and now also permanently disfigured and the dudebros and weebs still worship the ground she walks on is a fucking achievement in itself. Proof that if you write a female character well you can take away her standard beauty and not tank her popularity. It’d be still much harder to make her not typically pretty from the start and achieve this but culture changes one step at a time. I wish we were there but we aren’t so I’m going to appreciate what I can get.

Maki is both verbalised and implicit feminism. Verbalised because she fucking slaughters a whole fucking clan of misogynists. It’s not subtle. Implicit because of her appearance and personality. She’s written like a male character but not meaning that she’s masculine or that she could be replaced in the narrative by a man. No, she has a narrative arc of her own, she’s written with agency and with no regard for making her personality be pleasing or oriented towards others. And her story is specifically a story of a woman in the world of jujutsu. 

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Generally, in most cases, if you try to apply the feminist lens to a shounen manga you’ll just make yourself sad. You can do it for some shounen characters or plotlines and get something nice but you need to be very careful not to try to generalise that onto the whole work. My enjoyment of a lot of titles is dependant on my very conscious choice to rein in my feminism and leftism. 

With juju, though, with juju you’re safe. You can do it. You can go for it. It’s not going to be the most radical and mind-blowing experience ever but it’s possible.

Because the female characters aren’t where the most of the feminism is. They can’t be, it’s a shounen and they don’t get enough pagetime. The verbalised feminism is very clear in how the villains are framed, how much misogyny you can find among the evil characters. The implicit feminism, the better one, is very strong in the young male characters. 

Unlike in a lot of hyper violent media targeted at boys, in juju you never have these lines about what a man should be. Or what it means to be a man, especially a true man. What is most important is that nothing like that is ever said to a teenage boy. On the side we’re meant to root for we get a lot of different men and none of them are labelled as “true”. They are there for readers to identify with, to model behaviour after. And because no teen in the manga has his masculinity questioned then no reader will have to question his. Juju won’t contribute to such insecurity for anyone, an insecurity that can turn violent irl. 

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Girls in juju are people.

What’s more, all the teen guys in juju have extremely normal relationships with the girls around them. They just interact with them without any exaggerated awkwardness or this “girls are strange, we can’t bond with them unless we want to date them”. Among the teens, the new generation, the hope for the future, there’s no separation built between men and women. Not through words and not through actions.  

The nonsexual, organic friendship, built on idiot to idiot communication, Yuuji and Nobara have, gives me life. And it happens despite Yuuji not understanding Nobara at first. Because it doesn’t matter that she’s different from him, they don’t dwell on it, they don’t try to make the differences into a big thing, into a rift. There’s no big arc of them working out their differences because these differences aren’t artificially blown up to underline some core differences between men and women. They can fail to understand each other totally but they can still be friends, they can still vibe with one another, care for one another. Femininity and masculinity don’t need to be some issues to deal with while forming a friendship between a guy and a girl. 

It’s fascinating how Yuuji fighting together with Megumi isn’t half as exciting and organic as when he fights together with Nobara. Their strengths and powers compliment each other so well. I’m actually angry that Gege didn’t let them fight Mahito together longer. Even if they would’ve done to Nobara the same thing they did. Why not let them be epic together again? (I’m also super angry at what they did to Nobara, she better come back, fucking hell)

And it’s a pattern too. Despite Yuuji being very much socialised as a guy in a very patriarchal and sexist society, so much so that he has a type at 15 and hangs bikini posters on his walls, he hasn't turned girls into aliens in his mind. They are still just people in his head. When Yuuji interacts with a real woman the male socialisation isn’t deeply rooted enough to hinder him. It’s never an issue.

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Toudou

Toudou tries to do this very masculine bonding thing with Yuuji and Yuuji is super confused by it. Because Yuuji’s relationships aren’t built on the concept of masculinity. And I mean Yuuji bonds with Toudou eventually because it’s Yuuji but we are shown the struggle when with Nobara or Megumi or Junpei it just happens. Also Yuuji is the only one who bonds with Toudou but that’s because Yuuji is compassion. 

Toudou is generally disliked and his dumb male posturing contributes to that. Also in the Japanese context it’s very clear that Toudou is an unserious person and that’s how he’s meant to be perceived. If you have any doubt about that, the juju fanbook is there for you where Gege is very clear about that. Basically the idol thing is there to paint Toudou as immature. The whole conversation Megumi has with Toudou is a very clear lesson for teen boys. Be like Megumi and girls will like you, if you are a Toudou you’re a joke. You can be built and powerful and clever and still be a joke and girls won’t like you.

I like Toudou a lot btw, I actually think it’s funny that an 18yo boy thinks he reached some deeper truth about people because he knows what a fetish or kink is and he’s tactless enough to ask openly about it. It’s fucking hilarious but also some teen boys just be like that unironically. But I also like him because of how his character is framed and how he functions in the story. Because Toudou gives another important lesson to teen boys. A lesson about rejection. In the story he makes up in his head we see him confessing his feelings to Takada and she turns him down. And he just takes it. This is such an important message. In Japan stalking is a huge problem, stalkers murdering their victims is a problem. Men who feel entitled to women in such a violent way. And here we have a guy who gets rejected and takes the L with grace. And all he wants is for his best friend to console him. 

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I’m very normal about Yuuji.

So the balls on Gege to name their typically shounen protag “calm compassion”, or maybe “endless humanity”, “endless compassion”, “quiet humanity”, all of the above? More?

Gojou says that to be a sorcerer one needs to be crazy. And he says that Yuuji has a few screws loose from the start. The thing is that yes, Yuuji is odd but not in the way the rest of the sorcerers are. So far in the manga Yuuji has never entered the state of mind that to my understanding Gojou is thinking about when he talks about being crazy. What I think Gojou means is this state of unhinged glee during the fight. And the ability to compartmentalise the fights and the kills. 

So far in his fights Yuuji has been neutral, proud of himself when he was doing well, hyper focused, frustrated, desperate, depressed and filled with all-consuming rage. Never filled with unhinged glee. And he hasn’t compartmentalised any fight, any failure or any kill, not one, they all seep into a huge ball of guilt inside him. And it’s his kills and Sukuna’s together. Yuuji’s compassion is actively destroying him from the inside. Yuuji can’t disconnect from his humanity and that’s a basic job requirement for a sorcerer. 

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Yuuji constantly shows how much emotional intelligence he has. When he defuses the situation with Junpei at the school. When Megumi finds out about Tsumiki going under the bridge. When he’s with Chousou. When he puts his depression on hold to help Megumi during the culling game. He shows understanding, emotional support, physical contact and prioritises the emotions of others over his own. 

Compassion, empathy, responsiveness towards others, willingness to adjust and accommodate aren’t stereotypically masculine traits. No, they are culturally feminine in many places around the world, including Japan. 

Yuuji is also passive and reactive despite being stronger than normal people, and that too is culturally more feminine than masculine. Yuuji doesn’t really have much of the shounen protag drive. It can be lit in him in the form of resilience or determination or rage but it’s not self-sustaining, reactive not proactive

And speaking of Japan and East Asia, what Yuuji is displaying can’t be written off as collectivism either. Because these reactions are personal, they aren’t towards the society at large. They aren’t giri aka a specifically culturally Japanese sense of duty, or any other of several similar concepts. There is no sense of duty or obligation in what Yuuji does, not on a group level. Yuuji says that he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if people got hurt because he didn’t try to get rid of Sukuna. For him it’s not because it’s the moral thing to do, or the right thing to do but because he’s concerned about the suffering of those people on this very empathetic level. As Nanami says: he genuinely gets upset on behalf of others. 

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That might be why Yuuji isn’t really that popular as a character. Maybe that’s why people prefer Megumi who’s more typically masculine, stoic, distant, intellectual but also proactive and not reactive in his violence and values.

A lot of people consider Yuuji weak. They complain about how much he loses and how in most of his fights he gets carried by other characters, how they are actually the winning factor and not him. 

I actually like that a lot. I think it makes the story interesting, it makes Yuuji interesting that he’s at his best when he’s not alone, that he’s actually doing best when he’s support. That his strength is in how he compliments others. I honestly don’t want him to change into a more typical shounen protagonist. Thematically the way his fights go suits him perfectly because humans are a social species, we thrive on cooperation. And if Yuuji is boundless humanity he shouldn’t stand alone. 

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I’m very normal about Yuuji so it turned into a post about him. I swear this wasn’t the plan. The plan was to write about leftist propaganda. The other guys in juju are actually really cool too. Like Megumi, him constantly trying to figure out his values and reconcile what’s happening around him with them is great. Yuuta with his need to belong and justify himself is amazing. Chousou the family oriented sap (please survive baby). Hakari who said fuck you to the conservatives even though he wasn’t so well positioned as Gojou and it resulted in him getting ostracised. I’m not going to shout out everyone or go deeper into these characters but I really like how there isn’t one type of masculinity in juju. 

I don’t know how much these are conscious choices by Gege, or how much it’s just their internalised leftism seeping through. But it’s nice. It feels good to read. And I hope that because the messaging isn’t always as didactic as with the Zen’in or the Kamo clans, that it’ll go down well and actually be this tiny crumb of feminism in the minds of 15yo boys who read it. And with how hype juju is atm, I hope that overt leftism will strengthen in the pop cultural mainstream directed at boys. And with it feminism.  

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Could juju be better?

Of course, there’s no perfect work of art. No author is perfect and perfectly enlightened. No work is ever going to 100% match with anyone’s politics, sensibilities or expectations. etc etc. But I really think juju already does a lot. The fact that it’s open to a feminist reading is a lot. And I appreciate it for it.

I really wish juju was better on the queer stuff but I’m wary of assigning blame here. Idk if it’s Gege who misunderstands stuff and is uninformed and crude. Or is it because they write a shounen series for Shounen Jump a corporation which is averse to risk. 

I really wish Kirara had a canon gender and identity. I wish Gege made an official call on Kenny’s gender as they did with Tengen. I wish Gege also clearly stated that Kenny is Yuuji’s mum because the fandom cishets are really twisting themselves into pretzels trying to come up with theories that the mum is actually some woman controlled by Kenny and not Kenny. I wish Gege made NobaMaki canon instead of drawing fanart of the ship and pretending it’s not what it looks like. And even though ItaFushi leaves me mostly cold I wish Megumi’s answer proved to be what all the itafushis headcanon it to be, even if it was to prove to be one sided. I wish I wish I wish.