#bring back counterfeit

[jcbbby]

the way I would give so much to see a single counterfeit show 😭

[its-lovelyhappycollection]

I'm so mad about how much Poptropica has changed.

1st they get rid of all the good islands: wimpy kid, spy island, peanuts island, super power island, cryptids, etc. and they removed ep.5 of survival island (literally the final island! WTF!)

Plus, I still had a bunch of islands I didn't complete, mostly skullduggery island, poptropulus games island and reality TV island (the latter two as they relied on luck and skill)

2nd they made the hard islands easy, like literally. In mythology you no longer have to do the god/goddess quiz in order to get Aphrodite's teleporting mirror, Hercules is outside the restaurant and you no longer have to cross the river of Styx. It made me so mad because I struggled with this island, but it is still one of my favorite islands and it ties into Supervillain island (the one where you enter the dreams of all the past villains to get key items. So much fun!). Anyways, the point is I finished the island in less than hour (30 min tops) when it usually would have taken me much longer. The most annoying past is that it's still marked as level 3 difficulty when it should be 2.

3rd all the new islands they make are rubbish, absolute rubbish. Fairy tale island is dumb, jade scarab island was ok, but still could've been better.

4th they changed the menu and customization, you used to do be able to make your own character, choosing their hair color, skin tone, mouth, and name (I still have my og name on my first account, but still the fact you can't make your own name now is so sad). Anyways, the menu and character profile was so much fun, choosing your team (I was fighting squids. I think that was the name) and the little quizzes they had (like, when was the last time you got sick and what pet you had) made all the more interesting to have friends. Omg, you used to be able to have friends! Totally forgot about that!

Anyways, the most annoying thing they got rid of (mainly cause they removed the islands) was having a little icon thing in the character profile where you could see all your medallions that showed what island you had completed. I don't how to tell you how satisfying it was to see almost a full array of gold (except for the islands I never completed) and that was my favorite thing. *Sigh* if only I had taken a photo, but I was young and dumb then (barely a teenager) so I didn't think about taking a photo.

Anyways, the point is, Poptropica sucks now and it needs to bring back the good islands.

Tag or comment your favorite islands.

[brokenpiecesshine]

(1/?)

[arsenenicholas]

https://goodlawproject.org/crowdfunder/nhs-cyp-guidance/?fbclid=PAZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAaadkVMoRUHpcFptnjlifnc1xJ0i7YGVi78tfv2vEXVaVIQDPTEp1-ozNcY_aem_AfqNP9xEERFn6GRCZCIP7B2RriLi8ZN7pVAFzmNwdvqIXW0nmc1mTe5Hq0UV3xC6VPWdYe1x64wHk7O6-HPOhIdf

Please share, tag someone who could bring this to a lot of people, and post to other platforms. Not originally mine, idk who is the source of the screenshots.

Image ID under cut

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In thick white text on black background-> NHS ENGLAND ARE PLANNING A HONEYPOT WHERE THEY SEND ALL KIDS ON GIDS WAITLIST TO CAHMS TO HAVE THEM BE ASKED IF THEY ARE TAKING BLOCKERS/HRT VIA PRIVATE OR DIY ROUTES

Text is broken and in the middle is an excerpt from a leaked nhs document-> a) For medication sourced directly (e.g via the internet), explain the increased risks of harm due to the unregulated nature of these medicines/products. These may include the use of counterfeit chemicals, unsafe/unknown ancilliary ingredients or variability of potency etc. More information can be found here (link to nhs website). // b) Do not initiate or continue prescribing puberty surpressing hormones or gender affirming hormones. The General Medical Council's guidance to medical professionals on 'bridging prescriptions (a course of endocrine intervention managed by a healthcare professional outside of the specialised gender service while an individual is waiting to be seen) does not apply to care offered to young people under 18 years of age. // c) If the child/young person or their carer disregards your advice and you consider that this puts the child/young person at increased risk, then a safeguarding referral might also be appropriate in line with standard safeguarding approaches. Discuss with your line manager and your organization's safeguarding team.

Thick white text on black background continues-> ANY WHO SAYS YES AND DO NOT DESIST FROM DOING SO WILL BE THREATENED WITH SAFEGUARDING REFERRAL (TAKEN INTO STATE CARE)

Next image ID:

In black text on white background, from the news article linked above-> It seems to us - and to those inside the NHS who have leaked the document to us - that what purports to be an "assessment" in fact an exercise in bringing very significant pressure to bear on trans youth and their families to cease private treatment, backed up with a threat of a safeguarding referral to social services if they do not. // We are concerned about what appears to be a misleading exercise in gathering data on which trans youth are obtaining private treatment from abroad, for the purposes of seeking to cause or compel them to stop treatment.

In the same thick white text on black background as previous image-> So an internal NHS document has been leaked basically asking trans kids on excruciatingly ling waiting lists to come to a 'mental health assessment' where the NHS will harvest their personal information & threaten their families with a social services referral if they're found to be on private blockers/hormones & refuse to come off them. // This country is for dogs i swear.

[p0orbaby]

Meet Cute

summary: it was always meant to be

warnings: just fluff for this one

a/n: probably my favourite pairing of mine to write

word count: 1.4k

-

Leah Williamson is not your type. This, you decide the moment you spot her from across the ballroom, swiping a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray.

You’re aware she’s famous, which is typically a red flag for you. Infamous in your world, where all the proper names are whispered behind manicured hands and anything resembling normalcy is held with the same disdain as a counterfeit handbag. Leah Williamson is an athlete, which in your circles is roughly akin to being an overpaid circus act.

But what really gives you pause is her haircut.

Short, blonde, not-quite-pixie. She looks like she’s wandered in here by mistake, a traveler who’s taken the wrong exit on the motorway and ended up in a place where the speed limit is fifty miles under what she’s used to. You half-expect her to pull out a map and ask someone the quickest way back to civilisation. Instead, she tips her head back and downs the champagne like it’s water, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and you’re immediately in love.

Of course, you won’t admit this, even under threat of being forced to wear last season’s Chanel. Love, in your world, is about as fashionable as pleather.

Your grandmother, God rest her weary soul, once said, “You’ll know it’s love when you’re willing to risk wearing nude tights for them.” Nude tights, in her book, being one of the greatest crimes against humanity. You’re not sure you’re there yet, but the idea doesn’t fill you with as much dread as it would have this morning.

But you digress. You’re here at this godforsaken gala because your father insists on parading you like a prize cow before other old-money families, hoping you’ll marry someone with a suitable lineage. You’re twenty-six and your father has begun to suspect you might have, as he put it, “alternative preferences.” This is his way of reminding you that lineage is everything, and falling for someone without a trust fund is tantamount to treason.

So here you are, in a dress that costs more than most people’s cars, standing next to the dessert table and pretending the caviar blinis don’t taste like expensive regret. Across the room, Leah is now juggling her champagne glass and a miniature beef Wellington, and she seems to be losing.

You decide to rescue her. Or rather, you decide to rescue yourself from having to listen to Lord Farnsworth’s lecture on the importance of preserving the family crest for the fifteenth time this evening.

“Having fun?” you ask when you reach her, which is a stupid question because of course she isn’t. Nobody is having fun here.

She turns to you, and for a moment, you’re convinced she’s going to hand you her beef Wellington like you’re the help. Instead, she gives you a smile so dry you could use it to exfoliate.

“Are you?” she asks, and her voice is lower than you expected, with that clipped accent that tells you she’s from somewhere north of where people have indoor pools.

You shrug, because you don’t really know how to answer that without resorting to a level of honesty that would make your therapist proud but your mother faint.

“I’ve had root canals that were more enjoyable,” you say, and she laughs, a short bark of a sound that seems to surprise even her.

“Fair,” she says, and you feel like you’ve passed some sort of test.

“So what brings you to the seventh circle of hell?” you ask, watching as she abandons her beef Wellington on a passing waiter’s tray like she’s releasing a burden into the wild.

“I was invited,” she says, as though that explains everything, and maybe it does. Maybe she’s been told, like you have, that there are some invitations you just don’t turn down. Even if they come with the risk of being cornered by Lord Farnsworth and his endless tirade about how the current generation is ruining the art of fox hunting.

“Ah,” you say, because you understand that language. “That explains the face”

“What face?”

“The one you’ve been making all night,” you say, trying to demonstrate by contorting your own face into what you hope is an accurate imitation.

She grins again, and it occurs to you that Leah Williamson might be one of those rare people who looks more attractive when they’re amused. Most people, in your experience, become grotesque when they’re laughing, all exposed gums and teeth that are never as straight as they should be. But her face lights up in a way that suggests she doesn’t find the world half as disappointing as you do.

“And what face have you been making?” she asks, leaning in a little closer, and you catch a whiff of her perfume—something that’s probably advertised with shots of people running through fields of lavender, but on her, it smells like trouble.

You gesture vaguely. “It’s somewhere between ‘bored out of my skull’ and ‘I can’t believe I’m not getting paid for this’”

“I’ll have to try that one,” she says, glancing over at Lord Farnsworth, who seems to have set his sights on you again, the poor man. “But I’ll need some pointers”

“First, you need to perfect the art of the disinterested nod,” you say, demonstrating. “Like you’re listening, but you’ve also just remembered you left the oven on”

She mimics you, and it’s terrible, but you applaud her effort anyway.

“Close enough,” you say. “Next, you have to practice the well-timed yawn. Not too obvious, but just enough to suggest you’ve heard all this before”

She pretends to yawn, and it’s so exaggerated that a few people around you turn to look.

“Subtlety is key,” you remind her.

“I’ll work on it,” she says, her grin widening as though she’s actually enjoying herself now, which is against all logic.

“And finally,” you say, feeling suddenly bold, “you have to perfect the getaway”

“The getaway?”

“Yeah,” you say, glancing at Lord Farnsworth, who is now being temporarily distracted by some poor woman in pearls. “Like this”

You grab her by the arm and start walking, weaving your way through the crowd with the precision of someone who has been doing this their whole life. She doesn’t resist, though she does give you a curious look as you lead her past your father, who is deep in conversation with someone equally dull.

You find yourself in the courtyard, where the air is cooler and the moon is doing its best impression of a romantic comedy backdrop. Leah stops and looks up at the sky, as though she’s surprised to find it there.

“Nice,” she says, and you can’t tell if she’s talking about the view or the escape route.

“Much better than listening to Lord Farnsworth,” you say, and she turns to you with that smile again, the one that’s starting to feel dangerously like an invitation.

“So,” she says, as if continuing a conversation you didn’t know you were having, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

The question is so cliché it should make you cringe, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, and you find yourself saying, “I’m here because I lost a bet with Satan”

She chuckles, a low rumble in her chest that makes you feel like you’ve won something. “And what did you bet on?”

“That I could get through this evening without wanting to jump into traffic,” you say, and she laughs again, this time a little louder.

“I think you lost that bet the moment you saw the guest list,” she says, and you nod in agreement.

“So what about you?” you ask, genuinely curious now. “Why are you here?”

“Because I was invited,” she repeats, but this time, there’s something else in her tone, something that makes you think she’s not just talking about the gala.

You want to ask her what she means, but you don’t. Instead, you reach out and take her hand, surprising both of you.

“Let’s make another bet,” you say, feeling a strange kind of thrill, like you’re standing on the edge of something.

“What kind of bet?” she asks, her eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s a glint in them that makes you think she’s game.

“That we can get through the rest of this evening without wanting to jump into traffic,” you say, squeezing her hand just a little.

She considers this for a moment, then grins. “You’re on”

And just like that, the evening shifts. The gala, the people, the expectations—they all fade into the background as you and Leah step into something that feels suspiciously like possibility.

You don’t know where this is going, but for the first time in a long time, you’re excited to find out. And maybe, just maybe, you’re willing to risk wearing nude tights for her. But only if you lose the bet.

[curryshesus]

bts fics that give me life in a drought

(aka my favorite fics of all time) pt. 2

didn't expect to make a part 2 so soon but seeing how much recognition the first one got, here we are! some of these contain a hearty amount of angst, and oh they're just simply divine :( once again, please make sure to show your love and support to these lovely authors if you enjoyed any of these reads as much as i did!

➺ knife’s edge - by @readyplayerhobi

| jungkook x reader, jimin x reader | 141.8k

mafia au, fluff, angst, smut, violence, series

>> summary: "the jeon clan is family, built on blood and loyalty. it’s been an unspoken fact that one day you will marry the heir to the clan, jeon jungkook. you would be a fool to deny that you love him, but what happens when you meet a blue haired man who offers you a chance at normality?"

this fic absolutely BROKE ME. i was so conflicted all throughout and deadass went through all the 50 stages of grief. the angst was unparalleled. the fluff had me giggling like a madman cuz jk is an absolute sweetheart :( jimin is too :(( y/n is dumb and so is her situation :((( i cherish this fic sm

➺ novocaine - by @kinktae

| jimin x reader |

1990s au, exes au, angst, eventual smut, series

>> summary: "going home was hard – painful even. but falling back in love with jimin, the boy you left behind? downright gut-wrenching."

➺ ghostin him- by @adonis-koo

| namjoon x reader (taehyung x reader) | 26k

angst, angst, as well as angst. comfort too dw, one-shot

>> summary: "life is nothing more than dull colors for you, your world shattered and laying in the shards of what once was rather than focusing on what is. that is until you meet kim namjoon, who is immediately taken by you without realizing you’re a girl with a whole lot of baggage, through tears and many sleepless nights you’re faced with a choice of hanging on with bleeding hands, or accepting what is, and letting go."

ohmygod the writing hello? the amount of soul, depth, and sheer utter beauty in missy's words are beyond me. had me sobbing every other line and my heart aching all throughout and boy was it worth it.

➺ take five - by @jiminrings

| yoongi x reader | 10k

angst, fluff, unrequited love, pinning

summary: "dr. min yoongi's a board-certified dermatologist; skilled, renowned, and in-demand - oh and also, he's divorced."

➺ page turner - by @gukslut

| taehyung x reader | 13.6k

teacher!tae/ librarian!reader, fluff, smut, minor angst

summary: "corny romance and a zillion cheesy Romeo and Juliet quotes and references."

my tainted hopeless romantic heart ugh. they're so cute.

➺ bloom- by @hobidreams

| namjoon x reader | 20.7k

assassin!reader x florist!namjoon, smut, angst, action, sprinkles of fluff

>> summary: "family is who you kill for. who you die for. in this society, you and your kin are shadows, clinging to the darkness to obey orders absolute. but when such orders command you to abandon what little honor remains for wealth and notoriety, you find yourself lost in lonely uncertainty about the only vocation you’ve ever known. that is, until you meet a man with gentle hands, a poet’s heart, and a love for coaxing the world into bloom."

➺ counterfeit culture - by @ggukcangetit

| seokjin x reader | 29k

modern day au loosely based on jane austen’s pride & prejudice, e2l, fluff, smut, comedy

>>summary: “for as long as you can remember, you’ve always known right from wrong, good from bad, and woke from entitled/ignorant. but when you continue to cross paths with Kim Seokjin - the apparent antithesis of everything you believe in - certain walls begin to crumble. and over time, you come to realise that the world isn’t black and white, first impressions can be misleading, and that you are just as guilty as each person you’ve judged so harshly. realisation brings acceptance, and maybe, just maybe, acceptance can bring something more.”

➺ if i told you - by @gukyi

| jungkook x reader | 22k

friends to lovers!au, college!au, fluff, comedy, angst

>> summary: "in order to pay for university, jeon jungkook decides to market his most valuable asset to the wealthy socialites of campus: himself. donning a suit and tie, tousled hair, and glasses (to look smarter), he becomes every rich daughter’s dream: the perfect boyfriend to bring to balls, dinners, and business gatherings. all while you watch from the sidelines, only able to dream of having that much money to buy yourself what you really want: him."

➺ to hold a dragon's heart - by @softlyjiminie

| taehyung x reader | 19.1k

dragon prince!kim taehyung x warrior princess!reader, smut, angst, fluff, forbidden romance, dragon shifter!au, royalty!au, enemies to lovers!au

>> summary: "two kingdoms, two hearts and the world between them. your whole life has been a challenge, never an easy moment on your road to becoming queen but will one decision, one encounter with the man you were destined to hate, change the fate of your worlds, forever?"

[nonasuch]

If a time traveler went back, say, 100 years, bought something brand new, and took it with them when returning to their period of origin, would that object be an antique, because it was made 100 years ago, or not, because it has not existed in slow-time for that long?

Oh that’s a good question. Hmm. I think technically no, but depending on what you bring back it wouldn’t matter?

Like, the key would be to pick things that aren’t easily counterfeited in the modern day. If I show up with a like-new Fortuny Delphos, nobody’s gonna care about technicalities or how I got it because they know they can’t be made without Fortuny’s secret pleating technique.

And some things could just be excused as having been forgotten in a box, unused — gold jewelry won’t have a patina from age and won’t show wear if it was never worn, you know?

Whereas a lot of glassware is commonly reproduced and wont be believed as genuine without signs of wear. Or clothing, if made from fabrics that are still available in the modern day, could read as something conceivably sewn by a skilled modern costumer.

[artsninspo]

FORGIVELESS - I - NOT IN THE DARK ANYMORE 🌒

Full Masterlist

RIO MASTERLIST

I - Not in the dark anymore

Author's Note: Record scratch … I was working through some writer's block when this concept came to me. Instead of letting it pass here it is. I can promise part two because it’s already outlined.

Pairing: Rio X Reader

Word Count: 2K

Warning: Mature themes and mentions of cheating.

Summary: What is supposed to be a romantic date night with your husband quickly descends to a night of nightmares after meeting a charismatic entrepreneur named Rio with what you perceive to be an uncanny insight on your current situation.

Rio scans the floor of his newest business endeavour. He’s been successful at counterfeiting but now he needs new ways to wash his money. His bars had been doing so good he decided to move into the restaurant business. While notoriously fickle he didn't have the same financial restraints as other new owners. It only took him six months to find his foothold in the industry and now he had one of the city's most in demand establishments for special occasions. Looking around he spots a gentleman who was in the last time he’s stopped by to check on things. Looking across from the man he sees you sitting all done up. He needed strong attention to detail in his line of work. It was a safety precaution but your body language brings the situation into full view. Sitting back he looks under the table only to have his suspicions confirmed. The other woman had her foot up halfway to your dates crotch under the table.

“Table twelve seems familiar” he mutters to his general manager.

“Ahh, he was with a different girl. Excellent tip” His GM responds and Rio takes another look locating the ring set on your left hand. You were the wife.

“Decline all his reservations moving forward. I don’t care how well he tips. Only friends should be here that often.” Rio says watching closely. He had his principles in business and in life. There were simply some things men didn't do. Bringing their girlfriends to the city's best restaurants before their wives was top of mind. 

“Done” the GM says as Rio makes his way into the back to look at the accounting. Everything needed to be in perfect working order for things to work. The restaurant would be a stepping stone to more. Food had never been a passion of his but he could sell an experience to people who wanted to pretend for a few hours. Besides, it had cost him virtually nothing and turned a huge profit every week. He steps out tucking his weekly take home pay behind the bar, walking around it to be served a drink. You're in his perfect line of sight. He watches you reach for your husband as he gets up, throwing cash down onto the table and kissing you goodbye. He watches you sigh and watch as he leaves. Shaking his head he turns back to his glass. 

“Hey can you give the waiter this. I was sitting over there” Rio hears turning to you.

Fuck, shes bad.

His thoughts run the gamut as he looks you over. Thinking back to the other woman he rakes through his memory for her. She had nothing on you besides maybe being slightly younger.

“Thank you” hears cluing back into the conversation you're having with his bartender.

“I’ll have the third course brought to the bar” the bartender says with a smile. 

“Perfect” you nod, sending him a smile.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Rio asks, looking you over. Turning, you are startled by a second by the handsome stranger wildly underdressed for the establishment.

“My husband took care of it thanks” you smile, making him do the same. He’s handsome.

“My husband took care of it” He mocks, chuckling to himself more amused than anything else. “Where is he?” Rio says bringing a glass to his lips.

“Something came up at work” you respond.

She believes the lie too. Rio smiles to himself looking up at the clock, “What, does he deliver babies? Is the hospital short staffed?” 

“No, he’s a consultant with a global clientele. You know time zones” you explain.

“Time Zones couldn't keep me off my wife on a Friday night if she looked like you.” Rio comments. Your cheeks burn at the forward implications just as the third course is placed in front of you.

“Compliments of the chef,” the server smiles.

“Thanks” you smile. It looks great. 

“Is it good?” Rio asks after a few minutes.

“Mhm” you nod weary of the flirtatious stranger. 

“Which time zone clients do I have to thank for this?” Rio asks, pointing between the two of you.

“Japan” you respond.

“To Japan” Rio raises a glass. “Rio, by the way,” he says, holding out a hand.

“Y/N” you respond, shaking his hand.

“Y/N you’re too trusting” Rio says stirring the pot.

“If you want to keep this pleasant please don't disrespect my marriage” you respond and Rio raises his hands.

“Boss, can I get you anything?” the GM says as he sees Rio at the bar.

“Good thanks,” Rio nods.

Looking at him suddenly his simple attire makes sense. Simple and all black was classic and understated in spite of the black tie dress code. Clearly no one was sending him home and the restaurant's food was never on delivery menus. Owner. Not a service professional. You nod to yourself impressed with his accomplishment. 

“You own this place?” you ask and he nods reluctantly.

“A few more lowkey spots around the city as well”

You offer cordial conversation.“Congrats, the food is good and it was hell to get reservations”

“Not for Y/N, not anymore.” he smirks and you shake your head. Rio laughs a little, he can't remember the last time he had to try so hard. Clearly you’d signed up for a lifetime of attention and here he was taking up for your husband's shortcomings.

“How kind” your tone is laced with sarcasm.

“I’m not kind, when you realise your man ain't shit you should eat good and stay fine. Do it here where I can see it. If you need to hire someone to beat his ass on your behalf come see me and I got you. I know people.” he says so cavalier it's off putting. There’s no more smirk and you feel slightly queasy in your stomach.

“That’s not funny” you frown.

“I don’t think so either but there’s a very short list of things that could make me leave you at the table. Work isn't one of them, Love” he mutters. Deep down you know he’s right. Something isn't right with your husband James. Recently work has taken precedent. His promotion has been taking all of his attention leaving very little to you. To make matters worse you moved here away from your family, friends and support system to be his. He’d been reluctant to have you move and has put very little time into helping you adjust to the move along with spending quality time. Work has affected all facets of your life including his libido. It was why Rio was practically foaming at the mouth with dilated pupils at the sight of you. It was a three hour process and special creation to set the mood for the night but James hadn’t reacted how you wanted him to. Japan had been at the forefront of his mind. He’d checked his phone more times than you found necessary before getting a call. He spent five minutes in the washroom before coming back and telling you he needed to rush to the office. Reaching forward you wave for the bartender.

“I've lost my appetite. Please thank the waiter” you smile standing from the bar stool. He nods and Rio rises at the same time. His hands go into his pockets following you out as all the staff bid the ‘boss’ goodbye. You hand the valet your ticket first and yet somehow Rio’s G-Wagon appears before your car. He smirks, having made an impression. When your car rolls around Rio gets the door after the valet gets out.

“I’m at the Clique most weekends. Sevens bar during the week, in case you need a man handled. Drive safe, Love” he says once you're in the driver's seat and buckled in. You wonder why you havent told him to fuck off yet until you see an eerie honesty in his eyes.

Your drive home is in complete silence with the exception of your signals and the natural sounds of the road. You feel too unsettled to relax. Once in your house you have to stop yourself from walking a track across your living room rug. You take a bath which does not work to settle your nerves. You brew valerian root tea when all else fails and there is still no peace. You lay in your marital bed tossing and turning until you hear the garage. It’s after three in the morning. You contemplate your options and hear James coming up the stairs ten minutes later. You slow your breath and close your eyes pretending to be asleep. The door opens and he enters walking straight into the ensuite bathroom. Silent tears roll down your eyes. He gets in bed without giving you any affection allowing your mind to run wild. Your alarm wakes you at 7am and you head downstairs to prepare his breakfast for his day ahead. Saturday mornings and afternoons are for golf and client relations. You throw something together quickly and head upstairs to find him in the shower. You spot his phones on the nightstand and grab his personal device.

You try a few passcodes when his work phone starts buzzing. Forfeiting his personal device something drives you to check his work phone. You unlock the phone from memory and scroll through his messages. There are client names you recognize, all with flags attached to them. A message from Japan comes in and you open it only for your stomach to fall.

You scroll for what feels like forever screen recording quickly as you make it up to three weeks. Heartbroken you airdrop yourself the evidence before breaking into his personal phone with new conviction. You nearly drop it when you see nudes and explicit messages. Your hand is trembling as you hear the water stop. You delete your screen recordings from the work phone, locking both devices and laying them as they were. Your hearts in your ass, your eyes stinging as tears threaten to fall. You walk into your office screaming into a pillow. Unable to act like all is well you stay put in there. James shouts you a goodbye before leaving. You pull up the security footage and scroll as far back as you can see. Your only consolation is he hasnt brought the whore back to your home. Still, it doesn't erase the intimacy of the messages. It doesn't erase the deceit and callousness of his lies and actions. It doesn't erase your heartache or the fact that he’s been lying heartlessly for months. Doesn’t negate the truth of his libido being well and intact, not for you but for her.

You sit for hours in a daze ignoring your daily routine before deciding to head to the spa. Heading upstairs you take off your rings, unable to wear the gifts from such a low down asshole. A manicure, pedicure, sauna and a full body massage doesnt bring you any reprieve. You still feel terrible as clarity dawns. You get the full picture of his betrayal. The pain is too much. Eight years together, five married and this is what it's come to. The visual of his mistress pleasuring herself is etched into your mind, along with the messages between them. Worst of all was the most recent. The mistress thanking your husband for blowing you off to care for her needs. Sitting in the lot of the spa after hours you punch the steering wheel before leaning into it and honking until you’ve stopped screaming. 

Anger wins. Visualising James in the hospital brings you more peace than everything else you've tried. Looking in his eyes pretending to be shocked and concerned while being the root of his current predicament is the kind of sweet karma that allows you to exhale for the first time in hours. Hospital visits because you got him fucked up for his indiscretion. After years of being whatever he wanted whenever. Without even a heads up or him expressing any discontent. Blindly trusting him when he’s been in another relationship. Bystanders look in shock as you pull out of the lot burning rubber with one destination in mind.

Club Clique, to see a man named Rio. 

Author's Note: thanks for reading, this one will be a little fast paced and unhinged. Very toxic because from what I can see that's what you all enjoy most. Rio being messy was my favourite part! Like, Comment, Reblog and interact with the poll.

NEXT CHAPTER

All my love,

xoxo

[blingblong55]

LOML -Simon "Ghost" Riley

Photo credit: @ave661 ---- F!Reader, angst, breakup ----

The love of your life is something so beautifully tragic that the beginning seems as if it's haunting you. Two thousand one hundred and 90 days where the rollercoaster of him made you feel a wave of emotions. Who would've thought that now all you can think about is waltzing to his arms, to revive the death of something that can't be brought back to life? It's so beautifully dead. 

But who can stop you from not trying to bring it back to life when you know all the steps to resuscitatesomeone...something? 

As you sit by the window, you watch the wind guide the willow tree branches as if another sign of a haunting memory. 

"What are you doing lovie?" Simon says as he rests his head on your shoulder. You sit there, embroidering his and your initials on a jumper. "Just something to wear when you're away or when I'm away," you mention so casually as you can feel his gaze on you. Isn't it so tragic how his gaze spoke with so much love, how his hands held you and caressed your body but now all you feel is the ghost of his love just watching you from a corner as you cry in bed to the wall? 

You and he were so young when this love affair started, matured together, experienced trials and tribulations and now you're there, holding a piece of something he'll never come back for. 

He always told you that he wanted you for the long run and it's stupid how you laugh at that as tears run down. Who was going to tell you the road was short? Not your foolish heart, it was never going to let you know of the 'Dead End' signs. You told him each time, "I don't mind it, it takes time and I'll wait, Simon." Oh, what a fool you must've been back then. You look at the jumper with a haunting laugh that tells you of all the failures you made. But for a moment, you felt safe, you were taken hostage to his failing love and even if you were blinded it was a safe place for your hopeless romantic heart. 

The feelings he gave you were never this way before and they won't be the same since the day he left. 

Oh, but a fool can hope. 

A fool can picture the life that was never given. A fool falls so deep down this Alice in the wonderland-like place that when reality comes back, the world turns dull. 

Who is to be loved again? Why must his arms, his laugh and those inside jokes no one will understand feel like bullets that will never be extracted? This is a bleeding heart. 

When can you stop mourning a dead love? You went from him kissing you with all his might to picturing him waiting for you down the aisle. Will it ever stay alive after this heartache? When can you bury the dead love that never bloomed into the happily ever after? When is the right time to host a wake for it? Can it be buried so easily? And if there is a wake for this love, will he be there? Will he wear a suit and tie and watch as you cry, as you wear all black, as you throw flowers at the casket?

Why must he be so cruel!? He told you truths, right? Your fingertips run over his initial, "You said I'm the love of your life about a million times," you say, reminiscing on the death of something so... captivating. 

"I love you, Y/N." 

"i LOVE you, Y/N."

"i love YOU, Y/N."

"Love you, lovie"

"I love you"

"I loveeeee you!" 

"LOVE YOU!" 

"i love you."

"I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU!"

"God you're the love of my life, lovie."

"You're the one for me, Y/N"

"You're my lifeline, you know that, lovie?"

Who was to scream in your face the truth and nothing but the truth? Who was to inform you of its death? When the oh-so-expensive paintings he hung up on the home you shared turned out to be fake, who was going to say the love he held high was to be long-lasting? And if it wasn't long-lasting, then who was going to argue against the counterfeit feelings a con man gave you? 

It was meant to last for centuries but instead, all the love he gave you and the life he threw away would only turn out to be folk stories that will be told to some fools as warnings. 

When all goes from colour to black and white like the films he oh so enjoyed alongside you during winter storms, who will save you and bring you back to life?

---- "Lovie, I'm home," he says as he drops his bags on the floor by the door. "Y/N?" He calls again and you creep from the stairs with caution. Once your eyes meet him, he smiles and walks up to you, engulfing you in his arms. This is all you need, all that a hopeless romantic like you needs is him and his sweet words.

---- "I'll marry you, I swear that I will and when I do, I will do anything to keep you," he says before kissing your forehead. 

---- At dinner he holds your hand under the table, and watches as his mates talk but when he looks at your adorable face and then he leans in and kisses your cheek. 

----

Were there signs all along?

You can see it, the piano plays, and he waits for you as you walk to him in a dress that calls for you to become the centre of attention. You can nearly hear the vows he'd say. The nervous glances he'd steal and how he'd smile from how anxious and excited he was to finally say he has a woman like you turned into his wife and his forever best friend. 

You shut your eyes, wishing to forget about all the times you were so close to being his missus. God, why must forgetting him be torture? You almost had it all with him. Picket fence, family dog, children's laughter and him chasing the kids around the backyard.

----

"Simon!" you laugh as he carries you to the kitchen. Three hours of laughter, cooking, wine-filled glasses, kisses, side hugs, words of affirmation and yet, no one but you was more love-struck in that moment. Looking back, you have second-hand embarrassment from all the times you swore he was your all. 

----

Your sobs shut the memories down. 

Three days passed, and he never came back for any of his belongings. 

One month of staying in your home. One whole fucking month where all you did was walk around the walls you once saw the love drip down from. One month where all you did was stay in bed, barely eat and stay in silence when all the tears ran out whilst the numbness fills your soul.

Is it time to move on? But to move on from the love of your life is the toughest thing one weak heart can't do so easily. The counterfeit feelings died...so why are you still staying at the cemetery?

Oh darling, don't lift that shovel. You can't unbury and check the pulse of someone...something that died three months ago. Let it rest, the road is dead and so is it. But if you look at the headstone maybe it'll bring some relief.

----

"Don't leave, okay?" you ask through teary eyes after waking from a terrible dream. "I'll never leave, lovie," Simon says as he wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. 

----

What a stupid fucking goodbye. Why must it be so colourless? But then again, he loves black-and-white films. 

----

"But...you promised, Si," you ask through teary eyes. "I'm sorry, lovie– Y/N," he corrects himself. "Simon you said you'd never leave, what happened?" you ask and by then, all he knew died and he looked at you with cold eyes. "Never mind all that," he grabs his coat and you watch him leave. 

----

That day, that gloomy day will be engraved in your memory. Even now when you sit by that same window you still see it. Simon Riley was the love of your life and now, he is the loss of your life. 

Y/N & Simon

2018-2024

Lovers, friends, a peaceful place where two people hid. 

A tragic Shakespearean story that now is buried under a weeping willow tree. 

Tags: @liyanahelena @goldenmclaren @Ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @Krinoid24 @iruzias @frazie99 @idklols @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @Simonssweetgirl @luvecarson @nellsbobells @willowaftxn83-87 @Macnches2 @bbyfimmie @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @Nyx_Flower @honestlyhiswife @ikohniik @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @kaoyamamegami @nobodys-coffee @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @luvecarson @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @anonxasian @born4biriyani @thegreyjoyed @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @iruzias @sleepyycatt @believeinthefireflies95 @noodlezz-bedo @alexaseeraj @trinthealternate @azkza

[lyralit]

writing prompts from ttpd quotes

took a miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary

but I've seen this episode and still loved the show

this ain't the chelsea hotel, we're modern idiots

left all these broken parts // told me I'm better off // but I'm not

down bad, waking up in blood // staring at the sky, come back and pick me up

& I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

I learned these people try and save you // 'cause they hate you

scandal does funny things to pride, but brings lovers closer

at the park where we used to sit on childrens' swings // wearing imaginary rings

barricaded in the bathroom with a bottle of wine // well, me and my ghosts, wе had a hell of a time

love left me like this and I don't want to exist // so take me to Florida

what if the way you hold me is actually what's holy?

I was tame, I was gentle, til the circus life made me mean // don't you worry folks, we took out all her teeth

you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me

he had a halo of the highest grade // he just hadn't met me yet

dancing phantoms on the terrace // are they second-hand embarrassed // that I can't get out of bed? // 'cause something counterfeit's dead

our field of dreams, engulfed in fire // your arson's match, your somber eyes

you're the loss of my life

breaking down, I hit the floor // all the pieces of me shattering as the crowd was chanting "more!"

'cause once your queen had come // you treat her like an also-ran // you didn't measure up // in any measure of a man

he jokes that it's heroin, but this time with an "e"

it's hell...on...earth...to...be...heeeaaveeenlyyyy

you've got edge, she never did // the future's bright....dazzling

[youzicha]

Thinking about that that "slop accelerationism" post, and also Scott's AI art Turing test.

I also hope AI text- and image-generation will help shake us loose from cheap bad art. For example, the fact that you can now generate perfectly rendered anime girls at the click of button kindof suggests that there was never much content in those drawings. Though maybe we didn't really need AI for that insight? It feels very similar to that shift in fashion that rejected Bouguereau-style laboriously-rendered pretty girls in favor of more sketchy brush work.

But will we really be so lucky that only things that we already suspected was slop will prove valueless?

As usual with AI, Douglas Hofstadter already thought about this a long time ago, in an essay from 2001. Back in 1979 he had written

Will a computer program ever write beautiful music? Speculation: Yes, but not soon. Music is a language of emotions, and until programs have emotions as complex as ours, there is no way a program will write anything beautiful. There can be "forgeries"—shallow imitations of the syntax of earlier music—but despite what one might think at first, there is much more to musical expression than can be captured in syntactical rules. There will be no new kinds of beauty turned up for a long time by computer music-composing programs. Let me carry this thought a little further. To think—and I have heard this suggested—that we might soon be able to command a preprogrammed mass-produced mail-order twenty-dollar desk-model "music box" to bring forth from its sterile [sic!] circuitry pieces which Chopin or Bach might have written had they lived longer is a grotesque and shameful misestimation of the depth of the human spirit. A "program" which could produce music as they did would have to wander around the world on its own, fighting its way through the maze of life and feeling every moment of it. It would have to understand the joy and loneliness of a chilly night wind, the longing for a cherished hand, the inaccessibility of a distant town, the heartbreak and regeneration after a human death. It would have to have known resignation and world-weariness, grief and despair, determination and victory, piety and awe. In it would have had to commingle such opposites as hope and fear, anguish and jubilation, serenity and suspense. Part and parcel of it would have to be a sense of grace, humor, rhythm, a sense of the unexpected and of course an exquisite awareness of the magic of fresh creation. Therein, and therein only, lie the sources of meaning in music.

I think this is helpful in pinning down what we would have liked to be true. Because in 1995, somebody wrote a program that generates music by applying simple syntactic rules to combine patterns from existing pieces, and it sounded really good! (In fact, it passed a kind of AI art turing test.) Oops!

The worry, then, is that we just found out that the computer has as complex emotions as us, and they aren't complex at all. It would be like adversarial examples for humans: the noise-like pattern added to the panda doesn't "represent" a gibbon, it's an artifact of the particular weights and topology of the image recognizer, and the resulting classification doesn't "mean" anything. Similarly, Arnulf Rainer wrote that when he reworked Wine-Crucifix, "the quality and truth of the picture only grew as it became darker and darker"—doesn't this sound a bit like gradient descent? Did he stumble on a pattern that triggers our "truth" detector, even though the pattern is merely a shallow stimulus made of copies of religious iconography that we imprinted on as kids?

One attempt to recover is to say Chopin really did write music based on the experience of fighting through the maze of life, and it's just that philistine consumers can't tell the difference between the real and the counterfeit. But this is not very helpful, it means that we were fooling ourselves, and the meaning that we imagined never existed.

More promising, maybe the program is a "plagiarism machine", which just copies the hard-won grief, despair, world-weariness &c that Chopin recorded? On its own it's not impressive that a program can output an image indistinguishable from Gauguin's, I can write such a program in a single line:

print("https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gauguin,Paul-Still_Life_with_Profile_of_Laval-_Google_Art_Project.jpg")

I think this is the conclusion that Hofstadter leans towards: the value of Chopin and the other composers was to discover the "template" that can then be instantiated to make many beautiful music pieces. Kind of ironically, this seems to push us back to some very turn-of-the-20th-century notion of avant-garde art. Each particular painting that (say) Monet executed is of low value, and the actual valuable thing is the novel art style...

That view isn't falsified yet, but it feels precarious. You could have said that AlphaGo was merely a plagiarism machine that selected good moves from historical human games, except then AlphaGo Zero proved that the humans were superfluous after all. Surely a couple of years from now somebody might train an image model on a set of photographs and movies excluding paintings, and it might reinvent impressionism from first principles, and then where will we be? Better start prepare a fallback-philosophy now.

[jcbbby]

[divinehedons]

godless promethean, elektran rage.

navigation: masterlist

pairing: pirate!joel miller x siren!reader

word count: ~8.4k words (I KNOW I'M SO SORRY)

summary: when the wrath of poseidon brings in something not quite human, a hardened pirate with the harshness of a soldier at war faces a bright-eyed siren with the delusion of a dreamer.

warnings: this is a DARK, EXPLICIT fic. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT or i will BLOCK you. so much plot, pirate!au, siren!au, joel is a violent motherfucker, reader is a metamorphic creature that turns human-like when not submerged in water, graphic depiction of violence and injury, mentions of abduction and implications of abuse, explicit p-in-v sex, oral (f!receiving), squirting, creampie, soooo much murder. it's like a greek tragedy without the incest.

note: THANK YOU FOR 600 FOLLOWERS!!! much of this work was inspired by me rereading the odyssey by homer, but the trope of joel x siren!reader is not of my own making! thank you so much for reading, and as always, comments and reblogs are much apprciated!

Be strong, saith my heart. A wave crests over the hull of the ship. Then another. And another. I have seen worse things than this. Synchronized hands haul the rope for the sails, a last attempt to regain control of their vessel. The Balkan sea stretches before weary sailors, endless and unforgiving, with one foot in their watery grave and the other clawing to live.

In the midst of this carnage is The Flounder, harbinger of chaos, populated by a crew of men who pillage, murder, and destroy anything that gets in their way. Joel once thought of him and his men as indestructible. The Wrath of Poseidon makes him reconsider otherwise.

“Goddamnit, Bonnie, we’re never gettin’ out of this mess!” Joel yells over the deluge of rain, tightening his grip and growling as the rope digs in to the skin of his palms. He sees another wave crest over them, sturdy as a wall, coming down upon their shivering backs, leaving them spluttering out seawater. He coughs momentarily, heaving in air as he digs his feet into the deck.

When he regains his breath, he hears his name being called. He looks, their Captain bellowing from where he steered. His new orders came through in the middle of the crack of thunder and the whistle of an unending storm. Check beneath the deck for damages. Fix anything that could sink them. He calls for someone to replace his hold and he runs for it. 

In his head, he had begun to pen a letter back to his waiting daughter under the care of his brother. Dear Sarah, he thinks, climbing down the ladder and finding himself in knee-deep, ice-cold water. I promised you that this will be my last expedition. That after this, we shall live out however you want us to. I only hope that I can live up to that promise. He cusses under his breath when he finds a growing leak in the hull, crossing himself as he immediately went about to fix it temporarily with what materials he could find. You’re safer with your uncle Tommy than here in this misery. And should anything happen to me, know that I love you and I trust you to be good to him, too. He crosses the threshold to see if there was anything else, moving across floating bottles, bobbing up and down with remnants of booze. With a sigh, isolated from the chaos above deck, he leans against a column, grabbing a drifting bottle and swallowing down the booze to settle his nerves.

I grow old, I grow old. He mouths the words under his breath. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

The muffled sounds of the world melts away as he tries to catch his breath, gritting his teeth from the ache in his hips. Getting too old for this. He tries to think of a way that rest can be comfortable in this mess. Sleep, he thinks, delicious and profound. The very counterfeit of death.  It is only when his nerves settle that he hears it.

A splash in the common room. Too loud to be some drifting object. Something that continues to move against the motion of the ship between the waves. He stills himself, the empty bottle slipping between his fingers. Slowly, he moves closer to the source of the sound, like a predator stalking his prey in the darkness. He retrieves a drifting harpoon, peeking through the threshold of the room to inspect. In the semi-darkness, interrupted by the flickering of lanterns and dying candelight, he catches the shimmer of something alive. He raises his weapon, looks through his good eye, his brows crinkling at the effort to focus.

Too old and too goddamn blind for this shit.

He blinks a few times more before he finally sees. And what he sees is you.

Your lithe arms reaching against the walls of the ship, trying to find a weak link that could let you escape. Were you brought in by the waves? Were you the very thing responsible for the leak he just had to fix? Initially, Joel made the movement to speak, to ask how you had ended up here—the sea is no place for a maiden like you. But his breath hitches when he looks closer to see… well, you. The incandescent flickering of a scaled tail, blending with inhuman yet somewhat human skin around your hips, and your upper body, glorious, unmarked, and completely fucking naked.

Perhaps it was the months at sea, conversing with no one but the same crew of men who, despite their intelligentsia and capabilities, do not exactly have the looks capable of producing in him the flustering exhilaration of some teenager. But he, of all people, know of the stories, too. The whispers shared in the saloons in the darkness. The shared thrill and excitement of such beauty and danger lurking beneath the temptresses’ skins. He has heard of claws coming for his companions’ throats, have heard of the trickery they can cause with the power of the ocean entirely at their disposal. He thinks of Odysseus again— tethered to the mast of his ship, The only one of his men to hear the voice of the sirens and have survived. Odysseus, who would have laid his life down  just to come close to the very presence of something so divine. 

Another thing he knows is that the price of one siren is half the bounty they had planned for. Months of work cut out for himself. Months closer to seeing his daughter again. It’s enough to give him the taste of freedom. His own little piece of heaven that, ironically, is someone else’s hell. The funny thing was, he does not feel guilt about it.

Perhaps he was not Odysseus. He was not as noble. Nor did he ever want to be. A noble character would never provide a good life for his Sarah, waiting for him oceans away.

That was the decision that sealed the creature’s fate before him. Without a second thought, he fires his harpoon, the sharp head piercing through the creature’s shoulder as an angelic wail emanates from her precious throat. With her pinned down, he had begun yelling, calling for the presence of men to see what they’ve caught in their vessel. Their ticket to riches. The honeypot herself.

The blade itself incites to deeds of violence.

He swallows down the guilt as the thunder of heavy steps descend upon their victim, her screams only growing louder and louder amidst the exhilarated, disbelieving laughter of his companions. He does not dare to look. Does not dare to see those doe eyes of yours begging for respite, pulling him into your charms.

An eye of an eye. A good life for Sarah in exchange for hers.

Fair enough.

—-

When The Flounder has escaped the barrages of the storm, the sea is quiet. Some would even say peaceful. Joel wouldn't exactly use that word. Not when he hears your wails breaking the silence. That first night, no one understood what needed to be done. No one even bothered to try and treat your wound. The very wound he had caused. Everyone had something more important to do. Clear the seawater beneath the hull, secure the sails, have a quick meal, get a few winks of sleep. Naturally, the mythical being, as all other inconsequential things, were tucked away, you dealt with the usual brusque nature of men.

So when he had been called to watch you before dawn broke, that's what he set his mind to. Stepping down beneath the deck, with spare scraps of cloth and booze in hand. They've cleared out the flooding. But the wood hadn't dried completely. Mick, who he had passed beforehand, gave him a questioning look. "Aren't ya scared she'd rip your throat out?"

He scoffs, tilting his head to the side as he speaks. "I'm more scared of the stench she'll make if she starts dyin' on us, Micky."

What he did not expect when he opens the closet you've been locked in is the metamorphic cross between a tail and legs you kick out at him. What he hears next is the snarl, your body knocking him over, small, webbed hands slipping around his throat. “You asshole!” That same heavenly voice, filled with so much malice that does not fit with the angelic features towering over him. You speak in a language he does not understand, a torrent of words driven by so much emotion that he sees a glance of what Homer was so distasteful about. You could kill him, devour him bones and all and you wouldn’t even flinch.

However, he sees how your rage blinds you, too. Blinds you to his precise movements, making you think you’ve subdued him, only to suddenly flip your positions, pinning you down by your wrists, trying to look into your eyes.

What you see, staring up at him as your last yells escape you, is the strands of silver in his hair. What follows next is his tired eyes. A sea of stories that you feel as if you can almost hear them if the world is quiet enough. However, you cannot deny the warmth to them. The fire that you failed to see in the other men that shoved you in the closet you have been suffocating in. It’s what makes you stop in your struggle as you finally hear his voice.

“Damnit, let me help you, honey, c’mon…”

It’s then that Joel finally comprehends what he sees. You, a mythical being that shifts from merfolk in one instance, to a walking goddess in the next. Perhaps it was what helped your kind survive; camouflaging yourself and disappearing amidst throes of people. “You turn when ya… when…?”

You swallow, breathless and trembling as you grit your teeth. He sees the panic in your eyes, the idea that he can just betray you if he wanted to. If it would benefit him.

“Let me help you, darlin’.”

“W-when I’m…” You breathe in sharply. “When I’m not in water.”

He nods, slowly, watching the lithe legs and your bare body, spotless and perfect in every way. “I see.” He removes himself from you, moving away from your periphery. You gather your breath, turning over to see him, kneeling over an upturned washtub, somewhat filled with some form of water or another. “Those men up there? They can’t see you like this, otherwise…” he trails off, preferring not to picture what they’d do. What they’ve all once done before at sea. “Ya hear me?” He looks back at you, watching the way your hands gripped your bleeding shoulder wound, evidence of what he had already done to you. “You don’t know what else they can do to a pretty girl like ya.”

So, gently, he kneels beside you with a pained groan from the ache in his knees. You flinch under his touch and he gives you a stern look. “Why did you do this?”

He shakes his head, opening the bottle he brought down with him to pour it over the gaping flesh. Your soft fingers grip on to his arm, the softest whine escaping your lips as you squeeze your eyes shut. “You’re not the only one fightin’ to survive in this world, honey.” He shushes you gently, moving to wrap what pieces of cloth he could find, using them to bandage your wound as you finally soften in his hold. He helps you into the tub, and he tries not to look into your eyes again.

You spoke again when he turned away, giving you the privacy he assumed you needed. “Just because you need to survive doesn’t mean I need it any less.” He stops in his tracks, looking down for a moment before clearing his throat. “Are men always this wretched? That one must tear down the innocent to survive?” He moves to answer, turning back momentarily, before sighing, turning back to continue cleaning up the mess. “Thank you, though. For… this.”

You know exactly how to describe it. You just don’t want him to hear it. The gentleness that comes, not in the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.

Joel hears the noise in his head, clouding his thoughts and drowning them out as he moves from one place to another.as he tries not to think about you, quiet in a tub of water, pretending to ignore him. Men are so quick to blame the gods…

He hands you a plate of scraps. The trimmings from a loaf of bread. A slice of some meat, and the last pieces of cheese he could find. “Eat,” he orders gruffly, moving to sit by the side of your tub, while he seats himself with a slice of bread. “Can’t have ya dyin’ of starvation either.”

You obey, weakened by the struggles of the evening, disheartened by your imprisonment, so close to freedom and at the same time so far away from it. You eat slowly, as if considering each little fragment you were handed, as if the world is unfamiliar in the presence of someone else.

Joel couldn’t help it. Perhaps it was your charm. Whatever it was, he started to tell you things.

He tells you of his life, so far away from the ocean, landlocked. He tells you how they make a living with animals. But he also tells you about Sarah. Sarah who dreamt of the world. Sarah who he was doing all this for. Sarah who asked him as a child to read to her every night. Sarah who was growing more and more with each passing day, the gap between the two of them becoming wider than he could ever comprehend.

“My survival may not mean much,” he says, “but hers is the most vital thing in my life, doll.”

He feels your gaze on him, becoming easier and easier to see as the sun slowly grows higher in the sky. In thirty minutes, his watch will end, and you do not know how the next man will treat you next. Will he be kind? Will he have Joel’s eyes?

He turns to leave, taking the plates with him as he stands up with a pained groan. “Don’t cause too much trouble, girl.” He only stops when you say his name, his gaze catching the blurry image of you, your tail sinking beneath you in the tub. “Yeah?”

“Will you read to me when you return?” you whispered, afraid to show fragility in your own internment.

He nods after a moment of thought, clambering up on deck to report back to the Captain.

Men are so quick to blame the gods.

—

For a while, a week or so, you believed things could be nice with Joel somewhat in your corner. Everyone else seemed to care less or cower in fear of you. Maybe because you do try to scare them away. At least, if you were going to be betrayed, it was Joel doing the betraying.

He returned at the same time just as he did the night before. And slowly, a routine emerges. He cleans your wounds, he feeds you whatever he finds. Then he reads to you. His eyes are too weak to read without you holding the lantern. So you learned that second night to emerge from your tub and to hold the lantern for him. He reads to you with the skilled words of a bard. He reads to you as if he’d read this tale before. Perhaps to Sarah? Perhaps to someone else?

You feel your stomach curdle at the thought of there being someone else in his life. You swallow down the bile and listen more closely.

When he leaves at dawn, you lie in the tub, dreaming of the words he had read to you, turning your back to the man that comes next. They do not bother you. You do not bother them. You become a ghost until he brings you to life.

Sing to me, Muse, of the Man of many wiles.

By the third night, he brings with him a blanket for you to wrap yourself in as you sit closer beside him, trying to follow the words he read, only to surrender because the letters are too rigid, too unnatural. You began shutting your eyes as he reads to you, learning of Odysseus, a once too familiar name you have heard in others of your kind before…

Sing to me, Muse, of these matters. Daughter of Zeus,My starting point is any point you choose.

You begin to talk to him too by the fourth night, observing your transformed toes as he hammered little areas he figured needed repairs. You tell him of the world beneath the waves, the languid distances you’ve traveled, never truly feeling as if you have found a home. You tell him, too, of wonders big and small.

You spoke of all these things, pretending to be unaware of the way he listens with such interest. It’s like you wanted him to be interested. How could you not, when night by night his eyes become warmer and warmer whenever they fell upon you? How could you not when he’s the only one that cared?

You try to read his thoughts, sometimes, when it’s quiet and he prefers to sit by himself, finding a few winks of sleep while you ate your food. He’s rather good at hiding them. You wonder if it makes his life easier. You wonder if any of it is easy for him.

Then he asks you something on his fifth watch.

“Is the whole singin’ thing somethin’ you actually do?”

You turn your head over your shoulder, setting down the snowglobe you’ve taken an interest in the last couple of hours. You saw it on a shelf this afternoon. And you had been impatient for Joel to arrive ever since. You consider the question, Then you smile and nod meekly.

“Do…” you pause, moving to face him instead. “Do you want to hear?”

He smirks, moving the chair closer to your seated frame, seating with the backing pressed to his front, legs straddling the seat, arms atop, covering that sliver of chest you had been sneaking glances from all evening. He had that thin linen shirt on again— the one that swoops down his chest. The one you see in your dreams.

“Only if it won’t kill me, sweet cheeks.”

You like that. Sweet cheeks. You barely understand what it means. You nod slowly, moving to lay on your back as you stare at the ceiling, monotonous and unchanged since you last looked. As you sing, you try not to look him in the eye. As if you cannot bear the sight of him seeing your capabilities and forever changing his perception of you. The hymn is warm, almost homely. A relentless Odyssey that means to take you home. A song that’s said to bring forth memories of home. You know Joel does not understand the language. Nor do you want him to. You won’t admit it, but you’re still terrified of what he could do if you remind him of how much he misses his home.

But what is even more surprising is this: instead of reminiscing about the tropics from which you have loved so deeply, all you can think about is him. All you can picture is his face. All you can see is possibilities of how he’s looking at you now.

When you finish, dawn is already breaking over the horizon. He has to go.

Quietly, you rose and slowly return to the tub with your snowglobe, watching as your body metamorphosizes— your last line of defense for survival. The shine of your scales so familiar, but never this clear under the water. The light is always so diffused— as distant as a foreign planet. Joel, on the other hand, stays there for a few minutes more, looking at the spot where you just were—at the plank of wood bearing the wet shape of your body. You started to think maybe he won’t leave when he swallows, rising from where he sat, and approaching you to hand the cheese he couldn’t eat from his portion of the meal.

“I quite enjoyed that,” he confesses, tucking the food into your palm. Just then, he encloses your hand in both of his, taking a moment to savor the feeling of your cool, changed skin against his. He wonders momentarily if you’ll feel different without your tail. “Thank you.”

He leans down, bringing your hand up to his waiting mouth, his lips pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. A shiver runs down your spine as you comprehend the sensation. His lips. How warm he is… the scruff of his beard against smooth skin. You feel him smirk against your hand, pulling away as he makes his way above deck.

And on your hand is the reddened skin that evidenced the smidgen of affection you were giving. And for now, it’s enough.

You turn your back to the world once more and into your own dream world, staring at your hand as you dream of Joel all morning long.

—

You suppose everything that goes around does eventually come around. You wonder why you're so optimistic. But, you supposed, just as things were getting better, the fates had other plans in store for you.

The call came just as you were coming of the stupor of sleep. From what you can tell, it was barely midday, and someone was yelling above where you resided. All hands on deck.

The thunderous noise of heavy feet trundle above head. The man watching you grumbled, muttering something along the lines of, "don't you dare think about running, li'l bitch."

You watch him slam the door, and curiosity gets the better of you. You rise slowly from the tub, slinking along the floor, struggling to lift yourself enough to peer out from one of the windows. But when you do, you've come to realize the gravest sin of your naivety.

There is a ship to be plundered. Slowly, the masks worn by the men where you are melt away. You see familiar men with their swords drawn, laughing maniacally, screaming and terrifying the ship they've found to appease their hunger.

You feel your body changing, and you begin to turn away from the window when you catch sight of silver hair and scruff. A visage that you finally see in broad daylight.

Joel is one of the men who almost seem to dance to the song of violence. Perhaps the stories were true. Perhaps the secrets of the shadows are laid bare in the light. Even Joel's secrets cannot escape the midday sun. When you see him, he is in battle with some toughened fisherman, their duel witnessed by cowering passengers and well-dressed women. For a moment, you think Joel will come to his senses, see how senseless all this violence is.

But then he takes the man by his hair, holding his head and facing him to the sun. His sword arches across the expanse of his victim's neck, rivulets of blood bursting forth in gush, an unstoppable stream. A squeal escapes you, the violent image burnt into the recesses of your brain, forcing you away from the window.

You run on shaky legs, screaming and yelling, reaching the doorway and attempting to push the door open, only to find resistance. Your fists pound the hard wood, your body pushing and shoving, unable to accept the fact that you can't call to him— show him that you saw and you demand an answer why.

For the first time, ever since Joel shot you with a harpoon, you truly understood something you tried so hard to ignore.

You sleep under the shelter of murderers. You think you felt affection from the hands of a man who just as easily took someone's life away. You are only loved because you're something else. Something not human.

You are only loved because you'll ensure their survival.

—

The blade itself incites the deeds of violence.

When the carnage ended, Joel raised his head to see the sky beginning to paint itself in bolder strokes of colors. He stretches his arms, only to feel the sticky plasma of drying blood sticking to his arms, his torso, spotting the expanse of his face. He is the last to leave their conquered ship, and he takes his time. He walks along the scattered piles of bodies, putting whoever hasn't perished out of their misery with the very same blade he wielded in battle. He's alive. He can go home. He watches the revelry on their vessel: men roasting the spoils from the kitchen, barrels upon barrels of ale and mead slowly being chewed through.

The stage is set. All they need is a little shock of entertainment.

But what he worries about is you. You who probably cowered from fear at the sudden influx of noise. You who definitely saw the things they are capable of doing. You with the wound on your shoulder, healing at a snail's pace with your imprisonment. So, he takes the time to find supplies to help you. He finds antiseptic. He finds needle and thread. It will have to do.

When he returns to his ship, He has spread oil across the deck where the bodies lay. With one bloody hand, he strikes a match to burn away the evidence of their carnage. The burning ship drifts further and further into the horizon, drowned out by the sounds of cheering. Joel is handed a mug of better than average mead.

As he watches the lights flicker and consume the rest of the ship, one question remains at the forefront of his thoughts, echoed and repeated by every voice in his head.

Do I dare?

Clarity comes when he's two mugs in, everyone else fucking off to see how much treasure piled up. He looks at the door that leads directly where you are and the question becomes clearer. It is in the iambic beat of his heart. I am, I am, I am.

It's in the excitement at the thought of seeing you tonight and having a good meal to offer. He begins to smirk, taking two plates and finding food he thinks you'll like.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

—

You do not look at him when he enters. You cannot, knowing the things you’ve seen today. Especially when you hear he’s happy, humming as he sinks down the stairs from the deck. The jump on his step was not there before. And instead of finding that itching curiosity to see if he was smiling or if you were responsible for this joy, you feel your stomach sour at one thought.

Perhaps the slaughtering of others brought glee to his bones.

“You must be hungry,” he says softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. You feel a strange stickiness to his touch. So strange that you finally look, only to be horrified by the sight of his bloodsoaked hand. You yelp helplessly, shrinking away from his touch. You shed tears, luminescent in the semi-darkness, as precious as pearls that only he can see. “Darlin’...” His hand comes to cup your face gently, trying to make you look him in the eye. In this form, your skin is cold, the warmth of his hands turning your skin red.

“Y-you killed them,” you finally manage, the iron smell filling your senses. Seeing you panicked, Joel reaches down into the tub to slowly bring you out of your tub and into his willing arms, slow shushes escaping him. “Are you going to kill me, too?”

So that was what you were so scared of.

You bury your face into his chest, his shirt smelling of him— of sandalwood and musk, tobacco smoke, and underneath it all, a few specks of blood. Meanwhile, he lets you, cradling you in his arms as you continue to shed your tears. He lets you, knowing you wouldn’t listen to him with so much emotion in that pretty little head of yours.

But when you do eventually calm down, he doesn’t miss a moment. He couldn’t.

“I can never harm you, honey.” He breathes in through his nose, finally close enough to smell you. The sea air in your hair, sunshine and honeysuckles from lands he can only dream of. “I can’t even if I tried.”

Slowly, he lays you down where he had dropped his sheet—the sheet you’ve been wrapping yourself around. The sheet that smells like the both of you; that way he could imagine waking up to you the past few times he had gotten sleep. Slowly, he straddles your changed form, naked and so fucking divine it has his head spinning. “Can I take care of ya, darlin’?” He waits for you. Even when everything is pushing him to kiss you— he has to know you want this.

He has to know you’re not miserable.

Seeing this, you take a deep breath. You hold his face. Your skin, smooth and not exactly human, bright against his, earth-marred, bloody, and burnt from days in the sun. And yet, you do not see those flaws. All you see are his warm eyes, so desperate to tell you he wants you, and yet so willing to walk away if you asked. So you grip him by his shirt, pulling him against you in a wanton, desperate kiss.

It is the first kiss you share. The first of the hundreds you’ll share that night. But you will always remember that first.

Because it’s burning against your cool skin. Because the scratch of his scruff is a sensation you have not felt in the long life you have lived. He holds your face, bringing your head closer to him, pressing against the front of his skull, making you whine from want as he deepens the kiss. You’ll always remember it because you know this kiss.

You can already see the ending before the two of you ever began.

His hand slips into your hair, his mouth pulling away from yours, only to drift down  your cheek, your jaw… He chuckles against your skin when you gasp so meekly, melting like butter in his arms.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he whispers, marking the crook of your neck with his mouth. “Let me show you how ya have me wrapped around your pretty li’l finger.”

Already, you can see him in your memories, tangled up in him. His kisses on your neck, his spit drying against your skin. His fingers reaching and tearing you apart. In the eternity you’ll be facing alone… he’s there. Just there, a willing invitation to a dream.

He’s pushing your legs up, now fully transformed, and he comprehends everything. Without words, it seems, things simply come naturally to him. He cups your cheek with one hand, folding your body in half as your legs drape over his broad shoulders. His thumb brushes your lips, and you part them for him. You let him fuck his thumb into your wet mouth, groaning at the way you suck on him. “Good girl…”

Just then, his other hand reaches down, a warm sensation cupping your cunt as you whine softly against him, looking him in the eye. “Good God, are you always this soakin’?”

You slowly pull back, shivering softly from the sensation of him parting your folds. Only you, Joel. No one else can do this to me. He comprehends, and he groans again, leaning down to kiss you. His cock aches in the confines of his pants. Just like that, everything dulls out and he can only comprehend this: to have you. You, you, and just you.

“Guess I have some makin’ up to do to ya, huh?”

Just then, his head disappears between the valley of your breasts, marking a trail of blood-red hickeys down to your stomach, one hand pinching a nipple harshly enough to make you squeal, to which he shushes you again. Gonna get us caught, doll. He continues his way, finally finding your sweet cunt. He shifts his hands so he can slowly part your folds. He kisses the inside of your thighs just as you clamp one hand over your whining mouth. And, with nothing left to do, he takes a deep breath, looking at your face as he sinks his tongue down between your folds, tasting you with a longing groan of delight.

Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.

All you can feel is the flurry of rhythm Joel sets. His trembling jaw, as if whispering prayers to whatever powers may be. His tongue splitting you open and fucking you raw in a way so obscene, you think it’s unbecoming. Perhaps it is. Perhaps by letting him have you this way, you have turned your back on your world. But he fucks one finger into your surprisingly warm cunt and everything else fades away into the silence.

“Fuck, baby…” It’s so easy, you whining urging him on, calling for him and begging to just keep going, dear God. One finger becomes two, then three. Then he raises himself so he can see your face better. So he can see the way your features contort into a heavenly amalgamation of beauty and pleasure and wonder in one full spectrum. But there is nothing more beautiful when his fingers brush against something that made you keen closer to his touch, eyes wide open with your mouth trembling.

“That’s it, isn’t it, darlin’? It is, huh?” He chuckles, the rumble of it vibrating from his chest, echoing to the backs of your thighs, and finally, straight to your wanting cunt. He smirks, his upper body shifting so his arm was much more free— just so he can keep aiming for that one spot that made you keen so beautiful he gets a glance of your otherworldly beauty.

A long forgotten poem comes up from the back of his head, just as he was pulling your orgasm from your willing frame, his other hand covering your mouth before you get too loud just so you wouldn’t be interrupted, caught, and possibly separated.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. “Good fuckin’ girl. Such a good girl, honey…” I did not think they’ll sing for me.

You shut your eyes, grinding your hips into his touch, chasing a sensation you can’t even dare put into words. You whine into the palm of his hand, feeling as if your skin, normally so cool, set on fire with the desire you have for Joel. You peer through your damp lashes, making out the silhouette of his smirk, his warm eyes somewhat swelling with pride.

“Joel… there’s… there–” you barely get the words out when you feel it. Your vision going white, the electricity flowing through your body, and coming out of you in warm bursts.

Heaven, you think, from how Joel so lovingly described it.

When you come to, he’s pulling his fingers away, and a spurt of fluids follow in the wake of his absence. He chuckles, the sound of it emanating the very depths of your consciousness. “Didn’t know ya could do that, pretty girl.”

It leaves you warm, slightly sleepy. Slightly drifting in and out—the way the ocean climbs and recedes from the shore.

You don’t notice the way Joel watches you. The way blood smeared your perfect face. You do not notice his hand tracing down your torso, coloring it a faded, rusty red. Marked by him, and for him.

And yet if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so will I endure. For already have I suffered so much, and much have I toiled in perils of waves and wars. Let she be added to the tales of those.

“Please eat,” he finally says as he kisses your forehead. “I saved a plate for you.”

So you do. You sit up, trembling, the cool porcelain pressed against your thigh as you feasted. Grapes, expensive nuts, and meats you could only dream of. You try not to think of the price he paid to lavish you with such an offering. Because now, instead of the guilt, you feel the rumblings of power in your veins. You have become his very god, the one he’d slay men for. The very god to which he offers a plate paid for by carnage. And if you’ve become god, what can you offer him?

Heaven was not fit to house a creature such as I.

—-

He makes love to you after dinner. Slow, careful. He doesn’t want to terrify you. He doesn’t want to get caught, either. He has you on his lap, your cool hands cupping his heated face, spineless from pleasure as he fucks up into you, giving you a moment to accommodate him and get used to the feeling of his cock stretching you wide open. Every vein, his very length, arching and filling you up in the best way there is to be filled.

“Tell me you want this,” he asks, and you oblige him. You whine for him, calling, biting your lip and throwing your head back. You lead his hand to your chest, heaving with slow, shaky breaths. He knows what you want without ever asking it of you. And that is why he squeezes the curve of your breast, sitting up to press his mouth to your collarbone. The kisses set your skin aflame, his fingers pinching and pulling the pleasure from your willing body.

So he gives you everything. You cum once again with you on top of him. You cum again after he bends you over the nearest table with his rough fingers rubbing circles on your needy clit. And on the third time, somewhere when it’s quiet, you both lie on the blanket, your back to his chest, his cock unmoving inside of you.

It’s a moment of respite. A lull. A moment to catch breaths.

“How much did you see earlier?”

His arm is around your waist, his mustache brushing against the back of your ear. It’s nice. It’s almost domestic, a word so foreign to you. Perhaps domesticity is something innately human. But he makes you have a taste of it. And it tastes so sweet. You hum softly, tilting your head so he can kiss more of your neck.

“I saw the first man you killed,” you tell him, to which he groans, pulling you closer. “I couldn’t watch any more after that. It was… too much.” You feel his teeth brushing against the curve of your ear. Then he bites gently just to hear you squirm.

“I don’t want you lookin’ anymore, sweetheart,” he whispers, “not if it’s going to upset you this much.” He leans up, peering over your peaceful face, with your eyes shut and your body languid. “But… I suppose I’ll try.” You open one eye, peering up at him. “Less murders, my queen, yes ma’am.”

You giggle, pressing your palm to his mouth as he continues to tease you with such pet names. He speaks behind your palm. Angel baby, cutie pie… Other pet names you don’t comprehend because the sounds disappear into your cool skin.

And then he’s fucking you again, with you on your side and him above you, caging you in his arms. You catch your lip between your teeth, gritting out half-choked moans. Already, the pleasure has begun to border the line between pleasure and pain. Already, you feel your legs quaking, but you feel the tremble in his spine as well.

He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

That’s when you notice how sporadic his bursts of movement are becoming. Fewer and shorter in between. So, you begin to give back, maneuvering your bodies so you’re laying on top of him once more, digging your blunt nails down against his biceps. You feel his hands on your waist. Bloody hands that have taken an infinite number of lives before you. Bloody hands that will take who knows how many lives after. Bloody hands, that, despite their track record, hold you as if you are so fragile in his grasp.

Gentleness incomprehensible. The best of the world in the palms of his hands.

The both of you, flying into deep, empty space. Alone with Joel in the aether.

Watching his orgasm wash over him just as yours does for the fourth and last time. He pulls you into his chest, letting you moan into his chest. The only thing that betrays his release is the stuttered breaths, the shaky fingers. That is all. And then you feel the warmth of his seed, buried deep within you, treasured and tucked away. It’s so much, you feel it reach places you didn’t expect it to be.

Even when he’s ending things, he’s giving you everything he’s got.

In the afterglow, he takes care of you. Already, the sun is rising  Once again, you won’t see him until it’s dark again. You’ll be turning away from the world and dreaming of those eyes and his smile. But for now, he wipes you clean, kissing your forehead as he brings you back to your tub. For now, you hold his hand for another minute.

“Y’know… Sarah loved playing siren as a fuckin’ kid,” he finally says, cleaning up the plates in silence. “She loves the sea.”

You peer over the lip of the tub, smiling up at him dreamily. “She must be so beautiful. With your smile?” You sigh, leaning back as you look up at the ceiling. “You must miss her much.”

He brushes your cheek with a sigh, shrugging. “Every fuckin’ day, baby.”

He walks away from you, and you wait for him to look back. He does, with a shit-eating smirk at your dazed eyes, neck marked up by his own doing. “Don’t kill anybody today, Joel.”

He nods slowly. “Get some sleep, squirt.” As you turn away, the smile drops. He cannot show that vulnerability out there, amongst the men he’s shared blood, sweat, and tears with. Men he killed from and men he killed with. Men who’d want to tear you apart and swallow you whole. Men who’d kill him if they knew what the two of you did all night.

Then how should I begin to spit out the butt-ends of my days and ways? How should I presume?

He doesn’t have to presume for long. Not when he emerges on deck and he sees the dark shadow of land specking the endless sea of blue he had grown accustomed to. There stands the rise and fall of a mountain, a jagged line breaking the skyline.

The Captain speaks, and the shock burns through him so rapidly that he tries to hide it by leaning against the starboard side.

We hit land midday tomorrow. Our li’l baggage ‘bout to finally bring in some fuckin’ money.

The clock is ticking, what else can he do? Go, go, go.

—

When Joel returns, he’s waking you from a long, languid sleep. You turn to smile at him, but there’s a different look in his eyes. An urgency, a finger pressed to your lips to ensure silence. He carries you from the water and you’re brought up close to see the crease on his forehead. When he wraps you in the sheet, that’s when he speaks.

“Need t’get ya out of here, baby.”

The great escape. The prison break.

Now you feel the tension.

He waits for you to turn, to become inconspicuous. Meanwhile, he’s hot on his heels. He’s gripping a rucksack in his hands, heavy with some inconceivable baggage, muttering to himself. You start to understand the madness. You start to wonder if there’s two versions of Joel waiting behind every door. One of them is the lover— the man who’d kiss you as he introduces you to a world of pleasure. Then there was the monster— the man who sliced open the throat of the person he was robbing blind, the man who fired the harpoon that caused your imprisonment.

“So the monster has come to set me free of my bonds.”

You rise, shaky on your legs and clothed in that sheet that kept you modest. It’s when he stops in his tracks, looking you in the eye before sighing, tearing the cloth away from you to introduce a linen shirt of his. It smells of him; perhaps it even reeks of him.

“They’re going to butcher you if I don’t try, sweetheart.”

You do what you promised to yourself you’ll do when he asks you something. You put your blind faith into his hands and take a leap.

He leads you through a maze of rooms you cannot comprehend. You stop at the crosshairs. You duck under tables when he asks you to. And you know why. Because the men who thirst for your blood can be found on every corner. Because you’re running out of time. Because he’d rather lose you to the waves than those who shed blood like he does.

In a matter of minutes, you find yourselves in the cool evening air. It’s a blind spot, and it’s far enough that he helps you to the raft while it’s almost silent. The sounds of men beginning to have dinner so distant and far away, it’s like an entirely different world. Skillfully, Joel lowers you both into the ocean, the distant beating of the waves masking the sound of him cutting the rope that tethered you to the ship.

He keeps one hand on the behemoth you’ve escaped, and he audibly counts. Quiet enough for you to hear. Tens. Hundreds. Then, a thousand seconds passes.

He pauses, straining to hear. In the flickering light of the lanterns, you see the silver in his hair and his beard. You wonder, momentarily, if it’s the last you’ll see of him. That’s when you hear it.

Yells. But not of alarm. Not of you, their treasured prisoner, missing from her cage. It’s the yells of panic. Of suffering. Of pain.

Upon seeing your features, Joel finally reveals the hidden card up his sleeve.

“I poisoned them. I poisoned them and robbed them blind so they’ll never come after you.”

You look to him, waiting for another shoe to drop. But there is none. This is who he is, laid bare for you to see. Your devotee, giving you the ultimate sacrifice. This is not the monster nor the lover. This is Joel. All masks have fallen to their knees and prostrated themselves before you. Every post abandoned and conquered, only for you.

“Go.”

You blink, and his trembling fingers hold your cheeks, his shaky lips kissing the crown of our head.

“No one’s coming for you as long as I’m there to stop them.”

When you don’t move, he grits his teeth, as if caught between a rock and a hard place. A second passes, then his arms take you, throwing you overboard and into the familiar depths of an ocean below.

The waves welcome you with a surge of power, relentless and enduring. More immortal than you. More divine than you can ever hope to be. The moment you are released from Joel’s hold, the saltwater licks clean the wound on your shoulder. It washes away the scent of Joel’s shirt.

He’s already being erased from you.

From beneath the depths, everything comes back to you. The kiss on your hand, the scraps of food. His sticky, bloodmarked fingers marking you. All of it, slipping through your fingers like sand. In the cool darkness of the open sea, all you can see is a flame starting from the base where you last saw Joel. A fire spreading amongst the ship which you once hailed your prison.

You can see Joel’s boat, smaller in comparison, already racing away towards the shore.

All you can do now, with the power of Poseidon surging and bubbling beneath your veins, is to sing. To sing a hymn that begs before the very gods themselves. But it’s a song that begs Joel, too. Begs him to remember you.

Don’t forget me. You do not know if he hears you. Don’t forget me.

You attempt to follow him beneath the waves.

Don’t forget me.

—-

Against all odds, Joel Miller disembarks from the train to find himself in a farmland so familiar to him. Against all odds, it is three weeks later, and he’s followed all the roads and finds himself home.

He breathes in the smell of wheat under the scorching summer heat. He embraces it. He puts one foot ahead of the other, sea legs no longer present. The ground is too still that it still sometimes unnerves him.

A few meters away, he catches sight of the house. The windows wide open, the breeze making the curtains dance within. And on his porch is a familiar figure that had lowered her book and peered in his direction. He sees her face, and relief encompasses his bones. Sarah.

She’s running to him, yelling, loud and youthful and her face is like the sun. He feels himself smiling, too. The first time in weeks. Miles of walking and sleepless nights fade away with each step you take closer together. Then she’s running to his arms squealing as he embraces her.

Tell me. Is this really then Ithaca?

Finally, the years that separate the little family are slowly bridged. He rebuilds. He tells her stories. He tells her about you. When the sun sets, he tucks Sarah in and kisses her forehead.

Now, here he is. A couple of months that feels like decades have passed him by. He dreamt of you every night for the past three weeks. He sits in his bath, wondering if this was ever how you felt in those long, terrifying days. Did you feel peace, too?

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown.

His eyes fall shut. His breath slows.

A moment of peace as he sees your face, smiling at him, languid hands reaching and asking him to follow you.

He hears your voice, singing into his ear as he chuckles.

Until human voices wake us, and we drown.

-

taglist: @tuquoquebrute @boofy1998 @persephone-girl @lunxramour @none-of-this-makes-any-sense

[rottenpumpkin13]

Imagine the firsts getting competitive over queens blood

Why Queen's Blood Is Banned From SOLDIER, A List

• Some people don't know how to play fair and make up rules on the spot, which results in arguments between opponents. One time Zack made up the rule that slapping down three cactuar cards automatically wins the game, and Kunsel was so enraged he shoved a cactuar card down Zack's throat.

• Some people⏤Sephiroth⏤are too good at QB and and it angers others who don't stand a chance against them, leading to cheating accusations. This came after Angeal was so convinced Sephiroth was cheating that he called the police. This resulted in Lazard having to explain to the dispatched officers that the "cheating" in question was because of QB and not Sephiroth cheating on his apparent lover Angeal.

• Some people⏤Genesis⏤don't know how to lose, which turns the above point violent. Genesis has been known to throw entire decks out the window and set them on fire if he loses. If he loses to Sephiroth, guarantee the table will be broken in half and they end up on the ground in a fist fight.

• Sephiroth lost to Genesis once and Genesis never let him forget it, bringing it up in every conversation. Sephiroth grew tired of this, so he did the healthy thing and attempted to staple Genesis's mouth shut.

• The matches take too long because no one wants to lose, so they spend time planning their moves and strategies. One match between Angeal and Zack took three hours, they skipped a giant mission they had been prepping for weeks for, Lazard had a heart attack, and in the end Zack realized he had spent three hours pouring his concentration into the game for nothing. He had to be sedated.

• The Counterfeit Booster Pack Fiasco: Kunsel started selling shady "limited edition" QB decks behind Lazard's back⏤selling things is also banned from the 49th floor. They started selling like hot cakes, but Lazard caught wind that there was something going on. So he interrogated Sephiroth.

Lazard: I know that there's unauthorized goods being distributed amongst the program.

Sephiroth: You don't say.

Lazard: Tell me what it is.

Sephiroth: How would I know?

Lazard: Eyewitnesses claim to have seen you purchase something from Kunsel in the men's bathroom this morning.

Sephiroth, not thinking AT ALL: It was candy.

• And that's why sniffer dogs were brought in at 9 AM on a Wednesday and everyone had to do a drug test.

• Random people pop in at random times of the day to play against SOLDIERs. Reno uses this as a way to bet money and has scammed Zack out of three paychecks already. Cloud swings by on occasion to beat all three 1sts, enjoy watching them lose, and leaves.

• Deck theft runs rampant. Every day there are reports over stolen QB decks and accusations that have ruined several friendships, which hinders everyone's ability to work together. No one is safe. Sephiroth's deck got stolen, Genesis's deck got stolen, Angeal accused Sephiroth and Genesis of theft, Zack....has a suspicious amount of good cards.

• People play when they should be working.

Lazard: Angeal, where's your mission report?

Angeal: Genesis ate it.

Lazard: Excuse me?

Angeal: I beat Sephiroth in a QB match and Genesis was so jealous and enraged he grabbed the report right off my desk and chewed off a chunk.

Lazard: I'm convinced that there's crack in those apples.

• The straw that broke the camel's back and got QB officially banned, though, was the match between Sephiroth and Genesis that ended in them getting stitches because they discovered a way to effectively stab each other with the cards.

• Its rumored that the mere mention of Queen's Blood is enough to make Lazard have a nervous breakdown.

[ot3]

current riverdale plot points:

archie and his boys try to restart riverdale's fire department after hiram shut it down!

in researching his next novel, jughead discovers that there may have been MOTHMEN in riverdale! only, what's this? mothman might have been an alien!

betty starts finding the bodies of murdered women in the swamp while looking for her missing sister, suspecting a new serial killer, which brings back memories of her time being kept in a well silence of the lambs style by the Trashbag Killer

veronica prints her own currency - the riverdollar, which is red and has her face on it, exclusively for use in riverdale, to try and stimulate the local economy. suddenly, there are too many riverdollars in circulation and the currency gets devalued. she suspects hiram of counterfeiting the money only to discover it was the work of her high school economics students, so she gives them all Fs for ruining the economy.

[cheezeybread]

Hello! I've been reading your Jamil [L/N] Headcanons and I am in love with your stories. I would like to make a request just to make the Viper Family regret disrespecting Jamil & His Husband. 😈

Request: With some planning and the right moves, [Y/N] becomes rich - EXTREMELY RICH - and surprised his husband with the news. Somehow, Jamil's Parents hear about the news and go to the The [L/N] House Party for obvious reasons. I wanna see Jamil and his Husband shut them down: It's the [L/N] Wealth!

Sorry this oneshot is a bit all over the place, I had a coffee and now I feel SO sick and my hands won't stop shaking lolllll

mmmm not proof-read either T^T

°。°。°。°。°。°。

The good thing about not being born and raised in this world was that you could easily see the various loopholes and "cheats" in their economic system. And other things, such as their gambling games.

Since the people in Twisted Wonderland grew up with all of these things as a constant, they lacked the ability to see any flaws in their systems. However, you could see right through them. First was their currency. Thaumarks were relatively easy to reproduce if one could find a skilled enough mage- of course, you weren't going to stoop down to that level of counterfeit behavior. Second was their card games. While your own world's average card deck housed about 52 cards, Twisted Wonderland's average card deck held 14 to 25 cards (all depending on what sort of deck you were purchasing- region-wise, people added cards to the deck for aesthetic reasons). This lower amount of cards would normally mean that you'd have a better chance of winning, but their game's rules were...stranger than most.

The main game people gambled and bet over was called "Mage Hunt". In this game, a player (or however many were playing a game) would be dealt with seven cards- these cards all representing a "kingdom", with kings, queens, knights, and the like. It was the player's job to find the "mage" in the group (The mage being either a specifically-made card, or a pre-determined card from the dealer), but they could only receive four extra cards before guessing. And they couldn't look at anyone else's cards. No hints were given.

It was a confusing game, when you first started playing it with Jamil. But you quickly learned that the dealer would more often than not pick their mage from the deck out of instinct. You found that their "instinct" was to pick a mage from the card with the most symbolic imagery in it. Crows and ravens, an absurd amount of flowers, stuff like that.

It was for this reason that you began to play the game a lot more. Professionally, even. Every time Jamil left the house to go run errands or explore, you would sneak off to the local gambling area (sometimes it would be a tavern, sometimes an alleyway in town, under a bridge, anywhere was fair game for these people) and play "Mage Hunt" for money. And since you and Jamil were out traveling as part of a Honeymoon, it made it surprisingly easy to win as much money as you could, then skip town before the locals caught on to your proficiency with cards.

And when you and Jamil finally made it back home, after months of traveling, you surprised him with the news of your success! He was mostly amused that you found it necessary to sneak off and play card games while traveling, but he only shook his head and smiled as he suggested you bring out all of your earnings.

His eyes got wider when you brought bags upon bags into the living room and began counting it out.

It was well over thirty-three thousand thaumarks. All from playing card games. It wasn't a grand fortune, by any means, but it was enough to make Jamil pass out briefly. And once you went to some higher-level Casinos (the real deal!) to bet all that you had earned before, you and Jamil went back home with twenty times that amount!

Now you were a wealthy couple- wealthy enough to live heartily and uneasy for the rest of the foreseeable future, without worrying about jobs and other stupid things. Hell yeah.

How the Viper family caught wind of your newfound riches was anybody's guess. Although the blame could...most likely lay with Kalim, who was absolutely over the moon about your card game knowledge (having lost most of his monthly allowance over playing it with you). That poor boy couldn't possibly keep his mouth shut around his family, and since the Viper family worked for his family...well...

In the end, you and Jamil walked into your home after running out to grab groceries, and who else was sitting in the living room but one Mister and Missus Viper?

Jamil tensed up as soon as he saw his parents, but he tried not to let his discomfort show as he squeezed your hand lightly and let go, setting down the paper bags in one of his arms on the kitchen's counter before returning.

"Mother, father," He said casually "I believe my rules were clear, and you followed them...let's see, not at all. So therefore, you're trespassing."

You hurriedly went to stand by his side, wrapping an arm around your husband's waist.

His father wasted no time in getting to the point, ignoring his son's words "We've come to realize that you're hiding wealth from your family, Jamil. But, of course, we wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that perhaps you just haven't found the time to give us our due," he held his hands up in a submissive gesture, although his eyes were almost predatory in nature "So we came to save you the time and effort."

"What are you on about?" Jamil laughed callously "Your due?"

"Jamil, you know good and well that that kind of money can get our family out of servitude-" Jamil's mother started.

He shot her down immediately, twisted out of your loving grip and taking a loud step towards her, the floor vibrating with the force of the movement "Excuse me, I thought serving the Asim family was your pleasure? And now, after all of this fuss-and-nonsense you gave me after marrying YN and choosing to raise our future family freely, away from serving a rich family, you come crawling back to us the moment you hear about money that my husband has earned?"

"You're being a selfish-" the dad started

"NO, YOU'RE BEING SELFISH!" Jamil shouted, making you flinch "GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE- This is not the Viper wealth, it's the LN wealth!"

"I think it's best you leave," you tried to speak motioning for the parents to exit the house. Best to leave now, before Jamil got himself in trouble for murdering his mother and father...

"This is a family matter, fuck off!" Jamil's mother snapped at you, the first time you've been directly addressed by his parents since, well, the wedding, almost.

The room went quiet, devoid of talking. The only sound was Jamil's heavy breathing as he tried to keep himself from flinging himself onto his mother right then and there. He closed the distance between him and his parents, his footsteps eerily silent

"Snake charmer," He whispered, his eyes flashing a brief glint of red. Having not seen Jamil use his signature spell since college, you took a step towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder to remind him of your presence. While he didn't say anything to you nor take his focus off his parents, you could feel his shoulders loosen up.

"Listen to me now," Jamil hissed "You are going to leave our house immediately and forget where it is. You will never interfere with mine nor my husband's lives ever again- and you will not ever, ever speak to me nor him, over the phone or otherwise."

That was the last time you saw the Viper parents. They stood up immediately, as per their son's instructions, and with a glazed look in their eyes, trudged to the door and opened it, disappearing into the outside world.