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threeacttragedy · 1 month ago

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Entry 13: The One Where the Ashes Blew Towards Us with the Salt Wind from the Sea

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

Ah, yes, that ominous opening line from Daphne du Maurier’s novel, “Rebecca.” Have you ever read it? It’s an old book – from 1938, in fact! – but it’s truly a remarkable story, especially for its time. It’s not often you find yourself rooting for the murderer.

Lately, I have found myself becoming more and more frustrated with the fandom. And, no, my annoyance is not from the Sincerely Ignorant teetering on and off the boat every time someone takes a dump on the deck of the USS Lukola – I’m pretty fucking used to that shit – and, honestly, many of our dear Sincerely Ignorant seem to be gaining their sea legs. It’s the Conscientiously Stupid that have struck a chord with me – a disturbing, dissonant chord that leaves me questioning the average level of human intelligence.

My issue with the Conscientiously Stupid is that they push narratives that, when taken collectively, make no goddamn sense. Thanks to The-One-That-Lurks-in-a-Play-Misty-For-Me-Heaping-Pile-of-Discordant-Garbage, I have had the [dis]pleasure of learning about Nicola- and Luke-Adjacent theories. Did you know that the small scrap of green blanket Nicola was sitting on in her August 11 “Drink Your Milk” picture proved that the picture was meant for Jake? You know the guy that, at that point in Fandom History, most people had no clue even existed? I mean, that makes a lot more sense than linking the “Drink Your Milk” shirt Nicola was showcasing to the one Luke was seen wearing on June 22. Now, I’m not saying the shirt belonged to Luke, but if we’re comparing apples to apples, which one of these theories seems more plausible to you?

At this point, you have probably started to realize I enjoy weaving in and out of storytelling mode, mixing fact with theory and speculation. Today, I decided to take a classic novel – surely you didn’t think I made that reference to “Rebecca” for nothing – and loosely intertwine it with some Conscientiously Stupid adjacent theories. This is all in good fun and, like usual, mostly for my own dark humor.

I should probably begin by introducing our book characters. Honestly, you can probably guess which of our shipmates I have assigned to each role fairly quickly.

First, we have our Unnamed Narrator. Seriously, her first name is never revealed.

Second, we have Mrs. Danvers, the obsessive, borderline psychotic housekeeper.

Third, we have Maxim de Winter, our Narrator’s husband.

Fourth, we have Jack Favell, the dodgy and unlikeable cousin.

Lastly, we have our titular character, that darling creature Rebecca.

Now, let’s see who is on the playbill.

ANTONIA AS MRS. DANVERS

It pained me just a little to give the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia, primarily because Mrs. Danvers is such a complex character and I’ve always found Antonia to be rather simple. And, no, I’m not insinuating Antonia is simple-minded; I am saying it was never difficult to see through her bullshit (i.e., the phrase, “patterns are patterning,” didn’t come out of thin air). It helped that Mrs. Danvers is one of the main antagonists in the book and almost certainly the GOAT at trolling the heroine of “Rebecca.” I mean, the second Mrs. de Winter didn’t stand a chance with Danny lurking in the background.

The general narrative in Lukola Lore is that Antonia is an online troll. I’ve never been sure as to who her primary target was – Nicola or the Lukola fandom. I tend to believe it originated as Nicola and the Lukola fandom was simply collateral damage. I also cannot say for fact that Antonia was trolling anyone, but I can confirm that the general belief within the fandom that Antonia was trolling is well-documented on social media. For today’s story, we are going to assume the narrative that Antonia was trolling both Nicola and the Lukola fandom. We are also going to assume the USS Lutonia (because I have no fucking clue what the Luke-Antonia ship is called!) was real. Don’t get your feathers fluffed over this. This belief does exist – and it’s why Antonia has been able to fuck with the Lukolas as long as she has – but I promise I have every intention of peppering the side of this ship with holes.

Okay, let’s tow the USS Lutonia out to sea. Don’t forget your Dramamine!

We are living under the umbrella that Luke and Antonia were dating during the World Tour. Poor Antonia was forced into hiding by – who the fuck knows but let’s keep rolling with this narrative – and she wasn’t allowed to be openly seen with Luke or post anything on her social media with Luke. And, Luke mirrored this behavior and made an effort to keep Antonia out of the spotlight (in fact, at the New York City premiere, the average viewer wouldn’t have known Antonia was anything more than Luke’s “friend of a friend”). Antonia, annoyed with this lack of engagement (and, almost certainly fed up with, at a minimum, fans shipping Luke with Nicola), started the pattern of posting pictures of herself and tagging her location as places the fandom knew Luke had recently been. Luke, for his part, made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Instead, he continued his flirtatious relationship with Nicola. After the London premiere, the Lukolas put a target smack dab in the middle of Antonia’s back and blamed her for setting up Papsmear for her own benefit. Luke still made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia or protect her from the abundance of online hate she received. In fact, he posted his “I will not let [Cressida] ruin our night” story to Instagram instead (see my “Entry 1 – The One About That Weird Ass Cressida Post” if you’re confused by this comment). During post-Papsmear events, Luke did not list her as a plus one and he didn’t like any pictures of Antonia that were not on her grid. In fact, the only evidence directly linking Luke to Antonia were leaked and/or since-deleted pictures and videos not released by Luke. Throughout the summer, Antonia continued her efforts to place herself in proximity to Luke via tagged or easily recognizable locations. Oddly, many of Antonia’s posts seemed to occur shortly after Nicola posted or before/after DeuxMoi posted pap pictures, which gave birth to the “Antonia is trolling” subplot. Still, Luke made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. On July 30, Luke was papped with Antonia and his friend group in Sorrento (see my “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean” if you want my opinion about that excursion). This was the last time Luke and Antonia were publicly photographed together. Once Luke returned to London on August 2, Antonia continued her campaign of insinuating she was in the same location as Luke, with the most recent being the Italian restaurant in Rome (which the restauranteur debunked, in my opinion). Again, Luke and Antonia have not been photographed together since July 30. To date, Luke has made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia, and the only visible interaction by Luke are his likes on Antonia’s semi-monthly Instagram grid posts, which seem obligatory at this point. For the month of November, there was no interaction between Luke and Antonia because Antonia did not post to her grid (gasp!).

Now, for all the Lutonia’s out there, explain to me why this kind of relationship is acceptable to you. Seriously, explain it to me.

Convince me that Luke didn’t shutter Antonia from the moment the USS Lukola schematics were presented to the engineers.

Convince me that Antonia is the kind of woman who would happily accept Luke’s blatant dismissal of her existence while he globe-trotted around the world with a woman he was being openly shipped with by fans, the press, and Bridgerton mates.

Convince me that Luke’s behavior towards Antonia doesn’t make him the worst boyfriend on the planet.

Convince me that Antonia’s online behavior towards Nicola and the Lukola fandom during and after the World Tour doesn’t make her a troll.

Convince me that Luke and Antonia are the definition of “true love.” Actually, before you do that, convince me that Luke and Antonia are currently dating.

Or, maybe you’ve realized that any effort to try to convince me would be a waste of your time because you, too, are starting to find this entire narrative unacceptable. It equates Antonia to someone who doesn’t mind being boxed into a corner and forced to claw her way out, and it likens Luke to an overbearing womanizer who doesn’t give two flips about how online hate may be affecting his partner. I mean, we may as well dump these two into an entirely different book called “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

I didn’t assign the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia because I thought Antonia was a feeble coward without her own voice. And, no, I didn’t give her the role because Mrs. Danvers is an obsessive psychopath. I gave Antonia the role of Mrs. Danvers because the fandom handed her the power to influence this narrative on a silver platter, just like the Narrator in “Rebecca” allowed herself to be manipulated by Mrs. Danvers. Moving forward, when you see Antonia with a lit match, all you need to do is lean over and blow it out. Poof! And, she’s gone. Seriously, if you see our version of Mrs. Danvers with anything that might light a fire, take it away from her!

Surely someone out there gets my joke…

LUKE AS MAXIM DE WINTER

Of course, Luke is Maxim de Winter, the outwardly charismatic, but recently widowed anti-hero who caught the affection of our Unnamed Narrator. I mean, he’s a good guy, right? Uhh, yeah, sure… Who doesn’t want to be married to a brooding chauvinist who is outwardly obsessed with the titular character? Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound like Luke at all! Oh, no, actually it does – if you believe the USS Lutonia is real!

For Luke, we are going to assume the same narrative as above – that the USS Lutonia is real, that Antonia trolled Nicola and the Lukola fandom, and that Luke refused to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Besides the obvious “Luke is the shittiest fucking boyfriend in the universe,” I have a few other gripes with the USS Lutonia.

Initially, I understood the concept of “keeping Antonia in the dark,” after all I try to be logical when I process information. It was always possible Luke and Nicola were rocking some great PR in the beginning of the World Tour, and that was the only thing they were rocking. In fact, that’s what I initially believed Nicola was doing – being cute but also professional in her interactions with Luke during those early press junkets. Luke, on the other hand, always seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. Once they hit Australia, it seemed obvious to me that something had changed (go back and read my “Entry 12 – The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy” for a briefing on this). The more I watched Luke and Nicola interact on the World Tour, the more I became convinced Antonia must have been a thing of the past (or possibly nothing) for Luke – until Antonia showed up at Papsmear. At that point, I fully expected Luke to just own up to her. Like, give up on trying to hide Antonia from public view. But, then he pulled that goddamn “Cressida” post (seriously, if you have not read my first entry to this blog, go back and read it!). When you look at the World Tour and subsequent Hot Boy Summer, and the behaviors that were – and were not – on display during that timeframe, you start to develop a completely different view of the USS Lutonia. I mean, I’m not even sure that ship ever left the planning room!

One of the most glaring cosmetic flaws with the USS Lutonia is why “nice guy” Luke would treat Antonia with such indifference if he loved her. When asked who was most like their Bridgerton character, everyone always answered Luke. That he was the kindest, most genuine person. If that’s true, then why did Luke treat his “girlfriend,” Antonia, like she didn’t exist? Again, convince me that Luke’s Public Display of Apathy towards Antonia made him a great boyfriend. Even if Luke was a private person, one would think that after someone he cared about received as much hate as Antonia did after Papsmear, he would have stepped up and taken control of the narrative. He didn’t hesitate to clear up the “cake eating” picture from his September 7 Instagram post (about Nicola), and that “Cressida” post will live rent-free in my mind forever. The only “logical” explanation I can come up with for “nice guy” Luke to shutter Antonia right from the jump is that Antonia is not, and was not, a significant person in his life. That, or he really is a shithead, and he has a team of people lying about what a great guy he is.

We also need to consider Nicola’s interactions with Antonia. First, Nicola has never followed Antonia and Antonia has never followed Nicola, at least not on her public account. But, Nicola followed – and still follows – Luke’s ex, Jade. Now, typically, I’d just be like, “Meh,” on something like this. But, after Papsmear, Nicola could have very easily played the “Diplomat Barbie” and given Antonia a follow on Instagram. But, she didn’t, which signals to me that Nicola wasn’t touching Antonia with an invisible 10-foot pole. Second, if you watch the back-and-forth between Nicola and Antonia on social media – in black and white, pen on paper – you’ll see Nicola playing the cat-and-mouse game right along with Antonia (Nicola just played it a helluva lot better). It even appears Nicola sicced her – what my father calls JVN – “assassin” on Antonia starting around July 20 or, at the very least, she condoned JVN teasing Antonia. If everything was great between Luke and Antonia – and Luke was genuinely happy with Antonia – why would Luke put up with the back-and-forth on social media between Antonia, Nicola, and JVN? Oh, that’s right, because Luke is the corrupt captain of the USS Lutonia. Seriously, if all was well between Luke and Antonia at this point in the timeline, then you’d have to surmise that all was not well between Luke and Nicola. We will get to that in a moment. Right now, aboard the USS Lutonia, Luke is just a lousy boyfriend.

Lastly – and what has always left me scratching my head – why would Luke allow Antonia to troll his fandom? Why allow Antonia to make insinuations online that they’re together but never come to her rescue when the fandom starts flinging shit at her? In my opinion, the InStyle copycat pictures (go read my last blog entry…) were just Antonia getting her feet wet. Why continue to put up with Antonia after allegations began flying that she arranged Papsmear and the Italy pap pictures? I suppose the answer most Lutonias would give is, “Because they’re in love.” With everything I have outlined in this entry, do you honestly get the “in love” vibe from those two? Because I don’t.

Now, why did I draw parallels between Luke and the book character, Maxim? It’s not because I believe Luke to be a male chauvinist so wrapped up in his own drama that he ignores those around him. The USS Lutonia will definitely paint that impression, though! It’s because Maxim’s demeanor was superficial. What the Unnamed Narrator believed was true about her husband was not actually true. And, that’s how I view the USS Lutonia – Luke’s behavior and the narrative surrounding this ship does not match the logic.

JAKE AS JACK FAVELL

Sorry, Jake, you get to be the icky Jack Favell. Yeah, that manipulative, blackmailing creep sleeping with his own cousin! But, hey, that subplot isn’t any more disturbing than Jake being shipped with Nicola, is it?

Alright, let’s jump on board the USS Jakola but not before I preface this section with my father’s flabbergasted words: “This ship is on the bottom of the ocean. These people must have oxygen masks. They’re down there with Jules Verne. This just doesn’t make sense.” No, it really doesn’t make sense but, because I’m here to tell a story, I will begrudgingly dive into the USS Jakola narrative. And, by “dive,” I mean plunge to the bottom of the ocean because that’s where this ship rests.

Just like we did with the USS Lutonia, we are going to assume the USS Jakola is real. The Jakolas believe that Nicola has been seeing Jake since, I guess, the Renegade Nell premiere on or about March 26, 2024. Although, the last I checked Eamon Farren was also at that premiere holding an umbrella for Nicola. I am not confirming Nicola was ever dating Eamon; I am simply saying he was present at the event and holding a fucking umbrella for her. You can make up your own mind about Eamon’s role in Nicola’s life. Regardless, it must have been an instant connection between Nicola and Jake because, if the Jakola narrative is to be believed, they began secretly dating after that. The Jakolas will argue that all the songs Nicola posted to her Instagram stories were for Jake. The Claddagh ring has no traditional meaning when Nicola wears it, and Chaos Week was also for Jake (and a “fuck you” to Luke). The Lukola-coded fan fiction was a “fuck you” to the Lukola fandom (see my “Entry 10 – The One About the Audibly Loud Lukola FanFic”). And, Jake and Nicola are in love and have hard launched their relationship because (a) Jake has been seen wearing Nicola’s bucket hat, (b) they have been seen in public together, and (c) they occasionally hold hands.

I’m not going to lie – for the longest time I didn’t pay any attention to the USS Jakola because it was such an incredibly absurd concept to me. A few weeks back, I posted to my Tumblr account a music video that Jake had done in early 2023. The song is called “Mixed Emotions” by You Me at Six, and the article that came out with the video on February 7th, 2023 stated, “With Jake Dunn who played the protagonist in the video who is actually a friend of mine, we actually spoke a lot about toxic masculinity and his experiences within his sexuality and the impacts it has had on his relationship with his dad.” It honestly never occurred to me the USS Jakola actually had passengers on board until October when the Jakholes went bananas over Nicola holding Jake’s hand. In my opinion – and you do not have to agree with me – the music video speaks for itself as does Jake’s social media presence, whether it be on his own pages or on those of his friend group. I’m sure I’ll get some Jakholes in here crying that we shouldn’t speculate on Jake’s sexuality, but the reality is the only people speculating on Jake’s sexuality are the Jakolas trying to discern whether he’s heterosexual. But, why doesn’t he just come out and say it? I get this question all the time. The answer is quite simple – he doesn’t need to. Jake never buried this part of his life; it’s other people burying it for him. Do you need to blast your sexual preferences out into the universe? I didn’t think so.

For shits and giggles – because that’s what I’m here for – let’s keep going with the story that Nicola and Jake are hot and heavy with each other. I’ll play center field and say Jake is a switch hitter. Happy now? If Jakola is real, then why would Nicola lay all those Lukola-coded breadcrumbs? And, NO, I am not explaining every crumb she’s dumped online. This post is already too damn long. But, Dear Jakolas, don’t tell me those coordinated airplane pictures didn’t have you crying into your pillows. Seriously, though, why would Nicola fuck with the Lukola fandom? I’ve mentioned in previous posts that Polin and Lukola have even been blurred by Netflix & Co. at this point. What would be the point of dragging the Lukolas along only to find out it was Nicola just fucking around? That makes about as much sense as “nice guy” Luke being the shittiest boyfriend on the planet. Again, the narrative does not fit the logic – although you’re welcome to try to convince me that Jakola is real.

For starters, convince me as to why Nicola is Jake’s “type” and not Luke’s. I am not being factitious. I seriously want to know why she’s acceptable for Jake but not Luke. And, if you’re going to tell me it’s because Luke likes brunettes, you better bring me some evidence that Jake likes blonde women.

Convince me that the Claddagh ring has no traditional significance to Nicola and that Jake would be okay with Nicola wearing that Claddagh ring – the one she had made in honor of Bridgerton Season 3, the season she shared with the man that fills her Instagram grid and tags and is the other half of Lukola. If you’re stuck on the significance of this ring, go read “Entry 6 – The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad.”

Convince me that Nicola and Jake are a couple. And, if you’re going to mention handholding, then convince me that Nicola is not in a relationship with Mark, JVN, Jack R., Golda, Hannah D., Dylan L., or Luke. Oh, and is it true Jake is now dating Ellie Bamber? Convince me he’s not…

Any ways, good luck, babe, trying to sway me into believing Jakola is the real deal because I have a feeling your efforts are going to make your face become as flushed as Jack Favell’s when he was caught with his hand in the till.

NICOLA AS REBECCA

Surely you didn’t think Nicola was going to be the heroine of this story! If you believe the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola are smoothly sailing across the ocean blue, then the only role Nicola could reasonably play is that of the story’s villain – Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca was a bad, bad girl. She was manipulative and intentionally cruel; a Bitch with a capital “B.” She haunted poor Maxim and controlled Mrs. Danvers and Jack like a master puppeteer. She also tortured the Unnamed Narrator from her watery grave.

Seriously, though, let’s turn the tables. Let’s pretend Lutonia and Jakola are real. Starting, say, April 29, Nicola started trolling Antonia by dropping Luke-coded material online and really started ramping up those doe-eyed looks in Luke’s direction. Remember all that cute BTS? Perfectly timed to make it look like Antonia was trolling her when in reality Nicola was trolling Antonia! Unbeknownst to Luke, Nicola commissioned that Claddagh ring and started wearing it to make it look like she was in a relationship with Luke. She even organized a side jaunt over to Galway to introduce Luke to – surprise! – her mother! But, after being rejected by Luke – because he really is in love with Antonia (the USS Lutonia is blasting its horn right about now) – Nicola – YES, Nicola! – set up Papsmear to ruin Luke. I mean, if he wasn’t going to be her boyfriend, he sure as shit wasn’t going to be anyone else’s! All summer Nicola waited for Luke, but he’d gone into hiding, scared to surface because Nicola might find him! After growing tired of waiting for Luke, Nicola got her assassin, JVN, to start trolling Antonia online, that way Nicola could put all her efforts into finding and trolling Luke. She set up Chaos Week. She trolled him on the airplane. But, she needed help (after all she had so many other events and awards shows this summer) so she enlisted her unwitting accomplice, Jake! Jake helped her set up that Lukola FanFic to remind Luke of what could have been. But, nothing was working so Nicola upped the ante and volunteered Jake to be her confused boyfriend. “Luke…Luke…” I can still hear her desperate cries being carried like ashes in the wind…

SEE! I can do it, too – make up total bullshit to fit whatever narrative I please!!!

Yeah, yeah, maybe I went a bit too far (I warned you I had a dark sense of humor) but, honestly, I believe the only way the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola could stay afloat is if Nicola is the villain. She doesn’t even have to be a super villain. She just needs to be disingenuous enough to alienate Luke, terrorize Antonia, manipulate Jake, and mislead an entire fandom. Lucky for her, I don’t believe Nicola to be a real-life Rebecca. If you need an explanation as to why, then you didn't watch the same World Tour as me and you’re clearly on the wrong side of the fandom.

In truth, I believe the real villain to be…

YOU AS THE UNNAMED NARRATOR

Now, now, calm down. I’m not calling you out – at least not individually. I’m calling all of us out.

We as a fandom are the Unnamed Narrators of Lukola, Jakola, and Lutonia. We built these ships, and we control whether they stay afloat.

We took the narrative out of Luke and Nicola’s hands the moment we launched the USS Lutonia. Then we had to go and build the USS Jakola – I guess, because we were bored. No matter how hard Luke and Nicola try to pull the narrative back under their control, we allow side characters to feed us their side of the story! We fill our bellies with their nonsense and then vomit it all over the deck of the USS Lukola.

Seriously, we are the villains in this story. And, collectively, we are one bloody powerful super villain, aren’t we?

We control the narrative. So, if there’s a narrative you don’t agree with – for example, one that doesn’t make sense to you – stop being Conscientiously Stupid and feeding into it.

Remember what I said earlier? If you see Mrs. Danvers with a lit match, blow that fucker out! Otherwise, you’re going to let that bitch burn down the whole goddamn house.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my mood

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tuesdaykiss · 10 days ago

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“touching toes”

rafe cameron social media au

“he’s over more and more, had to give him a whole drawer. to be honest, kinda like seeing his trainers by the door.” — olivia dean, ‘touching toes’.

synopsis: after finishing her fashion studies at college in nyc, y/n moves to outerbanks to live with her grandparents. she worries about the loneliness that comes with being in a new place, knowing only her cousin topper and other relatives… that is until she is acquainted with a certain cameron.

part — 7 | 8 | 9

masterlist

your phone

turning off your phone, you placed it on your bedside table, leaving you to stare into the dark abyss of your bedroom.

“so am i” he had said, “friends”. is that all this was? friendship. your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to understand what part of your relationship with the cameron boy exuded mere friendship.

you couldn’t help but feel quite… silly, in a way. were you making this all up in your head? piecing interactions together that meant nothing more than friendship.

a yawn broke its way past your lips, lulling you into a deep sleep of thoughts; a night of overthinking was about to ensue.

rafecam

liked by sarahcameron, boykelce and 54,129 others

rafecam can finally share that i’ll be in @/dazed magazine, next month.

view comments

sarahcameron magazine debut looks good on you!

rafecam couldn’t have done it without you

user aw so they do like each other!

topthornton looking good bro

boykelce what’s 4 + 4?

user2 ATEEEEEE

topthornton who are you and what have you done with kelce?

a loud, repetitive knocking at your bedroom door pulled you from your sleep. knocking was an understatement; harsh thuds repeatedly sounded from the wood of your door.

“i’m coming!” you called out, in an effort to control the noise. dragging yourself from the comfort of your bed and towards the door, you were greeted by topper. his face full of amusement, as he laughed at your state; hair messily placed atop of your head, pyjamas hanging lazily from your frame and your face a telltale sign that you had just awoken.

as topper stepped to the side, you noticed the presence of another. rafe cameron, stood at your kitchen island, popping grapes into his mouth from the fruit bowl.

clutching your forehead, you questioned, “wha- what are you both doing here?”

“well, we were going out to celebrate rafe’s magazine debut,” topper said, nonchalantly, “and he suggested, since you probably have no plans, we ask you to tag along.”

behind topper, you could see rafe attempting to hide his smile; it was obvious that topper had, unbeknownst to him, disturbed the day rafe had planned with you — in an attempt to resurrect it, rafe had suggested you tag along.

“magazine debut?” shock covered your expression, “congrats rafe, that’s amazing!”

“thanks.”

“so are you coming or not?” topper interrupted, clearly growing agitated with your lack of hurry, “beer doesn’t drink itself, y’know.”

“yeah, yeah, just let me go get changed, ‘kay?”

“you have 30 minutes, or we’re leaving without you.”

and with that you departed from the boys in the kitchen, scrambling to your wardrobe to find something to wear.

rafe’s phone

sarahupdates

liked by yourusername, sarahfan101 and 32,091 others

sarahupdates sarah’s brother has his magazine debut, in next month’s edition of @/dazed magazine!

view comments

user he’s so hot

sarahfan101 following in his sister’s footsteps

user2 it’s giving model siblings

user3 he knows he ate

ilovesarah ‘sarah’s brother’ put some respect on his name

user4 fr that’s rafe mf cameron

user5 yup, my mannnnn

a/n: merry christmas to all of those who celebrate… today is a double feature so i’ll see you again in 4 hours for the next part ��

apologies if it takes me a while to update the masterlist, taglist, etc: i’ve scheduled the next two posts as i’ll be celebrating with family all day!

taglist: @my-name-is-baby @yesshewrites1 @urbrunettebombshell @leather-n-velvet @fruitcakerafe @littlefreak-liz @wdwbts101

#dividers by pommecita #obx fanfiction #obx season 4 #outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smau #social media #social media au #sarah cameron #topper thornton #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fanfiction #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #obx rafe cameron #smau

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reality-detective · 4 months ago

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EXPOSED: The Hidden Network of 10,000 Deep Underground Military Bases (D.U.M.B.s) – A Global Conspiracy Unveiled

Beneath our feet lies a world shrouded in darkness and secrecy—a network of over 10,000 Deep Underground Military Bases (D.U.M.B.s) that stretch across the globe. These aren’t just military bunkers; they’re part of a sinister plan by the global elite to maintain control over humanity, operating far beyond the reach of any government oversight.

The Dark Underworld: 10,000 D.U.M.B.s Across the Planet Imagine a vast labyrinth of underground bases, hidden from the public eye, where the most horrific activities take place. Over 10,000 of these bases exist worldwide, with 1,800 in the United States alone. These facilities aren’t just military outposts; they are massive underground cities connected by high-speed trains, built for purposes that defy the imagination.

Unthinkable Atrocities: Human Captivity and Bio-Experiments Within these bases, unspeakable horrors are said to occur. Reports of human experimentation, especially on children, are whispered among those who dare to investigate. These facilities allegedly host bio-research labs developing weapons designed to target specific DNA, viruses meant to decimate populations, and other forms of biological warfare. These aren’t just theories—they’re terrifying realities hidden from the world.

The Elite's Secret Army: Engineered Super Soldiers One of the most disturbing revelations is the existence of engineered super soldiers, bred and conditioned within these D.U.M.B.s. These soldiers, created through a twisted combination of genetic engineering and cybernetics, are designed to be the ultimate weapons—loyal, fearless, and nearly invincible. Their purpose? To protect the secrets of these underground bases and to enforce the will of the global elite.

The Vatican-Jerusalem Tunnel: A Sinister Connection Adding to this web of deceit is the recent discovery of a 1,500-mile tunnel connecting the Vatican to Jerusalem, reportedly filled with a staggering hoard of gold. This treasure trove, transported by an armada of 650 planes, is rumored to be part of the Vatican’s secret wealth, hidden away for centuries and now uncovered as part of this global conspiracy.

A Global Web of Control: The Super Elites At the heart of this conspiracy are the so-called "Super Elites"—a tiny fraction of the global population who pull the strings from the shadows. These are the same elites who control the military-industrial complex, the media, and even the highest levels of government. Their reach is so vast that over 800 million individuals within the global military and intelligence complex answer to them, ensuring that their grip on power remains unchallenged.

The Puppet Masters: Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Khazarian Bloodlines Behind the scenes, powerful families like the Rothschilds and Rockefellers, along with ancient Khazarian bloodlines, have been orchestrating this control for centuries. Their influence spans continents, manipulating world events to maintain their dominance. Their goal is not just to amass wealth but to control humanity itself.

The White Hats: A Glimmer of Hope But not all hope is lost. A group of brave individuals within the military, known as the White Hats, are fighting back. These warriors operate in the shadows, working tirelessly to expose the truth and dismantle the structures of oppression. They are the last line of defense against this global conspiracy, dedicated to restoring justice and freedom to humanity.

The Final Hour: A Call to Action We stand on the brink of a new era, where the truth will finally be revealed. The age of ignorance is over. The forces of darkness will be exposed, and the world will see the light of truth. But we must be vigilant and ready to act. The future of humanity depends on our willingness to confront the darkness and reclaim our freedom. The time for revelation is now—will you be ready when the final battle begins? 🤔

- Julian Assange

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

Text

Shameless

Sequel to Graceless

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.

You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day.

Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.

The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.

There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.

Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.

You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.

“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.

“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.

“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.

“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”

You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.

“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”

“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.

“I think.”

“Garnet?” Albina suggests.

“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”

You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”

You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.

“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”

“Cora, please.”

“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”

You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.

“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.

“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”

“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”

“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”

The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.

“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”

You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.

“She shoved me! She–”

“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”

Ruin…

The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.

💙

The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.

…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…

You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.

You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.

Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.

“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”

“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.

“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”

You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.

“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”

“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”

“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.

“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”

“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”

You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.

“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”

You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.

As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.

"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.

She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.

The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander.

You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.

You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.

The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.

An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.

You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.

"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"

"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you.

The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.

"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."

"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile.

He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.

"Might I–"

"I spy–"

You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."

"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."

"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."

"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."

"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."

"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"

"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."

"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."

"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"

You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.

You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."

"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.

"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."

You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.

💙

The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.

"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."

"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.

You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.

His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.

He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.

You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.

💙

The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.

You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.

You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.

The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails. Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.

You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.

"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.

"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."

"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."

"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.

"She would like you, very much, I think."

"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."

"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."

"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.

"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.

You face him, a frown.

"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"

"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"

"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"

"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."

"Fooled, my lady--"

"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."

"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.

As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."

His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.

💙

You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.

You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.

You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.

There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.

"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."

He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.

"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."

He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile.

Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.

There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.

You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."

You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.

"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."

You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.

"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."

The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.

Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.

"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."

💙

"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.

"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.

You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.

"I am the valkyrie," she japes.

"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.

"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."

"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.

"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."

"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.

"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"

"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."

"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."

"Fawning? Don't be silly."

You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.

"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."

"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."

"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."

"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"

Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."

You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.

"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."

You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.

💙

You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.

You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.

You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.

"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.

"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.

"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"

"Perhaps," you answer.

"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"

"If he wishes."

"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."

"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."

"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."

"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.

"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"

"It was only a game."

"I do not think he plays."

"Why..."

"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"

"He is polite."

"Oh, you are stubborn."

You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.

💙

The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.

As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.

You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.

“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.

“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”

“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”

“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly.

You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.

“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”

Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”

You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.

“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”

“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”

You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.

“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.

You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.

“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”

“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”

Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”

“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”

“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”

“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”

“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.

“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”

As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.

💙

You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.

As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.

"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"

You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.

"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."

You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.

"A visitor, father?"

"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.

You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"

You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.

"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."

"He does not--"

"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."

She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.

"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."

You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak.

You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.

Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.

"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.

Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.

"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"

The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.

Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.

"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"

"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"

"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.

You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.

"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"

You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.

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melanieph321 · 2 months ago

Note

Can you make a fanfic of Gabriel Medina where reader is an f1 driver and their dating and reader wins the Brazilian gp where his the one waving the flag and it’s all cute and fluff sorry if that didn’t make sense had the idea but didn’t know how to word it

Omg yes!!! ☺️☺️☺️☺️💞💞💞

10 DAYS OF REQUESTS

(DAY 8)

Gabriel Medina x Reader - Waving Flag

I haven't written cute fluff like this in so long ☺️☺️

Enjoy! 🏁

"You're thinking about the race, aren't you?"

You shifted in bed. The hotel room was dark, but the light from the moon revealed your boyfriend's teasing smile. "So what if I am?"

His lips widened. "You should get some sleep, baby. The race isn't won in your mind. It's won on the track."

"Oh, yeah? And when did Gabriel Medina become such a racing expert?"

"Easy..." He said and bent down to kiss your lips. "My girlfriend is a racing driver. One of the best in the world."

"Is she? How many races has she won?"

"None this season. But you just wait and see tomorrow...."

"Tomorrow..." Tomorrow was indeed a big day for you. The whole world refused to let you forget that.

"Hey, where did you go?" Disturbed by your silence, Gabriel shrugged your body.

"I'm here." You whispered, your hands stroking the outlines of his face. "I just really want to win tomorrow, that's all."

"And you will." He shifted his weight onto you, his arms tugging you closer. "Trust me, baby, you'll beat them all."

"I really want to win." You repeated, more as wish than a statement. "It would make my family so proud."

"And me." Gabriel mumbled against your neck, where his lips had gone to attached themselves. It tickled when he spoke. "You're gonna make the people of Brazil proud if you win it tomorrow. And you will win it, baby. Trust me."

You closed your eyes and sighed, his hungry kisses tracing down your throat. Fiery kisses, that burned every inch of your skin.

"Gabriel, please." You gasped. "We can't."

"No sex before the race." You said shyly. "You know my rules."

His hands were searching for you under the covers, knuckles brushing over the fabric of your panties. "Why not?" He murmured, head still burried into the crook of your neck.

Gabriel lifted his head, eyes big in the night. "Your rules, huh?" He let his hands slip out from underneath the covers, respecting your needs. Gabriel always did. However, he resumed tracing feather like kisses up your arms, his lips a gift from God himself. "So no sex before the race...." He traced the kisses upwards, stopping to nip and lick the spots that he knew would make you squeal.

"No." You squirmed, stirring frantically below him. However, Gabriel's weight pinned you down against the matress, the warmth of his naked torso flat against your cheeks. "But if I win...."

He raised his head, eyebrows arched. "If you win?"

You grinned. "Then you can do whatever you want to me."

His head knocked against your chest, a deep groan rising from his throat. "Fuck, Y/N. You're literally driving me crazy."

"I am." You giggled. "I really am."

******************************************

Getting in the zone was the easy part. With Gabriel taking care of your family, you really had no distractions surrounding your garage. Your team took you through the usual race preparations, which you analyzed mindfully but also critically. Today, there could be no mistakes. Still, the atmosphere of the Interlagos circuit was of no other. You caught yourself glancing at the many faces of the cheering crowd. How they proudly waved the Brazilian flag, a flag you wore at the hip of your racing suit. It might as well have been attached to your chest because that's how much it meant to you.

The next day couldn't arrive fast enough. It was race day, which meant not as much media. All your focus was on the task at hand. To win the Brazilian Grand Prix.

Like you told Gabriel, it would mean so much to your family. The whole nation, really. To win your first home grand prix on the F1 Academy's first trip to Brazil would simply mean the world to you. You'd do anything to accomplish this objective, starting by focusing solemnly on that exact goal. To cross the line first.

Brazil was your home.

Brazil was your heart.

Today you'd show the world what a Brazilian racing driver could do.

Your heart was beating fast, like it always did at the start of a race. However, once your car had taken position on the track, the engine revolving to the countdown of the lights, there was no turning back. Either you sink or you swim.

Your gaze was narrowed from behind your vizor. Once your helmet was on, you were one with the car, man, and the machine. Correction: Woman and the machine. At the end of the day, that's what you all were, women, trying to prove themselves in a man's world.

Many men have told you not to do what you do. To not try to fix what isn't broken. However, you've only really cared about what one man thinks of you, and today, you were racing for him and him alone

"She's done it. Y/N takes the checkered flag as the winner of the Brazilian GP!"

The feeling was of no other. First win of the season and the first win at home. Although your eyes were dimmed by tears you were pretty sure that you saw your boyfriend over head, waving the checkered flag as you crossed the finish line.

What a day.

What a life.

And it had only just begun.

DON'T MISS - 10 DAYS OF REQUESTS

(DAY 1)

(DAY 2)

(DAY 3)

(DAY 4)

(DAY 5)

(DAY 6)

(DAY 7)

#fanfiction #gabriel medina x reader #gabriel medina imagine #gabriel medina #f1 imagine #f1 #f1 x reader #brazil #brasil #10 days of requests #day 8

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kitorin · 1 year ago

Text

sweet dreams.

in which, nanami kento finally goes on a long overdue vacation

contents. nanami kento x gn!reader, 2.965k words, fluff but then heavy angst (mcd and hurt no comfort), mentions of murder (true crime stuff) but no detail of it, reader is a coward and really can't handle horror (sorry that's just me projecting)

"What did you do?"

Guilt makes your lips purse, tongue swiping over them out of habit. You didn't want to call him, to interrupt him during the night shift he ever so loathes, contributing to the things he has to do.

But with demons lurking in the dark and the sense of impending doom beginning to latch onto you, it felt necessary, especially when fear decided to be quite clingy.

"I got scared."

A tired sigh comes from the phone. "How many times do I have to tell you not to watch anything disturbing at night?"

"This documentary got really interesting. I wanted to know what happened next..." Explicit content was fine, with Kento there to cling onto and his never-ending reassurance. Your husband watched these intense shows and documentaries without so much of a flinch, unfazed by quite literally everything displayed on the screen.

You, on the other hand, was a completely different case.

The slightest raise in volume managed to steal a scream from you, and jump scares had you flinching just a bit too hard. The mere build up and suspense of the music had your heart racing, even if nothing happened and it served as a little trick.

"I'm so sorry Ken, I'll hang up so you can focus on work." You're an adult, you shouldn't be so cowardly towards a mere genre of entertainment, and you should know better not to consume it.

Your thumb reaches for the red button, and your emotions hold you back, while rationality argues not to.

"No. Neither of us are going to be hanging up."

One part of you celebrates quietly, while another insists. "But you're working. Overtime nonetheless, and I know you hate those shifts. It's best to get everything done as soon as possible and get out of there."

His voice is raspy, garnished by a sultry tone. "Love, I belong to you, not my job. I do appreciate your thoughts, but you're more important than a mere paycheck."

Fuck. There it is, his eloquent, smooth way with words.

"Still. I can wait." That was a lie, though one you were willing to utter if it meant he'd prioritise his job. "Besides, what about that higher up you mentioned? The irritating one that's childish and overtalkative?"

Kento chuckles. "He's here, but he takes his job seriously and is highly capable. I'm on break anyways. Talk to me. If you can."

"I read about the Sapporo murder case. I still feel like the culprits from the case is going to sneak up on me. Or one of the zombies from Happiness." You adored the show and its cast, but god forbid you sit through another one of its jump scares.

"That's fine, it's normal. The point of this type of media is so scare. A lot of effort is put into making sure they elicit emotion." You cling onto every word he speaks, the world around you still there, only a bit blurry now. "Breathe in through your nose for four second, pause for two. Then breathe out through your mout for another eight."

Have you brushed your teeth?"

Kento hums as a response when you answer yes.

"Where are you right now?"

"In bed, but I need to clean up and turn off some lights before I sleep."

"Ignore it. I'll do it when I'm home."

"Are you sure?" There was no point in asking that, not when you'd rather not move away from the security of the doona. "You're going to be exhausted by the time you're home."

"Doesn't matter to me." Genuine indifference to the matter displays itself in Kento's tone. "I took a nap earlier, had a coffee or two as well. I'm going to be alright—" Something in the background echoes, though you could barely decipher what you were hearing, the furious tone of the voice concerned you.

"Who was that...? Is your boss mad at you? Wait but it doesn't make sense for a boss to give you a nickname—"

For a moment or two, Kento remained silent. "No, just an enthusiastic intern. He's talkative and sometimes loud but he's a good kid."

Your former worry dissipates, so quick that it almost seemed like it was never there in the first place. "Nanamin, was it?"

He sighs, the two of you know damn well that you'll refuse to forget that one.

"It's cute! Nanamin. I like how it sounds."

Voice softening, he replies with a chuckle. "I feel like you'd get along well."

"You should invite him over then. He must adore you if he's calling out to you that much."

"If that's true then I'd say the feeling is quite mutual." All you have is his voice, yet you can say without a doubt that he's beaming, a subtlety only you'll ever know— one of the many which compose the love between the two of you.

"Keep working." You whisper as a yawn claws out of your throat.

"Are you sure? Are you okay now?"

You nod, though he can't see it. "I am. Just listening to you helps a lot."

"I'm glad."

"Do your best at work, okay? And make sure you stay safe on the way home?" You hold back a grin, even though you're alone in your shared bedroom. "I have a surprise for you when you get home."

Kento piques with curiosity. "Really?"

"Yup, I think you'll love it." You stare at your bedside table, where tickets to Malaysia were stored. "I hope you do, at least."

"If it's coming from you of course I'll love it sweetheart." It's miraculous really, how you've been together for so long yet you have to suppress the urge to squeal over his sweet words. "My boss is going to start making me work again, good night darling. Sweet dreams, love."

You fall asleep with ease that night, this time with welcomed thoughts of spending time with Kento on the shore of Kuantan, running around whilst cherishing the cold, salty water licking at your ankles; rather than the intrusive thoughts from earlier.

"You could've kept talking to them. I wouldn't've told anyone even if it took a lot of time."

Fushiguro Megumi is examining the sharpness of his blade when he reassures his teacher Nanami Kento, not looking up from his weapon, seated by the railing of the bridge.

"I appreciate that, but it'd be wrong of you." He moves his shoulders in circles, loosening his tie to wrap it around his knuckles. "I can teach you other methods."

"Pardon?"

Nanami crouches in front of Megumi. "Your breathing changed when I told them how to." The student doesn't respond. "It varies from person to person, I've tested out a lot."

Megumi still doesn't answer, averting his gaze towards the weapon that he held down.

"Fushiguro - kun. Are you scared?"

The younger finally speaks once more. "... I guess." Hesitation presents itself in his words, barely stable and his reluctance to maintain eye contact. "I won't let that stop me from completing my tasks—"

"It's okay. You're merely sixteen, you're not even old enough to drink, nor get your driver's licence."

Megumi returns to silence.

"Look at me." And so Megumi does. "To be a child is not a sin. I'm perfectly fine with withdrawing you from this operation if it's too much."

"Wouldn't that get you in trouble?"

Indeed he would. He'd tolerate plenty of discipline and anger from the higher ups. But Nanami Kento knows too well what it's like to risk you and your peers for a 'greater good', at nonetheless a ridiculously young age too—an age where you're supposed to go to regular school and be regular, stupid kids figuring themselves out; not witnessing the death of the ones dear to your heart with the sight of their corpses forever imprinted into your mind, nor have the stench of blood memorised meticulously instead of historical dates or mathematical formulas.

If it were up to him, he'd prohibit such exploitation of children. None should be performing such tasks, even if born with an advantageous cursed technique.

If the higher ups adopted the same philosophy as him, Haibara would be alive and well, and Nanami wouldn't feel his stomach lurch whenever he sees a bowl of rice, nor flinch whenever he hears the mention of Geto Suguru.

'I don't mind if it means you'll be at ease. Gojo can protect me, and if I'm unable to extract you from this operation then I'll handle everything."

Megumi takes a deep breath. "I shouldn't run away. I'll do my best. I have Tsumiki I need to return to. We should go find Itadori now."

“If you say so then, but it’s still my duty to protect you.” With a final, strong tug he tightens his tie around his knuckles. “I can't guarantee any results, not in this instable world and career. What I can promise, is that I will protect you with my life."

A determined nod from Megumi is all he needs.

Quick and efficient; that's the plan. Shibuya was already a mess, and all he wanted was the security of your arms within the four walls he calls 'home'.

"Thank you for having us."

Megumi, the one with the messy, black hair speaks coldly, though very politely, his manners were courteous and so was Yuuji. They'd come to your door and introduced themselves as interns at Kento's company. Now, they were seated in your living room, on your couch.

"Don't mention it, Ken's always been fond of the interns." You already miss him, he must've stayed overnight at the company again. "Are you okay with first names?"

Both nod.

You smile. "So, Yuuji, Megumi, what have you come here for?"

Yuuji speaks first. "It's about Nanamin, I mean Nanami—"

Without malicious attempt you cut him off. "Nanamin is fine, I overheard you calling him that last night. He was fond of it, it was quite cute after all." You chuckle to yourself at it.

The boy swallows, appearing apprehensive. He sounded so enthusiastic last night, perhaps he was the type who needed to warm up towards people first.

"Well, um."

You don't say anything, giving him time to respond comfortably.

"Nanami sensei passed away last night." Megumi finishes what Yuuji couldn't.

Your heart drops.

Temptation to make an accusation of a prank attempts to claw out of your throat, but with how their expressions scream nausea and discomfort, it'd be rude to do so.

That explained why he never kept his promise of finishing up on chores, knowing Kento he would’ve done everything to make sure he made it home to do as he said he would.

"What happened?" It doesn't feel right— and it isn't at all, but you have to figure out the truth, even if this all doesn't seem real.

"There was a fire." Yuuji whispers, barely loud enough and coherent with the tremble of his voice. "And he didn't make it out in time."

You remain silent, so does Megumi. Yuuji bites his lip, suppressing what seemed to be a sob.

"I see."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If only—" It drowns out in his bawling. "It was my fault. He—"

He completely lacked incoherency now, hiccuping as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"He helped us first." Megumi once again continues Yuuji's words. "But they recovered his body, we brought you his ashes."

He pulls out a package from his shoulder bag, wrapping it to reveal a pale blue funerary urn. Megumi places it onto the table.

"I'm sorry. If I had been capable of protecting myself he wouldn't've died saving me."

Your gaze meets Megumi’s, you're too afraid to properly acknowledge the urn, where your boyfriend was supposedly resting.

Silence permeates the air, Yuuji bites his sleeve to suppress his crying and Megumi breathes shakily.

"Don't apologise. You have no reason to. Neither of you." You've barely known the two, but the way Yuuji was sobbing broke your heart, and how both seemed to genuinely believe they caused Kento's passing. "It's not your fault. I don't think it is, and he would agree with him. He made the choice to help you, because he cared deeply for both of you. You can cry freely, I won't stop you." You muster a smile, hoping it'll be comforting in some sort of way. They're only kids, they can't be blaming themselves for the death of another they didn't cause.

Yuuji's teeth release the sleeve of his hoodie, hiccuping out what sounded like a thank you. You push a tissue box towards him, to which he accepts the offer.

"You idiot…” Megumi sniffles a bit.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.” You pat him on the back, rubbing it too. You give him your phone, opening a new contact. “I’d like to invite you two to the funeral, can I have your contact details? In the meantime I’ll make some tea.”

You earn a nod, and are quick to retreat into the kitchen, hand holding your mouth shut as you slowly cry, pleading for Yuuji and Megumi to be unable to hear.

"Kento! We're here, at Kuantan!"

After a long flight and travel, you finally arrived at your destination, you had dropped your luggage off at the accommodation, the urn Megumi had given you was held up against your chest.

I've always wanted to go to Kuantan, in Malaysia. One day I'd like to build a house on a secluded beach and live there. Of course with you, if you were okay with it.

You take off your sandals, tossing them away as you approach the shoreline, the coolness of the water catching you off guard. You continue walking, until it reaches halfway up your calves.

Off goes the lid of the urn, and you toss the ashes into the beach, watching the waves swallow Kento whole. It's not long before the urn is empty, you've never had to scatter someone's ashes, yet it felt like something was missing.

In all honesty, you have no idea if Kento wanted to be cremated, you've never touched on the subject of death, probably because the two of you were so young.

But something tells you this is the right decision. Kuantan's beautiful, and he wanted to go when work and money permitted him to do so. He'd loved to read a book under the shade of that large tree over there, and would've wanted to try fishing at the rock ledge nearby. It was just the two of you here, even better.

Fuck.

As you watch him swim into the ocean, you notice the tears threatening to spill. You don't bother trying to avoid it, not that you would've been able to.

"It's not fair!" You yell, out into the ocean. You don't blame Yuuji, or Megumi, or anyone, but you're still livid. "I miss you, I miss you so much that it gets hard to breathe."

The ring box feels heavy in your pocket.

"If you had to leave this world early you could've done it later." Your cry becomes a sob. "Just one month, then I could've fucking proposed. I don't need a honeymoon or marriage, I just want your fucking answer."

In an ideal world, you'd like to think that he would've accepted without hesitation, but that fantasy doesn't compare to the pain of remaining oblivious to his answer forever.

"Who's going to comfort me now? Who am I going to spend the rest of my life with? Who am I going to cook dinner with? What about Yuuji and Megumi? They had to finish their internships without you. Do you know how hard Yuuji cried when he came to tell me you passed away?"

By no means are you mad at Kento, you could never. But anger that slowly accumulated in your heart for the past few months, and had erupted. The empty coldness of your bed stings, and the amount of cutlery required being halved overwhelms you with misery. You can’t even laugh at his high school photos anymore, the amusement from his ridiculous haircut can’t triumph over the fact that he had passed away a mere ten years later.

You’d much rather store it all away, each and every possession and photo of the man. The sight of his favourite mug serves as a harsh reminder that morning coffee with him will never happen. Listening to old voice mails seemed reassuring and almost lulled you to sleep, until you had to come to terms that he was truly gone once more.

But at least sound can be captured.

What about his scent? Eventually his clothes would lose their scent, they probably were already on that course, even with your refusal to wash them. Touch can’t be preserved, you can cling onto the memory of your skin against his for as long as you want, but you’ll never truly experience it again.

“Goodbye Kento!” Despite your miserable state you pull yourself together just enough so you can see him off with a smile. “I love you, so so much. More than anything in the world, I always will! Thank you, for being there. Th-thank you for loving me.”

You've lost the energy to yell, throat now hoarse. You venture deeper into the shore, not caring about your clothes getting wet, as your face gets soaked with your own tears.

Who's fault is it? Was it the culprit of the fire (if there was one)? Or perhaps yours, for not proposing earlier. Maybe then he would've been safe and sound in Kuantan, after taking leave. Perchance it was the heavens deciding they’d rather just not authorise him to spend the rest of his name.

Whoever it was, it doesn't matter. Nothing could bring back the warmth of Nanami Kento.

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins, @pokkomi, @chigirizzz

#nanami my beloved #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #kento nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk #nanamin #jujustu kaisen #fluff #angst #nanami angst #nanami fluff #kento nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento fluff

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wildestdreamsblog · 2 years ago

Text

Nothing was gonna stop me

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Summary: Trying to break up with the Jeon Jungkook was no walk in the park.

Warnings: Yandere behavior, Obsessiveness, Possessiveness, Manipulative behavior, Sexual themes, If you’re not 18+ please, PLEASE, do not interact. Be mindful of the warnings. Let me know if I miss anything.

You wish you could say being with Jungkook was like a walk in the park, like a dream come true, like everyday was full of butterflies… but it wasn’t. His love was, for the lack of better word, obsessive. Behind his angelic face and childlike smile lurked someone dark.

You met him during work, or more accurately after work. It was yet another late night when you decided to go home. Your company was busy with the new campaign including the famous group, BTS. Your normal eight-hour work stretched to a fifteen-hour workday just to meet the deadline. Your eyes were almost dropping when you entered the elevator. Your floor was on top of the meeting area strategically to avoid disturbing the employees. Whenever campaigns happened, famous actors, singers, and groups go in and out of the building for endless meetings. Your eyes were closed when you heard the elevator door opened. You paid it no attention and instead, looked down on your phone. The door closed once again. Seconds passed when there was a sudden lurched on the elevator. The lift suddenly stopped. It was not the ground floor yet, and the lights flickered.

In a state of increasing panic, you repeatedly clicked the emergency button and asked the operator what happened. Apparently, there was a problem with the lift, yet he assured you that they would soon resolve it. With nothing better to do, you sighed and looked up in exasperation. It was just your luck, you thought. Just when you wanted nothing better to do than to sleep and this happened.

A crinkling sound of bag of biscuits opening woke you from your thoughts. You had forgotten someone was stuck with you in the elevator. You turned to look behind you and saw a man munching on his food, around his neck was a headphone. He was wearing all black, his long hair falling freely on his face. He was wearing a matching black backpack. He looked like he was enjoying his food, too, by the looks of it.

You probably stared too long because the young man looked up at you with his doe, dark eyes, all while chewing. The piercing on his lip glimmered from the overhead light. Slowly, he extended his muscular arm to offer you the food. It must have been your exhaustion and the fact that it was past midnight and yet, you still haven’t had dinner that made you accept the food from a stranger. The two of you found yourselves sitting on the floor, munching on the endless food the man had on his bag.

“Seriously, how many food do you have in there?” You asked as he passed you a fruit this time.

He smiled cheekily before showing you the contents of his bag. Apparently, all he had in there were food.

When the maintenance said that it was going to be resolved soon, what he meant was it would be over an hour and you and the man all but finished the snacks he had. That was how they found you, sitting on the floor, eating and exchanging corny jokes.

That was how you met Jungkook.

The beginning of your relationship was peculiar, yet it was a breath of fresh air. He was amazing, he was a caring boyfriend and he was so smart. He was so intelligent that there was never a boring moment whenever you two talked. His love language was act of service, which meant picking you up on your work every night, cooking you food, and driving you anywhere you needed to go. He took pride in taking care of you. He was full of surprises, loving, and he was proud of you. Perhaps, extremely too proud that within a month of dating, he announced subtly thru his social media that he was now in a relationship. His hyungs couldn’t be more proud of him. They thought he was matured now. Everything happened so fast.

And maybe, that was why you didn’t have time to think the relationship thorough.

Maybe that was why you didn’t know him better before entering into a relationship with him.

Being with Jungkook was like a breath of fresh air, yet that air caused you suffocation. He was an idol, you knew that. But the way he demanded your attention made it seemed like he had a lot of free time when he didn’t. Suddenly, you couldn’t go out without telling him even if it was to meet with your friends. You did that one time, missed a call from Jungkook, and you went home to your apartment and saw him sitting on his motorcycle outside the apartment with his head hanging low. You worriedly went to him, and when you did you saw his doe eyes were filled with tears. Once you wrapped your arms around him, his shoulders began shaking as he cried. You said you were sorry, and when he didn’t say anything, you promised that you would never go out without telling him, that you were sorry you met with your friends.

That night was the first time Jungkook emotionally manipulated you.

Your world started to feel smaller. You haven’t seen your friends in months. Whenever Jungkook had his free time, he always went to you. He was somehow expecting that you’d spend all your days with him, becoming quite closed off and emotional whenever you said you had other schedule that day. And you did try, at first. You figured he was way busier than you and even he could make time for you. So why shouldn’t you?

But it was exhausting. It was taxing to you.

And so you started refusing to see him because you still had your life outside him and you couldn’t and shouldn’t turn your back on it just because you loved him.

You loved him…right? This was more than just a crush…right?

This was the Jungkook, for heaven’s sake. The third time you cited work as to why you couldn’t make time for him, he finally snapped. You opened your twitter the next day, idly scrolling down when you saw your boyfriend trending. This was not a surprise to you, he was always trending for whatever reason. However, this was not what you expected. Fans were speculating about Jungkook’s state, retweeting pictures and videos of him during the group’s appearance on a show where he was clearly not himself. He was not the smiling, lively golden maknae everyone knew. During the appearance, he was reserved, he was quiet despite the energy that the other members had.

Was it because of you? It couldn’t be…right?

But it was because of you. A week went by with you barely replying to his messages. Now that you had more time away from him, you were starting to see that this was not the life for you. You were an independent woman before you met him, yet now you needed to ask for his permission to go out with your friends otherwise he would be an emotional mess. One night after work, you were shocked to see none other than the leader of the group, RM himself. He was waiting for you outside your work, sporting a cap that made him not stand out. He smiled at you once he saw you, his expression friendly when he said you two needed to talk.

He said he was worried about Jungkook, said that he had known him for almost a decade and yet this was the lowest he had ever seen the man. This was so unlike Jungkook, the leader claimed. He said that they were all concerned because for more than a week, Jungkook had barely talked nor smiled. RM said that only you could pull him out of his misery.

And so, with guilt hanging on your shoulder, you knew what you had to do.

RM drove you to your boyfriend’s place, even went up with you to his fancy apartment. He thanked you profusely for coming with him, and your smile must have been strained because RM nodded and bid you goodbye after he knocked on Jungkook’s door repeatedly and the man opened the door. “Fix this,” RM said, looking intently at Jungkook.

RM hadn’t even left yet when Jungkook pulled you in his muscular arms, his head buried on the crook of your neck.

“We have to talk,” you said quietly.

He merely blinked at you after you explained your side, stating that this was no longer healthy for the both of you, that your lives were too different to survive together. That you were thankful for the time you two spent together, but this was no longer something that served the two of you. He bit his lip, his posture rigid, his legs spread. You were seated in front of him. It pained you to do this, but this had to be done. As soon as you said your piece, you felt like you could breathe again. Minutes passed by and he still didn’t say anything, it was becoming uncomfortable that you unconsciously looked at the door.

“Stop looking at the door. I don’t want to feel like you’re desperately wanting to run away from me,” he finally said in a monotonous voice. He stood up calmly and walked to the back of the sofa you were sitting on. “No one makes me feel this way. I refuse to lose this. I refuse to lose you.”

You didn’t see him turned his camera on behind you, his little something that he could hold over your head should you decide to still leave him after this. “This is just a drawback in our relationship, Y/N. Surely, we’re better than that, right?” He leaned to you, his mouth almost touching you ear, “Surely, you love me, right? You want me…right?”

And when you turned your head to look at him, he kissed you with so much passion, with too much passion. His hand snaked on your waist, pushing you on the sofa as he settled himself on top of you. That night, you didn’t leave his apartment. Jungkook looked satisfied as he watched you sleep, your neck marked from his kisses. He grabbed your hand gently and kissed your palm. He smirked, now more than ever assured that you were never going to leave him. He had to be the bigger man, right? He had to make sure that the two of you would have the happy ending you and him deserved. He did this out of love, after all.

You didn’t have to know that he staged everything- from your company winning the contract to you being stuck in the elevator with him. You didn’t have to know that he saw you before you saw him, that he was already so enamored by you. You didn’t have to know.

#jungkook x reader #bts jungkook fic #jungkook fic #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #yandere jungkook

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engelgabriel · 4 months ago

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RANT i’ve been thinking about

ZD is such a thought provoking and self reflecting film and it sucks that most people view it from only one perspective or preconceived bias of what is taboo / “morally incorrect” in media. it has significantly larger meaning than just the “school shooter” movie. it’s hypocritical of people who are interested in, for example, slashers to criticize a fictional movie and or it fans because of the content material. lots of people find comfort or interest probably because of the deeper messages and emotions behind it, and relating to cal or andre because of (in my opinion) well representation of REALISTIC mental illness instead of “socially correct” mental illness isn’t bad. self-destructive and harmful behavior, even though it is negative, is unfortunately a major part of struggling with mental illness. OBVIOUSLY what they did is wrong; in no way does the movie try to make them out to be guilt free and their mental illness is not an excuse. however i dont think its crazy whatsoever for people to enjoy it because a significantly large amount of people in this fanbase are mentally unstable (no offense guys…) and i don’t think anyone should be painted as a bad person because you vent or even just cope with violent/dark media instead of harming yourself and or others irl. “art is meant to comfort the disturbed 🤓” OR WHATEVER.. putting emotion towards fiction in general helps me personally and methinks it is a great movie besides its cinematography and whateva… ok DONE

#zero day #cal gabriel #andre kriegman #zero day 2003 #caldre #is this a hot take?#i don’t know and don’t care

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

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Man-Sized

3/9 Hope is a Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

She googled the name Simon Riley and found close to nothing. He wasn't on Facebook or any other social media platform, and she was pretty sure he had given her a false name until a short news article popped up. It was in some Manchester local paper, and from almost 20 years ago. He had won medals in local school olympics, and even with the black and white raster image and a 20 year younger, estimated 90 pounds skinnier Simon Riley, she could recognize that jaw and those eyes.

Days passed by, and he sent her a message every night. They communicated only through text – he never called. It felt like she was living in the turn of the century, the way he refused to use social media or any messaging app. He asked her how her school was, what classes she was taking at the moment, and if work was good. She sent her a photo every night before going to sleep; it simply became a habit. Some were cuter, some were naughtier, but he always expressed his gratitude with a sly, sexy comeback that made her think she might actually be the only girl Simon was texting with.

He rarely disclosed anything about his work, and never sent another picture even when she tried to request one in a roundabout way. She soon stopped fishing for more details of his work because he always redirected the conversation elsewhere. All she knew was that he was used in some special operations of a private, international company. And from what she could deduce from that one single picture he had sent her, the company he worked for had a lot of money.

The headset, the tactical gear, the weapon she distinguished with another profound googling session to be some sort of an assault rifle… All that shit spoke the language of international investors with certain political interests. Simon was doing something that most likely included hybrid warfare, clandestine operations, dealing with nuclear threats and bio-weapons and whatnot.

She wondered why he had been so trusting; after all, she knew his whole name now and knew it wasn't an alias but his real, actual childhood name. Not that she was any kind of threat. Perhaps that was why…

But what made her a bit depressed was that he also didn't seem to regard her as someone he needed to protect. By staying in contact with him, she supposed she was taking at least some kind of a risk. But Simon didn't seem to care. It was both exciting and infuriating to keep in touch with a man like him.

After six days of excited, heated messaging, he sent a text "Off to work." It wasn't that cryptic; she figured it meant that he wasn't to be disturbed or that he wouldn't be able to talk for a while.

A while… that turned into a week.

She found herself zoning out in dull classes, thinking about what Simon was doing right now. Was he infiltrating some foreign military base, or going on a mission to prevent a hijacking, or storming a terrorist compound, or… whatever the fuck soldiers like himself did.

She began her day with a caffeine overdose and then went to listen to some professor talk about medieval manuscripts or Dante Gabriel Rossetti or curse tablets of ancient Rome, only to realize she was thinking about Simon firing his assault rifle in another continent with a skull mask on. She kept thinking about whether he was in danger, whether he would come back, whether she would ever see him again.

The while turned into another week, and she began to get anxious. Should she text him and ask how he was doing? Ask “You still at work?” or “What about that date?”

The last message she had sent was a reply to his work announcement. Have fun! — from 17 days ago.

17 days.

Was he dead?

His message It's your fault if I get killed now seemed more like a gloomy prediction of a future without Simon Riley.

But at the beginning of the third week of silence, she realized she had just been an idiot. Simon wasn't dead or injured or taken prisoner or anything like that.

He had simply forgotten about her.

He had realized she was not a Bond girl after all, but just another boring chick. He had found someone better. Something like that. A man like him could have pretty much any woman on this planet if he wanted to.

That was just the way the world was built.

She wouldn't say that she was depressed. She wouldn’t admit that she was devastated. She just needed a little time to clear her head.

It was difficult to sleep, and school felt more boring than ever. Work just reminded her of him. One day, she nearly fell from the pole while doing a simple straddle because she saw a man looking like Simon walk in the club.

He had given her an exorcism, only to replace the demons that haunted her with himself. Now she needed an exorcism from Simon, but no one knew how to do that.

She just needed to give it time, sleep it away, study it away… Distractions filled her day, and still, she refreshed their conversation every night before going to sleep, as if it was a fault in her phone that prevented his messages from reaching her. And felt like a stupid bitch, a lovesick fool while doing so.

And then, one Tuesday afternoon, after almost four weeks, he appeared at her uni.

She was arriving from a class that had just ended when she hurried past a man she had been pining for for 25 days.

"You working tonight?"

Hearing that voice in a place she had least expected to hear it made her shoulders shoot up and her breath get caught in her throat as she stopped and turned around.

"Jesus…- You scared me."

He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Boo."

"When did you… What are you doing here?"

She didn't say I'm happy to see you. I missed you. That would've sounded too desperate. Right? Even after 25 days.

He looked her up and down, and her knees felt like pudding.

"I like to stalk school girls."

She tried to suppress her smile. God, she had missed that cheeky humour.

"Pervert. No, I don't have a shift tonight."

"Then I can finally take you out on that date."

It was like her dreams had suddenly come true in one single minute. She went from a bird with a broken wing to Icarus flying toward the sun.

"What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see."

He was even taller than she remembered, broader, even when he was wearing all black. People were staring at them, staring at him, because he certainly didn’t look like someone who studied in the Art and Culture Department.

"How did you even know I was here right now?"

"Doesn't really need a rocket scientist to find that out, luv."

Right. But the fact that he had made the effort to dig up what classes she took, when and where, and then come and surprise her like this, made her heart ache. He gave her another once-over, and she squeezed her bag against her chest like that could shield her from the searing gaze.

"You look hot."

And that definitely made her blush… She was an umptieth year student and didn't bother to take pains anymore when she dragged herself in the class. She had her comfiest ballerinas on, her hair was tied to a simple ponytail, and she had no foundation, no mascara, only a bit of her favourite lipstick on. She was wearing a huge, flowy skirt the color of a Halloween pumpkin and a black, simple turtleneck — while perhaps neat and cute in this environment, to him, she would've thought she looked more like a librarian. Far from a hot Bond girl who danced at a strip club with curled hair and cat eye makeup.

"Um.."

"Such a diligent little student."

It seemed he did have an actual thing for school girls, even if they were almost 30 years old. She would never have guessed that this would send him itching. If Simon preferred the girl next door look to her being half-naked on a stage with a pole, then perhaps she did have a chance after all.

"I knew you were a good girl but I didn't know- "

"Stop it, people can hear you," she hissed while, in truth, feeling quite exalted by that good girl talk. She grabbed him by the arm, and he allowed her to guide him out of the building while looking perfectly content with himself and what he was doing to her.

They began the walk to her place so she could shower and get changed for whatever he had in mind for that date. The complete turnaround in her mood, the shot of hormones and giddy feelings and butterflies in the stomach left her feeling shaky. Even the colors seemed more vivid all of a sudden. It was a bit frightening how one single person could change the whole world in a second, have a remedy for all the shit she had been rolling in for the past week. Or two weeks. Or three.

"Sorry that it took so long. Work was... a bit of a challenge."

"It's okay."

Well, it really was not, but she would rather die than tell him that.

"It's better if you don't know where I am and when. I hope you understand that."

Safety measures for her sake after all. Now she felt almost flattered that he hadn't told her he was coming. Jesus...

"Yeah. Sure," she tried to sound neutral about it, but the sudden shyness that had taken over made it sound like she was being passive-aggressive. "I mean, I didn't expect you to entertain me every night."

Well, that sounded even more sour and pathetic… She snapped her mouth shut and tried to calm her heart that was racing from his presence, his scent which had been only a memory until now.

"So, what will you become when you graduate? A historian?”

"I’ve always wanted to work in a gallery. You know, as an art curator or something like that."

"Hm. Ambitious."

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was mocking her, but she laughed. In the culture business, it was a sought-after position, but of course it wouldn't seem like much to someone who wasn’t familiar with the art world.

"What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?"

"Alive."

Simon's humour was dark, but after seeing that picture of him, she knew he meant what he said. And she realized that it wasn't perhaps one of her most brilliant ideas to get attached to a man who could actually be killed.

When they got to her place, she went straight to the shower and left the door open, secretly wishing that he would be the one to sneak in this time. But he never showed up, and when she stepped into her small living room, she found Simon had dozed off on her sofa. He barely fit her neat little couch and was lying on his stomach, with one hand dangling out and brushing the floor. The soft snore made it clear that he was very tired and not just chilling in a very relaxed position.

It was a cute sight, downright adorable.

But it also hurt her heart. What made him so exhausted, time after time, month after month? He wouldn’t tell her, and it was futile to ask. The man was overloaded with stress and things ordinary civilians had no clue about. She had no clue about.

He must think of her as a harmless little mouse who knew nothing of the world's darkness. And she didn't. She had her own demons and traumas, but didn't everybody? Simon, on the other hand, seemed to have the combined lives of a gladiator, spy, and war veteran. He had access to a reality that was out of sight and mind for the rest of the civilized world.

Was Simon a good guy or a bad guy? Was he a hero that saved people, or a soldier who executed orders of rape, torture, and kill?

These were questions she had never thought she would need to find answers to. The guys she had dated had been equally as harmless as her. If not even more harmless. And that was saying something.

When she had dressed, she walked to him and heard how the snoring stopped immediately.

Simon was awake and listening. He had woken just from a few soft steps, from her tiptoeing and kneeling beside the sofa, and she wondered if he had been trained for this; to wake up when someone was sneaking up on him. The thought was both gruesome and spine-tingling.

But she hadn’t meant to steal his precious sleep. And if he was so exhausted, he should sleep and not take her out…

Now that he was supposedly awake, she dared to raise a hand and caress his back, remembering what he had said in the shower when she had stroked him. His upper back was tense, even when he was lying relaxed like this, and she felt pity: someone should give this man a back rub, a whole body massage to get those muscles loose. Get some blood flowing. She caressed him with the back of her palm, then slowly traced every little vertebra of his spinal column with two fingers.

He was using both one of the cushions and her sweater as a pillow. Something in the sight of him pressed against her old, snug woolen shirt made her hand come to a halt somewhere on his lower back.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, sleepy against the softness of her home and hand. She had to fight back the reflexive flinch: his voice was always so rough, even when he whispered and the words were muffled by the support his head was resting on.

“You have tension in your back,” she told him, not knowing why she was whispering too. It wasn’t like he was about to dart off from a sudden noise.

He merely purred for an answer, still sounding drowsy and half-asleep. How disarmed and defenseless he seemed now… On that little couch, under her gentle touch.

“I need to buy you a massage gift card for Christmas,” she blurted and regretted it immediately.

Buy him a Christmas present? As if they were some kind of a couple already… As if this wasn’t barely the second time they were spending time together.

At first, Simon didn’t show any signs of wanting to escape that hopeful suggestion of them becoming something more than just fuck buddies someday. But then he suddenly turned, and she took her hand away.

“I’d rather have you massage me,” he offered with a soft smile and a dreamy stare.

Good. Good, everything was good..

She hadn’t ruined it, hadn’t lost another poker game to this man. She still had cards to play.

She noticed the obvious signs of his arousal and felt wild in the breeze of the moment. Or perhaps she wanted to brush away what she had just said — and make him forget it too.

She reached for his pants to take them off, and he helped her with them, clearly having no objections to what she was about to do. Which was giving him a blowjob that would erase the traces of him thinking he had an obligation to buy her a present for this Christmas.

When she took him in her mouth, he grabbed the edge of the sofa as if the situation was a little too much for him.

"Didn't see that coming…"

His voice had an edge of trepidation to it. Uneasiness, almost worry. But he must've liked it, for he eased into it shortly after, slumped back onto the couch, and spread his legs in relaxation. She guided her frustration and doubts into the blowjob, tried to turn into someone else — to that girl from the stage. The Bond girl he had met, the woman of his dreams: just anything but a meek little woman who rarely left her house except for class or work.

She was fully present, not sloppy at all, almost felt like a magician as she forced groans out of him and felt his balls pull taut under her touch. He would never fit inside her mouth completely, but she tried her best.

She sure as hell made an effort.

"You must've really missed m- ah… Fuck.."

It was pretty evident that he enjoyed it. After those weeks at work, perhaps this was what he had wanted all along? To come somewhere safe, some place completely different, and throw himself on a soft couch for a quick nap before some homely girl came to give him a few caresses and a blowjob.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, gave him a little suck, then took him in as far as she could and felt him all the way at the back of her throat.

"Bloody hell Sarah..."

It couldn't be that good…

But he was all but melting under her tongue and touch. Was it just that it had been so long, or was this a rarity in his life? She'd thought that women touched him often, but apparently, they didn't. Or then he didn't allow them to.

Perhaps Simon didn't allow himself to be touched by women. He made love to them and fucked them against a wall in the shower, but he didn't get attention and caresses and blowjobs.

Well, this was news.

It didn't take too long before he came with a hoarse grunt that nearly made her shrink from him. It sounded both sublime and painful, and sent ripples of gold in her stomach and a pang of wet heat between her legs. The load was generous, but she didn't pull away, briefly wondering how awkward it would be to choke on his cum the second time they met. It had been a while for him, then, and she felt disappointed. It wasn't anything special after all, merely the cause of him not having had the opportunity, desire, or time to fap.

His chest was heaving, and she had made a mess in her attempt to swallow it all while keeping everything under control. With Simon, she wasn’t in control, and she had no choice but to accept it.

He reached a hand to absentmindedly caress her hair, and she rested her head on his thigh — but they didn't stay that way for long, for he stirred, and she had to draw back.

"Your turn," he suddenly rose from the couch while still looking like someone who was about to pass out. He got out of his pants, pulled his shirt over his head, threw it somewhere on the floor, and hauled her up in a bridal carry. He literally swept her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom, and she must’ve looked like a deer in headlights.

Because Simon was and wasn't safe.

He had strength, charisma, and forearms to die for, but he didn't feel like someone she would choose to tell her every secret, someone who she would call if she needed help. He came into her world and walked out of it like there was a swinging door between the two of them.

He didn't commit. Which meant that she couldn't commit. Which furthermore meant that she had trouble getting wet.

As infuriating as it was, dark and dangerous didn't exactly turn her on. This wasn't dating; this was more like an adventure or a roller coaster ride. She didn't know what phase they were in because the usual dating-related stuff was off the board. There was nothing to hold on to.

He laid her on the bed, crawled next to her, then reached a hand under another skirt she had chosen for going out with him.

"Perhaps later," she whispered as his hand was already traveling up her thigh. She almost took those words right back when she saw the obvious hurt flash in his eyes. She didn't know if she had de a chip to his pride or if it was something else, but he clearly hadn't expected her to say no to him again.

"Why won't you let me touch you?"

"I…"

She didn't know what to tell him.

What could she say? That she felt unsafe with him? That wasn't even entirely true.

She couldn't tell him that she needed trust and commitment while knowing he couldn't give them to her. Her shy silence stretched on, and the frightened state she was in only worsened when he stared at her, tilted his head, and wouldn't remove his hand.

Then he kissed her — unhurriedly, languidly, and the hand just stayed there under the skirt, pressed against her thigh, firm and broad. Only after she answered his kiss with a shy hunger did he move it further up, up — until it came to rest on her sex.

The kissing finally did it: at some point, she could feel the sudden rush of wetness down below. Her lips trembled when he pulled away only an inch and looked into her eyes while their breaths danced in between their lips. His palm moved only a tiny bit; he was soothing her, coaxing her to open for him. Eventually, his fingers met the soaked spot on her panties, and she swallowed. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, just a tiny little hint that he knew he was doing it right.

"Did you like the picture I sent you?"

Oh fuck.

"Um, yeah.."

He pressed a finger against the center of her wetness, covered only by the thin fabric, and she tried to draw breath as inaudibly as she could.

"Did you get wet?"

So fucking cocky…

"Yes, she whispered against his lips, which finally curved into a small smile.

"Come again?"

"Yes."

The smile widened into a smirk as he moved to slip underneath the fabric. Her folds parted without effort as he guided his finger over her, the length and thickness now resting on her entrance and all the wetness that only increased by the second. She was blinking and breathing shallowly against his mouth while he simply continued to drink in every sign of her unease and arousal.

"Is that why you asked for more?"

Oh God…

"Yes. Would you just-"

"Begging already?"

He was so… infuriating. So cocky, so damn self-confident… It drove her crazy.

"No."

Something flickered in his eyes, a twinkle of endearment.

And not just a twinkle. It was bold, blazing mischief. Shit… She was fucked.

"I'll make you beg."

Oh my God…

He moved even lower, then dipped one finger in, so deep that she was left blinking again. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she realized she must be looking like a fish on dry land. He pulled out, and she wanted to protest, but her pride stood in the way. The moisture was spread all over her folds, especially over the tight, sensitive bud that had been left without attention for so long from the sadness and hopelessness, from her having thought Simon wouldn't come back. She couldn't even touch herself because she had already gotten used to thinking about him when she did that.

A shaky little moan finally hit his lips, and he kissed her again while drawing a circle on the bud, sweeping a few strokes across her folds, then driving two fingers in. Slowly, lovingly. The laced fabric that was stretched to give him space must be sodden by now, but he wouldn't pause to take it away. He just continued to fuck her slowly with his fingers while holding that kiss, holding her steady with his mouth only.

He had taken her hesitation as a challenge, and she wondered if she was some kind of a challenge to him overall. If something in her made him want to break her, get to the bottom of her, get a reaction out of her… And he was succeeding splendidly. She was everything but frigid now. He only needed a finger or two to make her like this. And perhaps that voice of his. That stupid cockiness.

He left her mouth and pulled out, only to finally reach for her poor underwear and take it off. She didn't object this time, but when he moved between her legs and she realized he was about to replace those panties with his face, she jerked away from him.

"Hold on…"

"Nah. You hold on."

He wouldn't relent. He simply pressed his mouth against her pussy which, by now, was wet to the point of leaking, and grabbed hold of her hips as if to remind her that she couldn't get away even if she tried. She could only sink back to the bed and let him have his way: to embark on a mission to make her beg.

And she did beg, eventually, when he pressed his tongue flat against her and plunged it inside, and sucked her clit and did it all with such infuriating patience and laid-back attitude that it made her squirm against him. He caressed her with his tongue, those lips, caressed her with his thumb before guiding it inside as well while kissing her thighs, now wide open for him.

She didn't beg with words, but she did coat the air with sighs and moans that must've stroked his ego like nothing else. Even the stubble did its job: it didn’t sting. It only drove her more mad. She could hear him chuckle against her occasionally, could feel him smile in her pussy as he ruined her with that mouth. Even the intrusive thoughts of whether Simon had done this to dozens of women before her and would do it to dozens after her didn't prevent her from approaching the peak in minutes, mere minutes…

Just as she was about to grasp his hair for support, to brace herself for the incoming, he withdrew. The bastard rose to sit and left her shaking and whimpering.

"Wh-… why did you…"

He was licking his lips, smiling, and stroking himself, fully erect again. The fact that he was hard from pleasing her with his mouth, left her feeling even more weak.

"You want it?"

"Fucking hell, Simon." She knew how she must look: dripping wet, with desperation in her eyes and a shaky curse on her lips.

"Is that a beg?"

He placed the thick tip to her entrance, and she throbbed and writhed against him like she was about to come from the slightest touch of that cock.

"Yeah… Yes, please, Simon, just-"

He granted her plea to the full before she had even finished it. The spread, the feeling of being filled with him, was so exquisitely divine that it only took less than five thrusts before she came.

He looked annoyingly pleased while watching her have one of the most powerful, gratifying, leg-shaking orgasms of her life. Perhaps it was only a proper way to greet a man who had been inside her head for so long: who was finally inside her for the first time in four desolate weeks. She didn't feel wild or raw now; she felt like molasses, like puddle of tears, a boneless, limp heap of muscle from all that love and gentle fucking.

After the tension, tremblings, and shaky sighs had left her, and she was merely panting, he finally stopped. Lodged deep inside her to feel the rest of the waves, he was still watching her. The stare of those warm eyes was too much to bear after another implosion that made her even more attached to this man.

"If you call me a good girl, I swear I'll slap you again," she whispered. The body against him shook from silent laughter. He kissed her again, buried his fingers in her hair, gave her another rock of his hips. And then, suddenly stopped just to whisper in her ear…

"That's my good girl."

Fuck….

It was useless. Utterly, completely useless with Simon.

"Ok… Ok." She tried to gather herself while he was still inside her, still filling her and shielding her with his body. "You're asking for it, so I'm not giving it to you."

"Poor me," he answered with that gruff, heart melting voice.

She was laughing again, smiling for the first time in days. Beaming, even…. Probably looking like a brain-dead idiot.

"This was a good date. I had fun."

In her opinion, it was the best date ever, but would she let him know it and stroke that ego further? Hell no.

"This wasn't what I had in mind," he hummed while moving to kiss her neck.

"What if we just stayed here for the rest of the day?"

"Wouldn't mind that."

“You know.. I... really missed you,” she finally confessed with a whisper while he was preoccupied with her neck; safely somewhere else than right there in front of her, staring her in the eyes, gathering evidence of her vulnerability. He huffed a chuckle against her skin in response, sounding close to relieved.

"I missed you too."

#simon riley x oc #ghost x oc #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley x oc #mw2 smut #ghost fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x female oc

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thesirenwithnovoice · 7 months ago

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Thoughts about how different mediums of a same story may give you different views (and rambling about the Tower of Heaven)//TW: violence

Lately I've been wondering about how manga readers might have very different visions than anime watchers of a same story, because althought the plot remains the same, some little details can change our whole perception of a story.

This reminded me of the first time I read Fairy Tail and how terrified I was at how cruel and dark the Tower of Heaven's arc is.

Jellal's face (that by that time, were only an 11-years-old kid) drippling blood while being tortured shocked me so much as a kid and I still find it one of the most disturbing scenes in the manga, lol.

In the anime, the content itself is the same. We know the kids are slaves that go throught different kinds of abuse, however, I find the manga way gloomier and more graphic. And althought part of it might be just a personal opinion, it's not entirely without basis: Mashima uses different techniques in his art to represent facts whitin the story than the animators, and it leads to a topic I really love: semiotics - how we interpret images, and how detais can be used to convey a certain felling throught art.

Colors and composition helps A LOT creating an atmosphere and causing a feeling on the reader. Proportionally speaking, a manga doesn't have colors, but it has it's own alternatives - the Tower of Heaven arc, in comparison to the rest of the manga, uses a lot more black and hatching.

One can argue some scenes are still "visually darker" in the anime, since it has the advantage of being able to play with shadows and colors in a broader aspect; however, since Fairy Tail is not an anime that changes it's saturation or colour pallete, the loud colors in most scenes end up not helping building the same dreadful atmosphere.

(It doesn't mean you can't make a scary story using bright and colorful tones, tho. A great example is the movie Midsommar. But it's not an easy task!)

Erza's childhood memories in the manga also carry a "dirtier" feeling; the kids are always covered by bruises, and the background is rougher. Also, the anime chooses to represent slavery in a more fanciful way: the kids wear stylized handcuffs and are assaulted with magic attacks, what inevitably softens the scenes by distancing them from real life slavery.

In a story, an act of violence will always be more shocking if your brain is able to automatically make a connection with real life. Seeing blood conveys a feeling of disconfort easier than a character being hit by a wave of magic, even if the author tells you "this is painful"; that's why some people say they started to find difficult to watch horror movies involving kids after becoming parents, because after experenciating something in real life, they connect with fiction harder.

The above scene causes me very different feelings in each media. In the manga, the despair in Jellal's face when seeing they removed Erza's eye is much clearer, and his skinny body, his eyes filling up with tears (he doesn't cry in the anime) shows not only a feeling of worry, but of utter dread and helplessness. All that helps endorsing the fact that, doesn't matter how brave he is, they are still just fragile kids, unable to protect themselves from the cruelty of the world around them.

I want to make it clear, though, that this is not in any way meant to be a critique to the animation team, or an affirmation that one type of media is better than another. We all have our personal preferences, but each media has it's target audience and objective. Fairy Tail's animators certainly do know how to convey the same feelings on the public, they just choose not to, for a variety of reasons. Probably because the anime is aimed for a broader and younger audience, many scenes have been softened or censored somehow. Also, animation consumes more labour than a manga page, so unless you have a lot of time and investment, the art tend to be simpler.

So do you think it affects the plot, Siren?

In my opinion, yes, even if just in a subtle way. In the manga, I think this raw brutality helps Jellal's character to gain a more interesting complexity. To me, he feels less like a hero and more like what he actually is: just a really kind and brave kid trying his best to protect his friends.

Another major change they made in the anime was removing the ambiguity (something that happened more than once in Fairy Tail's adaptation, such as in the famous kiss scene), leaving clear since the beginning that Jellal was a victim of a mind controlling spell; while in the manga, until Urtear's confirmation at the end of the arc, we do not know for sure if he have been brainwashed or just convinced to adore Zeref.

And as much as I can see why some fans might hate it because it leaves room for people to see Jellal as a bad man, I (as someone who is not afraid of loving evil characters, heh), find it interesting and somehow enriching to the plot, because it gives the whole arc a reflection: is extreme suffering, specially at such an young age, capable of changing someone so much?

We are left questioning what did "Zeref" say, or do, that made him change so much. And having so many real life examples where despair has made people easy victims of manipulation throught faith or falling into extremist ideologies, after we seeing Jellal's pain and fragility in a tangible way, it's not that hard at all to understand how he went insane and managed to drag all the other slaves along with him.

Also, I think it makes it easier to understand Erza's empathy towards him. Jellal and Erza are characters connected not only by the affection they nourish for one another, but also for sharing the same pain. She is the only person that fully understands the horrors he lived in the tower, since they were the only kids that have been in the torture chamber. And althought she never tries to justify Jellal's actions, Erza does not only show him compreension, but she feels guilty for not being able to retribute his protection and prevented him from losing his mind.

That doesn't mean, tho, that there weren't many other clues he was not acting on free will: be it his grotesque change of personality, his hysterical laughter out of nowhere or his motivations that doesn't hold (because they were never his to begin with). To me, all that at first glance makes him closer to Batman's Joker, someone that grew insane after so much suffering, than a villain that's genuinely just plain selfish and thirsty for power. And that only makes me find him a creepier villain, since personally, I find sadism and insanity way scarier than ghosts.

So this is just a looong collection of thoughts about how small choices can change a lot the "feeling" we get from a scene or a character. I hope someone can find it interesting too. There are many other examples of adaptations where it happened, and if you remember one you'd like to share, I would love to hear!

Last but not less important, all the love for Mashima's art, the Tower of Heaven arc (that is a personal favorite) and Jellal, a character I deeply love and one that holds for sure the strongest spirit in the manga for being able to become such a kind and mature man despite everything he has been thought. ♡

#Fairy Tail #Jellal fernandes #erza scarlet #jerza #semiotics #manga x anime #anime vs manga #Tower of heaven #Sorry this is too long #Also english is not my main language but I hope this is still understandable sorry #My motivation for writing this was: HOW THE HELL do I see so many people saying Jellal didn't suffer #I tried to understand how people read/watch fairy tail and get this interpretation and this text was born haha #it justifies nothing actually but it's such a fun analysis to do #Bro never had a moment of peace in his head for 27 years and tried to k*ll himself at least 3 times canonically he just needs a hug #siren's thoughts #about stories #plot analysis

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thegildedbee · 7 months ago

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Journey: May 30 Prompt from @calaisreno

This latest chapter and the previous ones are here at ao3.

(I'm a bit distant at this point from May, I know! . . . and there's one more prompt still to go, but then I'll finally be caught up with everyone else :-) ..................................................... As the train moves through the wintered fields, stations shuttered long ago flicker past, punctuated bits of expired time. An hour out from London, they begin to slow on the approach to Swindon, coming to a stop in a four-minute flurry of going and coming. Gathered round the door are a dozen or so lads in football kit with red dragons across their chests, waiting for the woman and the little boy who had been a few seats down from John to step off from the carriage. They scramble aboard, noisily pleased with having won their match, bringing in a blast of cold air that reaches in and chills John underneath his neck. They muck about as they jostle each other, eventually more or less coordinating their sprawls amongst extra rows of seats beyond what's necessary, some of them popping up to take selfies and shoot videos.

A faint smile whispers and shuts in an instant across John’s face at their exuberance, and he plugs his earphones into his mobile. He dithers about what to listen to, finally settling on a playlist that comes up after he types “welsh music” into the search bar, and then closes his eyes and slackens against the back of his seat as the train pulls away from the station and they resume their journey.

He’s vaguely bemused by young people's social media, especially their attachment to filming their lives; quite different from people his age, who've never been much fussed about having a camera to hand. He does regret, though, that he doesn’t have many photos of Sherlock; he always felt he needed to be surreptitious about taking shots, as if doing it in plain view would disturb their balancing act as flatmates. There are two amongst the small number that he likes very much: one of Sherlock facing the window while playing his violin, sunlight bringing out coppery glints in his dark curls; a second of him laid out on the sofa, allegedly in his mind palace, but actually taking a kip like an ordinary mortal. He doesn’t think Sherlock knew that he had a small set of photos – they were transferred to his laptop and sequestered several levels down inside a folder titled “Household Chores”– but since the git seemed to think that whatever was John’s, was his as well, he wouldn’t be surprised if somehow Sherlock had come across them one day when he was poking his nose about where he shouldn’t.

That thought begets another (didSherlockevertakeanypicturesofJohn?) although he decides to duck out from under that one straight off and leave it behind.

As the soft, plaintive reverberations of a pavane-like harp play inside his head, he recalls with chagrin how he jollied Sherlock into attending the media events that occurred in that last span of their time together. Clients had wanted to thank Sherlock for his successful efforts on their behalf: the rub was that they wanted to do so in front of the press. There was an auction house director for whom he’d retrieved a stolen painting worth nearly two million quid, and the big cheese banker who had been kidnapped, and then rescued by the detective.

The amount of interest Sherlock had in attending these: nil.

But he eventually complied, as he usually did when John asked him to do something; that hadn’t meant, however, that he’d play nicely. He had been cuttingly deductive, peevishly stating at the first event that the gift box held out to him contained diamond cufflinks – adding dismissively, “all my cuffs have buttons!” – and offering a similar pronouncement at the second, giving the box a shake and sharing the reveal – “tie pin!" – adding dismissively: “I don’t wear ties.”

John had intervened, correcting and redirecting Sherlock to concede to propriety and conform to convention, saying pointedly to the auction house director: “He means thank you,” to which Sherlock had snarked, “Do I?” to be countered by John pushing back: "Just say it.” In the second event he just gave it up as a bad job, and . . . shushed him.

The regular way of their world, right? Sherlock being an arse, John trying to save his arse.

As time had passed, however, John had begun to think that his attitude had been flirting at condescension, in a way that hadn’t been there at the start of their work together. When had he shifted to focusing on Sherlock as being deficient as a human being in social situations, as opposed to seeing Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies as indicative of degrees of comfort (or not) with those he perceived as outsiders?

To be fair, Sherlock’s disdain for the gifts was defensible: he didn’t sport the posh affectation of cufflinks for every day; nor had he ever been seen to wear a tie. If it was “the thought that counts,” then the thought appeared to be that, beyond his utility, Sherlock-as-individual was a human-as-null-placeholder.

In being thrust into the spotlight, abetted by John, Sherlock had been diverted from his own circumspect path, onto the one controlled by the ravening press, where it was they who decided on the right of way, whether there was safe passage to be had, and, if so, at what cost.

What if, in running interference in a way that placed John close to the side of propriety and conformity, he’d instead put his thumb on the scale for Sherlock?

It might have gone perhaps something like this: [Sherlock speaks] [John: subtle nudge, subtle nudge] [John (sotto voce): “What a wanker, eh?”] [Sherlock smiles at John] [John smiles at Sherlock] [John and Sherlock are pleased with themselves, and each other, two-of-a-kind people who laugh together at crime scenes, without giving a hang about proper decorum] [Sherlock feigns politeness] [Social order is maintained . . . a bit].

And, actually, for whose benefit were these thank-you events? Looking back with a skeptical eye, John sees them now as highlighting the givers: it was the poncy auction house director and the illustrious banker who were preening in front of the cameras – Sherlock was a pretext, surplus to requirements. Neither of the worthies needed to stage a press availability to thank Sherlock: appreciation could have been conveyed privately.

The simp of an art dealer, smarmily posing beside the “masterpiece by Turner,” with Sherlock off to the other side, while the public relations cameraman snapped images suitable for public distribution. Turning that skeptical eye on the whole scenario, the painting would now command likely a doubled sold-at-auction price, given the publicity and the story surrounding it having juiced up the intangibles that make up any artwork’s value on the open market.

The self-important banker, posed on the stairs within the embrace of his loving family – several steps higher than the detective, turfing him out onto the pavement. The journos gossiping that Mr. Something-or-Other-in-the-City was ready to climb the greasy pole, to one day get himself slotted in as Chancellor of the Exchequer, a launching pad for Prime Minister, as Major, Brown, and Sunak had done. Among the side effects of the kidnapping as media spectacle had been the boost it had given to the financier’s perceived significance, valor, and . . . name recognition.

John’s mind is expletive-strewn as he speculates how it was that these Sherlockian triumphs were choreographed by the hand of the consulting criminal, who likely pulled off a doubled win: had he inveigled the auction house to allow its painting to be stolen, and the aspiring government minister to allow himself to be kidnapped? (And therefore pocketed a tidy fee for the planning and execution of these gambits?) These events set in motion by him toward achieving the objective of setting up Sherlock to be sucked into the publicity maelstrom, as the “hero detective” became giddily glorified by the press? The bastard had probably even conspired with the unscrupulous publishing baron, Magnussen, to stage-manage the journalistic hue and cry to his specifications.

The ramping up of the press frenzy was the piece de resistance: all the fawning adulation naming Sherlock as a hero pivoted on using the Met as a foil, painting them as hapless and ineffectual, turning the table upside down by portraying them as the true amateurs, and Sherlock as a professional disguised as an amateur. Sherlock's overnight overnight celebrity ensured that his detractors at Scotland Yard would become ever more enraged at Sherlock’s existence, increasing their seething resentment and desire to take him down. The deerstalker was the Yard’s I.O.U.

John allows that he may be on the verge of losing himself in the land of the paranoid, but he wonders if Moriarty even stage-managed the thank-you events himself, through a word in the ear of those in charge, ensuring the planting of certain details. To wit, Moriarty, in his Vivienne Westwoods and beyond-bespokes: his shirts were fastened with cufflinks, his always-tied-up self flaunted tie pins. Moriarty knew that eventually Sherlock would wonder if these two data points were taunts that meant Moriarty was lurking just beyond view. And Moriarty would have felt as blissed-out at Sherlock’s sartorial humiliation as his target would have felt beleaguered, cursed as he was forevermore to be crowned by the misbegotten deerstalker in press photos.

He suspects now that Moriarty had drilled down into John’s psychology with a cleverness equal to his emotional profiling of the public, the press, and the Met, and had foreseen that he could steer John into unknowingly working with him, prompting him into facilitating Sherlock being fed into the maw of the beast by providing a platform that tapped into John’s desire to see Sherlock get his due in public.

As twisted as the maggot was, he seemed to know more about John’s and Sherlock’s emotional landscapes than perhaps they did themselves.

What had Moriarty known about John and Sherlock, the each of them? What had Moriarty known about the two of them together? And when? And why had they been blindsided?

............................... p.s. The shooting script at the BBC for S2E3 uses the term "auction house" at one point, and I've used that tiny blip for my between-the-lines jumping off point use of "canon" here, in case anyone wonders :-)

......................................

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

.............................................................................

#mayprompts2024 #calaisreno #sherlock bits and bobs #may prompts 2024 #johnlock

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bedbat · 3 months ago

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Shock Value, horror and media literacy

I feel like it’s very normal to see anti-gore and shock value sentiment online. Which makes a lot of sense obviously. I feel like most people agree that if your definition of good horror is just how much blood or shock value is present in the piece of media, you probably don’t actually know how to tell good media from bad media and operate on the belief that blood = good. I think most people kind of see how bad most modern day horror movies are. They just aren’t creative and it feels like a regurgitation of the same troupes. I especially hate how popular poorly written slasher movies have become. For example, I genuinely think The Terrifier just isn’t a good movie because the people raving about it are only raving about how disgusting and gory it was. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything actually interesting about the movie and it feels like the directors know that the general audience will just consume the most boring, low effort film as long as they add as much blood as possible. Have some of us become so simple minded that people can truly watch a video online saying ‘this movie was so good because blood!!!’ And then just…agree with that sentiment?

However I think the opposite sentiment is also true. It’s just as media illiterate to look at any piece of media with any form of shock value or gore and go ‘this is awful and terrible’. You can be uncomfortable with gore and not consume any disturbing media and that’s okay. You don’t have to villainize something just because you don’t like it. I recently read litchi hikari club and I thought it was a great piece of writing and art that carried an anti-Japanese imperialist message as well as showing how fascism can affect people, especially kids. Is it an uncomfortable, disturbing piece of media? Absolutely. Is it okay for people to not want to read it because it’s kind of gross? Yes. However writing off the entire comic as bad and anyone who likes it as bad, is plain ignorant. If you cannot or do not like to consume nuanced media that takes form in a more disturbing way, that’s okay. But exaggerating the plot and practically reading the comic with your eyes closed, is a whole other thing. Not everything has to have a happy ending. Not everything has to be appropriate. As long as there is substance outside of the shock value and the shock value isn’t glamorized, sexualized or used horribly lightly, I don’t see an issue with people enjoying that piece of media. I came across a video where the OP was in the comments flat out lying about the plot and contents of Litchi Hikari Club and it made me really upset. How can you paint yourself as some morally superior person for not liking an artistically shocking piece of media without even putting an attempt at truly understanding it. Was some of the shocking content unnecessary? Absolutely. But at the end of the day, the comic was meant to make a large point and refusing to even try to see that point to stay on your moral high ground because you don’t like any form of dark media is stupid.

Some topics are disturbing and deserve to be spoken about and shown in a disturbing light and not in a ‘happy ending everyone lives at the end’ story. However shock value and gore shouldn’t just be used because you’re an incompetent writer who can’t create a good story without making it a torture p0rn.

TLDR: if you think shock value = always good, you’re media illiterate, if you think shock value = always bad, you’re also media illiterate

#litchi hikari club #ramblings

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fortunatelygloriousruins · 4 months ago

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Whispers in a Liminal Font

In the quiet pause between moments, where the familiar fades and the unknown looms, lies the essence of liminal spaces—a definition filled with promise, yet laden with unease. A hallway, an airport terminal, a bridge—these spaces whisper of movement, of change, of a destination waiting just beyond sight. They embody the hope that one day, the discomfort will give way to a new rhythm. Yet for me, life has been a relentless carousel of transitions. Each time I step into what feels like a new beginning, it quickly morphs into yet another waiting room, another corridor extending into the dark. A move to a new city brought excitement, but ultimately, it became just another threshold, another place where I felt both lost and oddly familiar. I realized that while liminal spaces are often viewed as temporary, my existence has been marked by a ceaseless series of them—a relentless cycle that doesn’t allow me the comfort of belonging. The unease festers like a shadow, whispering doubts that echo louder than the sounds of possibility. In the quest for an anchor, I grasp at fleeting connections and evolving passions, only to watch them slip through my fingers like sand. I crave a return to firm ground, but the landscape of my life remains fluid, constantly shifting beneath my feet.

As celebrated in countless artistic representations, these spaces evoke a haunting tranquility, but often lack the warmth of genuine human connection, leaving an ache in their absence. In popular culture, liminal spaces evoke not just the idea of a transition, but an unsettling beauty—a strange stillness that speaks volumes without uttering a word. Films imbued with surrealism, such as those crafted by David Lynch, plunge viewers into these uncanny realms, where the absence of human presence heightens a disturbing sense of paranoia, leaving one captivated yet yearning for connection or even just safety of a warm presence, of familiarity. In the realm of the internet, ‘liminal space’ aesthetics flood social media feeds, portraying desolate hallways and empty playgrounds—spaces that exist in a vacuum, devoid of life yet brimming with emotion. While these imagined spaces entice with their aesthetic charm, they also amplify a solitude that reverberates somewhere deep in the bones. I find myself wandering through my own empty hallways, much like the desolate landscapes captured in art, where the allure of solitude clashes painfully with the yearning for human connection. In contrast to the glossy allure of these spaces in film and photography, my reality often feels like a silent scream—an echo without a voice to answer.

There is a strange magnetism to liminal spaces—those unsettling places that exist on the threshold, like deserted parking lots in the dead of night. They’re meant to be temporary, to be passed through quickly without thought or hesitation, yet they pull us in, inviting contemplation of the indefinable discomfort they evoke. The allure of liminal spaces has seeped into pop culture, into the eerie photographs and grainy videos shared on Reddit and TikTok, the empty rooms bathed in fluorescent light, abandoned swimming pools, and back alleys captured by dim, flickering street lamps. They draw us in with the haunting promise that, however unnerving, these spaces are transitory. A temporary pause in the steady march of existence. They specially piqued the interest of the generation-z around late 2019 when the pandemic led to everything shutting down around them. This happened for the first time in a while when everyone was forced to stay inside. The usually busy places were suddenly devoid of human activity. And calling those places "liminal" provided them a much needed comfort—that it's just a transient phase, that would eventually make way for a new normal, no matter how deeply disorienting it may feel in the moment.

For me, however, they are not a pause but a pattern. My time here has been a series of liminal spaces, one after another, an endless succession of thresholds that I can never quite cross. The feeling is visceral—like I’m standing on the edge of something unknown, waiting for a change that never arrives. I am caught in the perpetual dusk between who I was and who I could be, but never who I am. The unease, the disquiet that comes with transitions, has become a permanent resident in my bones. While others move through life as if through rooms—each with a door that closes behind and another that opens before them—I remain stranded in the hallway, never quite belonging anywhere.

The pop culture obsession with these places hints at a shared understanding: the strange comfort of knowing that the eeriness will end. People pause to admire the beauty in the emptiness, to find poetry in the in-between, but then they move on, not before shaking off the chill that runs down their spines. I can’t move on. My tragedy is that I have never been afforded the luxury of belonging. Each moment of my life feels like another entrywa a building with no exits.

It is no wonder that liminal spaces are almost always portrayed devoid of people. The absence is stark, a universal truth in every image—an abandoned gas station under a buzzing neon sign, a swimming pool drained and dry. In these spaces, human presence is always missing, and I’ve come to understand why: true belonging happens only when you have become a part of a story, not when you are standing at its threshold, unsure whether to step in or retreat. In life, you find comfort and purpose when you are woven into the fabric of something meaningful, something that feels whole. But I remain forever on the periphery, trapped in the space between stories.

I think about those images often, how the emptiness of these spaces mimics the solitude of my own experience. Those photos and videos, scrolling endlessly on social media feeds, depict places where people were once present but have since moved on. They have left their mark, their fleeting footprints, and then disappeared, perhaps to find themselves fully within the next moment, the next chapter. They were participants in a story, however brief, and then they exited. But I am the one left behind, the one who does not belong either inside or outside. For them, it is a journey; for me, it is a destination I never intended to arrive at, a destination where nobody ever arrives nor stays.

Maybe that’s why I feel most at home in those photographs of empty spaces—because they are the only places that mirror my own reality. A reality where I have never fully crossed the threshold into a narrative that feels like my own. To be present in a story, to be part of something greater than oneself, is to know where you stand, to know that you are not simply a shadow lingering at the doorway. But I do not stand; I hover. I am not an actor on the stage, but a ghost in the wings, forever waiting for my cue, which never comes.

To truly belong is to be written into the story, to feel the weight and the warmth of other people’s lives pressing up against your own, merging, creating something that feels substantial, that feels real. Instead, I exist in the gaps between those moments, the spaces where no one else lingers long enough to even see me. I find myself most drawn to these places because they reflect my own existence back to me, in all its stark, aching solitude.

And so, I remain here, wandering these empty spaces that stretch endlessly before me. I am the emptiness that haunts them. If these spaces are metaphors for transitions, then perhaps I am the exception that disproves the rule: the one who stays when all others move. A ghost in a world that doesn’t know how to see me.

There is no comfort in knowing that one day, this will end because even endings are a luxury not afforded to everyone. I remain as transient in the spaces between, where the walls breathe, and the lights flicker, endlessly.

The liminal- they exist in the uncanny hours, the moments of transition between what was and what will be. We are drawn to them, to the way they disorient, to the way they feel like the pause before something unspeakable. We linger in their eeriness, the empty hotel corridors that seem to breathe on their own, the swimming pools drained of water, standing like gaping mouths. But there’s comfort, we tell ourselves, because these spaces are not meant to last.

For others, perhaps, that comfort is true. But I know what it is to be trapped in these places. I feel the walls close in, the floors stretch beneath me like old, creaking wood. I am forever waiting, caught in the grip of some invisible force, a heavy hand pressed against my chest, keeping me from moving forward. Each step I take echoes against the hollow emptiness around me, but never reaches a destination. I am the figure in the photograph you can barely see, half-hidden, blurred at the edges like a ghost who can’t decide if it wants to be seen or remain in the dark.

I am haunted by the absence of people in these spaces, not because they never were, but because they left. They crossed the threshold, into rooms with warmth and noise, into stories that welcomed them and wrapped around their existence like familiar sheets. They found themselves inside; they became something more than just the sum of their loneliness. But I am the one who stays behind, the one who cannot cross. The perpetual guest, never the inhabitant. I drift from one room to the next, never lingering long enough to leave a mark, never staying long enough to be remembered. I am the visitor who never finds a seat, the traveller whose bags remain packed by the door. I see the way others sink into the spaces they claim, their bodies folding into the comfort of familiarity, their voices rising like music that fills the air. I watch from the sidelines, my presence like a breeze that stirs the curtains but never enters fully.

Every room I enter feels borrowed, as if I have stepped into someone else’s life and can only tiptoe through it, careful not to touch anything, not to disturb the fragile peace that belongs to others. I leave no footprints on the carpet, no fingerprints on the glass. I have learned to navigate quietly, to slip in and out without being noticed, like a shadow cast by something unseen. I feel the walls around me pulse with the life they contain, a heartbeat that is not my own, a rhythm I can never match.

It’s as if I am always knocking on the door but never crossing the threshold. I stand there, on the cold step outside, feeling the warmth of the inside brush against my face, but I never feel it fully on my skin. I am always outside looking in, peering through windows into rooms aglow with light that never reaches me. I am the outsider, forever on the fringe, watching life unfold from the other side of the glass, never invited in.

To be an inhabitant is to know the smell of the walls, the creak of the floorboards, the way light falls through the windows at different times of day. It is to feel the texture of the air change with the seasons, to hear the hum of the refrigerator at 3 a.m., to know which step on the staircase will always groan underfoot. It is to be known by a place and to know it in return, intimately, deeply, as if it has become a part of you and you, a part of it.

But I am not known by any place. I do not belong to any corner or crevice. I am the one who slips in under the cover of darkness, whose name is written in dust rather than ink. I am the one who drifts between spaces, feeling the way they reject me, spit me back out into the cold air of not belonging. I am forever the guest, moving through rooms that are not mine, beds I will not sleep in, and doors I will never close behind me.

I pass through, my presence barely a whisper, a breath against the skin of a life I can never truly touch. I am left hovering in the doorway, where the air is always colder, where the shadows grow long and the light is always just out of reach. I stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of the spaces I can never claim pressing down on me, a weight that grows heavier with each passing moment, each step I never take.

I am the perpetual guest, and the world is a house that will never be mine. I remain outside, my fingers grazing the doorframe, my feet never crossing the line between here and there. There is no place I can call my own, no room that knows my name, no door that opens for me willingly. I am forever in transit, forever searching for a space that will let me in, but always finding myself back at the beginning—a stranger to every threshold I meet.

And perhaps that is the cruellest truth of all: that I am destined to wander, never quite belonging, never quite seen, forever the guest in a world that moves on without me. A phantom at the edge of every story, a nameless figure passing through the pages, never finding a place to rest.

The images on social media show this over and over—the empty malls, the deserted offices with chairs left spinning, the playgrounds in twilight where no children ever played. These places resonate with me because they are my own; they speak of an existence where the story never begins. Where I hover like a breath just before it is exhaled, hanging in the air, suspended. They are empty because they do not know how to hold me, because I am not made to be held.

I’ve tried to step inside, to enter the frame fully, to feel the world with its weight, to feel alive in a way that doesn’t echo with hollowness. But every time, I find myself slipping back, back into the doorway, back into the corridor that stretches endlessly into the dark. I’ve never been part of the story, only its interruption. A whisper between chapters, an ink smudge on the page.

In these places, I see myself reflected back, a figure without form, a shadow that never becomes flesh. I am drawn to them because they are the only places that tell the truth. Here, in the endless twilight of empty hallways and cold rooms, is where I belong. Where I am what I have always been—a liminal being, caught forever in the act of becoming but never being—it is a curse I carry like a stone in my chest. I feel the weight of all the almosts and could-have-beens, their presence a reminder of every step I failed to take, every door I left unopened, every room I never dared to enter. There is a deep shame in this, a gnawing regret that chews at my insides, whispering of all the ways I’ve failed to step fully into my own skin. I have been caught in the web of my own making, tangled in threads of hesitation, paralyzed by the fear of what might be on the other side.

I think of all the times I have stood at the threshold, my hand hovering over the doorknob, feeling the heat of life radiating from the other side, yet unable to push through- I have waited for a sign, for some force to pull me forward, but it never came. I was too afraid to make the first move, to take that step and claim my place in the world. And so, I lingered, trapped in the twilight between where I was and where I could have been, suspended in a state of perpetual almost.

I feel the weight of the selves I could have been, versions of myself left behind, quietly slipping away. There's an unease in the comfort I’ve found in the unknown, in the shadows where I’ve lingered, waiting for things to change. I’ve spent so much time waiting, hoping for a shift, for a sign that would guide me toward a different path. Yet, there’s a deep awareness that these moments of hesitation have cost me something—a slow drift through time, a distance from the potential I once carried.

It’s like living on the edge of things, forever in the act of becoming, but never quite arriving. I’ve stretched myself in so many directions, tried on so many faces, yet none have felt like they truly belonged. Sometimes I feel like a ghost in my own life, passing through spaces that don’t quite fit, haunted by roles I’ve tried to inhabit but never truly embraced. I’ve held so many possibilities in my hands, yet none have fully taken root.

The passing years have carved out this space where a more certain self should have stood, leaving behind a quiet ache. The moments I didn’t seize, the chances I let slip away—they linger like whispers, reminding me of the lives I could have lived. There’s a sense that I’ve spent so much time in the doorway, waiting, never fully stepping inside, caught between worlds that never quite merge.

Yet, even in this state of suspension, there’s a quiet recognition that my hesitation wasn’t solely my own. There were forces, subtle yet powerful, shaping me long before I knew myself—expectations I never quite agreed to, destinies that felt like they belonged to someone else. The world taught me caution before it ever taught me courage, planting seeds of doubt that took root deep within. Perhaps I’ve spent more time in the pauses, the quiet spaces between breaths, because it was all I knew.

Still, I’m here, caught in the act of becoming. Not lost, but not yet found. There’s a soft reckoning in knowing that the paths I’ve walked may not have been chosen out of fear alone but also out of circumstance, out of the quiet shaping of a world that held me before I knew how to hold myself.

I wish I could say I was strong enough to break free, to pull myself from the web spun tight around me, but I am not sure I ever had that choice. I have moved through life like a leaf caught in a windstorm, tossed and turned by forces far greater than myself, unable to find a moment of stillness, a place where I could plant my feet and stand firm. I have felt myself pulled in a hundred directions at once, and in the chaos, I could not help but freeze, paralyzed by the impossibility of it all.

How could I have acted differently when the script was written long before I even set foot on the stage? When the path was laid out like a trap, a snare hidden beneath the fallen leaves? I was cast as the wanderer in the spaces between, and in that role, I felt myself shrinking, shrinking until I became almost nothing at all.

And yet, even as I drift, I feel the shame like a brand on my skin, knowing I could not have been any other way, that the world had left me with so few choices, and none of them my own. I wonder if fate is cruel, or if it is simply indifferent—if it laughs as it watches me stumble, or if it doesn’t care enough to even notice. I am left standing here, on the edge of what could have been, holding the fragments of a life that never fully came into being, the broken pieces of a self that never had a chance to be whole.

And so I am left with this aching contradiction: the guilt of my own inaction, and the knowledge that I was helpless to act. Caught in a web not of my making, a prisoner to a fate I never chose. A leaf in the wind, a ghost in the doorway, waiting for a storm to pass that may never end.

And so, I remain here, wandering these hollowed-out spaces that stretch on and on. I am the emptiness that fills them. I am the ghost that can never leave. They say these places are only temporary, that they will end, but I know better. I know that some of us never leave.

The door is always open, the light always flickering. I hear footsteps in the distance that never come closer. I feel the walls closing in like a shroud. And still, I wait, knowing that even an ending is too much to ask for.

Because even in endings, there is some kind of peace, and I have been denied even that. I am the silence that fills the gaps, the breath caught in a throat, forever suspended, forever waiting.

#liminalcore #dreamcore #manic pixie nightmare #liminal spaces #liminal #liminal aesthetic #macabre

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