#cw: segregation

[wishmaker-astra]

Oh, right. Please be warned this is the mission statement of a likely hate group, potential BITE model group, and should not be looked at without caution. I have been informed they have edited and removed their original, so I am providing it here for archival purposes.

Do not look at this if you are in a bad headspace. Please. You really should only be looking at this for academic research purposes and counter-group activities.

@/aethersocietyofficial 's policy statement as of 7/20/24, Unova timezone, Astra reference below the cut for ARCHIVAL PURPOSES ONLY

CW: propaganda of probable hate group, racism potentially, discrimination against pokemon of certain classes, potential human-pokemon separatism, potential colonial imperialism

[ljblueteak]

"Paul Asks About White Australia: Beatle Paul McCartney yesterday showed an unexpected interest in the White Australia policy." From The Sydney Morning Herald, June 19, 1964.

Text of the article reads:

At a Press conference yesterday Paul was approached by a Nigerian journalist.

Paul said "Are you an aborginal?"

The journalist said he was from Nigeria.

Paul said: "I didn't think that Australia allowed coloured people to come in. I remember reading about this in geography in school which I failed, and I thought it was a bit off. I thought they were the only country in the world to do this. I saw you today and I thought: 'Hullo, we'll get onto the Government right away.'

The journalist said he was allowed to stay in Australia under certain conditions which included having a job.

He said Australia was host to more than 3,000 Asian students and he had found no discrimination whatsoever.

Paul said: "That is good because there is in Britain and in America."

He said that apart from kangaroos and koalas his biggest early impression of Australia had been "this white-only business."

"John and I were talking about it only this afternoon."

[lizardsfromspace]

As TERFs fall deeper down the transphobia hole they eventually loop around to a level of misogyny typically only seen in MRA pick-up manuals. They start out a bit concerned, and five months later they're shouting about how trans women need to be banned from chess bc AFAB brains are just not as smart as AMAB brains. They slide from "women can do anything men can!" to a level of "women are dainty and must be protected"ness that would make a tradwife blogger blush. They've successfully engineered the belief set of a Reddit incel with nothing but a parasocial relationship with JK Rowling, a incoherent urge to Own the Transes and a box of Tweets Xs

[tuttle-did-it]

Jeremiah Reeves has a horrific but crucially important story to know.

Rosa Parks was not the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement. Long before her, people were fighting for change. The Civil Rights movement did not just appear into thin air one day. It was centuries of mistreatment and people trying to take a stand against it.

Almost a year before Rosa Parks refused to move on a bus, Jeremiah Reeves was a 16-year-old child, and accused of attacking and violating white women. The police tortured him to try to get a confession. Despite the NAACP trying to fight to protect this child, and multiple appeals, he was found guilty and sentenced to death.

The Civil Rights Movement was never just a single moment. It was centuries of miscarriages of justice abcs abuse that lead to those moments.

Jeremiah's story deserves to be known, especially because this treatment against Black people have never stopped.

TW- Jeremiah's story is tragic and it is heart breaking. CW for discussions on rape, police torturing a child into confessions, lynchings, death and racism. Please be aware of these triggers. There are no graphic images or graphic depictions in this video.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

trying to find diplomatic but firm ways to articulate 'hey man this is really fucked up, please reconsider' about wan/derhome--or whether to make a post about it at all--because its creators seem like the types to approach it in good faith, but i have no idea how it would go over or if they'd even see it at all. but i finally decided to take a look at it after getting it in a charity bundle last year, and as a disabled mentally ill trauma survivor god that was incredibly hurtful and upsetting, holy shit. days later i'm still not super okay over it, let alone that it won awards and is considered a masterpiece in the medium

[dove-da-birb]

I bet canadian history is more interesting...why is amerikan history so boring

...

what's canadian history like???

Okay, so it has been a bit since I've been in public school, and the most recent history course I took was a college course;

There's your standard stuff like knowing about how Canada became a country (1867), and also knowing about our Charter of Rights and Freedoms. There's also the war efforts (ranging from War of 1812 to modern peacekeeping missions).

I personally do not care what some white dude did all those years ago; like the first prime minister was a massive racist. I outright do not celebrate any holiday which celebrates colonization (Victoria Day, Canada Day, Thanksgiving, etc.).

In more recent years there has been more inclusion of the history of our Indigenous people, and the genocide that happened and is still happening today. Actually, on September 30th it's the national day of Truth and Reconciliation.

As a general disclaimer before you go searching through Canada's history; you will find genocide, as North America is a colonized continent. You will find articles and survivor accounts of "Indian" Residential 'Schools', of which they are still discovering mass graves of children. These 'schools' were an act of cultural genocide and were active until 1996, and were governed by both the government and various churches.

The history of any colonized place has a history bathed in blood, but it may not be taught due to different policies (cough, racist policies, cough).

Sorry for my bit of a tangent, I'm just so tired of people ignoring the history, because the 'past' is very much still felt today.

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for yelling at my uncle for wanting to emmigrate?

cw; brief mention of animal death.

For context: I am from Brazil. São Paulo city, more specifically. Brazil is considered dangerous due to high crime rates, and my city, with over 11 MILLION habitants, is no exception. But socioeconomic segregation is pretty intense here, and if you're in a "good" class neighborhood and have a little bit of streetsmarts, you will be mostly safe. I for one have been lucky enough to be born into a middle class family and have never been so much as pickpocketed, but I know of lower income friends who have been robbed. It's still rare in our circle.

Now, I have this uncle. Him and his wife have even more money than my family – they lead a very, very comfortable life with yearly trips to Disney parks, something that's very common among Brazilian upper class. And they recently have decided they want to migrate to Florida, US, seemingly out of nowhere. Their main excuse is that they don't want to raise their 7 year old son in a "dangerous place", when they live in a safe appartment complex and they've never even been robbed.

I voiced my concerns to my uncle. I was afraid that they wouldn't be well received by a country that has such extreme anti-immigration policies, especially when none of them can speak more than a few words of english and, while his wife is white, my uncle is visibly latino. Even if they get the papers right and migrate legally, they will still face a whole lot of prejudice. Plus, they would have to quit their jobs for that, and while they both have degrees, I still think it would be quite hard for two immigrants who barely speak the language to get jobs to keep their lifestyle, and I'm not sure if that's the best way to raise a young child. It really seems to me like they're persuing a fairytale idealized dream.

But the worst part is the entire thing with my grandmother. She's in her late 70s, very emotionally frail and has had a fair share of health issues. Ever since her dog passed months ago she's been severely depressed, and because she couldn't leave the house due to the dog's separation anxiety, she doesn't have any friends and has almost no hobbies. Her favorite thing is having us over – especially my uncle's son, her youngest granchild. So of course when my uncle tried to gloss over all my points I had to bring up how terrible it would be for my grandma (he knows it will be bad, he's keeping it a secret from her because he thinks she could possibly fall ill again). But he still didn't listen.

I was so angry I started yelling at him. I brought up how he didn't even visit his mother the last time she was hospitalized (she was anaemic and could have died) but he had all the time in the world to go to Disneyland whenever he pleased and said he doesn't really care about his mom or his child, that's why he's leaving. He's just falling for his wife's Disney obsession.

Looking back on it, I think I might have taken it too far, but I meant everything I said. AITA?

What are these acronyms?

[bonefall]

feel free to ignore if this question is too dark, cw themes of war and genocide (i know i’m so sorry)

how deep does thistle law go? what is the end goal of someone with that ideology? is it a permanent state of the four clans fighting forever, or is the end goal of someone who believes in thistle law to absorb all four clans into whichever clan they hail from? is there any split between thistle law thinkers on this, kind of like the splits between traditionalism and hard traditionalism? i’m curious on just a general worldbuilding level, but like i said, i know this is a super dark and heavy question, so do feel free to ignore it, i don’t want you to have a bad time. ik better bones gets pretty deep but if you’d rather steer clear of this one entirely i understand.

The stated end goal is different between every incarnation of Thistle Law. Brokenstar was explicit in that he planned for the destruction of the other three Clans, where Tigerstar called for assimilation, and Mudclaw just desired WindClan to be operated for the benefit of WindClan cats.

But it doesn't matter what they think they believe. The built-in conclusion of Thistle Law, and of ALL Fascism, is genocide. That link is to a post where I talked a bit about what would have eventually happened to RiverClan under TigerClan.

If blood can be impure, and the pure race is tainted by association with the dirty race, allowing groups to mix is an existential threat. Every birth for Them is a loss for Us. It will eventually come down to anti-miscegenation, then segregation, then mass murder.

The line between Hard Traditionalism and Thistle Law is usually some desire to begin enforcing a standard of purity, typically the elimination of the Queen's Rights. In the case of Brokenstar, this had less to do with blood and more to do with spilling it; his warriors would need to be loyal to destroy the other Clans.

Every warrior is an individual. There's some supporters of Thistle Law who have actual principles they want to stick to; but most will fall in line behind a strongman leader. The thing about authoritarians is that they HATE intellectuals and they LOVE submitting to hierarchy; so you will not find the same "width" of different beliefs within Thistle Law that you do within the Traditionalist or Fire Alone spectrums. No part of what they do is driven by rationality.

So to answer the question directly, how deep does Thistle Law go? Not very far. It's a shallow grave. Evil is deceptively simple.

[tamilhobbit]

CW for N word.

1970.

Mississippi versus Sesame Street

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Who's Fault is It, Anyway?

Records of the Torrent Watchers: The Blood Moon Specter, Part 1

Whumptober Day 13 TEAM AS A FAMILY | Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part."

Whumptober Prompts List | Masterpost

Tales from Valaria Masterpost

Next part ->

Fandom: Original Work

Words: 800

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf

@the-ellia-west

CW: imprisoned, chained, arguing, swearing, worry, past trauma

A/N: I started a new series. Post Magician's Bait, my vision for Records of the Torrent Watchers is an episodic fantasy mystery series featuring Luc Epsilona, Reese Takari, and Damian Caenum on various adventures up and down the River Torrent.

While investigating a series of murders, the Watchers and their charge are kidnapped for reasons unrelated to their case. Or is it?

----------

“This is all my fault.”

“For the last time, Luc, you had no way of seeing this coming.”

Luc scoffed, the chains binding him to the wall rattling as he shook his head. “I can trace the exact trail of decisions that led to this point. If just one of them were different, we would not be here.”

“Celestials…” Damian groaned, “how many times must I repeat myself before the words get through your skull? You. Didn’t. Know. And even if one of those decisions were different, how do you know we wouldn’t have ended up here anyway?”

“Don’t ask me to see the damned big picture. And don’t you dare say that we are supposed to be here.”

“I wasn’t going to, but now that you mention it—”

“Your Highness, with all due respect, shut the fuck up.”

Damian narrowed his eyes at the Watcher. They were chained to opposite walls in the same cell underneath who-knows-where by who-knows-what. Luc stared at the cuff on his wrist, as if looking at it would force it to unlock, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists.

No matter how much Luc insisted otherwise, their current predicament was not his fault. If anything, it was Damian’s. He'd been the one to insist on accompanying Luc and Reese out of Caenum to investigate a string of murders. He had wanted to step away from city life for a little while, and being with a Watcher and his apprentice-who-insisted-she-was-not-an-apprentice seemed at the time the safest way to do that.

How could they have known they would get kidnapped barely a week into the journey?

“You’re worried about Reese, aren’t you?”

Luc glanced at the cell door, a thick wood slab full of splinters. “They didn’t put her with us,” he muttered, “Why didn’t they put her with us? Are the cells segregated? Is she with other female prisoners? Do they want her for something specific? Celestials, I don’t know what they’re doing with her.”

“You think they know about… y’know….” Damian’s eyes flicked to the cell door, uncertain if anyone was outside listening. If their captors didn’t know about Reese’s heritage, it would be best if they didn’t find out.

“It would explain a lot,” Luc said quietly. He ran a hand through his hair, the chains rattling ominously. “I know some of the people involved were never caught or identified. But as far as I know, we’re nowhere near Zariya. Unless they fled out towards the Torrent when the operation was shut down.”

He hissed through his teeth, eyes on the floor. “I hope they don’t. I really hope they don’t. She doesn’t tell me everything, but from what her father and de Silv said…” the blood suddenly drained from his face. “Oh celesitals… de Silv’s going to kill me if he finds out I let this happen.”

“De Silv?” Damian asked quizzically. The name sounded elven.

“Octavian de Silv. An elf who rescued her five years ago from the people who’d kidnapped her due to…” Luc gestured vaguely, indicating that he also suspected listeners. “He and I have a… complicated history. He had been missing for over a decade when he showed up at my office in Caenum when Reese and her father moved back there. He explained her situation, and asked me to take care of them as a favor.”

“Why couldn’t he do it?”

“Didn’t say. He disappeared shortly after. I haven’t seen or heard of him or his partner, a hunter by the name Draven Cozenson, since.” Luc sighed. “I swore that I’d keep her safe. And I did that by keeping track of her and training her to use that knife of hers. Which led to her following me on investigations, which led to me teaching her forensics due to her asking questions. And now everyone thinks she’s my apprentice.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “‘Thinks’? So she’s not actually your apprentice? I thought you two were joking about that.”

“Ugh…” Luc slumped, five years of exasperation and exhaustion etched across his face. “Unofficially?”

“What does your own mentor think?” Damian asked, smirking.

“When I figured out what was happening about two years in, I sent him an apology letter for all the stress I put him through. He finds the whole thing hilarious.”

Damian chuckled. “She can handle herself. I’m sure she’s doing just fine. Perhaps she already escaped and is currently looking for us.”

“I wish I could share your optimism.”

“I can be optimistic enough for the both of us.”

Luc exhaled slowly, eyes on the door again. “If you insist.”

[aekatty]

⋆⭒˚｡⋆✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

𝓶𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓮 𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 !!

ft. the strawhats

masterlist

a/n: going to see ayesha erotica tonight, omg what if she signs my right tiddy

what movies do the straw hats like?

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

18+ !! MINORS DNI

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

cw: my headcanons, if u don’t agree that’s fine just writing them cause it’s silly, grammar lowk rn cause im crazy

tags ✮⋆˙ crack fic, i just randomly thought of this and immediately had to write it on docs lmao, if it’s ooc i lowk don’t care

luffy

not say saying this to infantalize lil bro but i see him unironically into how to train ur dragon and mostly likely watched it over 100x. but tbh, i don’t blame him bc the movies are lowk gas so.

i also see him getting riled up over king kong vs godzilla or just any action movies like marvel. oh and he would definitely headcanon the crew as different marvel characters for funsies.

probably kins brad pitt

zoro

you cannot fucking tell me bro doesn’t watch kill bill or any bruce lee movie.

definitely got scolded by nami when she found him recreating a scene from charlie’s angels.

idk i don’t got a lot to say about him bc i feel like bro’s just interests are self-explanatory. he definitely is against the whole romance sappy shit.

nami

my girl loves some cute ass rom-coms, i can feel it. she definitely eats up 13-going-on-30 or 10 things i hate about you.

oh, she eats up telenovelas…who cares if it’s in another language, if it involves love, angst, and death, she don’t care. on the wings of love~

definitely cried watching marley and me, cannot tell me otherwise

usopp

this man is watching the rom coms with nami. he unironically loves romance movies. sure, he’ll watch a few action movies but come on…bro was prolly watching the new sydney sweeney movie his bestie (nami).

nami will invite him to the library while the whole crew is asleep for silly sleepovers. they’ll put on a random rom com while gossiping and giving eachother spa days.

him and nami were holding eachother while sobbing after watching the ending to marley and me for the 10th time.

sanji

watches any movie that discusses the beauty of culinary art.

he definitely enjoyed watching the menu and became fascinated with the horror elements that complimented a “sophisticated work of art.” oh and prolly watched the american girl movie with olivia rodrigo as grace (cause she’s like a baker in the movie lmao).

*sigh* ok so like he prolly LOVES titanic and imagine rose as nami. prolly tried sneaking into usopp and nami’s sleepover but got his ass beat cause he wasn’t chill enough to come ova.

robin

ik she into them campy movies or horror but mostly psycho horror. in terms of camp, definitely the devil wears prada. for horror, she’d prolly like hereditary(?) (lemme sit on it ill prolly change it later) or she’ll like them classics and im not talking about just 80s classic, no, she prolly watching dracula before it had fucking sound.

franky

fucking top gun maverick. bro is the definition of a gen x mom. or prolly crying to a studio ghibli movie or the notebook(?) OR he can be cunty by watching legally blonde bc elle woods is SUPPERRR tbh i think bro’s taste would lowk be diverse.

chopper

mid joining usopp and nami’s sleep over and crying with them to marley and me. or he prolly watching zootopia and would be so amazed bc it’s an allegory for segregation

jinbe

watching that one lowk boring movie about stocks with christian bale. lowk fucks with that one princess diana movie with kristen stewart. yk what, fuck it, he prolly fucks with the godfather.

brook

some stupid ass movie from the 50s?? full on black and white shit. wait, ok, i did a film class and all i can remember was like vertigo which was lowk good and whats up doc.

[ask-artsy-oncie]

Chess is gender-segregated??????

banning a trans woman from playing women’s darts is crazy on every level. it’s like saying cis women have horrible hand-eye coordination so it wouldn’t be fair.

[olderthannetfic]

CW: rant about "racist fetishizing" and "exotification" as a white person, etc.

One thing that particularly drives me bonkers is when antis take issue with things that are either not obviously negative or are inextricable from things that are neutral or even positive. For example, are there situations where AAVE really is "appropriated" and used in a way that takes advantage of black culture while keeping a comfortable distance to actual black people? Sure! But my gents. 1) A random Tumblr user having absorbed a ton of AAVE into their speech patterns and saying "y'all" a lot is not it, 2) absorbing language patterns from those you socialize with is an unavoidable side effect of socialization, and I don't know how to tell this to terminally online people but it is in fact a good thing. It is a good thing that African-American people are so present and their content engaged with enough that people are passively absorbing AAVE! No, it doesn't mean racism is solved or that people who say "y'all" can't be racist, but absorbing AAVE in and of itself is a good sign!

I have a similar complaint with most accusations of "fetishization" (beside the meaningless vagueness of the term), because what it comes down to is "you find people who look like this sexy and that's BAD". Even "exotification" is not in and of itself a bad thing, when removed from the context of imperialism and colonialism, because looking at someone and thinking they're sexy because they look so different to what you're used to, i.e. "exotic", is not actually inherently a bad thing! We have some amount of sexual draw to what's different - I mean, people with blue eyes apparently all have a single common ancestor who really got around, for crying out loud.

Where this attraction becomes problematic is when due to the outside material conditions (whether on the societal scale or the single person scale), the exotified person is both desirable and lacking in power, but the exact same thing is true whatever the ethnicity of the person! (A good deal of what feminism views as "predatory" behavior in men is only really predatory against the background of economic desperation in women wherein there is some material disadvantage to turning down unwanted advances, and would be considerably more harmless in a setting where everyone is equal and living comfortably, which I daresay should be the end goal of any equality and empowerment movement).

As someone with straight hair, I think curls are sexy. As someone with brown hair, I think redheads and blond people and people with black hair are sexy. As a white person, I would probably date one of my cute Chinese co-workers if I weren't so damn ace, because something about that combination of same tone or darker skin + completely black smooth hair + the general facial features (including the monolid some people get so insecure about because Western poisoning sigh) is just gorgeous to me and I'm not afraid to say it. Saying something like this should not be taboo. People of any ethnicity deserve to have people of other ethnicities gushing about what makes them look distinct and unique! I mean, shit, people gush about white skin and blond hair and blue eyes enough.

(Disclaimer: I am once again not saying that there aren't contexts where calling out racial fetishization is appropriate, or where people desire someone for their physical differences but still consider them to be subhuman. There are many such cases, I know. I would even say that, based on observations of the heterosexual world, wanting to fuck someone and thinking they have equal value as a person can be completely and utterly uncoupled from each other. But this doesn't mean that all expressions of attraction because of the physical differences are automatically suspect, and it's no wonder that so much of pushback against "fetishizing X ethnicity" reads like a pamphlet in support of racial segregation!)

Tl;dr: Thinking someone of X ethnicity is hot and being racist towards that ethnicity can co-occur but have little to do with each other. People try to fix the latter problem by attacking instances of the former, and that's stupid, and just ends up looking like "you're not allowed to thirst outside of your own race".

--

It still boggles my mind that y'all is the thing people have chosen to take as appropriation from AAVE.

[serpentface]

the gender trinary of northeastern Dain as shown thru hairstyles- women, men, and wallach of the Urswali-Dain people.

The connected cultures of the coastal northeastern Dainlands all have closely related variants of this trinary and place importance on distinction between the genders and taboos related to gender roles.

(cw brief mentions of wartime sexual violence) 

The Dain speakers of the northeastern Kelp Sea coasts and islands are related groups of semi-settled to settled agricultural peoples. These groups share very similar gender roles. They conceptualize being 'female' as the basic state of humankind, with 'manhood' being a special state of being that must be ritually attained via rites of passage and circumcision.

This creates a distinct third gender role of those designated boychildren who cannot be initiated into manhood for variable reasons (failing coming of age rites, being incapable of growing a beard, having 'feminizing' intersex conditions, etc). This is called the 'wallach', 'wollach', 'wolla', depending on the language group.

The wallach is understood as a liminal state of being, between man and woman, child and adult, placing them in a metaphysical role closer to the afterlife. Most witches and priests are thus wallach. Wallach can fill both male and female gender roles in dain society without defying social taboos, and their primary function is to bridge the gaps in an otherwise highly gender-segregated society.

Northeastern Dain cultures have an overall negative opinion on sex between men, and conceptualize being penetrated as severely emasculating and heavily taboo. The only form of m/m intercourse deemed acceptable is assault during war. This does not apply to wallach, who can have sexual relations with men without breaking taboo. Men and wallach are permitted to wed, though (as marriage is political and reproductive first and foremost) typically in conjunction with a woman wife, or in the aftermath of a divorce.

Women in Kelp Sea Dain cultures have significant autonomy, but are barred from many forms of political power. Their role is understood as managing and defending the home, land, and livestock. There is a prominent warrior culture among women, and all 'girlchildren' are taught to use weapons. Given their husbands and fathers are often away on raids, they must protect their lands and livestock against neighboring peoples husbands and fathers.

Common cattle-raiding and pillaging between neighbors is highly ritualized and prohibits the abuse of girls and women protecting their villages. A raider who defeats one in battle is expected to either spare them untouched or give them an honorable death. To do otherwise risks the wrath of the goddess Mökke (who may turn the offender into a deer and send her hounds after him, or at least curse him). This social protection is not extended to women deemed foreigners or enemies.

Highly uncommon compared to wallach, some 'girlchildren' attain manhood via special circumstances in which they complete male initiation rites.  They they take men's names and roles, often sharing wives with a brother or cousin in order to have blood-related progeny.

-----

Pictured here are Urswali Dains, the only contemporary extant sea-dain culture based wholly in piracy and raiding. 

Gender is expressed through hair primarily- men shave their heads and grow their beards long, women braid or mat their hair in ropes, and wallach wear women's hairstyles (with a small, trimmed beard when capable).

Urswali pirates proudly wear full body tattoos, with geometric patterns on the limbs, clan identification on their chests, and depictions of their battles and triumphs along their backs. Many tally their (claimed) successful raids with tattoos on their shaved scalps. These tattoos are only permitted to be worn by raiders as a sign of their elite status, though foreign names for the Urswali Dain vary on the theme of 'Painted Ones' (due to the pirates being more often encountered). Full body tattooing traditions are found elsewhere in the dainlands, though more commonly on women and for non war/raiding based purposes. 

The Urswali Dain have superstitions against bringing women on raiding boats. Some wallach are brought instead as sea-wives, who perform women's roles aboard the galleys (sewing, weaving, knitting, slaughtering of livestock, cooking) and may have sexual relations with sailing men.

Example of Dain pirate tattoos, one of Nhodda the Songbird's sons. Image cropped to spare tumblr the terror of a flaccid peanus

[sweetichigo-write]

Casse Croute

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

cw: SFW, fluff, angst, major character death

word count: 4,278

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

11:42 pm

That's what the clock read.

I did not notice it was this late. I always never mind the time. Rotting in bed was all I could do. Staring at the ceiling, dozing off, waking up, then stare the ceiling again and the cycle repeats.

I went downstairs to the kitchen to drink. It feels heavy to walk. Before I opened the fridge, I noticed a plastic bag, and inside of it was a paper bowl. When I opened the bag slightly, I saw a soup and a note on the lid. 

Hey (y/n)! I bought the soup from your favorite place hoping you'll eat and feel a bit better. I noticed the sandwich I sent you yesterday for lunch spoiled on the kitchen counter. (y/n), please take care of yourself. He doesn't want to see you like this.

I place the note on the counter and open the lid. The soup is cold. It was likely sent around 6:00 pm for dinner.

I pour the contents in the sink, and throw the paper bowl in the trash can, not bothering to segregate.

Before I left the kitchen, I realized that the sink was clean before I threw away the soup. 

(f/n) washed the piled dishes.

I frantically ran to the laundry room. Panting I switched the lights on and looked for the laundry basket like a wildman until I spotted the untouched dirty clothes. 

I breathed out a sigh of relief to see that (f/n) did not touch the dirty clothes.

I couldn't stop the tears from falling and letting out a sob. I slumped down, leaning at the door frame, crying covering my face.

I looked up and saw a blue button shirt, then grabbed it as if I were a child grabbing a toy.

The shirt is a beautiful wedgewood blue and soft to the touch. No buttons were missing. The fibers of the thread can be seen, holding the button for dear life.

I couldn't stop my hiccups and sobs as I felt the softness of the fabric. I sniffed the shirt and it smelled like him. Not the expensive perfume he used but him. 

His scent reminds me of the time when I greet him home and hug him, when he picks me up from work and bear hugs me, and when we cuddle to sleep and wake up still in his arms.

I carried his shirt as I walked back to our bedroom. The shirt is very light, but why is it so heavy? I plopped on our bed, laying down on his side of the bed, inhaling his scent on his pillow. The pillow slowly losing its scent made me cry and wail.

I miss him so so much.

The house is so empty! So silent! I hate it! It hurts so much. Every corner of the house reminds me of him. 

The lounge chairs where we read books every Sunday afternoon. The kitchen where we cook together and laugh when we failed cooking the food. The bathtub is where we have our spa day. The couch where we sit to watch movies and discuss mundane things. The bed I lay down where we show our love to each other. 

All corners, rooms,  and furniture always remind me of him. It hurts so much that I want to leave, or better yet, burn the place down...but I can't… this is my home, he was my home.

Still hiccupping and sobbing, I opened the drawer of his bedside table and then grabbed his daily planner. I flipped it to a particular date.

November 23

• Buy flowers

• Buy coffee and chocolate croissants at (y/n) favorite cafe

• Meeting with Mr.(r/n)

• Pick up the ring

• Dinner at (r/n) restaurant

The last bullet clenched my heart

• Ask (y/n) to spend our lives together

I kissed the page while tearing up and placed it on my chest.

I glanced at the clock and it read 12:02 am.

Today is November 23rd. My birthday. The day he was supposed to propose to me.

_______

I was jolted awake when someone shook my shoulder. It was (f/n).

"Hey, (y/n) are you okay? I was dropping off your meal and I decided to check up on you. You were whimpering in your sleep."

I stared blankly at (f/n) and then looked away from her.

"Thank you", I said weakly with a hoarse voice

There was a moment of silence before she spoke.

"Okay, I've had it enough, (y/n)! You’re killing yourself! Refusing to eat, not taking care of yourself, and just laying all day, do you think he wanted to see you suffering like this? (y/n), you look so thin! I am worried for you! We are all worried for you!"

"Did you think I wanted this!", I shouted back at her, "I can't eat! Even if I wanted to, I can't. My pain after losing him is greater than my hunger. I'm sorry for neglecting myself all because I drown myself with my sorrows", I broke down.

(f/n) embraced, brushing my hair, "I'm sorry, (y/n). I did not mean to shout at you I'm sorry."

I cried in her arms, clutching her sleeves not wanting her to leave me.

"(f/n), what should I do? This place hurts me. I cannot leave this place" I can't stop the tears from flowing, not minding the mess I made on her clothes.

"Actually...."

_____

I fiddled with the ring on my hand. It was a beautiful gold ring with a diamond at the center. It is simple and beautiful. He really knows my taste.

(f/n) gave me the ring he was supposed to propose to me

"He planned to propose to you on your birthday. He told me his plans and asked for my help to look for a ring. It was funny because the guy knew you like the back of his hand but still asked me for my opinion on what ring to choose, but I declined since I wanted him to choose the ring"

I was snapped out of my memory when someone called me.

"Miss (y/n), you may now enter", the woman gave me her warm smile. I smiled back at her even though it was small.

Inside the room was a white cushioned recliner-like chair. A woman with glasses appeared and greeted me.

"Good morning, miss (y/n)! I am Dr. Ieri, and these are Dr. Kamo and Dr. Inumaki", I bow to them as my greetings, "Please sit down on the chair so that we can begin the procedure."

(f/n) suggested me to come to this place. I did not know such a place existed. Many have visited the place and have a memory wipe out. Not thinking about the consequences, I impulsively accepted her suggestion.

I followed Dr. Ieri's instructions. After I made myself comfortable, Dr. Kamo placed a device on my head and an anesthetic face mask.

"We will use the device on your head to see which memories you want to be wiped. While trying to make you sleep, we will start reviewing your memories, and you might see and remember the memories being wiped out."

I just nodded to him since I was already wearing the anesthetic mask.

As they started to choose what part of my memories to wipe out, all of the times when me and I were together flashed in my eyes

_____

I went to my favorite pastry shop for lunch since I was craving for their casse croute. After  I grabbed the last piece, I saw a man that was about to pick it up. I noticed the dark circles under his eyes. He looked so tired. Feeling bad, I give the sandwich to him.

"Here you go, sir, you can have it", I smile at him but the worry is clear in my expression.

"No, thank you, miss. I'll just grab another sandwich", he politely declined.

"No, I insist", I placed the sandwich in his hand then walked away so that he wouldn't give it back, and then roam around the shop to buy another of my favorites.

I saw the man paying at the counter, talking with the cashier, (c/n), as I waited in line. I realized he is kind of...muscular. He is tall, maybe like 6'3. And he dressed so well. I chuckled to myself. 

"He is so my type", I whispered to myself.

When it was my turn to pay (c/n) looked surprised.

"Oh, (y/n)!  The gentleman a while ago paid for your sandwich as well", she beamed.

My eyes went wide. I was speechless. I did not even notice (c/n) packed my sandwich.

I thanked (c/n) and then went out of the shop in a hurry hoping to see the man again, but he was nowhere to be seen.

_____

It was Saturday night when me and my friends decided to visit a jazz club in the city. When we sat at our booth, I scanned the area, admiring the ambiance.

A particular blonde head caught my attention. I excused myself from my friends, then strutted my way to his booth.

"Casse croute", the man was about to take a sip of his drink when I spoke. He turns his head and his eyes widen.

"Ah, miss...?"

"(y/n). What's your name?" I offered my right hand to shake his hand.

"Nanami Kento", he held my hand, and instead of shaking he kissed it.

"So, what brings you here, mister Nanami?", I sat in the chair next to him, "oh, I hope you don't mind", I sat comfortably and faced him.

"It's fine. I'm just drinking here alone to unwind. What about you? What brings you here?", he shifted on his seat to face me.

"Well me and my girlfriends wanted to unwind too and have fun", I look at our booth motioning where my friends are seated. He looked at where they were seated, and my friends waved at us. As soon as his back was facing them, they raised their thumbs, hyping me up, and I giggled.

"I hope you didn't ditch your friends", he chuckled. 

I laughed, "Of course not! I saw a familiar blonde, and I just to say hi to him".

When I glanced at our table, a waiter was getting the order in our booth. My friends motioned me to come back.

"I have to go back. My friends are calling me. It was lovely chatting with you," before I left, he gently held my hand.

"Wait,"  I focused my attention on him, "I wanted to thank you for giving the casse croute to me. Let me repay you."

Curious, "How, mister Nanami?"

"Let me take you out for dinner, have drinks, and get to know each other", he squeezed my hand gently.

"Mister Nanami, are you asking me out on a date?" I acted fake shock.

"Maybe", he smiled then kissed my hand.

We exchanged contacts before I went back to my booth.

_____

On our date, he took me to a restaurant with a spectacular view of the city, a jazz band was playing making the atmosphere light and smooth.

We ate dinner, drank some cocktails, talked about ourselves, and laughed at some jokes.

By the end of our date, he drove me home.

When we reached my apartment complex he exited his vehicle. As I unbuckled my seatbelt he opened the door for me. He held my hand that was not holding my bag, assisting me as I got out of the car. He closed the door and stared at me.

"Did you have a great time?", he asked.

"Yes. How about you?", I ask curiously.

"Very much," he kissed the back of my hand.

The gesture made me blush.

"I wish to see you again"

"So a second date, Kento?"

"Yes"

_____

Over the past few months, me and Kento had several dates. There were dates on which I was the one who planned, but mostly he was the one who planned our dates.

In one particular meeting we had, he shared that he won't be renewing his lease and plans to move out.

"The house that I bought is not fully furnished. I don't have any idea what appliances and furniture should I pick," he shared with me while holding hands.

"I can help you pick. I am free this Saturday."

"Then this Saturday we'll have a furniture shopping date," he laughed and I laughed as well.

_____

Shopping for his soon-to-be home furniture was fun. I get to know his style and preferences.

Most of the furniture we bought was a fusion of our preferences, but mine obviously dominated his. I wondered why he just let me choose the furniture.

On the day he moved in, I was there to help him.

Dinnertime arrived, and we ordered chicken and pizza. We sat on the floor since the table was not yet assembled.

We talked and laughed as we ate dinner.

"Ah! (y/n), I'll grab something from my room", he stood up.

"I'll go with you," I was about to stand up when he stopped me.

"You don't have to. Just eat your meal. You needed that, you helped me move and organize some of my stuff," he ruffled my hair and walked away.

While he was gone, I admired his place. The house was so big for one person living here.

When he came back, he handed me something, "Here,".

When I looked at it, it was a key.

"Kento, what's this?" I looked at him confused. My heartbeat was so fast that it was ringing in my ears.

"A duplicate of my house key," he paused, " this is me asking you to move in with me. I want to see you all the time. After a rough day at work, I want to feel your presence and bask in your warmth. So, (y/n) will you move in with?"

I did not waste another second to reply, "Yes!", I jumped to hug him, but we ended up lying on the floor due to the force of my embrace. 

We laughed it off. I couldn't help myself to kiss him. He was taken aback but reciprocated my kiss.

_____

After I moved in with him, everything felt like a dream. I get to see more of him. I learned what genre of books he reads, and his favorite meal that I learned to cook (he protested that I don't need to cook for him but I insisted, we argued a bit until we made an agreement that we'll cook our meals together), and his favorite bread from the pastry shop where we first met. When we have disagreements, we would talk it out before sleeping, not allowing us to sleep with a heavy burden in our hearts.

One particular evening, he showed a different side of him.

We were cooking dinner. He was chopping the vegetables as I was stirring the pot when I asked him to pass the salt.

"Love, can you hand me the salt?", I reached my hands at my back waiting for the salt shaker to be placed on my palm.

A minute passed and no salt shaker appeared on my hand.

"Kento? Oh!," I was surprised when his arms encircled around my waist.

His face was buried on my shoulder. I turned around to face him, but he just buried his face on my chest.

"Kento, what's wrong?" I stroked his fluffy blonde hair, and that's when I noticed his red ears.

"Say that again," he murmured.

"Huh?"

"Call me love again"

I smiled and then chuckled. I kissed the top of his head then I said the words he wanted to hear.

"Love"

His embrace tightened.

I laughed and teased him throughout the night.

_____

I was folding his clothes and placing them in his luggage as he answered a call.

There was an urgent out-of-town business meeting. 

"Yes, Mr. (r/n) I'll meet you tomorrow morning. Have a good evening," he ended the call and walked towards the bed where I was packing his clothes.

He slumped on me, burying his face on my shoulder. I scratch the back of his head.

" I'm sorry I will be leaving you tomorrow. I will try to get back as soon as the meeting ends," he said sounding like a sad puppy.

"It's okay, love. You don't have to rush. I want you to be back safe and sound," I kissed his temple and caressed his cheek.

_____

When I woke up he wasn't on his side of the bed.

After eating breakfast and taking a shower I received a text from him

From: Love

I just arrived. Hope you ate breakfast already.

I texted back saying that I just ate and telling him to eat as well because he did not have time to eat earlier.

_____

October 31st

The wind was howling and the rain fell heavily outside. 

Today was the day he was supposed to come back, but given the weather, I think he will reschedule his flight.

As I was doing my skincare he called me.

"Good evening, darling! How are you?", he sounded tired but he tried to sound cheerful.

"I'm fine. How about you love?" I put our call on speaker while I continue my nightly routine of skincare.

There was a long pause before I heard him sigh before he spoke.

"I miss you so much. I'll try to go home tonight. I asked them to prepare my plane."

That alerted me.

"Wait. Hold on. Kento, don't you dare fly back home tonight. Don't you see the weather outside? There's a freaking storm," I said in a strict firm tone.

"I know but I just miss you so much. I want to see you now"

"Kento- love, why don't you wait-," our call was cut off when the power went out. There was no signal.

Damn

I slept that night thinking that he rescheduled his flight.

_____

I was woken up by my phone ringing.

'Who calls this early in the morning?' I think to myself.

I answered the call, not checking who called.

"This is *** speaking, who is this?" I asked groggily.

"Ma'am, this the (random hospital name) we would like you to come to identify the body of Mr. Nanami Kento."

_____

I immediately rushed to the hospital, not bothering to change my pajamas just grabbing my purse and phone and then hailing a cab.

I was in no condition to drive.

‘This can't be true. This is not Kento. He's at (town name). He rescheduled his flight. He'll be back this afternoon.’

I started to hyperventilate, not caring about the cab driver giving me worried looks.

When I arrived at the hospital, I asked the nurse where I could find Kento. She looked at me, and for a second I saw her worried expression then it changed into a stoic look.

She led the way where I could him. Hoping she'd lead me to a hospital room, but when I saw her turn to a corridor that had a sign 'morgue' the blood drained from my face.

When we arrived, the mortician looked at me worriedly, but he still unzipped the bag.

There I saw, the love of my life, lying lifeless.

I broke down, choking a sob. I went near his lifeless body.

'This is not him!’ Deluding myself, but when I saw the moles and marks on his body, it was definitely him.

I wailed loudly, not minding the nurse and mortician watching me as I crumbled.

I caressed his face hoping that he would open his eyes, that this was some kind of joke, but I knew that this was real.

_____

The funeral process went by like a blur. Family and friends saying their condolences.

I stared at his casket. He was wearing an expensive white polo shirt. He looked so peaceful, it was just as if he was sleeping.

After he was buried, my friends asked me if I wanted some company, but I politely declined.

After they left, I closed the door. For the first, the house was so silent. It was deafening.

I then slumped down on the door, crying for the nth time today.

_____

I gained a bit of consciousness. Realizing my mistake I don't want to erase my memories with him. Even if it hurts I'll hold on to those memories.

I tried to lift my arms to get the doctor's attention, but I couldn't move them. I tried to make a sound, but nothing came out of my throat.

'Please! Stop the procedure! I changed my mind! Dr. Ieri! Dr. Kamo! Dr. Inumaki!'

I silently prayed that they would hear my pleas. But as if the heavens loathed me, I heard a robotic voice 'Memory wiped out complete!'  before I lost consciousness.

_____

I was typing on my computer to finish my work when I checked the time.

11:42 am

It's nearly lunchtime. I stood up from my desk and grabbed an envelope.

Inside was my letter. The contents were just about a leave note. I already sent a soft copy to my manager, but to be sure I'll swing by her office.

I knocked on Mr.(r/n) and then entered when I heard a faint 'come in'.

"What brings you here, Miss (y/n)?"

"I'm here for my leave. I sent you an email," I handed him an envelope, "Here is another copy of my leave."

"Ah! I have already approved your leave. Thanks for letting us know in advance."

_____

I went to the washroom first before I went back to my office. I checked my appearance first when my earrings caught my attention.

It was the ring I wore when I woke up in the hospital.

I just randomly woke up and doctors informed me of the procedure I had just undergone. According to them, I wiped out some of my memories. I thought it was bullshit. But every time I glanced at the ring, now earrings, it made me slowly believe that a part of my memory was gone.

I asked a fine goldsmith friend of mine to turn the ring into earrings. It was hard to cook, do house chores, and work wearing the ring. 

I initially wanted to pawn the ring, but something stopped me from doing so. Just the thought of pawning the ring made me clench my heart.

When I was on my way to my office, I bumped into (f/n).

"Hey, (y/n)! You'll be leaving early right?"

"Yeah, I have to pack the last of my things. I'll be moving out tomorrow."

After I got discharged from the hospital, (f/n) drove me home. I was expecting to be in my apartment complex, but to my surprise, we arrived at a large house— more like a mansion.

Staying there was hard. The place was way too big for a single person to live. When I want to eat for my late-night cravings, I have to sleep the hunger away because the kitchen is very far away. The cleaning was especially hard.

When I put the house on sale, a family contacted me they were interested in buying the house. They were happy because it was the home of their dreams, and it made them more happy to know it was fully furnished.

_____

The moving truck was loading the last of my things. With my luggage in my hand, I glanced at the place. It looked empty despite the furniture still being there. A wave of sadness rushed at me. The place was compelling me to stay, but I stood my ground wanting to leave.

My attention was diverted when I heard an engine coming inside the estate. 

It was the family moving in. 

There were moving trucks as well

When they got out of the car I saw the wife, with the same hair color as me. We kind of look alike. We have the same body shape and height.

Together with her is her husband. He was a tall blonde man. Probably 6'3 in height. In his arms were two beautiful children giggling.

"Hello, Miss (y/n)!" The woman greeted excitedly.

I smiled and then exchanged pleasantries with her.

"You can't imagine how happy I was when I saw this place in the market. My husband and my children couldn't sleep a wink last night. They were too excited to move in!"

"Well, I'm glad that you and your family were looking forward to moving in," I reached for my pocket to hand her the keys, "These are the keys, the keys for the different rooms are here as well- Oh! There's also a duplicate house key too", she looks so happy after receiving the keys.

"Thank you, Miss (y/n)!"

I paused for a while before I said something to her.

"I hope you will be making happy memories with your family in your new home", I patted her shoulder and then walked towards my car.

After I placed my luggage in the trunk and closed it, I looked at the family entering their home. Something flashed in my eyes. It was me and a man entering the place.

I shook my head as it was nonsense.

As I drove off towards my new home, I glanced at the car mirroreflecting the gate of the house slowly getting smaller and smaller.

Fin

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

I was inspired by @enhaskzzz Enhypen swipe game breakup edition. The song playing in the swipe game was Ariana Grande's "we can't be friends". You can find the vid at TikTok 🍓🎀.