#i don't know what to say to her sometimes when she asks questions

[hyperfixationstation128]

When I was around 12 years old, I had a math teacher who despised me. The second she clapped eyes on me, she detested my very existence. I'm AuDHD and have Dyslexia, and I have always struggled with math. Numbers just don't make sense to my brain, and she took any moment she could to embarrass me. She would deliberately call on me to answer questions knowing that I would either get it wrong or would publicly struggle to figure it out. Be it my inability to process numbers, my constant reading in her class, or just the fact that she was a miserable old bat, she HATED me.

Coincidentally, during that time, I was going to brain therapy to help with my Dyslexia and would sometimes leave her class early to go to my lessons. One day, while we were doing a group math game, I was called to leave. My group was understandably upset because we were close to winning and now the groups were uneven. According to at least 4 separate kids, this bitch flat out said "Oh, don't worry. She wouldn't have gotten it right anyway." In front of the entire class.

I was mortified and immediately told my mother, who lost it. I'm talking marching up to the school office to demand a reprimand. Now, my mother is a 5'nothing twiggy thing, but she's got a voice like Zeus when she's angry. After that encounter and threatening to report her to the school board, the teacher left me alone. She never called on me, never spoke to me, hardly ever looked at me. I was just glad she wasn't berating me anymore.

This was a minor encounter compared to my Autistic sister's "Evil Teacher Story". I don't remember how old she was, but she was very young and her class was making friendship bracelets and she had accidentally added too many beads to her string. Upset and confused about what to do, she told the teacher. According to my sister, the teacher ripped the bracelet out of her hands, got in her face and hissed, "You don't deserve to have this anyway!" And cut it up right in front of her face. My sister had higher support needs as a child, so she was more of a target than I ever was.

I only ever had one good teacher who never picked on me. Mrs. Pasquet (I think that's how you spell it). She was my 4th-grade English teacher and she was incredible! She adored my writing and would ask if it was okay to share with the class, and I agreed, so long as it was anonymous. She was one of the sweetest people I'd met. I saw her again after dropping out of high school at my job once, and she immediately recognized me. Spent a solid 20 minutes talking to me, asking how I was doing, showing genuine concern and care (from what I can tell, at least)

I don't remember many details of my child and teenhood, but there are small moments that stick out to me where I felt incredibly lonely and ostracized by my peers. I didn't suspect I was Autistic until like 4 years ago, but I always knew something was "wrong" with me. I could never keep friends for longer than a couple of years, I was always the butt of the joke, the weird one, the mean one. That last label has followed me into adulthood. Everyone seems to think that I'm rude or mean because of my flat affect and the way I pick my words. I try, constantly, to be careful with what I say, but no matter what I do, it's always "Well, you could've said that nicer." Or "That was really rude. No, I'm not going to explain what was rude. You should know." Like, bro, I'm fucking trying here, man!

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Hey can I request a fluff oneshot? Like the reader has a fight with her mom over a silly issue. Not a fight just reader ends up crying and her mom says to just hang herself on the fan and d!e. (sorry if its too Detailed thats what happened tome and my mom yesterday)

So reader runs away from her house to hyunjin's and then friendship blooms into Smtg else.

Pretty please cuz I feel emotionally tired somehow for the First time jn years I just want a comfort fic pleasd

Loving you is my safe place- H.HJ

Apparently I still know how to write, edit a post and post it on Tumblr haha it's too short tho, my bad

I am sorry your mother said such a horrible thing to you. I also don't have a good relationship with my mother so I understand how you feel. Sorry it took so long, I hope it still brings you some comfort 💜

Word count: 0.9k

No warnings

Alexa, play I don't understand but I luv you by SEVENTEEN

You weren't supposed to cry. You didn’t mean to grab your phone and keys, slam the door and go. But sometimes, when things feel too much— especially when it comes from the person who was supposed to love you no matter what— it’s okay to fall apart.

Her words echoed in your head as your knuckles felt sore from knocking too hard on Hyunjin’s door. And when it opened, he was there— wearing a simple grey tee, black sweatpants, with his long black locks falling on his face— looking like he came straight out of Heaven.

His expression shifted as soon as his eyes landed in your red, swollen eyes

“Hey… Is everything okay?”, he asked tenderly

You didn’t say anything, just looked at him, a little empty, like if you did— you wouldn’t be able to stop crying

He didn’t press you. Instead, he stepped to the side, “Come in”

✧

You ended up on his couch, curled under a soft blanket. Hyunjin made your favorite tea, but you didn’t want tea. Or anything else. He didn’t ask questions at first, just sat beside you close enough for you to feel comforted but not too close to feel overwhelmed.

“I didn’t know where else to go”, you whispered 

“You’re always welcome here”, he replied, “Any time. Don’t even have to ask firt”

You nodded. His words were so real, so honest, that your lip trembled.

 “We argued. It was stupid but she said something really…”, your voice cracked 

Hyunjin looked at you, and his expression shifted to something between fury and disappointment 

“I’m so sorry”, he said, “Whatever she said, if it hurt you, it is not okay”

You finally looked at him, “She told me to just… hang myself. Like it was a damn joke”, you paused, fighting against the tears, “I know she didn’t mean it, but still… it hurts so much”

Hyunjin set his mug down and turned fully toward you. His hand hesitated for a few seconds before resting gently on top of yours.

“That’s not something anyone should ever say to you. Or to anyone else, joke or not. Especially not someone who’s supposed to protect you”

The tears came again and you didn’t even try to hide them.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything else. He just pulled you into him, arms wrapping around you like it was his second nature . He held you so gently that it made you cry even harder.

“I’ve got you, okay? You’re not alone”, he promissed against your hair. 

✧

He carried you to his bed after you fell asleep on his shoulder. He was trying to close the door without making a sound when he heard the doorbell.

“Shit”, he whispered before tiptoeing to the the front door

It was Chan who stood there. He was holding a black cap and a charger, “You left this in the studio. Figured you might need it”

Hyunjin blinked in surprise, “Oh… thanks, hyung” 

He grabbed his stuff with one hand and pressed a finger to his lips with the other, “Yn’s sleeping in my bedroom”

Chan’s eyebrows furrowed with concern, “Is she okay?”

Hyunjin sighed, “She had… a problem at home. She just needed to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe”

Chan nodded in acknowledged, “But what’s the thing between the two of you?”

Hyunjin tilted his head sightly, “Thing?”

Chan’s lips curled into a smirk, “Come on. You bring a different fruit every day just to ‘casually’ ask her if she wants some. You carry her bag when she’s tired and you let her put pink clips in your hair even though you hate it”

Hyunjin opened his mouth, then closed it, completely speechless

“And now”, Chan added, “you’re letting her crash here like she’s your problem”

“We’re just friends”, Hyunjin mumbled, ears turning red.

“Sure. Just friends”

He gave Hyunjin a tap on the shoulder, “Goodnight, Jinnie. Make wise choices”, then he left. 

Hyunjin glanced back toward the bedroom and whispered into the silence, “I’m trying”

✧

You woke up without knowing how you end up in his bed. Hyunjin was curled up on the floor, using a blanket as a pillow.

You look down at him, “Hyunjin?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing down there?”, you asked, voice raspy with sleep.

“Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable” he said, rubbing his eyes, “Figured you’d feel safer if I were here when you wake up” 

“Come up here”, you said, already making room, “Please”

He hesitated, “Are you sure? I don’t want to make it weird”

“Hyun”, you gave him a soft smile, “You let me cry into your t shirt for an hour. There’s no ‘weird’ between us”

He laughed, relieved, then climbed into the bed beside you. You reached for him, arms wrapping around his waist, cheek pressed against his chest. He immediatly wrapped his arms around you in return— warm and steady.

You tilted your head a little, voice muffled against him, “Why do I feel like this is kind of romantic?”

You felt his heartbeat speeding up under your cheek before he answered.

“Maybe that’s because… I’ve been in love with you for a while now?”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. He looked like he regretted saying it out loud.

But then he added, “I just didn’t want to risk losing you saying it too soon. But tonight… when you came here, all I could think was, ‘please let me be the person she runs to when things are tough’ ”

You stared at him for a second, butterflies all over your stomach and chest, “Hey, Hyun”

“Hum?”

“You’re the person I’d run to again. Every time”

A small smile formed on his lips, and he leaned in, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead

“And I’d let you stay every time. Forever”

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep, @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @ mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin , @yxna-bliss , @moonchild9350 , @vernorica123 , @lov3lycosmos

[ishestillapunk]

i need part 3 of the jackson joel and nurse reader starting a relationship and having a happy ending or else i will kms (no pressure <3)

The right side of my neck pt.3

masterlist

pairing: jackson!joel x nurse f!reader

summary: Joel and you thought you would be in the same page when you two got into this, now, two months into a relationship, things aren't what you expected.

tags: age gap (30s-50s), angst, fools in love, mentions of death, ER, mentions of medication, hospital, vomit, fools in love again god damnit, kissing, masturbation (f! receiving)

w/c: 3.1k

a/n: hey so I think this is not exactly what you asked anon but I do see them going through this stage in their relationship. thanks for your request and i apologize for taking so long!

edit: part 4 is coming 17/07!!!!

"He's a complete asshole"

"Oh, c'mon, he's not"

María set a coffee cup in front of you on the round table and takes a seat across you. Her hands curve around her red mug. "He's jus'... not used, y'know?” She says and the purse her lips to blow softly on the tea.

It sometimes irks you how much everyone seem to normalize Joel's behavior. His sudden distance, his silence, his emotional immaturity. Is not as if you had a psychology degree or as if you were the queen of affective responsibility, but he was the one to approach and ask you to be in a relationship with him. Why is he running away now?

"I get it that he's not used, I'm not neither but I'm not hiding or ignoring him in the street" You frown not even caring on touching your mug.

"Is he ignoring you?"

"Yes! He just appears in the middle of the night at my place and leaves before the first patrol run around the block. He's not only hiding from me but also hiding me from being seen with him." Your hands tremble lightly over your lap. Questions with no answer begin to overflow your brain.

"Did I do something wrong?" You ask quietly. Maybe there's something about this new stage, of being in a relationship that you don't really decode yet. Maybe you were supposed to do something and he got tired of expecting it. But what could that be? More sex? More acts of service? Maybe more submission?

"Wait" María raise her hand lightly between you and her and lowers it over your lap, on your trembling hands. "I know what's running through that mind of yours and no. No, you did nothing wrong" The woman gets her chair closer to yours.

"Look. Joel is not an easy man to read. Its easier for him to walk away for a while and think in silence than to talk stuff out. It's just his old fashioned way of being as normal as he can after so many things he lived in the past. I know is hard to understand but you just have to give him time"

"But I don't like how he... Sort of hides. It feels like I'm his worst decision" You lift your head and lock eyes with María. She has that motherly gaze on her eyes that makes you feel a cocoon of safety, like a space for you to say what has been clogging your throat.

María looks to the side for a moment. Thinking. You can see her calculating the reactions you could probably have to what she's about to say.

"Tommy told me he feels weird going out with you or being seen with you because you're too young" She finally drops the bomb and you frown profusely.

"Young? I'm thirt-"

"I know. I know. I didn't said he was right" María stands up and walks to the living room while gesturing you to follow. She points the small memorial over the hearth you noticed when you walked in the first time but never asked.

"Sarah was born in the 89'" She says looking at the small black board. The name beside it says Kevin. You look at María, lightly confused.

"Who's Sarah?"

María looks at you and squint her eyes a bit.

"Oh. So that's the name" You finally realize.

“I tried following those eyes,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t. She was fourteen that night… she died in my arms.”

You and María take a seat on the couch while looking at the memorial. You feel her now looking at your profile.

"You're the age she would be now."

You close your eyes and sigh heavily. Feeling, maybe, the odd feeling he might feel when he's near you.

"I'm not her" You shift uncomfortably on your spot. What is she intending? You look back at Maria and she nods, closing her eyes.

"I know. And I don't think he consciously sees it that way"

“Sir, please, don’t throw up in that” You quickly snatch the plastic bag from the man’s hands and change it for a plastic bucket.

“Thanks, ma'am…” The old man nods with an almost toothless smile and hunches to throw up. You rub his back while searching in the pocket of your scrub for the next room you need to check.

The scent is heavy with that kind of plastic mixed with iron and some antiseptic flying around. The infirmary is packed today, and you’re supposed to be home in an hour, but it doesn’t sit right with you leaving your coworkers with the amount of patients that are waiting around.

You walk out once the man is back on his bed and walk down the hallway passing the patient rooms that are currently having their visits. The hubble is low, quiet, hushed. Some scent of flowers comes your way, some sniffles are heard from somewhere else.

“Are you busy?”

You whirl around with that light urgency of being useful, and then notice that it’s him. Your shoulders tense a bit but also feel a warmness run up your spine. Weird mix of anxiety and love.

“Hi. I’m good, thanks for asking” You articulated. He stands near but doesn’t touch you, instead, he grabs his wrist, massaging it while he looks to the sides of the hallway. “Oh, no. You’re fine. No one is gonna kill you for being around me”

“I didn’t said anything”

“You don’t need to. You look awfully embarrassed of being near me”

Joel lets out a light sigh through his teeth while looking at you, then he looks down at his own hands, untangling them.

“I jus’ wanted to tell you that I won’t be going to your place tonight. I have perimeter with Tommy and I can’t switch spots with anyone, I tried” His eyes roam your face while he speaks. You notice he doesn’t have that melted gaze he gives you indoors, even seems as if he’s holding himself.

He’s keeping distance. That knee popping out stance with his thumbs hooked on his belt. Chin lifted. Jaw tight.

“Ok, Joel.” You just answer, dry. He notices and arches a brow.

“What happened?” He crosses his arms. Some nurses walk through the hallway and glance at you two.

Silence.

“I don’t know, you tell me” Again. Dry. You mock him by crossing your arms too.

You’re getting a bit exhausted by this attitude of his. Being a vulnerable gentleman with you behind the door, caressing you every time he has the chance, placing his hand on your lower back, caressing your hair, hugging you from behind.

And absolutely nothing in public.

“I’m trying, dar–” He cuts himself when he hears some steps coming. Lower his head and scratch his beard. A male doctor passes by and he looks at you again. “I’m trying.”

“Yes, hard enough. Thought we had this behind us but it seems like we've been running in circles for two fucking months.” You let out lightly, tilting your head and receiving a stammer of his mouth trying to say something but you cut him off. “Look. I have work to do. Just…” You stare at him almost with pity. And it breaks him.

“This is not about you” Joel raises his hand between you and him, not reaching you but trying to ease the situation.

“I don't even know what this is about, Joel.”

You walk past him. He stands there, looking down.

Later in the night, the feeling of the bed dipping under someone's weight behind you makes you open your eyes. You see his back while he's sat on the edge of your bed, taking off his boots and jeans.

By lifting your head a bit, you notice he brought the space heater upstairs and placed it near the door. The warm orange weakly illuminates the furniture nearby and the soft electric hum fills the silence that mixes with his exhausted breathing.

“I thought you said you wouldn't be coming tonight…” You murmur, your hand stretches across the mattress and caresses his back, sliding your hand below his flannel.

“Tommy said I look like a zombie with insomnia” Joel answers with barely enough volume, but you get to understand. He finally lays down and takes your hand, holding it over your stomach while spooning you.

Silence. He sighs, his hand slides up to caress your cheek, thumb brushing over your lips. “You're all I see when I close my eyes..."

You frown softly. Is that good? You should feel flattered? You're his problem when he tries to sleep?

“You want to talk about it?” You ask tilting your head.

Joel doesn't explain further. He turns you around, grabs the back of your thigh softly and brings it over his hip, above the elastic of his briefs. His hand caresses the longitude of your back and you, even if you force yourself not to, you lean to nuzzle your nose with his, breathing near his mouth.

His fingers slide through your folds like he’s mapping familiar territory. One thick finger finds your clit and rubs firm, slow circles, while the other pushes two fingers inside without warning. You moan grasping his biceps, bucking your hips, and he grit his teeth while nuzzling his nose on your cheek.

“You feel how wild you have me lately?"

Your hands grip over his shirt. His fingers work you open, scissoring gently before curling just right. You feel the snap building fast. He watches your face with a hunger that borders on feral.

“Come for me” he growls. “Let me feel you. I jus' want t'feel you..."

Your body obeys before your mind does. You cum with a shattered gasp, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around nothing once he pulls his fingers out. Your mouth opens against his, a sharp gasp that is cut by him biting your lower lip gently, sliding into a kiss.

Your hand goes to hold his wrist but his other hand takes your wrist and holds it over his cheek while he kisses you. You try to pull his briefs down but he just moves your hands away, guiding them somewhere else. Joel sucks on your neck, your chest and nipples. Covers you with kisses and slick smooches.

“Joel, let me touch you…” You whisper husky looking down at his hand holding yours against his chest while he is kissing your neck.

He pulls back, suddenly. Gets up and leaves the room, probably going to sleep on the couch.

The days go by and it feels like everything has gone back to square one. Joel hardly shows up at your place, and you don’t chase after him either. You don’t even think about visiting him in the middle of the night or looking for him in the corners like he used to do with you.

It feels like nothing really happened at all. María doesn’t ask. Tommy doesn’t even say hello when you pass him on the street. You feel a slight bitterness because not long ago you thought maybe, just maybe, you’d found something close to family.

But everything vanished into thin air almost in the blink of an eye.

The sheets are losing his scent.

His toothbrush lies forgotten in the bathroom drawer.

His shirt covers you when you sleep.

You think maybe you were a bit egoistic, quick to anger, but you can't do much with silence and distance, you can't do anything more than to feel like you're being forgotten or worse, used. You cling to the little he left behind. To what he left inside you.

You dream he comes back, that he slips into bed and holds you. That he apologizes. That he loves you a little more before dawn. But you wake up alone, like you always have, only now—it hurts.

Only two weeks have passed since this strange distance formed between you two, but it aches like a silent dagger deep in your ribs. You keep living your life, don’t cry, don’t talk about it to anyone. Talk about what? If the whole thing happened as fast as lightning.

“Heads up, we’ve got a 14-year-old female, anxiety attack, arriving now!” One of the nurses coming from patrol was pushing the stretcher with Joel.

You both locked eyes briefly. But you saw it.

Fear.

The bright fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you hurried through the ER hallway to reach them. Your heart tightened at the sight of the pale girl, no more than fourteen, seated on the stretcher. Shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps, bluish lips. The faint wheezing was unmistakable.

Respiratory distress.

You moved closer, voice fast but gentle.

“Hi, I’m one of the nurses here. You’re doing great, okay? I’m going to help you breathe a little easier.”

The girl’s wide eyes flicked to you and then to the little name tag of your scrub. Anxiety mingled with exhaustion. You crouched beside her to meet her gaze. “Can you try to take some slow, deep breaths with me?”

The girl nodded faintly, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with fear. With your hands gently handling her weak and trembling ones, you placed the pulse oximeter on her finger, watching the small digital screen blink a reading of 89%. Too low.

You could see Joel standing on the side. Hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly, his body lightly rocking, eyes following whatever you're doing with the girl. You glance at him and give a small nod, calming him.

He gulps heavily but you can notice how he began to take slow breaths to calm himself.

“Alright” You murmured, reaching for the oxygen mask. “This will help a lot.” Carefully, you fitted the mask over the girl’s face, making sure it was snug but comfortable. The steady hiss of oxygen filled the small space, and after a few seconds, the saturation climbed to 94%.

Nearby, another nurse was prepping a nebulizer. You glanced over and prepared the albuterol medication, her hands steady despite the urgency.

“Here comes the medicine that’ll open up your lungs” You said softly. “You might feel a little funny, but it’s going to help.”

Then you hear a light gasp and turn around again. Joel took the small nebulizer from the nurse's hands, almost knocking the woman away and quickly approached you and the girl. You almost gasp a “Joel!” but the girl was scared enough and the nurse just shook her head and walked away.

“Okay. Okay. Thank you” You look at him sharply but you can't help the small twitch of your mouth. It's adorable but also painful to see how scared he looks right now while looking at the girl.

As the nebulizer mask was placed on the girl’s face, Joel kept a reassuring hand lightly resting on her shoulder. The girl’s breathing gradually slowed, less ragged now, but her eyes still held a glimmer of worry.

You turned toward the door where the girl’s mother stood, gripping the frame anxiously. “She’s stable for now, and we’re giving her medicine to help her breathe easier” You explained, voice warm but professional. “We’re going to keep a close eye on her.”

“Yes. She's a strong kiddo, she'll be alright, ma'am” Joel says, flicking his eyes between the mother and the girl with a gruffness softened by the vulnerable moment.

The mother’s eyes welled up, gratitude and fear mixing in her trembling smile.

For almost an hour, Joel stayed in the room with the girl and the mother, watching the kid sleep while he would ask about her history. You could see through the glass how he attentively listens to the mother while keeping his eyes on the sleeping kid.

His eyes have an old pain he never showed, but you can imagine where it comes from.

After some more minutes, he finally walked out.

“Hey” You greet him quietly, resting your shoulder against the wall and locking eyes with him. “You can be a nurse now. Stole that nebulizer like a wild monkey”

“Hey… Yeah… I was scared” He approaches with a small smirk, hands in his pockets, eyes on you but not for long. Joel finds it very hard at this moment to hold your gaze. “This is odd…”

“I know” You murmur, also looking down at the floor. “It's been long”

“I'm sorry…” He looks at you again, stepping even closer. It surprises you the lack of distance he's keeping right now.

You look up and meet his gaze. His frown is melted in that apologetic way, his brown eyes looking at your every feature since he missed them so much. Your lips, your cheeks, your lashes.

“I know there is no excuse for the distance I had set between us” He begins “I… All this scares me too much. Since those nights in the cabin, then after Christmas… I know I want you but its so hard to let myself have something”

Silence.

“I'm not exactly prepared for another heartbreak, you know?”

“You think I'll break your heart?” You frown lightly.

“No. Never.” He shakes his head and his hand interlocks with yours, placing your hand on his chest over his sweater. He takes a breath and speaks with his eyes closed, as if it was the only way he can say the thoughts in his mind.

“Every death I witness takes me back to her.” Joel murmur, his lower lip quivering lightly. “And every sensation of love I feel brings back the moment I've lost her” Joel gulps. Open his eyes and look at you.

Tears.

“I don't want to doom every person I love to death.” He says low and shakily. His hands slide around your torso and hug you tightly. His hands grasp over your bluish scrub softly. Your hands move automatically, one caresses his hair with tenderness and empathy, the other hand goes to his arm, squeezing softly to reassure he's fine.

Scent of wood. Of dirt. Of burnt coffee and insomnia.

Some people passing by give apologetic stares, curious ones or even tender smiles. You just close your eyes feeling his presence holding yours. The soft sterile hubble of the hospital like a background beat echoing in the large white hallway. Beeps and hums, coughing somewhere near, a lightly covered chuckle somewhere else.

A world of situations in one building, in this is yours with him.

“Joel. We can't keep doing this ‘I-appear-and then- I-disappear’ thing” You pull back lightly while his hand cups your cheek and caresses your ear softly between his fingertips.

He nods, licking his lips.

“I know. You're allowed to kick my ass if I do that again” He says near your lips. “I'm sorry… I really hope you can forg—”

You close the distance with a smooch on his lips he retorts immediately. Joel cradles the back of your neck and his other hand holds you steady by the arch of your back to then dip you backwards.

You both hear a tender ‘Aww’. When you look to the side, you see it. A nurse that was passing by while pushing a lady in a wheelchair.

“You gave them a show, casanova” You straighten your scrub and giggle softly, then nudge his chest. He grabs your wrist.

“Let them see” Joel says with a soft smirk. “I want them to see” He pulls you back to him again and kisses you again. Without a care.

Only caring about you and him,

being together.

I'm so sorry for the short and almost inexistent smut. I'm so bad at writing it.

[3ammicrosleeps]

I'd say because this blog has put down some pretty hardline stances, and it's one of the four things I expect from this blog, along with peepswine, ff mmo things, and dice. On one hand yeah. it's all true, this particular trans would very much like if jk rowlinged off into the sun and we never had to deal with this shit again, and i'm tired of terfs using the aspect of complicated or problematic media as an excuse to give a shitty person a pass. On the other hand it is real hard to currently erase the ghost of magical British boarding school from the genre, much in the way that eldritch horror *has* to deal with the garbage legacy of lovecraft or steampunk keeps trying, but can't fully escape the grime of Victoriana.

(oh look a bunch of pasty assholes with problematic pasts that tumblr keeps having a complicated relationship with i wonder if that means anythi-)

The better question, i feel, is to ask what the setting and characters gave people so that it makes it easier for people to start tearing down the edifice and build something better. Yes, we know about the rampant racism, sexism, body-shaming, practically-everything-ism, shit romances, shit-ASS-worldbuilding, copaganda and hypocritical fascist bootlicking. it's the media franchise that's launched a thousand essays. So what is it that people loved, besides nostalgia. For me it was because i felt this Worst Witch remake had a hell of a budget but lacked Tim Curry, and i wanted Evil House to turn out to have more depth than it ultimately ever had. I liked the clash of the old and new, and the possibility of ancient magics trying to survive in a modern age. I liked that there was an entire community of weirdos who somehow managed to make things work. I liked how the magic felt in the same pedigree as math magic, where theoretically if you calculus'd hard enough you could summon a dragon. That? is all salvageable, and you don't need some shitty terf who doesn't know proper latin to sign off on it.

The problem is that it'll still be compared to harry potter. and everyone writing this knows it. Doesn't mean it shouldn't be done anyway, but the very writing of it sends very specific flags that invite confrontation with an equally loud and hateful segment of the population, and i can see why people wanting to engage in brain-soothing comfort don't want that.

Like. ultimately I'm going to groan, but put up with it when my busted-up, half-bedbound mom watches harry potter movies on the service that she spends the same amount on each month, hp-watched shows or not. I'll also keep updating her on each new act of bullshit that rowling has done and how it's affecting people. This is her Problematic Thing that she wants to watch with her brain off. People will always have a Shitty Thing That They Consume With Their Brain Off. I'm pretty sure that if i went into a deep dive of all the ff media i'd find enough to turn me off the franchise forever (like someone I knew had issues with Quina because it reminded them too much of how Japanese people stereotyped Chinese people in media, and that's been a splinter that i should look into), but hey, sometimes you want to turn your brain off and play mahjong against a naked man with glasses. At some point I know I need to put the series in perspective, but I also know that flagellating myself isn't doing anything to help any potentially affected communities, actually doing shit to help, will.

But to anon, only you can absolve you of internalized blame. People will have opinions, regardless of what you do or not do. If you're okay with that, then you already have your answer. If you're not okay with that, why are you either a) so afraid of what other trans people feel (if you're trans), or b) feel that internalized guilt will help our community more than joining us in communal efforts?

Genuine question: I have the whole HP book series in a neat little box set that I received as a gift before everything about JK Rowling came to light. I've made a vow to never purchase/rent the movies again and to never buy any new memorabilia. Is it...okay if I still want to re-read the books? They were a big part of my childhood, but I feel guilty for wanting to partake in them again. I feel like I need someone to steer me straight on this, and I'm asking on Anon in case any of your other followers might feel the same way. Sorry if this ask too heavy or requires nuance, thanks for your time ♥

I mean this as gently and kindly as I possibly can, but it feels like you're looking for a moral authority to grant you absolution for engaging with a problematic intellectual property, and I don't have the power to do that. On the one hand, I don't think silently and solitarily rereading books you already own is doing material harm to trans people, but why do it if it's going to make you feel guilty about it the whole time? At the end of the day it's up to you to decide where this fits in your own moral framework.

[ruins-of-tragedy]

Whiterose in Bloom: Day 7 - "When I Knew I Loved You"

Weiss considers most of her team a mixed bag. Blake may be rude and stand-offish, but she is whip smart and gives back as good as she gets. One of the best performers in class too. Yang seems lazy, is rambunctious and very loud, but somehow scores around the same grades as her. On top of that, she can get along with almost every one.

The balance of these qualities keep Weiss steady. She can console herself with such platitudes.

And then comes Ruby.

The only extreme Weiss has trouble making peace with. That more than anything annoys her to no end.

Tolerating Ruby demands conscious effort. It requires a modicum of patience Weiss didn't know she was capable of.

From handling random disruptions during her study sessions, to the messiest bedsheets known to mankind. There is also the horrendously lackluster attitude. All of it leaves Weiss with the desire to pull her hair out. And don't get her started on the cookies. So many freaking crumbs. Everywhere.

Suffice to say, the learning curve is plenty steep. Thankfully, Weiss is a good student.

What she doesn't realise though, somewhere along the way, Weiss started to find these crimes against her sanity endearing. Instead of scoffing at them, she can't help but shake her head fondly.

Ruby's antics result in a roll of her eyes still. However, Weiss joins in sometimes. It leads to a cleaner dorm, at least. Can be fun too, if she is willing to allow herself that.

Vytal festival happens then, and everything changes.

The day she wakes up in her bed in Atlas, Weiss complains a full minute about the sunlight to no roommates. All of it sinks in soon after. Suddenly, the chill in Atlas is colder than Blake during their first semester. The sun lacks the warmth of Yang and her ridiculous yet charming puns. Her alarm clock isn't as effective as Ruby.

Weiss yearns for her teammates like a phantom limb she has had to let go of. And her love for their leader sneaks in overnight. Quite literally.

When she gets swept up in the ways of one Ruby Rose, Weiss is unable to pin-point. But she is well aware she misses her the most.

The ghost of no cookie crumbs haunt her every waking moment.

Weiss can only make sense of that by blaming it on the uncertain nature of Ruby's fate. She placates her fears and wonders if Ruby will find it as funny as she did, the surprising answer to a question she never thought she would ask herself.

"When I knew I loved you? When your damned cookies finally left me alone."

It takes Weiss much longer to realise that her love for Ruby isn't the same as her fondness for the rest of her teammates. But that's a different story.

[iheartkars]

Chapter 7 of Glorious Rivals continued.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

As you guys know the amazing klea locked tf in and found the continuation of chapter 7 of GR in a WHOLE DIFFERENT LANGUAGE. If that's not commitment idk what is, so round of applause for our savior @lyrakanefanatic

👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏👏😌

Obviously translating is kinda rough and I don't speak German so I asked Chat gpt to refine the translation so it makes a bit more sense cause I was so lost when I tried to read it, and this is it. (Keep in mind things could get lost in translation and it might not be 100% exact)

AGAIN ALL CREDIT TO KLEA WHO FOUND THIS FOR US (SAY THANK YOU) 🫵😠

OBVIOUSLY SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖

It felt real—just like certain parts of this island did.

“Looks like I’m the first one here,” Lyra said by way of greeting.

“You were the first to answer our message.”

Avery smiled softly, her gaze never leaving the open sea before them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“The ocean or the sunset?” Lyra asked, glancing automatically at the towering rock formation that looked like an ancient stone circle—Stonehenge, if it had been dropped in the middle of the sea. “Or the rocks?”

“All of it. Look over there.”

Avery lifted an arm, and Lyra followed the motion to two narrow stone pillars jutting from the water, no more than thirty centimeters apart.

“See the gap?” Avery asked. “It’s called Sunset Gap. This time of year, the sun sets right between them. And when it does—when it touches the water, which it’s about to do any minute now—and you look straight between those stones, it’s like nothing else in the world.”

A part of Lyra wanted nothing more than to stay and wait for that moment of magic. But the larger part of her was restless—with phase two ahead of them, the tasks still unknown, and the mysterious benefactor who’d brought her here.

With Alice. And the Omega.

Some people weren’t wired to stand still and wait for something wonderful to happen.

Lyra turned her eyes from Sunset Gap and focused on their surroundings instead. Down in a hollow beneath the cliff, she spotted a loose pile of sticks and branches.

“Are we making a bonfire?” she asked.

A fire. On Hawthorne Island. That was intentional.

Avery cast her a sideways glance. “Has anyone ever told you,” she said, “that your voice is incredibly expressive?”

Embarrassment wasn’t really in Lyra’s nature. “Considering what happened in the past… why hold a game here at all?”

The heir didn’t seem fazed by the question. If anything, her expression softened.

“My aunt died on this island. In the fire.”

Lyra hadn’t known that.

“I didn’t know her personally,” Avery continued, “but my mom mourned what happened here. Deeply.”

She wrapped her arms around her waist. “The thing is, I didn’t even know she was mourning. My mom had this... absurd talent for finding joy, even under the worst circumstances. Everything could be a game. There was always a reason to laugh. And when she loved someone, she did it completely. No holding back. No regrets.”

And now she’s gone.

Lyra’s throat tightened. Grief recognized grief—always—and in places far deeper than Lyra had been willing to admit, back when she still felt normal.

“Joy in the worst circumstances,” Lyra murmured. “And everything can be a game.”

She’d read a lot about the Hawthornes—and Avery Kylie Grambs—but nothing had explained the mystery of the girl in front of her better than what she had just said.

Beside her, Avery turned her attention back to Sunset Gap. Lyra didn’t bother resisting. She followed her gaze.

The sun was nearly touching the water now, and already the view took her breath away.

“Did you think about what I said yesterday?” Avery asked. “About the game?”

Lyra didn’t dare blink, afraid to miss the exact moment when the sun filled the space between the two stones.

“Sometimes,” she repeated what Avery had told her the night before, “especially in the games that matter most, the only way to play… is to live.���

The sun sank lower, and suddenly the air exploded in color—orange, yellow, rose-gold—reflecting off the waves and painting Sunset Gap in a light that felt unreal.

Like nothing else in the world.

A full minute passed before Avery spoke again.

“Do me a favor. Don’t hurt him.”

Grayson.

Before Lyra could answer—before she could even say I couldn’t, even if I tried—Avery glanced over her shoulder, then upward.

“They’re coming,” the heir warned.

Lyra turned—and spotted three figures climbing down the jagged cliff face without so much as a rope or harness. Like Avery, the Hawthorne trio wore jeans and sweatshirts—but never in the history of clothes had jeans and sweatshirts looked like that.

“I’d tell you that you get used to it,” Avery said beside her, “but that’d be a lie.”

She met Lyra’s eyes one last time.

“Good luck, Lyra.”

And with that, she strode to the base of the cliff. Jameson Hawthorne dropped the final two and a half meters to land beside her. Nash and Xander followed.

Lyra had to admit—the four of them had something.

All of them.

The same something that had pulled her eyes away from Sunset Gap now turned her around again. Back toward the path she’d come.

And suddenly, as if her thoughts had summoned him into existence, Grayson appeared.

He stepped onto the hidden beach dressed entirely in black, his armor a perfect match for hers. It hugged his frame like it had been made for him—broad shoulders, narrow waist, powerful legs.

Lyra saw the exact second he registered her outfit.

He crossed the beach in six long strides.

“You slept.”

Classic Grayson—more statement than question.

“I dreamed,” Lyra replied.

Grayson’s expression told her he understood exactly what she meant.

“We’ll find answers,” he promised. “After the game.”

Lyra couldn’t let herself believe in after.

“That kiss.”

The word lodged in her throat.

“That can’t happen again.”

“And here I thought you were the realist,” Grayson said, giving her that look again. “But if it’s our focus you’re worried about—logically speaking, we just have to wait until the game is over. Until you win.”

He said it like it was inevitable—that they would kiss again, that she would win. And strangely, Lyra couldn’t fault him for it. It didn’t feel like arrogance.

It felt like truth.

Some things really were inevitable.

Some people really were inevitable.

“It’s not fair,” Lyra said, eyes narrowing.

“You’re a Hawthorne. That gives you a clear advantage.”

She meant in the Grandest Game—but not only that.

“My brothers and I weren’t raised to play fair,” Grayson admitted. “And speaking of which—looks like our competition’s arrived.”

Lyra saw no one—until a beat later, the remaining three players made their way onto the beach.

Savannah, the only one dressed in white.

Brady, holding his longsword.

And Rohan—gliding across the sand like gravity was optional.

“Well,” Xander announced cheerfully, inserting himself between Lyra and Grayson, “now that the whole gang’s here… may I borrow you for a moment, Lyra?”

Lyra raised a brow. “Borrow me… for what?”

Xander grinned.

“Gallus Gallus Domesticus En Garde.”

Lyra blinked. “Do I want to know?”

“Gallus gallus domesticus,” Grayson said dryly, “is the scientific name for chicken.”

“Chicken,” Lyra repeated, then turned back to Xander. “A… chicken duel?”

“Chicken-fight! If I may!” Xander chirped—then added helpfully,

“GGDEG,” he clarified, “is a long-standing, highly respected Hawthorne tradition. And definitely not just a way to get to know you better while our Gray here is otherwise occupied.”

Grayson narrowed his eyes.

Since he clearly wasn’t occupied, Lyra didn’t blame him.

Xander wasted no more time. He scooped Lyra up onto his back, piggyback style, and she realized quickly that resistance was useless.

Just as Xander stood up straight, Grayson went down—face-first.

It took a beat from her perch to process what had hit him. Or more accurately, who.

Jameson.

He’d tackled Grayson full force.

And now, Lyra thought, amused, Grayson’s otherwise occupied.

“So is a flying tackle your family’s idea of a proper greeting?” she called down to Xander.

“If you can even *call* that a flying tackle,” he snorted.

Then, at full volume, he let out something like a battle cry:

“Who among you dares challenge the mighty force of XanLyra? Nash? Avery? You!”

He pointed at Rohan.

“You think you can carry that guy?”

[daphnebowen]

can i just say... i quite enjoyed zombies 4: dawn of the vampires? i was a bit hesitant at first (i'm not the biggest fan of change, thanks, hate to see the og's go) and to be honest after rise of red i was not feeling the continuation. but i was pleasantly surprised! here are some thoughts nobody asked for:

malachi and freya had some INSANE chemistry. i was cheering for a kiss by the end. we did not get it. fine. zombies 5?

i was worried about meg and milo's chemistry for absolutely no reason. they're too cute. zeddison 5ever and i need the wedding milo has promised us. i could watch them hold hands and look at each other on a loop. (meglo forever!) (mostly platonically) (but a little romantically) (but obviously meg has a boyfriend and they're adorable)

i wish eliza and willa could have done a bit more, but i get that a big plot point was to "pass the torch" as they say. i did enjoy their "core 4" friendship vibes, though i missed wynter and wyatt and bonzo and bree and even bucky, whom i adore. willa is just honestly one of my favorite characters and watching chandler on dwts this past season (ROBBED, btw) made me love her even more.

vargas had my entire heart from beginning to end. he's legit so cool. i want to be him.

ray? could have done without him. he made me mad.

vera? same. i came around towards the end but why she gotta be eavesdropping and not listening to the whole conversation? do it right please.

i'll admit the trailer had me SO confused as to what the entire plot of the movie was. don't know what i expected but the first thirty minutes of the movie i was at a loss for how anything seen in the trailer was going to fit in. don't worry, it's fine, it all worked out, but i was lost for a bit.

the songs were... actually fire???? the "someday" and "ain't no doubt about it" reprises made me cry like a little baby. i LOVED nova's solo song (that girl can SING, holy) and "place to be" was not as over hyped as i thought it would be. i'm glad i avoided listening to it as much as possible so i had fresh ears when hearing it!

costuming was flawless, I loved nova and addison's outfits... though why did they have addison go back to white hair? that confused me. and zed had a couple questionable styling choices, now that i think about it, but other than that, amazing

the dance breaks were SO COOL. i don't remember what song it is (sue me) but it's when zed's with the daywalkers and addison's with the vampires and they're on the beach going to the tunnels - cinematography was on point

hated nova's dad, hated victor's aunt. enough said.

the plot both made sense but also had some weird pacing issues? maybe there was more detail that got cut along the way?? I just wanted more, I think

can we talk about the way my heart stopped when zed was DYING??????????? if they had killed him off- I would have- unacceptable. then they just started partying?? I was like, okay...

i'm pretty sure that's all I have to say. a bit incoherent, really unnecessary, just wanted to swoon over zed/addison and victor/freya. all in all, would watch again (probably will sometime soon tbh), recommend! as a whole, i'd give this movie a... 7. or an 8. somewhere in there.

[emeraldspiral]

Ways to make Scrappy an actually good character instead of only bringing him back to be a punching bag for the crime of being kind of annoying and overused 46 years ago:

Change his voice and character design. Make him cuter and voiced by an actual child so he doesn't just look like a mini version of Scooby with the voice of an adult man pretending to be a child.

Give him a unique way to contribute to the team without it being a game-breaker. I think a good quality for him to have is being friendly, curious and inquisitive. He's the kind of kid who will walk right up to a stranger and ask, "What are you doing? What's that thing? How does that work?" allowing him to pick up vital information that contributes to solving the mystery. It doesn't even have to be him intentionally interviewing people to mine for information. He could just be chatting up some old lady before a mystery even unfolds and end up remembering she said she was knitting a sweater for her grandson and then realize the monster of the week was wearing that very sweater as part of his disguise.

Make him more vulnerable. The originally Scrappy's whole shtick was acting like a 1920s tough guy mobster, always trying to take the ghosts on in a fist-fight. It was annoying enough that he was always yelling "Let me at him! Let me at him!" but the fact that he actually had super strength and could genuinely beat up the monsters if the team let him kinda robbed the monsters of their menace and made his arrogance even more insufferable. So I like the idea that Scrappy imagines Scooby and his friends as these brave, fearless heroes that he wants to emulate. He tries to act tough because he wants to hang with them and fears that if he lets on how scared he actually is they'll think he's just a little kid who doesn't belong in their group.

Ease up on the catch-phrases. Just don't overuse the same gags. Save lines like "Let me at him!" and "Puppy Power" for really important moments. Have him say "Let me at him!" only when someone he cares about suffers a great personal insult or injury and Scrappy is genuinely furious. Make "Puppy Power" something Scrappy says to hype himself up when he's really scared but knows he needs to act.

Emphasize Scrappy's positive qualities, like how chill he is with things being weird. In Ghoul School Shaggy and Scooby were terrified of teaching at proto-Monster High and probably would've bailed if it weren't for Scrappy taking everything in stride and befriending all the monsters immediately. I like the idea of Scrappy being open-minded and maybe sticking up for Red Herring characters that fall under suspicion for looking weird or being creepy.

Use him to push character development for the rest of the gang. Have Scrappy's hero worship of Scooby motivate Scooby to want to be braver for him. Have Scrappy's habit of sticking up for weirdos make the gang realize they need to check their biases to be better detectives and better role models for young impressionable kids like him. Have him question some of the gang's actions and make them question themselves. Make them wonder if maybe they should be focusing more of their energy on exposing corrupt politicians and CEOs operating in plain sight than chasing people in costumes driven to crime by a broken economy and failures of the justice system.

Make him autistic. Use it to explain some of Scrappy's personality quirks. Why he questions things the others just accept. Why he's more sympathetic to freaks and outsiders. Why he is sometimes a little annoying or off-putting himself. Why he's so fixated on being accepted as a member of Scooby's group.

[thepeaklegendoffirstgen]

Hello, excuse me, look, I don't know if you've already done one of these, but if you haven't, could you do one where the reader is an artist, where she has a very simple art style, but her art teacher He ends up insulting her by saying that her drawings are ugly and that she doesn't know how to draw, then he ends up tearing up one of her drawings. After returning home could do what the men of Lookism Could you do something to cheer her up since she's very sad? Gun and the Goo And James Lee e Jaegyeon But if you can't, that's okay.(⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

Omg this made me cry because I have dealt with such asshole art teachers 🤢

GUN PARK

When you told Gun what happened, he listened patiently, never interrupting once. He even rubbed your back a few times as you paused mid-sentence, drowning in the embarrassment of it all especially since it had happened in front of your entire class.

When you finally finished, he handed you a glass of water and said bluntly, “The truth is, the world only cares about results.”

Your face immediately fell. Of course comfort wasn’t his thing.

“But,” he continued, “not everyone has an eye for talent. If you believe in your heart it was good enough, then it was good enough. These teachers... they’re just oldtimers who want students to be obedient pawns. They don’t want anyone stepping out of line. Don’t dwell on it too much.”

And that day, he tried cooking for a change. Your favorite dish, no less. The same one he always scoffed at for being “unhealthy.” But for once, he said, “Sometimes it’s okay.”

“You think the education system is a sham?” you asked.

“Of course.”

“That’s why you flunked your GED as an act of rebellion.”

You burst out laughing at his reaction—because a baffled Gun was rare. So you laughed even harder. He didn’t mind though. Your mood had lifted, and that was enough for him.

Quietly, he slipped a few vegetables onto your plate when you weren’t looking.

GOO KIM

“Sweetheart, I told you not to listen to them. And I told you I have every right to kill them, didn’t I?”

Goo, in all his clownery and chaos, was a man of few words when something was seriously wrong. When he came home and found you looking melancholic, he knew instantly. You tried dodging his questions, but when he cupped your face with quiet concern and softly asked what was wrong, you broke down.

Because dammit, art is art. Whether simple or advanced, who decides what's worthy? That teacher had no right to humiliate you, and honestly, you wanted to punch him but also didn’t want to get expelled.

“You know me,” Goo murmured, holding you close, running his hand gently along your back. “We could hide the body. No one would even find out. Don’t trust your man this much.”

“No, don’t go for the kill.”

He paused, but his grip on you never loosened.

“Maybe we should slowly torture him instead.”

“Yes, that’s more like it, honeybun,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead already planning. Maybe he should get Kouji on board too.

JAMES LEE/DIEGO KANG

You were picking at your food, barely eating even half of what you usually do. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“Do you not feel like eating?” he asked, watching you carefully.

“No, it’s more like I don’t have the appetite… Oh, come to think of it, I think I’m done for now,” you replied, forcing a smile. But of course, it didn’t fool him.

“What happened?” he asked, more firmly this time.

You shrugged. “It’s just college stuff. Something trivial.”

He cut you off mid-sentence. “If it’s bothering you enough to kill your appetite, then it’s not trivial.”

That frustrated you. Even if you explained it, what would be the point? He was always brilliant at drawing, even in high school. Still, you told him anyway.

“James, I know you’ll probably agree with the teacher. I get it. Anyway… that’s what happened.” You tried to sound calm, even though it still stung. Those people who preach ‘simplicity is sophistication’ ripped your work apart like you had committed some kind of crime.

You got up to leave, but he suddenly pulled you into him. You struggled against his hold.

“I don’t want pity. Let me go,” you muttered.

“Who says I’m pitying you?” he replied calmly. “It’s true...whatever I say might not fix anything. But what your teacher did was wrong. Don’t let those small fries make you question yourself.”

You went still. You didn’t return the hug, but you didn’t move away either. His arms stayed around you as the tears finally fell. He held you close and gently massaged your scalp, saying nothing more, just staying there, as long as you needed.

JAEGYEON NA

Jaegyeon looked like he was ready to storm into your college and personally confront your art teacher.

“What the hell? How dare they tear apart your work like that?” he fumed.

You tried to calm him down. “Jaegyeon, in this city, finding an art teacher is hard enough. Maybe… maybe just let it go.”

But he shook his head, still livid. “I don’t care. Nobody gets to mess with you like that.”

Then his expression shifted. He noticed how sad you were really, deeply sad. And in that moment, he reminded himself that your peace came before any revenge. You were the priority. Always.

He saw you trying to hide a small laugh at how seriously he looked like a knight ready for battle. He sat down beside you and placed a hand on your shoulder, his gaze sincere and steady.

“Listen… whatever anyone says, what you do takes real effort. Even if it looks simple, it’s not. Screw that teacher. Anyone who can’t respect a student’s hard work is nothing but a tyrant. What he did? That was practically criminal.”

You just listened as he continued ranting about artistic justice, the crimes of your teacher, and how amazing you are. Mid sentence, you reached over and pinched his cheek.

“Thanks,” you said, smiling softly. “You really are my hero.”

He blinked, then turned bright red.

But the next second, he pulled you into a tight bear hug. “You’re the best,” he whispered. “Don’t forget it.”

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

please tell us your bigger than the whole sky / would've could've should've Thots

oh no, you're gonna get me started on two of my favourite songs and I won't be able to stop 😂 This has turned into a very rambly stream of consciousness post, my apologies. The TL;DR is that to me, they're fascinating explorations of the ways in which faith (and I don't necessarily mean religious) can guide us or lead us astray, buoy us or cast us adrift.

I know there are all kinds of interpretations of the songs and their place on Midnights and in Taylor's discography. I've touched on this before, but one thing that has struck me about Midnights is that it's an album about loss and depression and questioning in the aftermath, and so many songs on there feel like "what ifs": moments in time where it seems like everything changed from that point forward. (That's a real fucking legacy to leave, indeed.)

I've written about it elsewhere on this blog, but something that connects both songs to me is how they deal with faith, as I said at the outset. Specifically, WCS is the point at which she believes she/the narrator loses her faith due to what happened to her, and BTTWS delves into how unmoored in the wake of another loss when she/the narrator feels in a world where she no longer has the faith she once held. It's, I could have gone along with the righteous to I'll say words I don't believe.

I know the wording sounds similar between the two songs, but they aren't exactly the same, and to me their intent is completely different, though equally marking. @taylortruther even answered an ask about this a while back. As she put it in the post:

what i like about it is that would've could've should've is a pretty glib phrase, in my experience, and sometimes shaming. like, don't dwell on it, you could've done things differently, but you can't change it now. and these are two songs about dwelling and not being able to move on from something that changed her (or the narrator).

In WCS, it's like a call and response in her head: if you would've, I would've. You could've, and I'd never. "Would've, could've, should've" in the pre-chorus is like she's chastising herself, as in, I should've have known better, except by the end we know: no, she couldn't have known better, because he should've, and did. (Don't you think I was too young? You should've known.) It's angry and pained.

In BTTWS, the order's a little different (What could've been, would've been, should've been you.) To me, the context is completely different in that it's not recrimination like in WCS: it's a sad, pining daydream about someone/something that never came to exist or no longer exists. Whereas in WCS the words are her not only beating herself up with regret, but reading the person who harmed her for filth, in BTTWS it's a tender elegy for an entity that left her before its time.

One of the most interesting similarities between the two songs, to me, is that they both deal with the fallout of an event outside the narrator's control, with some omniscient figure pulling the strings instead, and the narrator's reaction to each of them is a markedly different stage of processing or grief.

In WCS, she's grappling with the guilt that this is something she thought she wanted, only to realize much later on that someone else was making these choices for her. The Devil should have blinked, he should have spat her out, he shouldn't have touched her first, he shouldn't have put her on a pedestal only to bury her in the ground. He was the one with the power in the situation, and he did something to her (or, in her words, took something from her) that left her filled with regret and shame. She believed she wanted this, but only now does she know she should never have been put in the position where it was even an option.

In BTTWS, the narrator is grappling with something being taken from her that was beloved and is now sorely missed. The guilt in this case is her wondering if there were anything she could have done to prevent whatever happened that led to its loss. If she'd stayed on her knees, as it were, would the outcome have changed? (Which is an interesting contrast to WCS: WCS implies that she was part of the righteous-- until the events in the song, which made her fall from grace. Here, she doesn't consider her righteousness until the thing is gone away. Kind of like bookends thematically, in a sense.) Is her lack of faith or piety the reason this happened? Or is it because of a cascading series of random events she doesn't even know about that ultimately led to this? To me, it's like, in WCS, she knows exactly why it happened (even if she doesn't know why he did it), but in BTTWS, she has absolutely no idea what led her here, which is part of why she can't find the words for it.

It's interesting, because even in WCS there's an admission that part of her thought she wanted this: The god's honest truth is that the pain was heaven. If you never saved me from boredom, I could've gone on as I was. Hence the regret that she fell into temptation (lol sorry can't help it-- the Catholic guilt is strong in this one) and was led so astray-- I miss who I used to be. In BTTWS, esoteric ~you~ is something that is unquestionably very much wanted-- I've got a lot to pine about, I've got a lot to live without, I'm never gonna meet what [...] should've been you-- and the guilt stems from feeling like she there could have been something to keep ~them~ here. The loss of what could've, would've, should've been this ~thing~ leaves a hole in her and her future. The narrator is haunted by what happened to her in WCS, but in BTTWS, she's haunted by what didn't happen, in a sense.

If Midnights in an album, as the fandom popularly theorizes, about looking into your past to try to understand your present and protect your future, those two songs are clear examples of ruminating over a specific event (either recent or long ago) and wondering if there were any way to prevent the pain and loss in the current moment.

This is probably far more than you ever bargained for for an answer, and as you can tell I could wax poetic about this for ages. I think WCS is one of the cornerstones of her discography, because it is such a raw depiction of trauma and its aftermath, and I think fills in the lines of so much (certainly between Speak Now and TTPD). And I think BTTWS is actually vital to understanding both Midnights and TTPD, like it's a bridge between the two albums, because it is the starkest depiction of grief and depression. The "every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness" is the same kind of mindset that leads to writing so much of Midnights, and mood-wise it's a direct pipeline to Fortnight which then sets the scene for the rest of the album.

If you're interested, I wrote a long-ass post diving into the 3am tracks (before we knew that TTPD even existed lol) and wrote quite a bit about WCS and BTTWS there too. And my song tags (particularly the bttws ones) probably have more stuff in there too!

[z0mbee-pupee]

kinda question and/or vent-ish

haiii i have a question since you seem kinda nice. i know jirai is mental-health based so you dont need to remind me. i know that jirai girl in my school and once we were texting with each other and she sent me her cut pics. like without warning, without asking if i am okay with it etc. ive never cut myself (yet) and i am scared to start, but when i feel very bad i just scroll mindlessly through cut pics on tumblr :( i know it is bad bad but idk what to do. before that "incident" i wasn't even into sh at all.

ive been kind of in a similar situation (?)

i had a bestfriend irl who sh'd, she would talk a lot about her sh and sometimes show me without warning without asking if she can, she even seemed to subtly try get me into sh

she exposed me to sh and made it sound like something that is good, something that helps when things suck, and eventually i did start to sh

we already werent friends when i started but that was because stuff happened in the friendgroup we were in and that friendgroup made me realise how toxic my bestfriend was

but i still started to sh, my (ex)bestfriend said it helped her, so i thought it would help me

and it did, at first i did it occasionally, then i started doing it more and more and more until i started doing it everyday and getting myself in bad situations online

i started going deeper because the sh pictures i saw on here made me want to, and now i have scars on my arms, thighs, shoulders, even a few on stomach

and these aren't the kind that go away, they're raised scars

i personally love my scars and i wish i had more but now its between more scars or my dad hating me, and the urges don't go away and sometimes these urges are debilitating especially when ur trying (or are forced to) stop

jirai or not, its wrong to send people sh pics without them wanting to see, id recommend talking to her about it and telling her to stop or straight up blocking her, your mental health matters and you should prioritise it

what i might say is probably going to be hypocritical since i never wanted to stop sh and still don't, but please don't start

there's better ways of coping i promise and i would recommend trying to stop looking at sh pics and instead watching a comfort show/movie/creator or playing a comfort game

and feel free to dm me if u need to vent or rant <3 YOU MATTER AND SO DOES YOUR MENTAL HEALTH MWAH

[skulkiee]

Its late at night and i wrote a thing and i have zero regrets

Tormenting the Characters as per usual✨

"'Lochus-?"

"Polites." Eurylochus answers, cursing slightly. Polites had never been a heavy sleeper, and Eurylochus had begged his goddess to give him more and more time to complete this task so he could wait for the celebrations at the end of the war- so he could avoid it as long as possible. Everyone had drank rather a lot last night, and Eurylochus had hoped he would have had more time before Polites woke up.

"What are you doing?" Polites asks, a little more awake and aware. Eurylochus can't answer that question.

Not when he has kept his goddess a secret from anyone and everyone for almost two decades. Not when it's the middle of the night and he has Polites pinned down and a knife in his hand.

"I really, really, don't want to hurt you." Is what Eurylochus says instead, "But i will if you make this difficult."

Apparently that was the wrong statement because Polites punches him. In the face. And Polites is a good fighter, but he is not, nor has ever been stronger than Eurylochus.

"What are you doing, Lochi?" Polites asks again, his eyes wide and angry and confused but most importantly, scared. It hurts.

"I don't have a choice." Eurylochus hisses, "She wants you."

Hes not lying. His goddess- she insisted that it was Polites. She said the one he 'cares most dearly for', and then made it clear that that was not his decision. She made it clear she did not care for his love for Odysseus or Ctimene or anyone else.

Because the Trojans lost the war, and Paris died, and Eurylochus' relationship with Polites falls into Aphrodite's domain. It may not after this though- he watches blood from where Polites punched him drip down onto his lover's face.

"Who?" Polites- kind, caring Polites who is still worried about him- says when Eurylochus places the knife against his chest, point against his heart, "Eurylochus, who?"

Eurylochus opens his mouth to answer, to apologise, to reassure- he doesn't know, anything to get rid of the fear in Polites' eyes and stop the trembling he can feel from the body beneath him. But then Aphrodite's presence fills the room and he feels her speak through him.

"Do not worry, dear." She says, in Eurylochus' voice, but with none of his emotions, "It will only hurt for a little while."

Eurylochus wants to curl up and cry. He wants to hug Polites and beg for his forgiveness. He cannot do anything except watch because the goddess is puppeting his body, making him smile.

Aphrodite moves Eurylochus' other hand to be placed over Polites' mouth then, and Eurylochus knows that Polites can tell that this is not him and that makes everything worse.

"We wouldn't want you screaming and alerting the whole ship, now would we?" Aphrodite coos, "Especially not Athena's cursed little champion."

Eurylochus is the one who screams when he watches Aphrodite plunge the knife into Polites' chest- into his heart- though he only screams mentally, he still has no control over his own body.

He screams for Polites, for the fear of losing him and for the anger and because of the sheer agony in his lover's eyes. He screams for when Aphrodite moves him away and Polites' first instinct is to press himself into the corner of their cabin. He screams for the way Polites curls around the knife in his chest, hands clutching slightly at the injury, wanting to pull it out but knowing that that will make it worse, for the way blood spills down.

For the way Eurylochus' heart breaks when Polites stills, slumped in the corner, a knife to his heart.

Sometimes i wish you mortals loved as ferociously as us gods, and then i remember how dangerous that would be to your short lives. Aphrodite muses, letting go of her control over him, your precious lover will live, he will be- lets say fine, physically, by morning. Neither of you will speak a word of this to anyone, especially not Athena's brat.

Eurylochus sobs. He clings to her promise that Polites will be fine by morning though. And her threat.

~~•~~

"Hey Polites." Odysseus grins and sits down beside his brother in law, leaning back against the railing of the boat, "What are you doing out?"

Polites shrugs, "I wasn't tired." He mumbles, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

Odysseus immediately sits up a bit straighter because that is not Polites Behaviour, and because Polites looks exhausted.

"You look tired." Odysseus says, putting an arm around Polites and pulling him close, "And it's not like it's your turn on watch."

Polites just hums in agreement, and presses his hands against his chest, over his heart.

"Po." Odysseus says eventually, it was Penelope's nickname for Polites, and he had started using it a little before the war had broken out, "I know that you like... I know that you tend to not speak about your own emotions, like, a lot, but you can tell me anything."

The younger man just looks at him for a moment, and then rests his head on Odysseus' shoulder, "I'm scared."

"Of what?" Odysseus prompts gently. He expects it to be something to do with the war, they only left Troy's shores a week ago, and he knows most of the men have nightmares and are still running high off of the adrenaline of near constant battle. The gods know he is.

"For Eurylochus." Polites says, his voice barely more than a whisper, "Of Eurylochus. I don't know."

Well that certainly stops Odysseus' train of thought. He doesn't know what Eurylochus has done, and knows enough not to question, but he is a little worried about the 'for Eurylochus' bit, because it doesn't just sound like Polites putting everyone before him like usual, it sounds like something is actually off.

"Well." Odysseus starts slowly, "You can't stay out here all night-"

Polites flinches away from Odysseus, hands back against his chest, "I can't go to sleep with him there-"

"Hey-" Odysseus takes his brother's face in his hands, silencing Polites, "Hey, Po, I'm not gonna make you go to your cabin, you're okay. You're okay."

It's like comforting a scared animal. Odysseus isn't sure how to do it, and the sight feels like a knife in his heart, "You can stay in mine, or someone else's, whatever you want."

"Stay with you." Polites mumbles, "You've got Athena."

And that scares Odysseus more than anything else in this damned conversation. Because Polites has always been terrified of the gods- something happened to him that only he and Penelope know about- and he has always hated Athena.

For him to rather be near Odysseus and Athena than Eurylochus and whatever forces he is playing with- that scares Odysseus. It scares him so so much.

Athena would be mad at him for loving so much, for caring so much for Polites, Eurylochus and the crew. Odysseus is scared.

It gets worse the next day, when Polites and Eurylochus just act weird.

It gets worse over the next few days, when Polites seems to maybe be ill? Odysseus isn't sure, but his brother gets exhausted so so easily, and then he gets more hungry than usual too, and even Perimedes doesn't know what's going on.

Eurylochus looks terrible. He looks stressed and terrified and guilty. Odysseus hates it.

And then Polites gets something akin to a horrible fever, and a nasty rash breaks out over his back, and no one knows what to do.

~~•~~

You can stop his suffering. Aphrodite whispers to Eurylochus, a month after he stabbed Polites. Pick up the knife again, Eurylochus, it caused this, only it can take it away. Your lover is strong, both physically and mentally, he will last in this state for a long time, but even the strongest mortals would die to this blessing eventually.

How dare she call what they have done to Polites a blessing?

Eurylochus stares at the knife. It is still covered in dried blood from that night, he couldn't bring himself to pick it up after he tossed it across his cabin in anger and horror.

Aphrodite has been whispering, urging him to take the knife to Polites again for weeks now, telling Eurylochus that it would take his pain away.

Do it. Aphrodite snarls, more forceful than usual, Else i will let your dear Polites- it is the first time she has ever spoken his name- suffer until he dies a painful death. I will let my blessing rot him away until he begs you for death in every waking moment, do you understand, Eurylochus?

"I understand, my lady." He speaks to the empty room, and stands up, bloodstained knife in hand, and walks out of the cabin.

The night air is cool, it, and the sound of the waves and the murmur of the crew calms his racing mind. Eurylochus did this, he will have to fix it.

He knows Aphrodite wants something, and he doesn't know the lengths she will go to to get what she wants. He should never have gotten Polites caught in the crossfire.

Odysseus isn't in his cabin when Eurylochus enters, thankfully, but, as expected, Polites is. He looks only half conscious, lying on his front in Odysseus' bed, letting out little noises of pain every now and then. It hurts Eurylochus' heart.

Polites is thin, too. Whatever Aphrodite has done to him, it needs more sustenance than Polites can afford to give.

Eurylochus doesn't want to properly step into the cabin, but the goddess' voice urges him forwards. The smell of sickness hits him when he hovers over Polites' shaking, feverish form, and when he touches him to remove the bandages covering his back, he can feel how sickly warm he is.

And Eurylochus did this to him. On the orders- threats- of a goddess, not knowing what would happen, yes, but he still did it. He still stuck that damned knife in his heart, and now he is going to stick that damned knife in him again.

Four deep cuts down his back. Do it delicately, Eurylochus, you don't want to damage them. Aphrodite whispers, Two cuts on one side, mirrored on the other, you understand, yes?

Eurylochus doesn't ask what 'them' are, he doesn't want to know what the goddess has almost killed poor Polites over. He unwraps the bandages carefully, and his back isn't a pretty sight.

Eurylochus has no doubt that whatever Aphrodite has done to Polites will kill him if he doesn't do as he is told. He reaches over and places his hand on Polites' back, keeping him still. The warmth makes him feel ill.

Do it. Aphrodite hisses, excitement clear in her voice, I want to see them, i want to see my creation, it will be beautiful.

Eurylochus shudders and takes a breath. Then he cuts. He focuses on the knife so he doesn't have to think about the person beneath it.

He cuts in the pattern that Aphrodite had told him, one slit starting at Polites' shoulder blade, ending in the middle of his lower back, a second smaller one starting halfway down his ribcage but on his back, ending at the same point as the first, forming an arrow. Two more mirrored on the other side.

The cuts don't bleed. Eurylochus doesn't know how to describe what they do- pulse, maybe. He is terrified, yet Polites seems less in pain that he did before, and his body temperature has definitely dropped, which is good.

"I'm sorry." Eurylochus whispers, before turning and walking away.

He meets Odysseus just outside his own cabin, and offers him a small smile and a, "Captain." Before slipping inside and lying awake until dawn.

The knife goes back under his bed, amongst the cobwebs and junk. Out of sight but not out of mind. 

Two days later and Polites has wings. Four huge, white and pink and red feathered wings lying sprawled about him where he sits on the deck, scared and hurting.

Beautiful. Aphrodite breathes in Eurylochus' ear, Look, dear one, look at my beautiful creation. You will continue to help it grow into something that rivals even my precious golden apple.

Beautifully terrible is what it is. Beautifully terrible, just like that damned golden apple.

Eurylochus clenches his fists. He will make this right. He has to.

Ta daa

I have no regrets just apologies. There may be more idk ill see how i feel. I dont have any ideas for more though. Like what do you do in this situation

Actually i do have more ideas but it involves everyone suffering. Especially Polites.

I want to write Aphrodite being evil

[unlegitimate]

"I don't want the number for any psychic, but it's interesting that you keep that." That clarifies whether or not she believes in whatever bullshit psychics spew that gets you to keep coming back to them, keep paying them more money to tell you exactly what you want to hear, nothing more, nothing less. That's the point of a psychic, isn't it? Ego-stroking?

He watches her crack more and more nuts, less like it's for the purpose of eating them, more like she needs something to do with her hands or she'll be driven mad (by his presence? By what his presence means? He'll wait to find out the answer to that question; all in due time).

The thing that truly seems to rattle her is the mention of his sister, though. It's not like he knows of any deeper relationship between Greta and Monarosa (anything deeper than nothing, that is); he barely speaks to his mother's golden daughter.

Part of it is how clearly Luciana favors Monarosa. The first (and only) child after her affair, how difficult that must have been for her, for Rafael; if Andrea could roll his eyes in his mind, he would. It's clear that Luciana would move mountains if Monarosa asked her to. He doesn't think his mother would even blink if she found out he were dying. God forbid if he was on a desert island, Andrea fully believes that she would pay money for some fucking livestream to watch him starve to death. Or drown.

And, through all of that, Monarosa has the gall to act like there's no difference between himself and his other siblings. She's too busy being the apple of their parents' eye to notice that Andrea's existence is a burden to them, to their name, to their business, their reputation. She acts like his world is as sunshine and rainbows as hers is. He's sure she'd say that she treats him no differently than she treats their other siblings, but is that really the truth? There's not a chance she can truly be as ignorant as she acts sometimes. He thinks she hates him. In her own special, fucked up kind of way.

He'd work for Elena, at least she has the effrontery to treat him as he is, to acknowledge the differences between Andrea and the rest of the family. He wouldn't so easily bend to Monarosa and her nothing's different attitude about Andrea's parentage.

Things are different. They've been different since the day he was born. Since before that. Since their mother found out she was pregnant with him and made the astounding choice to keep him. Every fucking day he suffers because of that difference, because his parents can't even begin to pretend that they love him, or like him, or even care about his existence.

"I was picturing a yacht before I was picturing a helicopter." If it were Teo, sure, a copter. But he can hardly picture Monarosa getting on a helicopter on his behalf. Some luxury yacht, with pearl chandeliers or something equally gaudy? That feels more up her alley, to him.

There's clearly thought in her mind when he asks her about her career. He understands, in concept; obviously, he doesn't really know anything about her personal life. He knows even less about what it means to be an influencer, or a former(? is she still acting? Shows how much he keeps up with modern pop culture...) child actress, or named du Bois on this island.

But he knows what it's like to have questions about the past, the present, the future. The what ifs that still haunt him every night when he closes his eyes. What if he knew what he wanted to do with his life from the time that he was a child? What if there was the pressure on his shoulders to be the best of the best at everything he set out to do – pressure that, in this hypothetical, was put on him by someone other than himself.

There wouldn't have been that time as a paralegal, he knows that for certain. He wouldn't be fresh out of law school at thirty-three. He'd be established, working at the best firm in Coronado, perhaps even consulting for Rafael himself.

That would never happen, though, and it's foolish to even consider it. He'll have to continue proving (to himself, as no one else seems to care) that he's worthy of his name, of his birth, of whatever job he'll end up in because he deserves it.

"Depends what you consider easy," he says, raising his glass to his lips again. "But you seem half decent at making arguments, so maybe you'd be able to pull it off."

The next question nearly makes him bristle - he can tell she's trying to press his buttons in regards to his family; what does she know? Well, no one outside of his family knows anything, they've worked hard to keep that the way it is. Sure, there are rumors about illigitimacy, but there are rumors about everything, everyone. He's sure there are rumors about Elena, too. Anyone with a name, there'll be rumors like that following them around.

But it's his job to quash those rumors where they begin. "I have my father's idealism and my mother's practicality." He believes he can be one of them someday; he knows he cannot, but he has to treat life as if he is despite that knowledge. "Both will end up serving me well someday." Be that tomorrow, twenty years from now, or both.

"What's the best part about being part of your family?"

The thing is, she doesn't disagree with Andrea. The line between stupid and brave is thin and she's skipping along it, but that's what makes gambling fun. He's welcome to decide which side she's on (just to make it harder, she adds while munching on another nut: "I have a number for a late-night psychic if you want it. She doesn't do aura readings, just predictions. But she's really good. ") Greta is focused on cashing out.

What's stupid, she thinks, is marching around in a suit, proclaiming a dedication to lunch meetings and paperwork and phone calls, and considering yourself a real independent thinker.

If Greta were nicer, she would feel sorry for him. But whatever, he'll learn. Or he won't. He'll probably be happier that way, or something resembling happiness anyway. Joy doesn't seem like something he'd be interested in. She picture him crisply declaring himself "content enough."

She keeps on shelling nuts, watching him, the judgmental rise and fall of his brow, the disapproving set to his mouth. It's not just why he's saying what he does that interests her, it's what and how. The how right now is slowly. It takes him a beat to offer up an answer: Teo. A cousin. Not a parent or sibling. If Greta were wearing pants instead of a gauzy sarong, she would pocket that away. It's not damning, but it's something.

But then– or Mona he adds, almost as an afterthought. The shell she cracks splits in half before she can pry it from the pistachio. She flicks the whole thing behind the bar.

If it was up to Greta, in this rescue scenario Andrea and Monarosa del Bosque would swap spots, leaving her on the island until her lips grow chapped, her hair turns so brittle it falls out of her head, and her breath leaves her body in a final dusty dry gasp.

There's that rage again, this time on a looser leash. It paces, snaps its glistening teeth, scrapes its claws down the walls of her interior skull.

She's been saving the pistachio shells as she pulls them apart, lining them up on the bar counter in the shape of a heart. "It would be a really touching photo op, for sure. But I think the rescue copter would be hell on her hair."

She's not interested in spending more time on his sister than she has to. She's initially glad when the conversation turns back to her, and he earns a small laugh from her by pronouncing influencer like a slur. But to his speculative chagrin, Greta expects he'll only find her more wanting when it comes to his newest question.

For as often as she is involved in playing pretend and dealing out fantasies, she seldom indulges in them for herself. She has two she allows herself in earnest, one violent, one merciful. Maybe there used to be more. She can't recall. That's growing up, she thinks.

Andrea's question requires a suspension of disbelief more severe than when she returned to The Day After Tomorrow is Today to play her own secret evil twin, served on top of a heaping portion of if. If she had gone to a real school instead of one fashioned on the side of sets and in the back of town cars on the way some event or interview. If university had even been an entertained question. If Ellie had come first perhaps, if Angie was different than she was, or Monarosa had died at birth (okay, there's a third fantasy.)

If Andrea had phrased his question differently, asking her to consider what she could be in a different world, instead of in this one.

She can't answer this question. She won't apologize for what she is, not when it's allowed her to stand on her own two feet even as the ground shifts below her, heels tottering precariously, trying not to slip into the cracks. She won't explain it to him either to help him see. A good du Bois knows that more often than not, the upper hand comes from below. It would be a waste of time anyway, she doubts he'll believe her anymore than he's inclined to believe psychics.

So she drinks, draws the remainder of her cocktail up the straw in one go, smacks her lips when she's done, and says: "A business lawyer maybe. Seems stupid easy."

And then–

"Would you say you're more like your mom or your dad?"

[fourdiagnosesinatrenchcoat]

My mom is worried we are running out of rocks because of the landscaping trend to put tumbled stones on your driveway or walkway or treebed or flower bed.

[jamiebluewind]

Today has been one of those "Sorry! I couldn't hear you over the texture of my socks" days.

[zdechlyryba]

good day for me today, art-wise