#i feel the need to put it out in the world that them using ��we were mean to eo” “friends?” is eldest sibling in their safe space coded. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

verstappenf1lecccc · 3 days ago

Text

“Trust, Love, and Protection”

Warnings-: unwanted advances unwanted touching!

protective and supportive toto with a hint of fluff otherwise this is angst and is based off a serious topic.

The bright lights of the Las Vegas Grand Prix were blinding as they illuminated the night sky. The buzz of excitement filled the air, a constant hum of engines roaring, the thrill of high-speed racing, and the glitter of Hollywood flashing in the distance. It was a weekend of glitz and glamour, and everyone was there — from international celebrities to famous athletes and high-powered figures in the racing world.

But for her, standing on the edge of it all with her husband, Toto Wolff, and their son, Jack, the overwhelming attention was starting to feel more suffocating than exciting.

While Toto had always been protective of her, there was something about the sheer number of admirers at the Las Vegas GP that made her uneasy.

The fact that her husband was such a high-profile figure in the Formula 1 world meant that all eyes were constantly on their family.

That, in itself, wouldn’t have been a problem, but the way some people particularly certain men looked at her made her skin crawl.

As the evening wore on, she found herself growing increasingly uncomfortable.

She was used to the occasional lingering glance, but tonight, it seemed as if every other person was trying to catch her eye.

She could feel the weight of their gazes, like fingers brushing her skin, and it made her want to shrink into herself.

She had been trying to keep it together, to put on a brave face for her husband, who was occupied with the team, the sponsors, and the whirlwind of the weekend.

She wanted to be supportive.

She wanted to enjoy the moment.

But it was hard when so many men were treating her like a trophy on display rather than a person.

Her discomfort reached its peak when an actor a D-list one at that approached her.

He was slurring slightly, clearly tipsy, with an overbearing grin on his face as he leaned too close.

“Hey, you’re Toto’s wife, right? You’re even more hot and slutty up close,” he said, his voice dripping with lust.

She forced a smile, trying to be polite, but his hand brushed against hers.

She instinctively pulled back, but he wasn’t having it.

He leaned in too close, his hand now resting on her waist in a way that felt far too intimate. She stiffened.

“I’ve seen you around,” he continued, oblivious to her growing unease.

Her stomach turned.

She opened her mouth to say something to tell him to back off but just as she did, the crowd around them shifted, and she couldn’t spot Toto anywhere.

“Don’t be shy, darling,” the actor continued, his eyes scanning her in a way that made her want to shrink into herself.

“You know, I always thought you were more beautiful in person. Maybe we should hang out sometime, just the two of us, I’ve got a big hotel room booked if you get what I’m saying”.

Her pulse quickened.

She felt trapped, helpless.

As the actor’s hand slid a little too low on her back, her body tensed with disgust.

She could feel her skin crawling, and all she wanted was for Toto to show up and pull her away from the situation.

“I’m sorry, I think I need to go check on Jack,” she said, her voice a little too tight.

The actor blinked in surprise, momentarily taken aback, but he quickly raised his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, alright, no harm done.”

The discomfort was still there, the feeling of being objectified, of being looked at as something to be taken, not cherished.

She wished she could just disappear, wished that Toto could take her away from all of this.

She quickly found Jack, who was standing by the barriers, playing with his toy car, quietly observing everything.

He was unusually quiet, which was strange for the usually lively little boy.

He looked up at his mother, his innocent eyes full of concern.

“Mummy, you okay?” Jack looked up at her, sensing something was off.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” she lied, kneeling down beside him, forcing a smile she didn’t feel.

“Just a little tired.”

But Jack wasn’t convinced.

His sharp eyes were always able to tell when something was wrong.

After all he was his father’s son and always knew when something was up with his mother. As she stood up, he grabbed her hand, his little fingers curling around hers.

“You don’t look okay, Mommy,” he said softly, his voice full of concern.

“Are you sad? Did something happen you can trust me mummy I won’t tell I swear” his little voice spoke.

Y/N blinked rapidly, trying to fight back the wave of emotion that suddenly washed over her.

She forced herself to smile at him, but it felt hollow, like the weight of the world had pressed down on her chest.

Jack tilted his head, clearly not buying it.

“Mommy, why do you look like you are going to cry?” he asked, his tiny voice filled with confusion. “Did someone make you sad?”

Toto had been nearby, talking to a few sponsors, but as soon as he heard Jack’s voice and looked between his son and his wife, noticing the subtle shift in her demeanour.

His own heart tightened as Y/N’s smile wavered, the cracks showing through as the tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over.

He hurried over to them, his face a mask of concern.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked, his deep voice soft yet filled with urgency.

Before she could answer, Jack spoke up, his innocent words piercing through the air.

“That man, Mommy he made you cry. That actor.”

Toto’s expression darkened immediately.

He looked at her, hurt flashing in his eyes. “What actor?”

Her eyes widened.

She hadn’t meant for Jack to say anything. She’d hoped to shield Toto from what had happened.

“I—” she began, but her voice faltered.

Toto’s gaze never left her, his concern growing more intense. “What happened? Who was it?”

His protective instinct kicked in.

He hadn’t known she’d been dealing with uncomfortable advances all night, and the thought of someone making her feel this way especially in front of their son drove him to the edge of fury.

She looked away, trying to avoid his gaze, but he cupped her face gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Tell me, darling. I need to know.”

Jack was still holding her hand, now glancing up at his father, sensing the tension in the air.

“It was that actor… the one who kept touching her, Daddy,” Jack added, voice small but firm.

Toto’s jaw tightened. He turned back to his wife, his voice lower now, softer.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” “Don’t hide from me, darling,” he said softly. “Tell me what happened.”

“I didn’t want to cause a scene, Toto,” she whispered, her voice shaking as the emotions she’d been bottling up came to the surface.

“I didn’t want to start any drama. I just… I wanted to get away from him.”

Toto’s jaw tightened, his protective instincts roaring to life once again.

He gently kissed her forehead before looking down at their son.

“Jack, go with your aunt, okay? I need to talk to Mommy.” Jack, sensing the gravity of the situation, nodded quietly and ran off to join their family friend, not fully understanding but sensing his mother’s distress.

Toto didn’t waste a moment. He pulled Y/N close again, his arms enveloping her tightly as he held her against his chest.

Toto’s heart broke at the vulnerability in her voice.

His hand gently wiped away her tears, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

“Darling,” he said softly, “I trust you, I just don’t trust them. You’re my everything, and no one-no one —should make you feel this way.”

She gave him a small, sad smile, trying to hold back the tears.

Toto stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. “Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured against her hair, rubbing her back in slow, soothing motions.

But the tears didn’t stop. Y/N’s sobs were quiet but heavy, the kind that you couldn’t hold back anymore, no matter how hard you tried.

Y/N hiccupped through her tears, trying to compose herself, but the feeling of being violated, of being treated like an object, wouldn’t leave her.

Toto gently cupped her face, tilting her chin so she would look up at him.

“You don’t have to protect anyone but yourself, darling,” Toto said, his voice firm but gentle.

“I’ll make sure we leave this place as soon as you’re ready. You don’t have to be here if it doesn’t feel right.”

She let out a shuddering breath, the weight of the night lifting slightly as she melted into his embrace. Toto was her safe place. His love was her anchor.

“You know that jealousy doesn’t suit you,” she said, voice quiet. Toto chuckled softly, kissing the top of her head. “I like to see you smile more, not cry.”

Y/N sniffled, her heart swelling with love for the man who always knew exactly how to comfort her. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Toto let out a breath of frustration, but his expression softened.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Toto replied, his hand gently caressing her back. “I’ll always protect you, Y/N. Always.” “I’m sorry, darling. I should’ve been more attentive. I was too caught up in all of this… all these people… but I should’ve been with you. You should’ve never felt alone.”

He took a deep breath, his voice unwavering.

“I will make sure nothing like that ever happens again. Not on my watch.”

And as the lights of Las Vegas sparkled in the distance, Y/N realized that in Toto’s arms, she was safe.

The world could throw its distractions, its unwanted attention, and its people at her, but as long as she had him and their son by her side, nothing could take away her peace.

Jack tugged at his father’s hand.

“Daddy, Mommy’s really sad. Can we take her home?”

Toto nodded. “Yes, Jack. We’re going home. Right now.”

He pulled his wife close to him, wrapping his arms around her protectively, and he whispered into her ear, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. But I’m here now, and I will always protect you. Always.”

With a final glance at the chaos of the event around them, Toto guided his family through the crowd, their son Jack happily holding his mother’s hand as they walked to their car.

Toto stayed close to her the entire way, his eyes scanning the surroundings, his hand never leaving hers.

He was determined that from this moment forward, she would never have to feel like that again.

As they climbed into the car, Toto turned to her, his voice soft and sincere. “I love you more than anything. Don’t ever feel like you have to hide things from me. I’m here for you, always.”

She smiled, feeling the weight of the night begin to lift. “I love you too.”

And for the first time that evening, she finally felt safe.

#f1 imagine #f1 scenario #f1 x reader #formula one #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff fic #toto wolff x y/n #toto wolff x reader #angsty toto Wolff #toto wolff #toto #mercedes amg f1 #f1 fandom #f1 fic

130 notes · View notes

hrrtshape · 1 day ago

Text

WHY YOU NEED TO STOP PUTTING YOUR DR ON A PEDESTAL; AN HONEST REALITY CHECK.

there’s a trap many of us fall into when we start exploring shifting. we paint our desired realities in the richest, most alluring colours, drenching them in perfection until they seem untuchable. we idealise them so much that they become glittering towers in the sky, places so divine that even imagining stepping foot in them feels unworthy. and here lies the issue: by putting your dr on a pedestal, you’re not making it feel closer or more real—you’re making it feel impossibly far away.

let’s talk about that pedestal.

picture this: your dr is a dazzling glass tower, shining under the sun, perched high on a hill. you spend every day staring at it, marvelling at its beauty, its magnificence, and its promise of joy. in your mind, it’s the place where you’ll finally be whole, where all the cracks in your current reality will be smoothed over. it’s not just a tower; it’s a sanctuary, a dream, and a destination all in one.

but here’s the problem. the tower is so high, so grand, that every time you try to approach it, the climb feels steeper, the air thinner. the more you idolise it, the more fragile and distant it becomes, like it’s made of something that might shatter if you ever got close enough to touch it. and here’s the truth no one wants to admit: the tower isn’t keeping you out—you are.

by building it higher and higher, by putting it on this untouchable pedestal, you’ve turned your dr into something you worship instead of something you live. shifting isn’t about staring at the tower from below; it’s about realising that the tower is already within you.

𖥻 IS THERE A DANGER TO THE PEDESTAL MINDSET?

when we idolise our drs, we unintentionally sabotage our ability to shift. we start believing that our current reality is inherently lesser, a shadow of what life could be. this mindset creates a wall—a psychological divide—between where you are and where you want to be. here’s the kicker: shifting is built on alignment, and alignment comes from balance.

if you see your dr as something so perfect that it feels worlds apart from you, how can you align with it? how can you step into the energy of your dr self when you’ve decided she’s a goddess and you’re just... you?

the more you idolise your dr, the harder it is to believe you’re worthy of it. when you put it on a pedestal, you start thinking, i’ll never be that confident, that successful, that happy. my life will only be good if i’m in my dr. but that’s a lie you’ve built to justify your fears.

your dr isn’t better than your cr—it’s just different. it’s another chapter in the book of you, not the entire story. by seeing it as this holy grail, you’re forgetting that you’re already holding the pen.

𖥻 THE PRESSURE COOKER EFFECT.

when you idealise your dr, you’re creating a constant, underlying tension in your life. it’s like saying to yourself, this reality isn’t good enough; i’ll only be happy once i’m in my dr.

over time, that mindset becomes suffocating. you start living in a pressure cooker of your own making. every time you wake up in your cr, even if it's variance differentiates in weather (because, after all, you shift in seconds). every visualisation that isn’t “perfect” sends you spiralling. and soon, you’re stuck in a loop of self-criticism, thinking: why can’t I just do it? what’s wrong with me?

this isn’t just about shifting anymore—it’s about the way you’re training your brain to respond to disappointment. you’re teaching yourself to tie your self-worth to your success in shifting, and that’s a slippery slope into anxiety, self-doubt, and burnout.

𖥻 THE EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER.

idolising your dr doesn’t just create pressure—it also messes with your emotions in ways you might not even realise.

⋆ PERFECTIONISM. you start obsessing over every detail of your dr, trying to script it perfectly, visualise it perfectly, and shift perfectly. but perfectionism is a breeding ground for anxiety.

⋆ DISSATISFACTION. your dr starts to feel gray and empty in comparison to the glittering lifestyle of your dr. even good moments in your current life might feel “meh” because they’re not dr-level exciting.

⋆ IMPATIENCE. shifting becomes the only thing you care about. you stop appreciating the present moment because all you can think about is getting to the “better” one.

⋆ BURNOUT. all this emotional investment takes a toll. you might find yourself feeling drained, unmotivated, or even resentful of shifting altogether.

𖥻 YES, YOU CAN LET GO OF YOUR CR. BUT NOT AT THE EXPANSE OF YOUR SANITY.

it’s true: shifting is all about focusing on your dr. you’re putting your energy into aligning with that reality, visualising it, scripting it, feeling it. but here’s where it gets tricky: if you try to completely ignore or resent your cr, you’re creating resistance.

imagine you’re running away from a place you hate. every step you take, you’re looking back over your shoulder, furious at where you are, desperate to get away. that energy is frantic. it’s messy. it’s like trying to light a candle in the wind—it won’t stick (sadly).

now, instead, picture gently turning your back on your cr. you’re not obsessed with it, but you’re not screaming “UGH, I HATE YOU!” at it either. you’re just walking toward your DR, eyes forward, calm and steady. that’s the vibe we’re going for.

𖥻 YOUR CR ISN'T THE VILLAIN IN THIS STORY.

your current reality (CR) isn’t some ugly, tragic prologue to the "real" story that starts in your dr. it’s part of your journey. every moment in your cr—yes, even the bad ones—is shaping you into someone stronger, more capable, and more ready to live the life you dream of.

when you dismiss your cr as nothing more than a waiting room for your dr, you’re rejecting the very tools you need to shift. your cr is where you’re learning the emotions, habits, and energy that make your dr possible. it’s the foundation of the glass tower.

yes, your dr is your focus. yes, your cr is temporary and, in many ways, irrelevant to where you’re heading. but here’s the key: if you let your cr control your emotions (even through hate or frustration), it’s still controlling you.

⋆ you don't have to love it.

⋆ you don’t have to obsess over it.

⋆ you just have to stop letting it hold emotional power over you.

when you’re in a toxic relationship, the first step isn’t to scream at the person and obsess over how much you want out. it’s to emotionally detach. you say, “this doesn’t serve me anymore, and I’m ready to leave when the time comes.”

𖥻 THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR DR.

your desired reality isn’t perfect. that might sting to hear, but it’s true. there will still be challenges, still be tough days, still be mornings where you wake up feeling off. the difference is that your dr is scripted to match your deepest desires, so it feels more aligned with who you are. but even in your dream life, the human experience remains constant.

by putting your dr on a pedestal, you’re not preparing yourself for the fullness of that experience—you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. shifting isn’t about stepping into paradise; it’s about stepping into a version of life that feels more like you. you'll still have days where you're overwhelmed, disappointed, heartbroken.

think of shifting like holding a ball underwater. at first, it’s easy to keep it there. your doubts, fears, and this pedestal mentality act like weights, holding the ball just beneath the surface. but as you keep pushing, the ball starts to resist. you feel the pressure building. you can sense it wanting to break free, and you press down harder, thinking that control is the key.

but here’s the thing: the ball isn’t meant to stay underwater. the harder you try to hold it down, the more energy it builds, until finally—BAM! it bursts out of the water, faster and higher than you could’ve ever imagined.

that’s shifting. the more you force it, the more you struggle against its natural flow. but when you let go, when you allow the process to unfold with ease, the ball flies.

your dr isn’t something you have to wrestle with or control—it’s something you align with. stop forcing it. stop holding it down with expectations, self-doubt, or perfectionism. let the ball rise. let shifting happen naturally, as it’s meant to.

𖥻 YOUR DR SELF IS ALREADY YOU.

let’s get real for a second: who do you think your dr self is? she/he/they are not some alien version of you. they're YOU, but with a different body, a different set of circumstances. you can start embodying them right now.

do you think your dr self wakes up every morning hating their life? no. do you think they spend all of their time obsessing over where they're not? also no. they're living, thriving, existing. start doing the same in your cr. feel like them. act like them. love like them. it'll help in the long run.

when you embody the energy of your dr self in the present, you’re aligning with their frequency. and that’s when the magic happens.

𖥻 LETTING GO IS THE ULTIMATE MOVE.

when you stop putting your dr on a pedestal, everything becomes lighter. you're no longer holding a ball underwater, no longer climbing an impossible tower, no longer staring at a reflection that feels foreign.

you’re just... being.

and in that being, shifting happens.

𖥻 FINAL THOUGHTS: YOU ARE THE TOWER AND THE BALL.

at the end of the day, the pedestal doesn’t exist. the tower is already within you, built from your desires, your energy, your belief. the ball doesn’t need to be held underwater; it’s ready to rise when you are.

your dr isn’t out of reach—it’s just waiting for you to step into its rhythm. so stop idolising, start aligning, and let yourself live with the freedom of knowing that every piece of magic you’re dreaming of is already yours.

let the tower crumble, let the ball rise, and step boldly into the life that was always meant for you.

77 notes · View notes

artbymesa · 3 days ago

Note

I was just gonna put this in the tags, but maybe this will help someone else to share my story if anyone else feels less alone. And it got long. I was a valedictorian in highschool. I would not recommend it.

Take it from me-- Do well in school, absolutely. Please try to do well in school. Please. But Do Not let it destroy your mental health the way I let it. I had a very unhealthy relationship with it and tied it to my self worth.

(Story time under read more if it helps anyone)

Oversharing time-- it was my priority in highschool. It was a goal I set for myself to prove I could do it, and if I didn't, I think I saw myself as a failure. This was mostly self imposed, and theres probably a psychological explanation for this I wont get into for the sake of length. But I thought if I could at least do this, I had something on paper that I could point to for myself in a sort of external self validation or worth. "I dont know what metric to gauge myself on, but at least I accomplished this". Call it a method of self soothing, I suppose.

It led to almost daily panic attacks that I could not publically control. The whole nine yards, too. It was exhausting and physically draining. If I were honest with me-- I isolated myself. More human contact, more going out with friends, more of me being the one to make the point of reaching out to other people would have made a world of a healthier difference. My focus might not have been so singular and borderline obsessive because it was the only thing i held onto. It put me in a horrible place mentally, and it has severely affected my adult life. I am still trying to unlearn the "if I mess up learning how to do this on the first try, i am a failure" when its like....just learning how to pipe icing on cupcakes or something. I tied my worth to my ability to learn, and that can become extremely unhealthy in a hurry. Especially when I already had mental health issues that were at odds with learning quickly-- like panic attacks that come on fast and wipe my memory and ability to think clearly. Its like I chose the hardest thing for my brain to do, and that was the metric I weighed my self worth on.

What I told myself at the time was some variation of "if I do this, i'll have the best chance at financial support or a full ride for college." That doing this means I will become self sufficient.

That's not how it works, and thats not how it worked.

I got a $1k grant, which was nice, but nowhere near the full ride or anything close to the "heavens of opportunity rain down upon me" sort of thing I had hoped for in my head.

Valedictorians make for good metrics for the school. Attendance records make for good records for the school. Not in any way saying kids SHOULDN'T try to do well in school (please for the love of god, we need every scrap of education we can get in this country), but please find a healthy medium too.

Doing well enough in school and not letting it destroy your mental health do not have to be mutually exclusive. A 3.5 is probably good enough. That was the cut off for one of my bigger transfer scholarships later down the road, transfering from one college to another. Nowhere did I have to continue maintaining a 4.0.

Besides. I didnt get a 4.0 by retaining functional information. I got it by gaming the system of how testing worked.

The example I use is a very dry history class in college I had. Our final exam was the culmination of all of our final tests. Same questions, same answers. I did not remember the content. I did not learn anything. What I did? I remembered the first three words of the question and the first three words of the answer, and remembered them by association. And then I forgot it all within the hour.

In the meantime, foster your friendships. Good friendships. This can create business connections in the future. Kindness and community will get the majority of people further in life than being any kind of top of your class, I promise you.

But most of all, be kind to yourself and treat yourself gently.

are you or have you ever been a straight-A student?

#valedictorian #tw anxiety #tw panic attack #tw perfectionism

654 notes · View notes

marzipanandminutiae · 2 days ago

Note

Do you have any advice on making a living working in historic preservation? I feel like every opportunity in the field (ex. Local historical societies) is volunteer work, which I do, but I also need money!

:) :) :) :)

I am so sorry but you've hit upon the main employment problem with this field: it is wildly underpaid. Especially if you want to do something with museum content/collections/preservation rather than admin.

The issue is, this system (at least in the US, where I live) started out in the late 19th century being run by people who had a lot of free time and a LOT of money already. Married upper-class women, rich men- often gay, interestingly enough -with academic turns of mind, etc. They didn't need the money, so they built a structure designed to function that way. And for many years a lot of this work continued to be done by volunteers.

Except then people came along with the audacity to want to make a career out of it. Without enough generational wealth to not need payment! Oh no!

So now there are not enough full-time jobs in the field for people who want them, unfortunately. They're out there! But you might have a hell of a time getting into one.

I'd say to look for bigger orgs over small ones, or small orgs in big cities. We love a tiny house museum in the middle of nowhere, but they often have the smallest budgets in a world of small budgets. Also, consider starting out part-time and trying to work your way up (just make sure the org has full-time employees first). Making connections is paramount- I've only had part-time museum jobs so far, but I never got a single one just by applying online. You can, but it helps a lot to have someone say "hey, the Fancyman-Spinsteracademic-Wepromisewe'rereckoningwithslaverynow House is hiring; want me to put in a good word for you?"

Alternately, learn some hands-on preservation skill like carpentry or horology (working with mechanical clocks- PLEASE learn horology if you go this route; all the horologists are 80 and they keep dying) could be a way to get specific talents that historical site museums can't function without and will therefore pay for when the budget allows. In cities with lots of historical architecture that they actually care about preserving- so not NYC, apparently -there are often independent companies that specialize in different aspects thereof. Historical window repair, historical plastering, historical brickwork maintenance, etc. Trying to get hired by one of those is a way to go into preservation without working in museums. Private auction houses or antiques dealers can also be an option, if you're more into the Collections Objects side of things.

I don't mean to make it sound bleak. My eight-year career in museums has been entirely part-time collections/interpretation/admin jobs stitched together, and while I'm sick of the "underpaid and relying on my parents to pay for my insurance" aspect (yes, I freely admit it; I'm a lowkey continuation of the Can't Work In Museums If You Don't Have Family Financial Support tradition and very very lucky to be able to do what I do, and yet even I'M frustrated and tired and over it), it is deeply fulfilling work that I consider highly worthwhile and important. And there ARE avenues to make a decent living in it!

I just want to explain the phenomenon you're seeing and give you realistic expectations.

Best of luck!

#ask #anon #museums #museum work

87 notes · View notes

zarnzarn · 5 hours ago

Text

Octavia.

I have to get her, Stolas thinks, as the liquid drips off his face. She has never faced Stella's cruelty. I have to go-

Blitz yells at the janitor over his shoulder and Stolas opens his eyes- was the world always this colorful? He doesn't remember the days before he lost his sight to the stars- to brush aside the humiliation and get to his feet.

"No, it's fine, Blitz," He says, turning around. After a pause, "I'm okay."

He's alive, at any rate. Miserable and terrified and humiliated once more and-

At least he's alive.

"Look, let's get you home, alright?" Blitz coaxes, holding out a hand. Another shiver runs through him at the words, lump forming in his throat.

"I-" He nearly chokes on it, but- "I have no home."

He needs to find a way to get Octavia- but his books. His plants, his crystals, his telescopes. "Everything I have is gone."

Stolas nearly collapses to the floor at the enormity of it as it presses down on his shoulders, but warm claws grab both his hands and steady him at the last moment, steady and familiar.

"Look, come with me, alright?" Blitz's voice is firm and steady, allowing no arguments. "Let's get you out of here, 'n you'll need a place to stay for a bit."

Stolas lets himself be led out, shaking. Blitz is warm by his side, rubbing at his thighs and arms in comfort, tail curled around his feet protectively as they walk.

He dissociates as the others leave, following the touch on his thighs blindly as he's guided through the streets. Something in him flickers briefly when Blitz pulls him closer protectively once things start getting thrown around in celebration, some quiet part of him thrilling at the protective touch, but it's gone again quickly like ash in the wind.

He stumbles through the too-small building, falling into familiar pliancy as Blitz guides and pulls him along; uncurling a little when they pass all the rat-bitten hallways and suspicious stains to a flat with warm lights- Blitz's home.

He stares around at the smattering of photos on the wall; eyes flicking over the people and places- then yelps when he walks into the ceiling fan, screwing it back on before it can fall.

Right. Homes for imps and hellhounds.

He looks back and then suddenly wishes he hadn't, as Loona bends down to hug Blitz, tails curling around each other as they grip on tight.

"-Love you, dad," She says and Octavia-

He comes to staring at bathroom tiles.

Octavia. He's lost his owlet. His daughter.

"-You back, birdie?" Blitz murmurs behind him. The bathwater is warm. "Hey. Stolas. Don't worry, baby, everything will be alright."

A trill escapes him instead of words, a self-soothing habit he never escaped.

"Yeah, I know," Blitz says, quiet and warm. Stolas' life has ended, but he cannot help but curl into the warmth. He has starved in the cold for so long. "I know. Don't worry right now. Just- your body's been put through the ringer, you need to rest."

Stolas flinches as the soap runs over his arm and Blitz hisses in worry, parting the feathers to look at the ugly woundscar there. He grabs Stolas' hand and gently closes his talons over it to cover it from the soap, and continues running the sponge over his body like he used to.

Is this pity? He wants to ask. Is this only because I saved you? Do you even like me otherwise?

"Here we go," Blitz soothes, and Stolas trills again, melting against his will at the familiar words- he'd thought he'd never feel them again, the gentle way he was handled after all the roughness, coaxed to relax like he was a wild thing, aftercare. He'd always loved the aftercare. And Blitz had always been- Stolas had mistaken everything between them solely because of how good the other had been at it, at treating Stolas with softness. "Here we go."

He likes the term 'we'. Like they were taking care of Stolas together.

"Some nice agua," Blitz says behind him, then tenses as the door creaks open. He doesn't see what happens, too busy considering the water before him.

Octavia.

"WHOA! Try not to inhale the water!" Blitz shouts as he pulls Stolas out hurriedly, shooting him a brief smile and setting clothes down, before moving back out. The door opens again and Stolas can see the worry radiating in the reflection of the tiles, the quiet knowing of what Stolas was going to do if left alone. "Yeah, try not inhaling the water."

The door doesn't shut again.

Stolas sighs, sitting in the lukewarm water. His eyes wander over to the sweater and somehow, with all his strength, he pushes himself up.

Blitz smiles sadly at him when he stumbles out of the bathroom, muscles loose and uncoordinated. His ex-lover takes Stolas by the hands and carefully holds him as he loses the last of his strength and collapses onto the incredibly comfortable couch, eyelids pulling closed already.

They murmur to each other- "Always," Stolas promises, no matter where it leads him, no matter what Blitz says in reply- and welcomes the bliss of darkness.

It has been a terrible day. It will be a terrible year. He must go get Octavia as soon as he can.

But Stolas cannot help but bask in the embrace as it curls around him like claws in his headfeathers and a kiss on the cheek- and cannot regret any of it, as long as he is warm.

#helluva boss #stolas #blitz #stolitz #my fic #AFTER ALL THESE YEARS!!!!#also when u dissociate u often think about unrelated casual things #but also im sleepy we have line transects in a few hours and i have to get out my emotions #goodnight my family i wish u all a very happy hb renaissance

29 notes · View notes

biancadoes1 · 2 hours ago

Note

A has followed one of Luke’s new co stars in white mars. She’s yet to follow Nic.

With the pasta video and the new follow I don’t know how much more they can put out there to hint they’re a thing. I can’t help but think if what we’ve seen of Luke with A and Nic with J these last few months if this was L&N everyone would be jumping from the rooftops confirming a relationship but when it’s with others it’s shot down and just friends or it’s A trying to stay relevant, it doesn’t make sense to me. N very much may not be with JD I understand that, but A on the other hand ? Yes she’s be attention seeking before but over the last 2 months not really at all in my opinion. It’s been a year for them she’s stuck through the world tour when they whole world and press were shipping her partner with his co star, and now it’s been a year being together. I think we just need to wait, be patient. It would be easier for some people to stop coming up with scenarios to suit their narrative. At the end of the day nothing has been said by L or N and people need to just chill instead of guessing who is in their lives and who’s not.

Anon, these are two things Antonia has done.

Nothing has been put out by Luke to hint that he’s with her.

So, again, it’s people paying close attention to someone that is attempting to use YOU as a way to stay relevant in a fandom that she likely hates.

I’m literally at my wits end with people replacing Nicola with Antonia in this fandom.

Like seriously. I feel like I’m one of the few people in this fandom that thinks anymore.

36 notes · View notes

corvidares · 1 day ago

Text

breaking down arcane's s2 intro

this intro sequence is so damn good - i spotted new symbolic details every episode. so here's a post about everything i noticed!

spoiler warning for the whole show!

everyone featured in this intro is dressed very plainly, in white underclothes, showing how much this sequence is about where people are at emotionally, a commentary on vulnerability. this is a big theme this season. even the setting is plain, highlighting only the characters in a way that feels like a mental landscape.

immediately, we see vi wiping away her face tattoo as if its shallow ink, naturally showing how she betrays her own values and personhood in (briefly) becoming an enforcer, helping caitlyn gas the fucking undercity, and hunt down her sister.

i saw a post that pointed this out, so i cant take credit for it; ekko standing there forms shadows that mimic the hands on a clock, foreshadowing his time travel powers.

viktor is almost entirely obscured in an oversized cloak, reaching to pick up a mask and contemplate it. his entire personhood is murky, in question. hes about to don an identity much larger than himself. that being fantasy jesus the herald of course. the mask will be him taking on that role, as well as eventually putting it on to suppress his humanity entirely, even in a literal sense when he changes forms.

next we get embessa, sitting regally, surrounded by fallen petals and holding a black rose in her hand, examining it. this reflects her history with the black rose, the conflict - her son and the council member die for it, and countless others im sure. but shes still got her predatory gaze fixed on it. a slash of light goes through her - perhaps symbolizing a break in the family legacy, between their past and present. mel will be taking over and changing things, changing the family's relationship with magic.

caitlyn psyches herself up, then hesitantly steps out past a curtain into a lit space, tilting her chin up after a moment in a show of bravado. clearly showing her "stepping onto the stage" and into her role of new power; both under embessa and in the wake of her mother's legacy as a councilmember.

jayce squints in the face of a floodlight, bringing up his hand to block out. the light is the arcane, and he blocks it out in his refusal to let it take over the world with viktor's perfect evolution.

embessa crushes the rose in her hand, but curiously, her eyes glow. perhaps showing that her being with whoever mel's other parent is, the magical one, is her introducing magic to the family?

then we cut to mel, who again has that slash of light going down the exact center of her face. shadowy hands reach out to her, and her expression if one of apprehension. she closes her eyes as they close in. the slash is back representing this divide, this change, and most importantly her decision regarding this change. she hasnt made it yet, and despite all signs pointing to her needing to, she closes her eyes to the bigger picture, her mothers influence and agents creep in, nearly overtaking her. the black rose does literally capture and almost kill her.

jinx waves her flag, and we see her shadows multiply behind her. she has unwittingly started a revolution with her image, people are inspired by it and use it to push for change. we zoom into her expression and its uncertain, and yet full of wonder. she is reconciling with what shes created, this revolution in her name.

we cut to vi's face, hardened in determination, and then to her and caitlyn facing off. theyre intimately close, and yet they crash into each other just a moment later, obviously showing theyre conflicting ideals this season literally breaking them up. this is in direct relation with the previous shot of jinx, because it comes down to her and caitlyn doing anything she can to hunt her down.

caitlyn is now alone, breathing heavily, and her fingers around her face form a shadow of a clawed crown. shes wearing it now, but her leadership is a violent one. she peers up through her fingers, towards the light. perhaps realizing what shes done?

ekko runs forward and then rewinds time. time travel. not much else to say here LMAO

we go back to the same shot of mel from before, but now she opens her eyes and roars, the shadows immediately being driven away. she is stepping up, taking charge of her own destiny, influences be damned. next shes sitting on the same couch her mom was earlier, picking up that same black rose with intrigue. she is finally learning what it is, how it relates to her family and herself. picking up gently where her mother refused to.

we see, jayce again, but now from his own perspective, raising up his hand to the bright light, which then cuts to viktor about to don the mask. cut again to jayce, from behind, still squinting into that light. he is the last one to stand against viktor's glorious revolution, to save his last dreggs of humanity.

all that, in just over a minute.. so fucking good. not to mention the various frames that change from episode to episode, which arent really visible unless you slow down the footage, but hint to various happenings.

#arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane season two #arcane s2 #arcane s2 spoilers #arcane meta #arcane season two spoilers #vi arcane #caitlyn kiramman #jayce talis #viktor arcane #mel medarda #jinx arcane #corvi caws

22 notes · View notes

papercranepoets · 1 day ago

Text

“Hermione…” Ron squeezed her shoulder. She looked up and noticed both Harry and Ron staring, waiting for a response.

“Oh, well Harry I’m really not sure about this potions book or you sidling up to Slughorn,” she sighed. Harry would continue to use this old annotated potions books even though she had a gut feeling it was bad for him. Harry was getting worse as the year went on. She even suspected he was sneaking drinks to cope with the stress of everything.

Harry and Ron exchanged looks.

“I’ll support you always Harry… perhaps you can use this potions book as a tool to get yourself invited to a Slug party or something. Then you can press him about the memory,” Hermione’s eyes darted to the time charm she cast above the fire. 10:35pm. Shit. She was anxious to get going, but had already alerted Malfoy she would be late with her newly discovered messaging spell.

“I have to do it, Hermione. I need to find out everything I can to help us defeat Voldemort,” Harry was fierce in his delivery, “I need to protect everyone I love. Him and his cronies will take and take and take until he is stopped.”

Ron interjected, “Mate. You’re not alone in this.”

Harry put his hand in his face and Hermione moved to embrace him. He had lost so, so much. All because an evil psychopath was after him. When she really thought about it she was angry with all of the adults around her who allowed for Harry to take on so much responsibility for this. Why was Dumbledore even tasking him with this. However harmless Slughorn was, he thought Tom was his star student. That was a serious lack of awareness and misjudgement of character. He should have seen through the manipulation.

Harry huffed drawing Hermione away from her thoughts, “Malfoy is up to something this year. Dumbledore trusts Snape. Snape protects Malfoy.”

“Harry!” Hermione chastised.

“Mione I don’t understand why you’re always defending him,” Ron raised his voice. He would become agitated soon, “he’s a piece of shite who thinks you’re nothing but dirt on his dragon hide shoes.”

Hermione suppressed the urge to berate Ron, but he just loved to bring up how purebloods thought nothing of her… it felt as if he was trying to say he was one of the good ones. Instead she rolled her eyes, “he’s nothing but a pissy daddy’s boy. He doesn’t scare me and he shouldn’t scare either of you. It’s honestly embarrassing how much time you both spend thinking about him.”

Harry and Ron gave each other another look, and she almost saw red.

“Stop that! You’re paranoid about an asshole who cares only for how neat his $4,000 galleon suit is just to walk around a literal school yard!” They shouldn’t underestimate him… she knew he was dangerous, but she also didn’t need them looking at him too much. She could worry about that.

“Fine. Whatever Mione,” typically Ron didn’t avoid a fight, but they had just seemingly recovered from their last.

Harry remained quiet, studying Hermione. Gods, he better not be suspicious of me, too.

“Alright, Hermione… Ron. I’m going to focus on Slughorn for now,” Harry seemed to be battling an unspoken war in his head, “night.”

Harry made to stand up and Hermione glanced at the time charm. 10:50. Ron scooted closer, slipping his hand to her neck.

“Ron… I’m not in the mood. Not after all of that nonsense about Malfoy,” Hermione snapped, backing away from him and hitting her back on the arm of the couch.

Ron narrowed his eyes, “Why do you care??”

“BECAUSE! You are constantly reminding me of my place in this fucking world!” It was a half truth, but now she was fucking mad.

“You’re twisting my words. Gods, Hermione. What is wrong with you lately?” Ron snapped, making to stand up.

“You will NOT tower over me, Ronald!” she shouted, not caring to cast a muffliato, “why can’t we go one day without fighting?!”

Hermione grabbed her bag and started half running to the common room door, desperate to escape. Desperate to see Malfoy. Anxious and excited.

“Where are you always running of to, Hermione?” Ron asked, pain hidden in his anger.

This stopped Hermione in her tracks. Does he know something?

“I just like to wander and clear my mind,” she didn’t even turn around.

“That’s horseshit and we both know it,” his tone was even. That terrified her. She should turn around to smooth things over.

Instead, “what’s horseshit is that we both pretend this relationship makes us happy, Ron.”

“Can’t even look at me when you say something like that?”

She shook her head and threw open the entrance, eager to get far, far from Ron.

Hermione paced the library after hours needing time to clear her head after a row with Ron.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped towards the uppity, sharp sounding voice.

“Shut up, Malfoy. Let’s not pretend you don’t know why I’m here.”

Malfoy smirked, looking her up and down slowly. Then he was crowding her space, grabbing her arms and pushing her against the table.

“Weasel couldn’t get you there??” He sneered grabbing her chin.

“I’m not here to talk.” Hermione stared into his icy eyes trying not to think about his other hand digging into her hip.

“Not here to talk. Is that right, Granger?” He hoisted her onto the table and stepped between her. Leaning into her neck, Granger fluttered her eyes closed. Now it was time for some relief.

Malfoy chuckled breathing onto her neck and swiping her mane away. No kiss came. “What if I wanted to talk?” He breathed into her.

Grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer, Hermione tried to shut him up. For gods sake, why was he not just kissing her already!?

He nuzzled his nose into her neck and chuckled again before pushing away.

“What the hell!?” Hermione was enraged. From Ron to Malfoy and his snooty, rich, asshole, strikingly handsome self, men were really pissing her off tonight.

She met his eyes, red painting her cheeks in embarrassment. Malfoy was already staring at her, eyes dark and predatory.

“First you want to talk and now you’re barely even breathing. Gods, you’re so fucking moody and weird sometimes?”

His nostrils flared as he looked at Hermione sprawled on the table. He looked like he could avara her on the spot. Her eyes widened as she straightened up.

“Stop using me every time you have a little fight with your boyfriend.” His jaw ticked. Was he actually pissed off? “Better, yet. Stop talking to me altogether until you’ve fixed that situation.”

Hermione’s brows stitched together, “fixed the situation? What…”

“Oh, please, don’t play fucking dumb. You’re much brighter than this.” Malfoy scoffed, “maybe we can resume this and move our little library rendezvous to something more comfortable. Dump your little weasel and we’ll talk.”

“I…” Hermione was completely bewildered.

“No.” He breathed sharply, “Send me a note when you decide what to do.”

And with that he was half way down the aisle.

Hermione didn’t realize she was holding her breath… so much for clearing her mind.

#dramione fanfic #dramione fandom #fanfiction #harry potter #hermione granger #text #text post #writers on tumblr #ron weasley #writing

72 notes · View notes

hyperions-light · 2 hours ago

Text

Good riddance to that mess: Thank the Dread Wolf we’re done with the Mage-Templar conflict

(because magic in Thedas is more interesting this way)

Okay the people who love conflict have won and I am going to talk about this now lol

I've decided to stick within the framework of the world/story for this particular post, because I think you could talk about the issues with the mages/templars in connection with how they relate to real-life groups for an entire essay AT LEAST, and I want to focus on magic here, so I don't think it's that germane to the discussion. If you all want to talk about that later, I can put it on the pile.

It turns out that Jenny Nicholson was 100% right about the efficacy of numbered lists on the internet, so this essay will be hybridized into a list. Here are the reasons I'm glad the mage-templar conflict is gone and hope it never returns:

It limits storytelling avenues I understand how they arrived at this dichotomy as the logical extrapolation of a minority of people in Thedas being born with magic BUT it's very boring and it doesn't facilitate interesting stories. If you have this strict system and hierarchy that means that every mage has to live in the tower or they're a) a criminal or b) Dalish, that seriously limits the kind of characters you can make who are mages, which is dull as both a player and a writer.

Trying to make it nuanced is difficult Attempting to show that everyone has a point in a situation is difficult when one group has absolute power over the other and can kill them whenever they feel like it. Also, with the abuses the Templars regularly perpetuate against the mages established in DAO and DA2 any attempted justification reads as the story sanctioning an oppressive force. If they try to demonstrate the danger of magic, they end up with the 10,000 blood mage problem from DA2. It's a hard thing to do within the framework they set up, but they also haven't been particularly successful with it, imo, so abandoning it is a better choice.

It's the most reductive version of the conflict Reducing the entire discussion to whether magic is good or evil, whether mages should be free or confined is really boring. It's a false dichotomy that promotes extremism in characters on either side of the conflict who never interact with one another. "Is magic bad?" is a useless and uninteresting question. Who cares? What does it do?; Where did it come from?; What different ways can you use it? are all better questions.

Makes it difficult for the audience to learn more about magic If the only characters the audience ever meets are people who come from the Circle, Dalish mages, and apostates, the amount they're going to learn about different perspectives on magic and its various uses is limited. Part of the reason Jaws of Hakkon was such an interesting DLC for DAI is because the Avvar have a completely different philosophy about magic and spirits. It was refreshing after several games of having the same ideas about magic shoved down our throats to hear someone give a different perspective and ACTUALLY NEW information. Everything I needed to know about the mage-templar conflict, I already knew by the end of DAO, but I had to sit through two more entire games while people discussed it at length.

Magic in the North is fascinating Now that we're finally rid of that conflict, look how many different kinds of magic we get to see in DATV! We get to meet a Rivaini Seer, a Mortalitasi (who can use magic to TALK TO REAL DEAD PEOPLE!!!), a non-Altus mage from the Tevinter Imperium; we get to see magic as it was utilized by the ancient elves and how it interfaces with technology. We got DWARF MAGIC!! Finally, an answer to what Sandal was doing! We found out you can use it to turn yourself into a LICH!!! All of that stuff is so cool, and we had never encountered it before this game! It brings up so many new questions about the nature of the Fade, the source of magic itself, the strength of magic in Thedas relative to other places in the world. And NONE of it could be discussed in the South because they are too busy arguing about fucking towers!!!

tl;dr: The mage-templar conflict was a boring and reductive lens through which to view magic in the DA universe, I'm glad it's gone, I hope they continue what they started in DATV and explore different ways magic can be used in the future.

#dragon age #datv spoilers #veilguard spoilers #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age: the veilguard spoilers #veilguard #dai #dao #da2 #dragon age magic #dragon age templars #dragon age mages #idk what else to tag really #hopefully this take isn't that controversial #I don't really want to argue about it but if you're polite I will discuss

25 notes · View notes

nausicaamusiclover20 · 1 day ago

Text

Pt3

Where did you sleep last night?

The days blur together after I leave James behind in the cold, silent night. Each one is heavy with a suffocating emptiness, yet I force myself to keep going. Every hour feels like a battle against the memories that claw at the edges of my mind—his smile, the way his laughter used to light up a room, the warmth of his arms when the world felt too big. I hate myself for missing those moments because now they feel like lies, fractured pieces of something I'll never get back.

The nights are the worst. Lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I can still feel the ghost of his presence. But I remind myself of the betrayal, the sting of his words, and the image of his regretful face under the streetlights. I hold onto the pain because it's all I have left. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I wonder if he's feeling it too.

James sits on the edge of his bed, the same bed that now feels like a foreign place. The sheets are cold, the silence of the house deafening. He hasn't slept properly in days, haunted by the look on my face as I turned and walked away. The realization of what he's done consumes him like a slow, cruel burn.

He reaches out instinctively, his hand brushing the empty space beside him. It feels wrong. The bed's too big without her, and the coldness is unbearable. He stares at the ceiling, his chest aching, and for the first time in years, he cries. The tears come without warning, hot and relentless, streaming down his face as the weight of his mistakes crashes over him.

"I ruined everything," he whispers into the silence, his voice breaking. "I lost her."

Memories flood his mind, unrelenting. The way she used to laugh at his dumb jokes, the way she'd curl up against him on the couch, her head on his chest as we watched movies. The quiet moments where no words were needed, where just being together was enough. Those memories cut deeper than anything, a cruel reminder of what he threw away.

When the knock came late one evening, I almost didn't answer it. I was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, my eyes puffy from crying. But something made me stand, my feet moving of their own accord. When I opened the door, the sight of James hit me like a tidal wave.

He stood there, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his face pale and tear-streaked. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles, and he looked utterly broken. He clutched a crumpled piece of paper in one trembling hand, but it was the expression on his face that shattered me. He looked like a man drowning, reaching out for a lifeline he didn't think he deserved.

"Y/n," he choked out, his voice hoarse and raw. "Please... I need to talk to you."

I froze, my hand tightening on the doorframe. Seeing him hurt, and I hated that it did. Hated that part of me wanted to reach out, to touch his face and tell him everything would be okay. But it wouldn't be okay. Not after what he'd done.

"There's nothing left to say," I said, my voice cold and flat. "You made your choice, James."

"I know," he said, his voice trembling, "but I—I can't do this. I can't be without you. I don't deserve for you to listen, but I'm begging you. Please. Please let me explain."

His words cracked something inside me, the raw desperation in them cutting through my defenses. Against my better judgment, I stepped aside, letting him in. He hesitated before walking in, as if afraid to cross the threshold. The air between us was thick with tension, the silence oppressive as we stood facing each other.

"I haven't slept since you left," he began, his voice trembling. "I haven't eaten. I can't—I can't function, Y/n. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face. And it kills me, because I know I did that. I'm the one who put that look in your eyes."

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to hold myself together. "You're right. You did. And now you're here, what? To tell me you're sorry? To beg for forgiveness? Do you think that'll make it better?"

He flinched, tears slipping down his cheeks. "No," he said, his voice breaking. "Nothing I say can fix what I did. But I need you to know... I love you, Y/n. I've always loved you. And losing you—it's tearing me apart."

"Don't you dare say you love me," I spat, my voice rising. "If you loved me, you wouldn't have done this. You wouldn't have lied to me, made me feel like a fool while you were with her!"

"I know," he whispered, his voice cracking. "God, I know. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you, for betraying you. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you if you'll let me. Just... please, tell me there's still a chance."

I shook my head, my throat tightening. "You don't get it, do you? It's not just about the cheating. You broke something in me, James. You made me question everything—whether I was enough, whether I was ever enough. I don't know if I can come back from that."

His face crumpled, and he dropped to his knees, the paper in his hand falling to the floor. "You were more than enough," he sobbed. "You were everything. I'm the one who wasn't enough—for you, for us. I let my insecurities, my stupidity, ruin the best thing that ever happened to me. Please, Y/n. Please don't let this be the end of us."

His words hit me like a hammer, the raw emotion in them making my chest ache. I wanted to stay angry, to hold onto my pain, but seeing him like this—broken and desperate—it made it harder to keep the walls around my heart intact.

"What is this?" I asked, picking up the crumpled paper.

"It's... everything I couldn't say before," he whispered. "Everything I've been too much of a coward to tell you."

I unfolded the paper, my hands trembling. His handwriting was shaky, the words uneven and raw. He'd poured his heart out in the letter, confessing his love, his regret, his desperation to make things right. By the time I finished reading, tears were streaming down my face.

"Y/n," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know that. But I'll spend every day trying to earn it if you'll let me."

I looked at him, my heart breaking all over again. "I don't know if I can forgive you, James," I said, my voice trembling. "You hurt me in ways I didn't think were possible. But... I need time."

His shoulders sagged with relief, tears spilling down his cheeks as he nodded. "Take all the time you need. I'll wait. For as long as it takes."

As he left, the door closing softly behind him, I clutched the letter to my chest. My heart was torn between the love I still felt and the pain he'd caused, but for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of something else—hope. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

It had been a week since James showed up at my door, broken and pleading. His words replayed in my mind like an unrelenting echo, threading through every quiet moment. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I'll spend the rest of my life trying to earn it."

I'd tried to push it all away, bury the memories under the crushing weight of his betrayal. But the harder I tried, the more they surfaced—his laughter ringing in my ears, his touch a phantom against my skin. The scent of his cologne, still faintly clinging to the blanket I had refused to wash, became my undoing. It was him, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

The nights were the worst. They stretched endlessly, the silence pressing down on me like a weight. I missed the sound of his even breathing beside me, the way he'd pull me closer in his sleep, murmuring soft words against my hair. I missed the mornings when he'd nudge me awake with that lopsided grin, calling me "babe" in that warm, teasing voice. God, I missed him—more than I wanted to admit.

But the pain wasn't gone. It sat in my chest, heavy and unrelenting, a reminder of the trust he had shattered. You don't fool me anymore. I had said those words to him, and I meant them. But now, the ache of missing him felt unbearable, like I was trying to breathe with half my heart missing.

It was late, the moonlight casting long shadows across my apartment, when I gave up pretending I could keep going like this. I threw off the blanket and stood, my heart pounding as I grabbed my coat. I didn't know what I was doing. All I knew was that I couldn't stay away anymore. The weight of the silence, the void of his absence—it was too much.

The streets were quiet as I made my way to his house, the night air biting at my skin. I told myself I was just going to talk, to find some kind of closure. But deep down, I knew the truth. I missed him. I missed him in a way that felt like my soul was aching, like the part of me that had been whole only existed with him.

When I reached his door, I hesitated, my hand hovering just above the wood. My heart was racing, a war raging inside me between my hurt and my love for him. Before I could overthink it, I knocked.

The sound of hurried footsteps on the other side made my breath catch. The door opened, and there he was, his eyes widening in shock. He looked just as wrecked as the night he had come to me—maybe worse. His hair was disheveled, his shirt rumpled, and his eyes... they were filled with so much raw emotion that it made my chest tighten.

"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice cracking.

I didn't give him a chance to say more. Before I could second-guess myself, I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. His arms flew around me, pulling me close, and he buried his face against my shoulder.

"Oh my God," he breathed, his voice trembling. "You're here. You're really here."

His body shook against mine, and I realized he was crying. His sobs were quiet but full of so much relief, so much pain, that they broke something inside me. I felt his tears soaking into my coat as he clung to me like I might vanish if he let go.

"I thought I'd lost you," he choked out. "I thought you'd never—oh, God, Y/n."

His grip tightened, his arms trembling as he held me, and I felt something shift in my chest. The anger and hurt were still there, but they were softened by the overwhelming love I still felt for him. I hated him for what he'd done, but I couldn't hate the way he made me feel like I was home, even now.

"I couldn't stay away," I whispered, my own voice thick with emotion. "I tried, James. I really tried. But I—" My voice broke, and the tears I'd been holding back finally spilled over. "I missed you."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands cupping my face as he stared into my eyes. His thumbs brushed away my tears, even as his own continued to fall.

"I don't deserve this," he said, his voice raw and filled with anguish. "I don't deserve you. But I swear, Y/n, I'll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I can be better. I'll never hurt you again. I'll never give you a reason to doubt me."

I searched his face, my heart pounding in my chest. I saw the guilt there, the pain, but most of all, I saw the love—the same love that had once made me feel like I was the center of his world. And despite everything, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that we could find our way back to what we used to be.

"I'm not saying it's going to be easy," I said, my voice trembling. "I'm not saying I can forgive you right away. But I—" I took a shaky breath, my hands clutching his shirt. "I want to try."

The relief that flooded his face was like a sunrise breaking through the darkness. He let out a shuddering breath, his forehead pressing against mine as he whispered, "Thank you. Thank you, Y/n. You have no idea what this means to me."

He pulled me back into his arms, holding me so tightly it was almost hard to breathe, but I didn't care. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could finally exhale. His warmth surrounded me, his familiar scent wrapping around me like a comfort I hadn't realized I'd been craving.

"I missed you so much," he murmured against my hair. "The bed's been so cold without you. The house—it's been so empty. I've been so empty, Y/n. You're my everything."

His words melted the last of my defenses, and I let myself sink into his embrace, my tears soaking into his shirt. For now, it was enough. The hurt wasn't gone, but it was quieter, drowned out by the love that still lingered between us.

As we stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, I felt the first flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to piece ourselves back together. It wouldn't be easy. It wouldn't be perfect. But for the first time, I felt like it was possible.

And that was enough.

#metallica #metallica oneshot #metallica fanfiction #metallica fluff #jameshetfield #jameshetfieldxreader #james hetfield one shot #james hetfield fluff #james hetfield angst #james hetfield x you #metallica x you #metallica angst #angst #angst with comfort #angst with a happy ending

20 notes · View notes

https-mi1zu · 1 day ago

Text

The Peacock and The Crow

(the draft-ish, chapters 1-2)

CO WRITER, SPELL CHECKER, AND MY BESTIE IN GENERAL: @cha0sdumpster

WARNINGS : nothign really ig?

word count: 4,283

To gabby, the first to hear.

CHAPTER ONE . Life is weird, but I'm weirder

I didn't really want to become a hero, but here we are.

Everyday was the same, I woke up early, 5:30 or so. I got ready, fixed my hair and packed my lunch. Meanwhile, my mother was passed out on the couch with some man. I went back to my room to get them a blanket. I left them a glass of water before I left for school. As I walked out of the house and slowly made my way to the bus stop, I couldn't help but feel a sense of isolation. It was like I was living two different lives - my own and that of my mother's. I waited for the bus, wondering if things would ever change, or if I were always meant to feel like an outsider.

At least my mother was grateful enough to give me her headphones. As soon as I plugged in my headphones, it felt as if the world just stopped for a moment. It felt freeing, it felt as if I was high as a cloud and...is that a horse with wings??

I took off my glasses to wipe them a bit, maybe I was just seeing things. I looked back, only to see just a normal maya bird flying by. As I sat on the bus, lost in thought, I couldn't help wondering if there were other kids like me out there - kids who felt like outcasts and longed to find a place where they could truly fit in. I was aware that there were other kids in my class who also struggled with ADHD and dyslexia. My mother was surprised that I had made it to grade 7.

I wondered if there was somewhere out there where I could find people who understood me and where I belonged, maybe even a place where I could've become a forest witch.

I could daydream about finding a place where I fit in and could be a forest witch, the bus pulled up to a stop, it jolted me back to reality. I got off the bus and began walking to school, still lost in thought. I took off my earphones as I got off.

I walked in the hallways, it was quite early, I couldn't help but notice some strange things around me - a bird that was acting weirdly, a crack in the sidewalk, and a piece of paper floating in the air. But I shook my head, thinking it was just your imagination again. 'Just my imagination is running wild.' I said to myself, mostly.

I put my bags at my desk as I walked over to the corner of the room. Our classroom was quite small, but it had a fire exit. We never got to use it, but it was cool anyway.

I could hear the slight buzz of the fan, our aircon hadn't been fixed yet. Why did I even bring a jacket anyway?

I looked at our schedule, making myself mentally memorize the subjects. 'math first...science next...filipino right after recess, ‘did I remember to bring my apron?' I thought. We had art today, double period, our art teacher was quite nice.

After I reread the schedule a couple more times, I walked to my desk. It was in the third row of the third column of our classroom.

I brought out my books, I didn't need much other than my whiteboard (which I forgot to bring, again) and my notebooks. After I got my books and shoved them under my desk, I walked over to my locker, 'I should really buy a lock.' I said to myself. Opening my locker and then shoved my bag and lunch box in. I slammed the door to it shut so nothing would fall out.

I made my way through the medium-sized room, the air seemed to grow colder, as if the temperature had dropped a few degrees. The shadows in the corners appear to thicken and deepen, almost as if they are slowly coming to life. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, like there are eyes following my every move. But everytime I turn around there's nobody there.

The flickering of the fluorescent lights above only adds to the sense of unease, casting shifting patterns of brightness and darkness across the room. I could hear faint, almost imperceptible whispers echoing through the corridors.

'it's just the wind.' I told myself, I sat down back on my desk

But the whispers continued, growing louder and more menacing as I sat at my desk. They seem to come from every corner of the room, as if they are trying to communicate something important like they are trying to warn me of something.

The shadows in the corner seem to twist and writhe, almost like they are trying to form some kind of shape. It's hard to make out what exactly they're trying to take the form of, but it almost seems like a familiar shape. I needed to clear my mind so I opened the door and made my way to the bathroom. It was a quiet walk, the corridors empty with the leaves on the ground. I looked down at the ground as I walked. The rocks embedded in the beige concrete made different shapes, the sizes ranging from big to small. It really looked like a messed up mosaic.

I reached the bathroom, the whispers grew louder and more frenzied, as if they were desperate to communicate something. The shadows in the corner of the room seemed to move and writhe even more.

Turning on the faucet, the water that came out was ice cold, as if it had been sitting in a frozen pond for hours. I splashed water on my face, expecting it to be refreshing and calming, but instead the water felt strange, almost as if it was pulling something out of me.

I looked at myself in the mirror, the whispers in the back of my mind grew to an unbearable level. It was like they were trying to drown me in my negative thoughts. Didn't work though.

The longer I looked into the mirror, I noticed the small imperfections on my face.

The small but noticeable double chin I had

My many moles on my face

The pimples and the acne

My round baby face. I've always hated my face.

I fixed and tied up my hair. It always looked bad the moment I stepped into school. I think it's the school air that always makes people’s hair look weird. Walking out of the bathroom, I could feel the whispers in the air behind, beside, and in front of me. Why couldn't they quiet down for once? Just for a day is all I ask. They kept persisting, whispering thoughts and messages through my ears. It was as if all I could hear until I saw my teacher.

Mrs Fiore. She was my mentor and my composition teacher. I forgot we had class coaching today, class coaching was for our writing. We had to make a fake myth about an item or a food in our hometown. Mrs Fiore wasn't only our English teacher, but so was Ms Santos, our literature teacher. She was a little bit more meaner than Mrs fiore.

I always found Mrs Fiore kind, she always had this vibe that I could only describe as comforting. Maybe it was because she always smelt like flowers, or because her hugs always felt nice and warm.

The small things I noticed about her was that she always had a flower in hand or her auburn hair. Miss Fiore always wore this necklace with a pomegranate charm on it. She also always had at least something black on, and she for some reason would always disappear in September, sometimes August. Those were the ber-months. I always questioned why she would be gone for so long…she did mention it was to visit someone. Maybe it's her husband, though why doesn't he just live with her? Why couldn't he visit her instead of her visiting him?

Mrs fiore wasn't the only teacher who would disappear for September and august, Ms santos too. Ms Santos and Mrs fiore looked related in a way, like niece and aunt, or mother and daughter.

I gave Mrs. Fiore a small wave and passed her in the hallways, she waved back with a smile.

The weeks felt longer and more tiring as each day passes. Sometimes there would be something interesting, for example my history teacher said that whoever recited the full intro to this TV show would get an extra point on the quiz. Everyone thought it was a joke until one of my classmates, Carmen, raised her hand.

To everyone’s surprise, she somehow managed to recite it all. She got an extra point on the quiz that day.

I wanted to raise my hand too but, I guess I was too afraid to speak. I was always too afraid to speak, I hated the fact that I was afraid.

Sitting back in my chair, I got lost in thought.

I questioned my purpose in this world. Would it be better if I just hadn't existed? What would my classmates do if I just disappeared? would they even notice?

The answer to my last question was no. One time we had a party, teachers day. I disappeared from the class party to make bracelets with Mrs Fiore, when I came back an hour later, I asked “did you notice I was gone?”

“Uhhhh…yeaaahh?” My classmate responded uncertainty. The music was loud. Loud to make it sound like a whisper, but not loud enough for me to hear what she was saying

I knew it was a lie.

This made me truly question why I am even here, in this school. Why did my parents choose this school? They did say it was more accommodating to my ADHD. I would've been better off in some public school than this. At least there, no one talks bad about you. Well, not in front of you at least.

Maybe if I had been a better student, only then my classmates would notice me. As the day progressed, it was somewhat quiet. We had two quizzes, one in math and the other in Filipino.

Usually I had to go to a separate place to take these tests. MLP, the modified learning program. It was for kids like me, ones that had a troubled time in learning.

There was another girl in MLP, her name was Mars. Mars and I, were friends, to say the least. How we became friends was…interesting.

Mars saw that I liked the same thing as her, which was a TV show called The Amazing Adventures of the Hare and the Lamb. It was a children's show, I just watched it because I got bored. It was a good TV show though, I re-watched it three or four times.

The moment Mars saw that I had some merch I made myself, she immediately started to talk to me. Telling me all about her favorite character, why the show’s so good, and then about a song I haven't heard of.

Ever since that day, we became friends. Though we were in different classes, she would invite me to eat lunch, she would sometimes give me rocks she found. Sometimes Mars would even just tell me a story or a character she created on the weekend. Nevertheless, I would listen to her nonstop. It wouldn't matter what mood I was in or how much homework I had, I'd always want to listen to her. It was like she was my sister in a way, or a version of me I wished to be ever since I was young.

Entering the small room for MLP, it was quiet except for the teacher there, Miss Luzviminda. Me and Mars called her Miss Luz for short. She was already there, writing some report or something. I walked into the room, giving her a small wave before sitting down.

“Did you study for the quiz, June?” She asked me, getting up from her velvet chair and handing me my quiz paper. “Yep,” I responded, bringing out my mechanical pencil. I started to write my name, just June Manalo. I didn't want to add the extra Christina, too lazy to write my full name. I looked at the paper and giving a somewhat cringed look, math.

I didn't like math, although yes I did understand the lesson, I'd forget how to do the steps to the questions. That's why Miss Luz would help me.

Miss Luz was kind, she was like my tita. She’d always ask how I was doing or what I did during the weekends, Mars would start shaking her hands and start ranting about everything she did during the weekend, too bad she’s absent today. Miss Luz would always tell Mars to calm down a bit with a comforting smile. Mars would sit down and fidget in her seat in response.

I started trying my best to answer the questions in the quiz, asking Miss luz if I did this or that correctly.

CHAPTER TWO: why am I like this?

The day passed very quickly, in the blink of an eye. I didn’t even really do much except for the quizzes and writing notes. At lunch I kind of just stayed at where me and Mars usually eat, which was the gate closest to our classrooms, gate two. Opening my lunch box, I brought out the lunch I made before I had left school, a simple nutella sandwich with banana and a Chuckie. Some others might say that this isn't a healthy or a filling lunch, well I can't cook.

I opened the metal container, bringing the sandwich to my mouth to take a bite, it tasted cold, I still ate it even though. Then I peeled my banana and poked my Chuckie with the straw to drink. I should really eat more, it's not really healthy to eat the same lunch everyday.

After I finished eating my sandwich, banana, and chuckie, I just sat there and opened my notebook to draw. I like drawing, usually though i'd draw some characters I've created in my head, or Mars’ characters

I started with a simple sketch of a head and eyes, not really knowing what to draw, I just went with the flow. As I kept drawing, I heard one of my teachers pass, Miss Estioco. She was my science teacher last year, she was like me. She was socially awkward but kind of a nerd, not in a bad way though. She was like one of those cool teachers who would somewhat let you do what you want, or just talk to casually.

She waved and smiled at me, a strand of her black hair falling onto her face before she brushed it behind her ear. I waved back, wondering what she was doing at gate two. I then heard a motorcycle pull up, oh she was just getting food she ordered. She walked to the gate, gave the driver the money before walking back inside. After that I just went back to drawing.

This was calming, my therapy, I liked sitting by myself and drawing. It would be better if Mars was here but this was fine enough as is. ‘The right eye’s to big.’ I thought, erasing the eye and tilting my notebook to draw it similar to the left one. Drawing was like gambling to me sometimes, I never knew if it looked nice or not, if it looked correctly portioned or not. Its like having a love hate relationship with drawing, I both love it and hate it.

An hour or 40 minutes pass, the lunch bell rung. I packed my stuff, shoving my metal empty container in with my water jug. I fixed my hair in a window that was being covered inside with a curtain. It was dark enough for me to see my reflection through the glass. ‘Eh, look good enough’ I tightened the knot of the jacket around my waist before walking back to my classroom. There were a lot of people, some in groups or just having a normal conversation. I quickly tried to walk past them, saying “excuse me” a thousand times before reaching my classroom. It was loud, really loud, there were people in small groups in the corner and the center of the classroom chatting away. The chatter of multiple conversations and the occasional yell could be heard during break. Walking over to my locker, I opened it and put my stuff inside. Reaching into my locker after putting my lunch box in it, I grabbed my apron since art was the second to last subject of the day. After that I sat back in my seat, my apron in my lap while I continued to draw.

But something felt…different. Something felt as if I was being watched from afar. I looked up and turned my head to look around the classroom, everyone was minding their own business. I tried to ignore the feeling of being watched but, I just couldn’t. I could just feel someone’s gaze staring right at me, watching my every move, like a hawk would do to prey. I felt helpless, I don't like being stared at, it's uncomfortable and awkward.

I heard the bell ring not too long after, getting up from my seat, grabbing my pencil and putting it in my jacket’s pocket. We didn’t need much to bring, just really our apron and a pencil. I watched as everyone left the room, I was the last so I had to close the lights and close the door. Staying at the back of the line, I still could hear them talking and chatting away, gossiping or talking about plans for the weekend.

When we reached the art room, our teacher was already there, Miss Reyes. She was there organizing the artworks of the class before us, placing them carefully on a shelf for them to dry. She greeted us with a good afternoon and told us to sit down. Miss Reyes said that we would be making an art based on a country and its tradition, people, and artwork. We’d be able to choose the country, I chose Greece since I liked studying and learning about its mythology.

She gave us a flat canvas and a marker and told us to write our name, section, and the country we chose. She also said that we could choose from a variety of art materials, varying from paints, paint brushes, sand, and newspapers. We could use any material to paint our artwork, so I chose an eraser. Never really did I like painting or coloring, I liked doing that virtually. We were also allowed to use the computer to search for ideas for our artwork. I stood behind one of my most talkative classmates while I waited for my turn to use the computer to search for an idea. My classmate just kept talking and talking to the point it was annoying, like seriously can't you tell that it's too loud or what you're even saying didn't even make sense? She wasn't even talking to me but one of the smarter people in class, Isabel. I stood there patiently, fidgeting with the eraser. Then I just decided to draw the first thing on my mind, since time was of the essence. I walked back to the table I was situated at and began drawing up a design. It was of the goddess Persephone, most people just say that she’s the wife of Hades but she was so much more than that. She’s the goddess of spring, the queen of the underworld. She was so much more than just “hades’ wife”.

I made sure to draw her to be looking ethereal, with long flowy jellyfish like hair, eyes comforting and kind. I made sure to add her sign, a pomegranate. I gave her a simple chiton, adding some accessories like a crown, rings, bracelets, and flowers. She looked pretty, I made sure of that.

I was seated in the corner of the classroom, with four of my classmates lingering around my desk. They didn’t talk to me much, as I didn’t talk to them either. I kept my head down and continued drawing, overhearing their conversation. I sketched a few more lines, as they talked about another person in our batch. Something controversial, as I remember. Every day was like this actually, people talking about someone or something.

I tried to ignore them, trust me I did, but now I know that one person in this batch is gay, I'm gay but like it's different y'know?

Overhearing their conversation accidentally, they kept talking and yapping away about someone else now. I stayed silent, although I did know that person, but not really on the friend level more like a simple wave or hi in the hallways type. I felt sad for her, she didn’t deserve this treatment, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I kept my silence, didn’t want to add to the gossip, neither did I want to join the gossip.

As I continued to draw, I still felt as if I was being watched. Someone was watching me, that was for sure. I could feel its eyes peering into my skin, making it uncomfortable for me to draw. I stopped for a moment, looking around to see everyone talking to each other or focusing on their artwork, no one was staring at me. So I just went back to drawing, sketching lines delicately.

After I was finished with the sketch, I didn't want to color it, it was too pretty for coloring. I got up from my seat and walked over to Miss Reyes to ask her if I should color it or not. She gave me good advice, telling me to try and use shading if I didn't want to color it. I nodded and thanked her for that before walking back to my seat. Everyone else was still drawing and painting their artwork. Since I didn't know what to do, I just cleaned up my area and stayed silent while I waited for class to end.

Boredom took over as I watched the clock tick, waiting patiently for the bell to ring. We had like, maybe five or ten minutes left I think.

The minutes passed by, everyone was still chatting and talking. I saw Miss Reyes walking around, checking up with my classmates and giving them advice about their artworks. When she walked up to me, she asked “oh june! I'm kind of worried that the bracelet you gave me might break, can I ask that you restring it?” She took off the bracelet I made for her on teacher's day. “I wear it everyday kasi” She smiled at me warmly as I took the bracelet from her hands. “Yes miss.” I replied, putting the bracelet in my pocket, she walked off as another of my classmates called her.

More or maybe five minutes pass, it was finally the next class. I saw everyone get up, still chatting with each other as they cleaned up their tables and their workspaces. We still had one more class, religion. I was the first to be out of the art classroom, waving my teacher goodbye.

It was quiet out, no other students were walking around, no maritesses chatting around or young students running around. I liked the quiet, but I never liked being alone. After I made it back to my classroom, I drank some water as the rest of my classmates filled the room. We all waited for a bit before my religion teacher came in, Miss Elane. Almost half my batch hated her because she always goes ‘im not mad, I'm not sad, nor am I disappointed. I'm worried about you guys failing your test.’ She always says that after half the class failed her test. She expected us to memorize the bible’s verses, I can't even remember what I had for breakfast. I know, I know Miss Elane had good intentions but why did she have to say it like that?

”Good afternoon class” She said, everyone replied with a good afternoon to her too. We were all very tired, mentally and physically. She told us all to stand up to pray, though I didn't want to, so I just stood there with my arms crossed. Then with that she started her lesson on some new bible verse.

Everyone sat back down and pulled out their notebooks to start taking notes on the verse. I didn't want to take notes, for I was too tired to do so. “June, what was Abraham promised?” she called on me unexpectedly. “He was promised angels?” I answered, standing up. Miss Elane just sighed before turning to the board to write, I am scared. Maybe I got scared because of her glare, how intimidating her ‘comforting’ smile was, or how she would always pull me out of class to ask me personal questions. I always tried to answer them vaguely and asked her if I could leave.

She would always call me the black sheep of the flock, commenting on how I would always walk a bit slower then my class so I don't have to socialize with them. I didn’t like her one bit, I didn’t like how she would try to talk to me, trying to pry me away from my class. There was even a time where, I swear to you that Miss Elane blinked sideways.

20 notes · View notes

echoingbirdsofprey · 3 days ago

Text

Delicate (Jake's Version)

8 - Lost In The Sound Of The Rhythm

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x OFC Samantha Kazansky

Rating: Explicit (MDNI!)

Warnings; SMUT, protected!sex, admission of feelings

A/N: Jake is just really in his his feels hahaa

Taglist: @mrsevans90

Playlist

“Okay...I guess he’s not the worst human being in the world..” Nat said, as they left the restaurant, Sam’s hand in hers. She glanced back at Bob, who was smiling and chatting with Jake. It was small talk, mostly weather, trucks, and nothing work related. It was what Jake needed and what Bob needed to see that he was capable of.

Jake looked at ease. To Sam’s educated and observant eye, she had seen the tension in his body when dinner began. She’d seen it earlier in the day, when he was at the base and the other pilots had entered the ready room. She’d seen his shoulders tighten when he was around her father. She’d seen his muscles seize up when they walked into the Vice Admiral’s office. The only time Jake looked loose was when he was with her. She wondered then if that was just that facade he was so good at holding together, as if he was puffing out to show dominance or strength. She could definitely see that being it.

As the small group arrived at their vehicles, Nat let go of Sam's hand and hugged her. Jake shook Bob's hand and Bob smiled back at him, warmly, and then Sam saw what she was rea¹lly hoping for. Jake turned to Nat and she pulled him into a hug.

“We...forgive you...Jake.” She said and Sam's brows furrowed.

“Forgive him?” She asked and Nat nodded.

“We had a tiff on base...but I think this makes up for it. Especially considering you paid for the whole dinner.” She explained and Jake smiled a thousand megawatt smile, the one that had Sam swooning again and again. She loved when he smiled. She needed more of that. She wanted to much more of it.

They said their goodbyes and Nat and Bob got in his truck and drove off after waving. Jake helped Sam into his truck and he stood there by the passenger side for a moment, his hands on her legs. He stretched up and begged for a kiss.

“Still okay to come back to my place? Javy said he'd be out so...we'd have it to ourselves at least for a little while.” He said and Sam nodded. He patted her legs gently and closed her door and hopped in his side. His and Javy’s place was about a ten minute drive, pretty close to base and closer to Sam's than she thought. He backed into the driveway, and helped her out. He grabbed for her hips and guided her down the step side carefully. Normally, she never had help getting out of her truck, but she also never drove in heels. She usually put them on once she got out of the truck so keeping them on this whole time felt odd to her.

Jake and Javy's cottage was cute. It was a few blocks from the beach, two stories with a modest balcony at the top facing toward the water. It was very cookie cutter like the other ones in the area, a similar color scheme and she figured that was because they were renting it. People had their own little decorations and modifications that they’d made but most of these cottages were pretty much the same layout. She was pretty sure Penny Benjamin lived somewhere around here too.

They headed inside and Sam liked that it had a homey feeling. It was small and comfortable. Not claustrophobic like one might think, going from the near mansion Sam was used to. Once inside, Jake kicked his boots off and pushed her up against the door.

“Oh fuck, Jake!” Sam gasped as his lips connected with hers, and evidently she could feel his smirk. His hands met her hips and then they traveled up to her breasts. The thin fabric of her dress left nothing to the imagination, especially with the thin, lacy bra she had on underneath. He hoped that her panties matched. She snaked her hands around the back of his neck, one hand reaching for his hair. As they parted she laughed. “You cheeky little shit.”

“That's not very nice. Apologize.” He demanded playfully, pressing his hips toward her. He dipped his head down and let his lips trail over the beautiful exposed skin of her neck, that he had been eyeing nearly all night. She wore a simple rose gold necklace with a small pendant which accented the area perfectly. The more his lips explored, the more Sam wanted him to just hike up her dress and take her right then and there.

“What if I don't?” She teased and she didn't think his smirk could get any more sly but it did somehow. He grabbed her thighs, pulling her into his arms, and she held tight as he twirled around and headed toward the stairs.

“I'll have to court martial you.” He growled as he climbed the short flight of stairs with her in his arms. Sam was impressed by his feat of strength displayed by carrying her all the way up and into his bedroom.

He placed her on top of the sheets and hovered over her, just admiring how pretty she looked, her cheeks pink and lips parted for him. For him.

Sam propped herself up on her elbows and gazed up into his stunning green eyes and then she glanced around, seeing the room was plain. His sheets were a dark navy and that was about the only bit of color in the room. Everything else was white or cream or tan. Jake had some bags and boxes around but it didn't look like he kept much. On the nightstand beside the bed was a small lamp and some paperwork. Sam realized then that Jake probably didn't have many things because he was barely ever home, and he didn't need a lot anyway. A more harrowing thought crossed her mind though, as he was removing his button up and then his t-shirt. What if he didn't keep a lot because he didn't expect to come back from a mission at some point? Jake certainly didn't seem the type to want to settle down, especially after hearing about his reputation from Nat.

Sam was distracted from her thoughts by the feeling of Jake's warm hands traveling up her thighs, under the skirt of her dress. “Lost you there for a sec, huh? Come back to me, babygirl.” His voice was low and soft as he began to push her dress up, eager to see what she'd worn underneath.

“Don’t worry, I never left. Just a pause.” She said, as he tipped his head down between her legs. He inhaled, the scent of her arousal making him groan as he kissed her over her panties. They were pretty, white, and lacy, and he reached up behind her back to where he knew her bra was strapped, undoing it with two fingers through the back of her dress.

“Don’t. Ever.” He said softly as he made his way up her body, his lips capturing hers as his hands unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. She helped him, pushing them and his boxers down his chiseled hips, allowing his cock to spring free.

“Don’t ever what?” She asked, the tenderness in his tone making her hot all over.

“Leave.” He begged, and Sam’s brows knitted, wondering where that came from. Why would she leave? She liked him. She liked him a lot. She might even...

“Not going anywhere, Jake.” She murmured as they parted. He guided her up, switching positions so that he could pull her dress off, and remove her bra. Once those were gone, tossed on the floor, his lids lowered as he grabbed both of her breasts. Her hands met the back of his neck as he dipped his head down so that he could take one of her nipples in his mouth.

“Good. Glad of that. Can’t be without you.” He said in between kissing and sucking on each nipple. He traced across her collarbone and her shoulders with his lips, which were warm and moist against her now slightly cooler skin. With the removal of her clothing, she realized it was chilly in the cottage, and noticed that the glass door out to the balcony was open, the ocean breeze blowing in through the screen door.

Jake’s hands left her breasts and traveled down her sides to her hips, hooking his thumbs in her panties so that he could remove those as well. He threw those behind him, and then wiggled himself the rest of the way out of his jeans and boxers.

“We sharing feelings this evening, Jake?” Sam asked with a smirk as he climbed over her. He reached for the drawer in the night stand, grabbing a condom. He placed it beside her head and closed the drawer before leaning down to kiss her.

“So what if we are?” He asked, voice slightly ragged, an edge of frustration to it. He wasn’t mad, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled that they were talking about this in bed. He didn’t do this.

“Jake...do you have some...strong feelings for me?” Sam teased and he sat back slightly and ran his hand threw his blond locks and swallowed hard. Sam propped herself up again and reached one hand out to touch his chest. She ran her nails carefully over his abs and stared into the sage green and worried irises above her.

“Yah, maybe.” He grumbled, his weight settling over her hips. She could feel his cock, throbbing, thick and warm against her stomach.

“Jake, it’s okay to feel things...I...feel...stuff...too.” She tugged him down so that their mouths could meet, her tongue darting out to play with his. He obliged but there was hesitation and Sam wanted that to go away. She grabbed for his hair and that made him moan into her mouth and then he growled a response.

“I don’t do this. I’ve never felt like this...” He said and she could feel his muscles tensing. Sam grabbed for his biceps and pushed her hips at him, trying to entice him to keep going because she felt like she was losing control of the situation.

“It’s okay.” She said softly, and he paused for a moment, eyes locking on her before he kissed her again, this time more needy, more aggressive, hotter and more passionate than all the ones before.

“Is it?” He purred as he reached down, but Sam beat him to it, her hand wrapping around his length. His mouth was agape as she pumped him slowly a few times. She turned her head, offering her neck to him, which he willingly devoured. He was then re-engaged and decided he was done talking about his feelings. He wanted physicality now.

“Yes...Jake...I kinda like you a lot. You’re really special to me, and I’m not just saying that.” Sam said and to his surprise, she reached up and ripped the condom wrapper open, then rolled it onto his cock with one swift motion.Jake was impressed by her flexibility.

“Ah, fuck, that was hot.” He groaned, his lips heading for her neck again. She placed her hands on either side of his head and coaxed him back up to her lips. She ran one hand over his cheek and then the other headed down his bicep. He glanced at her hand, admiring her long, pretty fingers as they cradled his sculpted muscle. Her nails were long and perfectly manicured French tips, and she had silver and rose gold rings on her pinkie, middle, and pointer fingers that only accentuated her perfect tanned skin even more. Distracted by her gorgeous hand wrapped around his arm, he'd forgotten that his length was still in her other hand. He'd spread her legs with his own, the back of her thighs against his quads. Sam held him steady and guided his tip to her entrance, using just one finger on the top of his shaft to help him press inside her very wet pussy. His abs drew up tighter than he expected as he bottomed out inside her. His head dropped back and he moaned her name, which made Sam blush even more than she already was. Was it her or was it a thousand degrees in the room now?

“God damn it, Sam. I fuckin’..ugh, I...fuck...think I love you...pretty girl.” He stammered as he began to move his hips back and forth, a leisurely pace. Sam's breath quickened and his words sent sparks through her. The admission...the praise...the compliment, it was all so much more than she thought she was getting. She loved the fact that Jake Seresin ...the only naval aviator on active duty with an air to air kill, was a simpering mess above her. Hangman was putty in her arms and she couldn't get enough of it.

“So this is what it feels like to be court martialed...” Sam’s voice was strained as she relaxed back against the sheets. They smelled like him. Like his deodorant and cologne, both a clean, citrusy, musky scent that had very subtle sweet notes. The other scent heavy on her nostrils was the mix of their arousal, and mixed with his sweat, Jake’s was strong. It caged her in and made her feel like she was his and his alone. It was only spurring her on, the fire in her belly spreading rapidly.

“Yeah, no it never feels this fuckin’ good, trust me.” He said, tone husky, as his thrusts faltered for a moment. He shifted, placing his forearms on the bed on either side of her head, cradling her head with his hands. He picked up his pace and his intensity, his hips ramming into her harder than before. Her brows knitted and she threw her head back and moaned his name, cresting the peak of her orgasm as he met his own with a swift end. It had crept up on him, like a coiled spring with too much tension, everything released at the same time, and Jake saw stars as he came. He paused, his cock pumping hard inside Sam. Her nails dug into his biceps and he groaned at the sharpness. He almost enjoyed it, and he knew there would be tick marks there that he would be proud to wear.

“Fuck...sorry...too excited...” Jake apologized and Sam shook her head and tugged him down for a kiss with a laugh.

“No, no, don’t be sorry. I enjoyed that very much.” She whispered, her breath warm against his lips. He sighed and slid out of her, removed the condom carefully and ran to the bathroom. He hadn’t expected Sam to follow him.

“Whatcha doin’?” He asked as she wound her arms around his torso and placed her head against his back.

“Cuddling.” She said and he chuckled.

“Okay, but we can do that in the bed. I was gonna grab some toilet paper so I could wipe you off. You’re a little wet down south...” Jake explained as he turned and wrapped his arms around her. She smirked.

“Thanks...we could just take a quick shower.” She said and he nodded, reaching over to turn the shower on. The bathroom was small and they would have to squeeze in the shower, but they would enjoy it nonetheless. The water was warm when they stepped in together and Jake took Sam in his arms, holding her close.

‘I just poured my heart out to you...” He murmured and Sam buried her face in his chest.

“I’m happy you did, Jake...I meant what I said too. I really, really like you...like...a ton...like a metric fuck ton...” Sam said and they both laughed softly.

#jake seresin x oc #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #top gun hangman #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #glen powell

18 notes · View notes

kingofbodyrolls · 5 hours ago

Text

PSA: Support Your Fanfic Writers! 📣 (Yes, this is a rant, but a fun one, I promise)

Listen up, folks! This isn’t about money—put your wallets away. This is about engagement. Yes, the glorious trifecta of likes, comments, and reblogs (especially reblogs, but we’ll get to that). So buckle up, because this is a love letter/rant/public service announcement that your favorite writers desperately need you to hear.

Let’s start with the bad news: I’ve seen way too many amazing writers pack their bags and leave this platform, and honestly? It hurts. It makes me sad, angry, and frustrated enough to scream into the Tumblr void. Why? Because there’s a big ol’ elephant in the fanfic room, and it’s called low engagement.

What is Low Engagement?

Let me break it down for you:

A fic gets few likes.

A fic gets even fewer reblogs (😭).

Comments? Barely a whisper.

Why does this happen? Maybe people don’t vibe with the story. Maybe they forget to reblog. Maybe the Tumblr gods are punishing us. Who knows? But here’s the thing: engagement matters. For a writer, reblogs are the gold standard. Reblogs = love. Reblogs = visibility. Reblogs = “Hey, world! This story is awesome—check it out!”

Why Low Engagement Is a Confidence Killer

Let’s be real—writing takes time, effort, and soul. Writers pour their hearts (and sometimes their sanity) into crafting stories for their readers. But when the engagement is low? It feels like screaming into the void. It’s disheartening. It makes writers second-guess themselves. And yeah, sometimes it makes them leave altogether.

And let me tell you about silent readers—those sweet, well-meaning souls who read but don’t interact. Look, I get it. Not everyone wants to leave comments or reblogs. But when a writer hears nothing—nothing—they often assume the worst: “No one likes my story. I should just stop writing.”

That’s why I’m here, yelling into the Tumblr abyss: Engage, people! Even a simple “OMG I LOVED THIS” or a string of heart emojis can make a writer’s day. And reblogs? Reblogs are the holy grail.

Tumblr ≠ Instagram (Stop Treating It Like It Is!)

Can I get this tattooed somewhere? Tumblr doesn’t work like Instagram. There’s no magic algorithm that boosts posts. If you want your favorite writers to stick around, you have to help their stories reach new eyeballs—and that means REBLOGGING.

Here’s the cheat code: If you like a fic, reblog it. If you really like it, reblog it with some tags or a mini-review. Want to go full superstar? Add a screaming reaction in the comments. Seriously, it’s that easy.

“But What If I Didn’t Like the Fic?”

Great question! Not every story will be your cup of tea, and that’s okay. Here’s what you can do:

Leave a like. It’s the bare minimum but still appreciated.

Maybe highlight something you did like in the story. No need for harsh critiques unless the writer explicitly asks for it.

How to Be a Writer’s Favorite Reader

Here’s a handy guide to becoming the MVP of your favorite fandom:

Like. Comment. Reblog. (The Holy Trinity!)

Reblog with tags or a quick review. Examples:

“This broke my heart in the best way 🥲”

“Chapter 3? Perfection. That plot twist? I gasped.”

Highlight specific parts of the fic you loved (a line, a moment, a character's sass—whatever made you feel something).

Send the writer an ask! Scream about your favorite scene. Yell about your emotions. Writers LOVE this.

Want bonus points? Make fanart. Create a playlist inspired by the fic. Recommend their work to others. Write a heartfelt thank-you message. These little gestures mean the world to writers.

Why This Matters (Yes, I’m Wrapping This Up, I Swear)

At the end of the day, we’re all here because we love stories—reading them, writing them, sharing them. But if we don’t support the people creating these stories, they’ll stop. And that’s a loss for everyone.

So, my plea to you is simple: Show your favorite writers some love. Hit that reblog button. Leave a comment, even if it’s just “!!!” or “cries in emotions.” Scream about their work in the tags. Your engagement keeps the fandom alive.

Got thoughts? Other tips? Throw them in the comments or reblogs—let’s keep this conversation going! And to every writer out there feeling discouraged: You’re amazing. Don’t stop creating. We need your stories. 💖

#on reading #lissa talks #fanfiction #low engagement #support artists #support writers

15 notes · View notes

hbosscreations · 1 day ago

Text

I've sat on this for several days, because your analysis makes me feel feelings as a theater gay, and I think that you touch on exactly why Ride the Cyclone gets to have this conversation and Spirit World (and other modern comics don't).

Marketability.

People like to act like musicals are 'super niche' and not something that the average person will engage with, but that's not really the issue here, the issue is money. Musicals can make bank if they take off. Anything that makes it to a major stage production can generally be assumed to be raking in enough cash to pay everyone back and then some, and musical theater people will promote and encourage people to see the show no matter the cost.

Theater people are drama llamas. We LIKE laughing, crying, and being made to think after a show. A theater person will talk about their favorite show for years. Will see it as many times as their wallets will allow, and there's money to be made in a big enough production.

Ride the Cyclone gets to talk about death and sex and teenage pain because musical theater is allowed to be a vehicle to tell meaningful stories. When you go see a show like Ride the Cyclone, you're there BECAUSE it's about a bunch of teenagers begging to be brought back to life.

It doesn't necessarily matter if the show makes millions of dollars either, because in this day and age small acting companies record things and put them on youtube and use things like patreon and kickstarter to fund passion projects. Starkid is my favorite example of this. The passion is a huge part of it, and marketing allows theaters to make their money back.

Comics in the two major companies DC and Marvel though, have an industry that has been poorly managed since at least the 90s. Can't speak for creators like Image or IDW or whatnot, but I can tell you that the balancing act for DC and Marvel to try and make money has been TERRIBLY run and managed for a long time. Margins are pretty thin on traditional comics.

Which means they need to sell lots of stuff, pay their employees less, and cash grab as much as possible. It's why event comics are so common, why tie-ins are so prevalent, and even why they don't bind all the tie-ins together a lot of the time when they put collections together.

DC wants to make maximum profit, and that means making their stuff as bland as they can to appeal to as many people as possible, not realizing they are shooting themselves in the foot.

John Constantine is a fantastic example of this problem. He's in every crossover they can stick him in, because he's a cool character and he's fun to play with, but he's never treated with the dignity and depth his early comics demand. Why? I think it's because most of DC's current audience is American and they are afraid of alienating anyone by choosing a side on anything, and therefore not getting their money.

God forbid the horror comic series about a queer, burned out punk, a man who fully believed in the principles he stood behind but never had the ability or drive to try and make them happen, be about politics and queer topics. We cannot stand for anything or we risk sales being bad. We can't talk about real world topics, people don't want to read that in their escapist fantasy, even though different people get different things out of the concept.

I actually think that's a big reason Dead in America is suffering. It's not ABOUT anything. We could have had a discussion about racism that the earlier issues so CLEARLY wanted to talk about, but we might risk upsetting someone who reads the comics, that's why we have so many 'rural' stories about bad white people in the run. 'Rural whites' don't read comic books, after all (It's bullshit, but their numbers will show this, because people like me who live in rural areas have to get comics from ebay or from a reseller website because we don't have local options). We could have talked about John's complicated feelings about fatherhood, but that might hurt someone's feelings. We could talk about queer topics, but...well, that I'll blame on Spurrier not knowing or caring about queer culture.

It's why the New 52 and Rebirth stories are...not great. They're the aesthetic of Hellblazer and John Constantine, but they don't have any of the bite that the original run has. I have read the OG Hellblazer twice now and there are comics I am HAUNTED by in the best way. I can't think of many stories that have come out in recent years that have done the same thing.

Xanthe, as you've mentioned in another post, is a very generic 'asian' character in design. I didn't realize this at the time, but once you pointed it out I couldn't not see it anymore. Their character isn't really risky at the time of publication. Their backstory seems made to make numbers on tumblr, the relationship with their family only exists for screenshots to get people talking and buying. I bought it for Constantine, but also because I was pulled in by the dinner scene and Xanthe seemed interesting from the few panels we got.

And this HURTS characters like Xanthe when it comes to future appearances. I remembered Spirit World fondly because it was bland and harmless, but I read it once when the trade came out and never read it again until your post about it because it was bland and not actually engaging. My memories were fond, but I didn't think about it. It had no longevity or real thought to the world-building it wanted to create. Pretty art, lots of action (too much action), no real substance.

This story should have been Xanthe's debut instead of a crossover/teamup, detailing their cast roster, setting up future antagonists and potential enemies to become allies. It should have been about a person trying to rationalize being alive and dead at the same time and what that means, it should have talked about what death meant culturally.

Being Asian-American and having that dynamic around death would be an interesting deep dive on its own that might have fueled more readership. Instead, it seems to have left the target demographic ambivalent at best and unwilling to engage further at worst.

Why was Cassandra Cain in the story? She's Asian. Why was John Constantine in the story? He's queer. Neither character felt well written on the second read through, and more to the point, they were superfluous (and frankly I find it a little insulting that someone at DC went, well, she's popular and Asian, throw her in there).

And you're right. Xanthe will show up in team books occasionally they were in an issue of Birds of Prey recentish, but they were also paired with Constantine again. They'll be background art, they might even die in an event if they get a decent fan following specifically so they can be brought back in a super special single edition, and then be forgotten for a while.

It's a shame, because if Spirit World had the love and care to the themes it claimed to the way Ride the Cyclone did, maybe Xanthe could have been the flagship character for a new generation of readers, but we'll never know now.

I don't think I've treaded any new territory here, everything I've said, you've said better and far more succinctly, but I definitely understand your perspective better now. Apologies for the long, long rant.

Spirit World, Ride the Cyclone and Death. A weird comparative analysis

Gonna combine my musical nerd and cape comics fixation together for a rambling meta thought. I've been reflecting on how taboo the topic of death is in media after getting into Ride The Cyclone (highly recommend watching the slime tutorial and Waiting in the Wings' documentary on it) but also contrasting that musical with how Spirit World handled similar topics.

Both stories cover characters whose lives were cut short from a tragic circumstance, but while Cyclone directly talks frankly about how each character uniquely grieves over their lost life (and eventually accepts death)- Spirit World uses death as largely an aesthetic to a generic fantasy superhero adventure.

[spoilers for Ride the Cyclone and Spirit World]

Spirit World is about non-binary, half dead half living Envoy Xanthe Zhou, as they go into the Spirit World with John Constantine to rescue Cassandra Cain Batgirl. They eventually go toe to toe with the spirit of a bitter dead poet.

Ride the Cyclone is about 6 choir teenagers who die in a roller coaster accident in their small town. In the afterlife, they are given the chance to vote which one of them they believe should be resurrected.

For Spirit World, do we even know how Xanthe feels about being "half dead"? What does that even mean? They died as (what looks like) a 3 year old, and have clearly aged 15 more years since then. So they can age? Do they need to eat or drink (they're seen with a drink in a Pride comic)? Xanthe keeps mentioning they're half dead and half living, but the comic doesn't seem to want to discuss what that means. How would Xanthe feel that they were essentially given a job as an Envoy the minute they died as a very young child? Was this even a choice?

We've already covered the numerous plot holes in Xanthe Zhou's poorly thought out backstory so I won't go over that again. But honestly apart from the thematically loose "the dead shouldn't be forgotten" moral, a lot of how death is presented in Spirit World feels so superficial. When Xanthe is formally introduced as this cool character with a giant sword hanging around a gravesite, fighting all these hopping vampire creatures... this scene would play out the same if you swapped the setting with a forest and zombies as bad guys.

The Spirit World is less an afterlife for the spirits to move onto and more an MMORPG setting for our superheroes to travel across and fight generic evil beings and encounter eviler, bigger, boss battles at the end. Then there's the poet clout villain whose problems are just easily solved by Xanthe promising to remember her. I've already covered what a lost opportunity thematically this character was in my last Xanthe essay, but this time I want to contrast her with Ride the Cyclone's Jane Doe. I also want to compare Xanthe with Noel Gruber afterwards.

Ride the Cyclone's musical numbers follow each character performing a song reflecting their wishes, and musings on life (this sounds depressing but the musical handles all this with comedy and wit), hoping to prove themselves as worthy of a second chance at life. Of the characters, Jane Doe is the mysterious odd one out. The accident decapitated her, leaving her to enter the after life with no memories and the people of the living unable to identify her.

You might see where I'm going with this. So in Spirit World, Wan Yujing was this famous poet mourned by an entire empire. She only goes monster mode when a handwave-y "time erodes all" happens in the Spirit World and she is eventually forgotten- so she becomes desperate to demand to be reincarnated by the Jade Court. Because her clout ran out. Again, I already made the critique in my previous essay that this villain would better link to our protagonist if she was a queer poet whose poetry was being purposefully straight washed as an act of queer historical erasure. But I want to bring up how truly unsympathetic this villain is. She gets Shakespeare levels of clout but still demands more because she isn't getting reincarnated fast enough. Xanthe promises that as an immortal "half dead half living" person that they will remember Wan Yujing, so she too can be immortal in some way.

I think about all the Jane Doe-s in the Spirit World who don't get to be famous poets that have Empires remembering who they were. People who died anonymously without a past. In Cyclone, the main character chooses Jane Doe as the person who should be brought back to life. Our cast of teens come to terms with the fact that while it's tragic that their lives ended shortly, they conclude "to say that if one dies young, they die needlessly... that is to discount the years we had. We had a life, she didn't. That's my vote." Since Jane Doe has no memory of who she is, it's only fair that she is given that second chance.

I get that Spirit World is choosing these "larger than life" characters as villains, but it's at the expense of their own supposed themes. Of all the people to die and face off our hero as the villain, a character who's essentially an influencer but somehow has an entire empire forget about her anyway feels thematically hollow.

Modern Superhero comics are suffering from a specific problem right now; they're not really about anything. Characters don't feel like people with interior lives informed by the context of who they are. Class, race and bigotry are only touched upon as lightly as possible. Queer characters are now Pride ads with no personhood or flaws. They punch gentrified crime and fight for no one in particular. Even recent adapted media such as My Adventures with Superman and Caped Crusader follow this. Superman fights white-washed xenophobia, while Batman fights gentrified, white-washed classicism. It's why comics like Superman Smashes the Klan, Catwoman Lonely City and Alan Scott Green Lantern stand out so much. It's been a while since these characters talked about anything that matters. Don't get me wrong, slop that's about nothing exists in every industry. But when these characters and worlds historically used to have more bite- it's especially obvious.

If I could be playfully conspiracy theory-like for a second; I believe Xanthe Zhou was pitched so that DC Comics can buff out their Pride Anthology or AAPI anthology with a new younger character. The company will give this character one limited series, but that's it. Xanthe will appear in the larger DC universe whenever big magic plots happen, but that's it. Maybe they'll get a YA graphic novel. I would love to be proven wrong, but the problems with Xanthe are baked in the dough.

Because they don't feel like a person, Xanthe feels more like an industry planted Pride ad. They're designed to be the most palatable and marketable image of Asian androgyny. They literally have no flaws to grow out of, and their backstory makes no sense. They weren't built to be a sustainable solo character.

So I want to contrast Xanthe Zhou against Noel Gruber from Ride the Cyclone. Because they're both queer characters whose lives were cut short at a young age.

In a dramatic lament, Noel Gruber expresses how if he had a chance to live, he'd want to live the horrible cinematic messy life of a French sex worker woman in post-war France. He struggled as the only gay boy in a small town and never got to kiss a boy before he died. It's a look into a queer life that could've been lived, one with all the messy texture and self destruction Noel couldn't have but desires. We get to see how death and queerness intersect into rich, unflattering, gender-messy themes. "I want to be that fucked up girl." Noel sings.

But what's Xanthe's deal? They died as a 3 year old, got brought back, avoided their family at all costs for 15 years, and then had a transphobic confrontation with their family when they're invited to dinner way later. If Xanthe grew up in a transphobic household, how did they ever figure out they were non-binary when they were 3? Could they even verbalize it? Or did they instead figure out their queerness after they died? But how is that possible when they already held a level of familiar resentment towards their family's transphobia as if they've had several fights about it? It's hard to picture a 3 year old having multiple heated debates about gender with their parents for this level of resentment to make any sense.

Details aside, how does Xanthe's queerness intersect with themes of death and grief? Well, it just doesn't. This scene ends with Xanthe's sister telling them that she bothered remembering them even though their parents moved on from their death (which makes no sense since the parents wanted to have dinner with a random 18 year old they correctly assumed was their long dead "daughter" but whatever). Honestly, the only reason queerness exists in this family drama is so that Xanthe has a tense relationship with their family. The story would be exactly the same if Xanthe was a troublemaker that brought shame to their family. Who they are isn't specific to whatever grief exists in the comic.

When people give the critique that modern Superhero comics aren't about anything anymore, we usually think of these comics as "lacking political bite and commentary". We don't often think of something like Death to be political. And even though it is in many ways, it's also a social taboo to talk about. Death is an uncomfortable thing to confront, even in the safety of fiction. It's what made Ride the Cyclone such a difficult stage musical to market.

So how does a modern mainstream comic like Spirit World fit into that? It just sits there in this non-committal way. Yes, this is a story about a trans teenager who died, but only in a cool Superhero Origin Way, not in any way that would make readers uncomfortable. Bury Your Gays is a stereotype after all, so we can't talk about how queer people feel about death. We don't get to know how Xanthe feels about death as a non-binary Asian American. Especially if it's messy. It's the reason why Wan Yujing's character can never commentate on themes of historical queer erasure. God forbid superhero comics be about something.

I think about how, in the original Hellblazer run from the 80s, John Constantine had an elderly gay friend who was diagnosed with AIDS but was killed by a homophobic hate group. The comic openly talks about the sheer amount of gay people dying of the epidemic, a looming threat that informs John's queer life. It's such a culture shock, to contrast these early comics with how John Constantine is written in Spirit World. A character stripped of his own queer history and is at the mercy of incessant slutty bi jokes. Where is the desire to talk about how death informs a queer person's life? The mourning of a lost generation to the AIDS crisis? Something John lived through?

How about how any of this intersects with being an Asian American queer person? Queer people of color are often erased or purposefully excluded from queer history and communities. As a Queer Asian American, what does it mean to have identities that are often perceived to be in conflict with each other? Would your queer Asian ancestors even be remembered? Cultural differences with how you'd mourn your communities? But answering any of these questions means an uncomfortable conversation for Spirit World. For Xanthe. It threatens to be about something.

Which makes it all the more silly that, of the two stories, a musical about teenagers dying from a rollercoaster malfunction is more willing to have that uncomfortable conversation. You should ride the Cyclone.

#dc comics #fandom wank #lore vents their spleen #So fun fact I almost died on a roller coaster when I was a teenager in Six Flags Georgia #the safety features on the seat failed and I almost flew off of the ride #I have no idea how I didn't die but I did have to be wheeled out of the park in a wheelchair because I physically could not walk #the bruises were amazing!#I had to take a bit watching the musical because it made me feel things I had thoroughly repressed

61 notes · View notes