#i hope i make some sense here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

inkskinned · 2 years ago

Text

one of the things that i think we should pay attention to, socially, about the disney v. desantis thing is that it is really highlighting the importance of remembering nuance.

in a purely neutral sense, if you engage in something problematic, that does not mean you are necessarily agreeing with what makes it problematic. and i am worried that we have become... so afraid of any form of nuance.

disney isn't my friend, they're a corporate monopoly that bastardized copyright laws for their own benefit, ruin the environment, and abuse their workers (... and many other things). this isn't a hypothetical for me - i grew up in florida. i also worked for the actual Walt Disney World; like, in the parks. i am keenly aware of the ways they hurt people, because they hurt me. i fully believe that part of the reason florida is so conservative is because it's been an "open secret" for years now that disney lobbies the government to keep minimum wage down, and i know they worked hard to keep the parks unmasked and open during the worst parts of Covid. they purposefully keep their employees in poverty. they are in part responsible for the way the floridian government works.

desantis is still, by a margin that is frankly daunting, way worse. the alternative here isn't just "republicans win", it's actual fascism.

in a case like this, where the alternative is to allow actual fascism into united states legislation - where, if desantis wins, there are huge and legal ramifications - it's tempting to minimize the harm disney is also doing, because... well, it's not fascism. but disney isn't the good guy, either, which means republicans are having a field day asking activists oh, so you think their treatment of their employees is okay?

we have been trained there is a right answer. you're right! you're in the good group, and you're winning at having an opinion.

except i have the Internet Prophecy that in 2-3 months, even left-wing people will be ripping apart activists for having "taken disney's side". aren't i an anti-capitalist? aren't i pro-union? aren't i one of the good ones? removed from context and nuance (that in this particular situation i am forced to side with disney, until an other option reveals itself), my act of being like "i hope they have goofy rip his throat out onstage, shaking his lifeless body like a dog toy" - how quickly does that seem like i actually do support disney?

and what about you! at home, reading this. are you experiencing the Thought Crime of... actually liking some of the things disney has made? your memories of days at the parks, or of good movies, or of your favorite show growing up. maybe you are also evil, if you ever enjoyed anything, ever, at all.

to some degree, the binary idealization/vilification of individual motive and meaning already exists in the desantis case. i have seen people saying not to go to the disney pride events because they're cash grabs (they are). i've seen people saying you have to go because they're a way to protest. there isn't a lot of internet understanding of nuance. instead it's just "good show of support" or "evil bootlicking."

this binary understanding is how you can become radicalized. when we fear nuance and disorder, we're allowing ourselves the safety of assuming that the world must exist in binary - good or bad, problematic or "not" problematic. and unfortunately, bigots want you to see the world in this binary ideal. they want you to get mad at me because "disney is taking a risk for our community but you won't sing their praises" and they want me to get mad at you for not respecting the legit personal trauma that disney forced me through.

in a grander scheme outside of disney: what happens is a horrific splintering within activist groups. we bicker with each other about minimal-harm minimal-impact ideologies, like which depiction of bisexuality is the most-true. we gratuitously analyze the personal lives of activists for any sign they might be "problematic". we get spooked because someone was in a dog collar at pride. we wring our hands about setting an empty shopping mall on fire. we tell each other what words we may identify ourselves by. we get fuckin steven universe disk horse when in reality it is a waste of our collective time.

the bigots want you to spend all your time focusing on how pristine and pretty you and your interests are. they want us at each other's throats instead of hand in hand. they want to say see? nothing is ever fucking good enough for these people.

and they want their followers to think in binary as well - a binary that's much easier to follow. see, in our spaces, we attack each other over "proper" behavior. but in bigoted groups? they attack outwards. they have someone they hate, and it is us. they hate you, specifically, and you are why they have problems - not the other people in their group. and that's a part of how they fucking keep winning.

some of the things that are beloved to you have a backbone in something terrible. the music industry is a wasteland. the publishing industry is a bastion of white supremacy. video games run off of unpaid labor and abuse.

the point of activism was always to bring to light that abuse and try to stop it from happening, not to condemn those who engage in the content that comes from those industries. "there is no ethical consumption under late capitalism" also applies to media. your childhood (and maybe current!) love of the little mermaid isn't something you should now flinch from, worried you'll be a "disney adult". wanting the music industry to change for the better does not require that you reject all popular music until that change occurs. you can acknowledge the harm something might cause - and celebrate the love that it has brought into your life.

we must detach an acknowledgment of nuance from a sense of shame and disgust. we must. punishing individual people for their harmless passions is not doing good work. encouraging more thoughtful, empathetic consumption does not mean people should feel ashamed of their basic human capacities and desires. it should never have even been about the individual when the corporation is so obviously the actual evil. this sense that we must live in shame and dread of our personal nuances - it just makes people bitter and hopeless. do you have any idea how scared i am to post this? to just acknowledge the idea of nuance? that i might like something nuanced, and engage in it joyfully? and, at the same time, that i'm brutally aware of the harm that they're doing?

"so what do i do?" ... well, often there isn't a right answer. i mean in this case, i hope mickey chops off ron's head and then does a little giggle. but truth be told, often our opinions on nuanced subjects will differ. you might be able to engage in things that i can't because the nuance doesn't sit right with me. i might think taylor swift is a great performer and a lot of fun, and you might be like "raquel, the jet fuel emissions". we are both correct; neither of us have any actual sway in this. and i think it's important to remember that - the actual scope of individual responsibility. like, i also love going to the parks. Thunder Mountain is so fun. you (just a person) are not responsible for the harm that Disney (the billion dollar corporation) caused me. i don't know. i think it's possible to both enjoy your memories and interrogate the current state of their employment policies.

there is no right way to interrogate or engage with nuance - i just hope you embrace it readily.

#does this make sense #to do be deleted probably yikes #(takes a swing at a wasp's nest)#like i think ppl have started to just be really quiet when they like something 'problematic'#and im like... u can be like -#girl tswift NEEDS to just TAKE A BUS . LIKE?????????????????????#while also being like.#''she's a lot of fun''#if ur personal policy is that u don't support her for that reason that's great #but it's like. eating meat???#like yeah some people won't bc the environment. but the fact i eat meat doesn't mean i hate the earth #like i can say that i think the meat industry is HORRIFIC and also downright cruel to its employees #but like. still enjoy a chicken nugget....#there are people who choose otherwise. it's okay . we are people. i make like no money. u probably don't either #us fighting about whether or not it's Right To Eat The Chicken Tender just distracts from like.#actually turning your ire on the corporation #i hope it's clear what i'm saying here is like. when we fight each other for Purity Reasons #we are just doing the work of corporations . for free. like they WANT us to be doing this lol #it's the fucking DREAM of the upperclass that now ALL forms of responsibility fall on the individual

5K notes · View notes

toanw · 30 days ago

Text

alchepre civilian profiles! cure forms

#fancure #precure #precure oc #pretty cure #alchemical precure #cure petal #cure rainy #cure blast #cure lofty #sorry for the inconsistent style between this art and the cure forms lol #I think the style i use for my fancures and my normal artstyle are constantly at war #And its suuper obvious here #I do nooot speak japanese so i hope the kanji i picked for their names makes some sense lol

214 notes · View notes

zara-renata · 27 days ago

Text

Even the rocks on the roadside - Sylus's POV | ao3 | part 1 | the Sylus series

Summary:

Sylus tries to get some paperwork done in his office while you sleep. He receives a call that turns his night upside down and makes him regret some strategic choices he's made up until this point in conquering your heart. This is Sylus's POV on 'Even the rocks on the roadside in the N109 Zone could tell'. This part is most understandable if you read mc's POV first.

Notes:

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, Sylus's POV, second person POV Enemies-to-friends-to-lovers This story contains: pining, self-recrimination, angst, canon character death, grief, hurt/comfort from Sylus's POV, allusions to Sylus's lore that is just me taking shots in the dark because Infold is taking its sweet ass time providing us with his next myth memories. It could end up being completely wrong. Mentions of: fear of (domestic) violence, violence that occurs in game, mc with self-esteem issues, injury, boundary crossing typical of Sylus in game.

There was a time when Sylus wondered if he would ever have this again. A settled satisfaction, threaded through with an anticipatory challenge—a foundation that serves as a defensive bulwark against all of the enemies gathered against him, along with the challenging thrill of hanging over the edge of the ramparts, precision sniping to pick them off efficiently at the gates.

He’s waiting for you to wake up—you, the cornerstone in his foundation, you, the thrilling challenge dangling like a priceless jewel just out of his scope's reach. He has been adrift for years, amongst the stars. Behind enemy lines. Behind bars. Waiting to be called home again—to come in from the cold.

But now he’s finally home, and you’re in his bed, just down the hall. He has wanted you here again from the moment you sped away on your motorcycle after the auction, tires squealing under a spray of gravel, clearly relieved to be rid of him. But he knew he had to let you go, despite how it felt like you were pulling the marrow from his bones, the skin from his muscles as you went. Taking with you all of the parts of him that he needed to remain strong as he carved his way through the night between stars without you. He has felt… restless through the long hours and days and weeks ever since. Reports from the twins and Mephisto are never quite enough to calm him as you exist out there, away from him—his heart, walking around unprotected in a world full of horrors who are not him.

He knows you’re capable. He knows you’re smart, and can take care of yourself. But he has also collected enough puzzle pieces of the current you to know the cost of your strength now—and now, the compulsion to shelter you, to shield you from anything that could possibly hurt you, is a constant thrum under his skin.

He leans back in the leather chair as he sits behind his desk, shaking his head a little to rid himself of the memory of all those years without you, and the long stretches of worry when he’s not with you now that he’s found you again. Because his heart is here now. Just down the hall.

He is tempted to return to his bedroom right now. To slip into bed next to you and pull you close. But he wants to exploit this time to get through some work that needs to be settled sooner rather than later, so he can focus solely on you once you wake up. He’s having a hard time focusing right now though, with you finally, finally, right here. He hasn’t asked, before now, for you to come to him in his home. He has been trying to show you that he’s willing to go to any length to meet you where you are, emotionally, physically—exposing himself, time after time, to the harsh sunlight of Linkon City, to the risk of being recognized as he pulls up to your building, of running into your partner who despite his sleepy facade, helped you get into the N109 zone in the first place, and could possibly be aware of Sylus’s true identity. He will continue taking these risks, for as long as it takes, until you’re ready to come to him, to meet him in his world, and stay in the free moments you get from your calling.

Because it is clear to him now that your work as a hunter is a calling, and not just a job for you. He can’t think of your work as a hunter as simply work, because he now sees how intrinsically you have bound your work to your sense of self, thus creating an identity that justifies, in your mind, why anyone would value you. As if you, all by yourself, are insufficient.

A notion that he would like to disabuse you of sooner, rather than later. But for now, he must focus on his immediate work. He flicks his gaze to the open contract on his tablet, to the papers that need final checking and then signature. All of the things Aidan, his legal counsel, could and should be doing for him. But they were friends before Sylus hired him. And as a friend, Aidan insists that Sylus is aware of the details of everything he signs, that he makes a deliberate choice regarding his business and the risks he’s willing to take, in the event that Aidan isn’t there to advise him. Their world is dark, and dangerous, and people die so easily. Despite all of Aidan’s foppish vanity, he’s a good friend, and a good lawyer. Forcing Sylus to be aware of why Aidan gives the advice that he does is part of Aidan’s … care, as a friend. Sylus snorts and thinks that his retainer fee should be reduced proportionally for every minute he has to spend away from you because of legal paperwork.

With a snap of his fingers, the stack of papers twirls up into the air, caught in the tornado of his evol. He lets it swirl, enjoying the sound of paper fluttering. He considers letting the sheets spin fast enough for the paper to shred itself, which in his opinion is the only proper response to the insulting clauses that he will not be accepting contained on the pages. But Aidan will grumble about having to reprint the damn things, since the man inexplicably prefers redlining the drafts with a physical, old-fashioned fountain pen instead of doing everything digitally. Sylus sniffs. He and Aidan are friends, after all. The appreciation for fine, tangible things is something they share, in an era where everything comes and goes with the impermanence of data drifting through the air, lost when the cloud’s servers explode along with Sylus’s casually planted explosives. Speaking of fountain pens… he lifts one such sharp little writing utensil with his evol, and sends it sailing like a throwing knife through the paper tornado. It hits the wall opposite his desk with a satisfying thunk, and he lets the papers drift back to his desk, now with some of the pages neatly punctured. That will have to satisfy him, for now. He’s so bored, trying to focus on his work instead of you, when you’re lying warm and safe in his bed.

Instead of going to you like he wants, he exerts some measure of self control and glances down at your phone, fiddles with the little charm on a sturdy ribbon he added to it tonight. A kitty’s paw, for his kitten’s phone. It was silly, and cute, and when he saw it dangling in a boutique window one night on his way to a meeting in the N109 zone, he had gotten it for you on a whim. Adding the charm is not the only thing he has done with your phone, however, while you have been asleep tonight. Sylus is looking forward to seeing the look on your face, once you realize what he has orchestrated for you, because you refuse to do it for yourself. It’s always entertaining to watch you go through a whole spectrum of emotions when you discover one of his little plots—shock, disbelief, anger, frustration. Sometimes, when he’s very lucky, you’re amused. But in the end, always, acceptance. Sometimes the acceptance is resigned—at other times, it’s with a side of relief that he thinks you don’t even realize you feel, once he has removed all obstacles and objections for you, gently funneling you down the path he wants you to take. Because everything he does, he does for you. For your benefit. For your health. For your pleasure. He rather likes this win-win situation, because when you’re benefited, and healthy, and pleased, so is he. He has accepted much worse deals, in his long years of wheeling and dealing. But with all things involving you, he never has to settle, because you are the reward, in the end.

He doesn’t read back through the texts “you” have sent to your doctor, or your boss. He simply basks in the satisfaction of a successful ruse, and the anticipation of being able to help you heal from the open wound you’ve been curled around for months, and probably years. If that means he also gets to have more time with you, well. Who is he to not enjoy a perk of the task at hand?

He sets your phone back down, and gazes past the large snake’s tongue plant in a dark pot next to the window in his office. The night is cold, and dark. The skyscrapers in the distance glitter in the distance, malignant growths in the corrupted valley below his base. He can see the wind gusting by the periodic swirls of dust and pebbles that drift across the N109 zone’s bleak landscape. He’s glad he’s in here, warm in his office, and that you’re in there, warm in his bed, instead of either of you having to be out on this bleak autumn night. He hates this place. He has done his best to create a base and a home as a refuge within this tainted region, but it never quite blots out the desolation beyond its walls. Despite his distaste, it’s best this way. The view serves as a constant reminder of everything he has yet to accomplish. Everything he has yet to avenge. All the work that he must unwaveringly do, even as he tries to lure you deeper and deeper into his world before he breaks both of you out of it again.

He sighs, and is about to give up and check on you, just for a moment, to soothe this ache of distance, distance that is actually so short compared to how far he has been from you for years. But now that you’re here, so close, he has only a diminishing ability to bear even the shortest of space between you. He pauses when his own phone vibrates on his desk.

He considers not picking up so that he can see you faster, but sees that it’s Luke calling. He hits the speaker icon.

“Speak.”

“Uh, boss?” Luke’s voice comes through the speakers, and Sylus recognizes that tone of voice. The tone of voice that says, You’re not going to like what I have to say, but I promise it’s not my fault this time… Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose, preparing to tell Luke and Kieran to handle whatever it is, because he will not be taking one step further away from you tonight, even if his empire is on the verge of collapse.

“Who else, Luke?” he says. “Speak.”

“Do you know where your hunter is?”

Luke and Kieran may be many things, but they aren’t cruel. They like pranks, but the harmless kind. They have gone through too much, survived too much, having only each other to rely on, to turn Sylus’s feelings for you into fodder for a joke. Sylus stands, turning speaker mode off and bringing the phone to his ear. He strides towards the door as he speaks. “I left my kitten in my bed, asleep, while I went to take care of some paperwork in my office.” He pauses. “Is there a reason you’re asking me this?”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure we just passed someone on the hillside road to base who looks, like, a scary amount like your hunter. With no shoes on. Or coat.”

Sylus doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He ends the call, shoves the phone into his trousers, and begins to jog. He flings open the door to his bedroom, slamming his hand on the sensor next to the door. The room is immediately bathed in a soft, warm glow from the recessed lighting. He can see, even from here, that his bed, the bed he left you sleeping peacefully in, is empty.

Sylus doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He turns, and begins to run.

***

Sylus has a sword in his chest, and this time he is the one who put it there.

He doesn’t know why you left without saying a word. He doesn’t know why you didn’t come find him when you woke up. He doesn’t know why you didn’t take your clothes, or your shoes, before you went. This not knowing is driving him insane. As he steers through the dark night in the Phantom MPV— not a tank, and not the cybertruck, he thinks with disdain, one of his assassin friends, Taé, accused it of being when she saw him roll up in it to a meeting right after it was delivered—the vehicle he had customized for you and for Noah to drive when you were visiting him in the N109 zone and he couldn’t be with you—his mind races, trying to identify what would have motivated you to flee his house in nothing more than a thin sweater and a pair of shorts.

He is not surprised that he didn’t hear you. You could be stealthy, and fast, especially on your bare feet. And the base’s security system is programmed to unlock every door and vault, every safe room and vehicle, for you through facial recognition. It is not programmed to keep you in or out. Not since those first three days, when he couldn’t bear for you to leave yet. When he needed you to expend all of your hate and fury on him, long enough for him to maneuver you into working with him in the future. As a result, he wasn’t alerted when you left tonight.

He is surprised, however, as his headlights carve through the dark night and suddenly illuminate Luke and Kieran’s Ferrari SF90 XX Stradale and broken glass glitters in the sudden illumination on the driver’s side of the car. He’s surprised at the look on your face, as you drop a large rock from your limp hand and it lands heavily on the roadside next to your feet. The look on your face that can only be described as pure, anguished fear.

Sylus feels the expression on your face like a sword through his heart. You’re looking at him through the windshield of the Phantom like he is the culmination of all of your nightmares, personified.

You didn’t even look this scared as he was strangling you, which feels like a whole lifetime ago now for him. You’ve come so far since then. You let him so near, since then. You’ve allowed him in your home, in your bed, in your arms, sharing the same breath. But now you’re looking at him like the monster he knows himself to be, but you can’t know. Not yet.

He yanks the emergency brake on the SUV and gets out, leaving the engine running. He strides over to the driver’s side of the Ferrari and leans down to see Kieran’s wide, dark eyes, and a bruise already forming around his neck, sharply contrasting against his light brown skin.

“You good?” Sylus asks.

“Yeah, boss. But I think your hunter is rather distressed,” he answers, his voice unusually gravelly, probably from how hard it looks like you had gripped his throat.

Sylus straightens, and takes a long look at Luke. He trusts that Kieran is okay when he says so. But Luke… having to stay still, while someone hurt his brother, even if it was unintentional—Sylus knows that it would have taken a monumental amount of self control on his part not to react to protect Kieran. Luke looks back at Sylus, mouth set in an uncharacteristically grim line. But he nods, almost imperceptibly. So Sylus gestures for him to get in the car, and he goes.

Sylus doesn’t look back as Kieran begins to pull away, turning all of his focus on you now. He watches as you close your eyes, and he watches the way you’re clenching your fists, the furrow of your brows, the way you’ve holding yourself just a little bit hunched, shoulders drawn up. As if you’re waiting for… He wants to shake his head, to rid himself of the thought. But you look like you’re ready to take a fist to the stomach, and in a rush—the kind of intuitive flood that has saved his life more than once, where all the contextual clues of a situation coalesce into utter certainty without him even being able to retrace how he came to the correct reading of the situation—Sylus realizes what you’re doing. What you’re waiting for.

There is a sword in his heart, and he is the one who put it there, this time.

Sylus bitterly hates to disappoint you, and he bitterly hates to keep you waiting, but what you’re expecting right now is not something he can ever give you in this life—not again. You will have to make do with his coat, and not the fist you’re expecting. He shrugs out of it and in a flourish has it wrapped around your shoulders. You’re shaking so hard. He wants to sweep you into his arms and carry you to the SUV, but he knows, just as he knows that you were waiting for violence from him, that if he touches you now, without asking, he may break whatever tenuous thread is keeping you in place right now before him instead of careening away from him again.

He waits for you. He’s waited for you for lifetimes. He can wait a little longer for you to open your eyes and look at him.

Finally, you do. Sylus takes in the look of terror bleeding into confusion, your eyes so big, so bright under the red moon. He sees himself in them. He never wants to see anything else in them. But along with himself, he sees your confusion. How tired you are. How scared you are. He sees regret. None of these things are acceptable to him.

“If you wanted to go for a run, sweetheart, you could have just told me. We have a perfectly functional home gym, equipped with treadmills with big screens that make you feel like you’re running on a serene mountain path or along the beach. There’s no need to endure the desolation of the N109 zone’s ‘scenery’ when you’re here with me but want to work out.”

You don’t respond to him. Not even the ghost of a smile. “What’s wrong? Crow’s got your tongue?” He tries to lift the corner of his mouth into a smile that he does not feel, in an attempt to draw you out of the shell you’ve retreated into. He can’t help himself—he lifts his hand, and touches the corner of your mouth. He’s immensely relieved when you don’t flinch.

But your face. Your eyes. You watch him with the wariness of prey resigned to being torn apart, instead of killed cleanly. You watch him with the resignation of the condemned who knows that before the headsman’s axe, it will be the rack, who expects the laziness of the four horses when their flanks are slapped before the quartering.

Sylus hates it. There isn’t a word for it in the human tongue for how much he loathes the look on your face, in your eyes. He’d rather you put a sword through him again, than ever see that look on your face again.

You ask if he’s angry with you.

As if you could ever be capable of doing anything that truly makes him angry. He’ll carry this sword in his heart until the end of time and never be truly angry with the choices you made that led to it being lodged in his chest.

He needs to touch you. He needs to hold you. He asks you, again and again, but you won’t release him from the torture of this unmet need. It was easier to bear, when you weren’t right in front of him. Before, he could survive through endless years without you in his arms. But his tolerance for the feeling of being bereft, the emptiness of his hands and his arms, is approaching a breaking point, the closer he is to you. You’re so close, he can almost taste you. He just needs you to say yes.

You ask if he’s demanding your consent to hit you. To hurt you. To cause you pain.

He takes a deep, slow breath. He can scent you, even in the wind, even from this distance. Your smell, the loveliness of the sweat drying on your skin, the faint aroma of your shampoo still lingering in your hair. It helps. He is able to calm himself, a little, instead of tearing out his own heart and throwing it at your feet, which is what he wants to do as he realizes that you actually think he’d be cruel enough to demand that you give him permission to hurt you.

He tells you to ask your questions. But you don’t. He asks you why you don’t want to return to his home. You let out that same terrible laugh, the laugh from outside the arcade, when you were asking him why he wasn’t already used to being disappointed by you. The laugh he never wanted to hear from you, ever again.

And when you finally answer him, through chattering teeth, as your body shakes so hard it looks painful, that same realization floods through him again, along with the despair—the despair that he hasn’t felt since he realized that you had blamed him for your family’s death, the despair that he had pressed like a bruise and then resolved to discard because he was not giving up on you, not in any past life, and certainly not in this one—the despair courses through him like slow poison now.

He has been so arrogant. Congratulating himself on how swiftly he has been able to win you over. He interpreted your willingness to let him touch you, to come to your home, to sleep in your bed, as progress in building toward what he ultimately wants from you. You, in his arms. Your trusting heart, in his hands. Your soul, entwined with his until they’re indistinguishable. He had thought that because someone as closed off as you—someone who engages in so much self-protection—allowed him so close, that you were steadily coming to accept him, all of him, from the beginning through to tonight, as he laid you as carefully as possible in his big bed, as he ran his fingers along what he thought was your trusting face, peaceful in sleep before he left the room.

He’s made so many mistakes, from the very first moment he lifted you in the air with his evol and wrapped his hand around your throat.

He wills himself to stay still. He wills himself to refrain from using his evol to fling the SUV across the desolate landscape. He wills himself to keep his mouth shut, to keep the roar of self-recrimination and grief and rage at this life that has been so cruel to you, at all of his missteps as a result of not understanding how hurt you were before he ever found you again, from clawing its way out of his throat because you might think he’s furious with you, when it’s he and not you who put the sword in his heart this time.

As he stills, he studies you. Your bare, bloody feet. Your legs, goosebumps drifting up your skin to the flimsy shorts fluttering a little in the wind. Your arms, still hanging stiffly at your sides, as if you’re forcing yourself not to wrap them around yourself, forcing yourself to remain unprotected in the face of his rage. Your lovely face, with your teeth clicking so loudly it drowns out his own need to bellow into the night of this awful place.

It doesn’t matter what he wants, right now. He will do as he has always done in the face of setbacks. In the face of bad luck. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong play. He will re-calibrate, and he will fucking try again. He will tuck every puzzle piece he has collected of you in this life, and he will use it to do what matters. And what matters is what you need.

“Can I, please, touch you,” he begs. He will drop to his knees, if that’s what it takes.

But unlike all the other versions of you he has known, you don’t ask him to debase himself until you’re satisfied in the wake of his missteps. You just nod, a tiny little movement, and the relief flooding through him has him wanting to get on his knees simply out of gratitude for the benevolence of your heart in this life, a life that should have hardened you instead of leaving you with all of your tenderness exposed.

Finally, finally, he lifts your shivering body in his arms, and he carries you back to warmth. He convinces you to let him take you back to his home. The quiet resignation that he interpreted as acceptance, less than what? An hour ago? soaks your answer, which is just a nod against his chest. He hates it, now. But the nod of assent has to be enough for him, for now.

He takes you home. He carries you to his bedroom, the place where you woke up alone, in the dark, probably disoriented and afraid. The answers to the questions he had while driving to find you slam into him, each so much more obvious than the last. How could he have been so careless? Oh yes, Sylus the plans within plans man, the master strategist. He let the person dearest to him wake up alone, in the dark, in the place where he had imprisoned and tortured you.

You shake in his arms, the whole way. Wave after wave sweeping under your skin, no matter how tightly he holds you against himself.

Finally, he sets you on one of the vintage scroll benches in the bathroom. He gets the shower going, determined to warm you up as soon as possible. He’s going to punch through the wall if he has to feel you shiver for much longer. And then, because you have not asked it of him, he kneels before you, and looks up into your exhausted, drawn face.

“Your clothes need to come off,” he says, a fact and a question. Will you let him remain near you as you peel back the last layers of your armor, after everything he has done to you?

You just nod. It’s enough for him, for now. He tries to remove your clothing as gently as possible, to treat you with the care due to spun glass, although he knows you’re more resilient than titanium. Your skin is soft underneath his knuckles as he lifts your sweater, as he slips the silk sleep shorts from your strong legs. He settles you in the shower, and the warmth of the water is welcome after the chill autumn wind. He peels his own clothes off, and finally, finally, pulls you into his arms, letting the spray of the shower hit you full on, hoping that this will be enough to warm you through, with the warm water streaming down your chest and his warm skin at your back.

Ever since you burst back into his life, Sylus has had an ache in his chest, even when you’re right there, as if he can never get close enough, no matter how tightly he holds you. He needs to be inside you. He needs you to be inside him. He would carve himself open and pull you in, carry you in his chest where his heart should be, where you belong. If he could. If you would let him. He knows you��re not ready yet. He knows that this strange compulsion isn’t necessarily healthy, and not possible. So sitting here, holding you in the shower, so tightly against him as the steam and water envelop you both—it will have to do. Satisfaction courses through him as the shivers racking your body begin to slow, the waves of goosebumps having already disappeared. He could sit here with you until the sun collapses in on itself, and all the stars blink out, one by one, at the end of all things, without boredom and without regret.

But you have other ideas, as usual. You grow still in his arms, your body melting into him, but then he hears the first strangled sob catch in your throat, and he realizes that you’re weeping. The sword through his heart is nothing compared to the lance of pain he feels as you begin to howl, your keening filling the bathroom and echoing. At first he’s afraid that you’ll try to tear away from him as you start to shift in his lap, but as you turn and collapse back against him, your chest heaving against his, your arms wrapped so tightly around his neck, that insatiable ache inside him pulses. You’re here. As close as you can get, without peeling back his skin and slipping inside. You seem to be drawing comfort from his body as it holds you. He’s glad for it, because what is the point of having a big, strong body if not to shelter you? He has no words to give you—what can he say to someone who has lost everyone you held dear? Who has been treated so cruelly by fate and by the people who should have cared for you the most? Himself included.

He has no words of comfort, because the one person he has to lose, that he has already lost, again and again, is now weeping in his arms, and it’s entirely his own fault this time. The only thing he has to offer you right now is the strength in his body. So he simply holds you tighter, tries to hum you a little lullaby, rocks you gently. He hopes it is enough, for now. He holds you, and he hopes he can try again, and again, and again, until he gets it right. Before you tell him to go and mean it.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x mc #love and deepspace fanfiction #my fanfic #some of you asked for this so here it is #i hope it makes sense and isn't repetitive #sylus's singular obsessiveness makes me worry that i am only writing him one-note and that's not the intention #but it was an interesting challenge this week

167 notes · View notes

bitchslapblastoids · 2 months ago

Text

Was thinking about how much of a normo I come across as irl, how I’ve felt a lil odd person out at their shows bc of being a bit older (29) and looking so aggressively normal, how generally confused people in my life would be if they knew about my d&p obsession, how thoroughly i mask weirder traits and essentially codeswitch to suit the mainstream, etc.

i feel kind of fish out of water when I imagine how all the people that populate my tumblr phandom ecosystem are likely presenting to the world irl (I.e. more visibly queer, counterculture, and so on). But then I think maybe the most visible phannies are the ones with the most curated, alt, deliberate daytoday lewks/style? So maybe what I’m picturing is off base? But then I’m also basing this off of what audiences look like in audience footage, m&gs, etc.

Sooooooo i would like to know… do you guys feel like you present as someone who may be Deeply Online and obsessed with two gay nerds from the internet? Or do you hide it and fly under the radar, masking as a total normy and living a double life?

(To clarify I don’t mean you’re like out and about wearing the fringes boob sweatshirt lol I more mean vibes and overall lewk yk?)

#does this make any sense?#not to say we’re all abnormal freaks over here but also…. we lowkey are freaks lol #like this is not typical behavior #obvs when I say dressing alt and counterculture I’m aware phannies aren’t like a predominantly goth community or some extreme aesthetic #or what have you #I just mean that this is obviously not a super mainstream interest nor are they mainstream creators anymore #(arguably they never were. they were big but not mainstream. I think people entrenched in internet #and YouTube and phandom can become a bit tunnelvisioned and #and forget that even at their peak Dan and Phil were still #a niche interest and an unconventional one #but i digress)#basically I’m trying to figure out how many of us are also living double lives on here #I hope no one comes for my over this or it doesn’t get misconstrued #I just have like SUCH a normal job and so many people I know would be DEEPLY confused if they learned about this whole thing #and obviously there isn’t a clear binary of like normal vs. internet dwelling weirdo #and that we contain multitudes #and all things can be true simultaneously #I know I know I know you know that I know right?? but you also know what I mean right??#me yapping #dan and phil #phan

205 notes · View notes

edsbacktattoo · 1 year ago

Text

i wanna talk about the ‘treasure room’ because i think it does a really good job of summarising what’s happening between ed and stede at the moment.

stede ‘takes the initiative�� (or acts without discussing what he’s doing) and puts all of ed’s remaining treasure in one room that’s completely hidden. his reasons for putting it away are:

it was all over the place

he was tripping over it

some of it is quite ugly :/

and instantly ed hits him with the “excellent. a reminder of all my guilt. a guilt room. 😔🤘”

they’re not being subtle about it. this is a physical representation of their guilt and they’re demonstrating here exactly how they’re taking care of it.

ed is living with it. it’s in his space. sure it might be in the way but where else could he possibly put it? there’s so much of it and it’s his. there’s no use in just palming it off to someone else. no one wants this much treasure.

but stede can’t stand it and he has to deal with it now or he’ll die. so he just crams it into some hidden space and considers the matter resolved. it’s out of the way. it can’t hurt them if they don’t think about it. and it’s ugly! no one wants to look at something ugly, especially when they’re trying to rebuild their space.

but that’s just the thing. neither of them are actually dealing with or addressing the problem. stede has just. put it away.

WITHOUT ASKING ED WHAT HE THINKS THEY SHOULD DO WITH IT.

so they decide to just use it to throw this big party because surely that will fix it, right? that will get rid of the Treasure Issue.

WRONG!!

because they still didn’t talk about any of it. yeah they talked about “turning poison into positivity” and “giving some of it to the less fortunate” but they didn’t deal with the root of the problem. how did ed amass that much treasure in the first place? what’s the ideal way of getting rid of it? is there anything they want to keep?

they’re on such uneven planes this season because they can’t communicate to reach a common ground. ed is surrounded by his guilt and wants to leave it all behind. stede has just hidden the guilt and wants to pretend it isn’t even there.

#and they’re portraying this SO WELL #like the fact that they’re not on the same page is SOOOO WELL DONE #also hello i don’t want any smoke for this post it’s literally just me thinking #if you’re gonna come in here and say ‘but the writing is bad’ get off my post lol #i’ve seen some very silly takes and i am not dealing with it thank you 😌💕#i hope this makes sense also if you have something more to add i’d love to hear it #ofmd #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd s2 #ofmd meta #our flag means death #oh we thinkin?

638 notes · View notes

sleepymrshmllow · 2 years ago

Text

insp 🌸

#byler #mike wheeler #will byers #elmike #el hopper #stranger things #kydraws #reddit link jumpscare /hj but i couldnt find another place to link im too sleepy 😩#some notes! due to misconceptions ive seen:#in my mind this is meant to be a mike centric piece representing him feeling torn between his feelings for will and the sortve #the comfort of normalcy he has being with el? (+ societal pressures).#the painting replaces the sword here to symbolize like the *thing* setting things off in mike's mind if that makes sense #the want and hope that the painting was a gift from will (the one he wants to be with) yet dealing with the conflicting feelings #of the painting actually being from el (obviously this isnt the case but lets say he fully believes will's lie about it being from her)#which is why both will and el are touching the painting but will has the paint on his hands (as well as having more of a grasp on it)#this is not meant to be a humorous piece! idk why i saw ppl implying this is meant to be a joke or mean towards el bc its absolutely not om #aand the from el tag was just mean being in a goofy mood lol wanted to add more cheesy symbolism #oh oh! and you can absolutely view this with bi mike in mind 😌💗

1K notes · View notes

a-loose-collection-of-ants · 6 months ago

Text

A true and 100% historically accurate account of Hamilton's first meeting with Andre

+ Bonus Lafayette

#No idea what my deal is this week #wahoo #alexander hamilton #john andre #amrev #art tag #now expand the post or these tags wont make sense #excuse me while I use these weird little sketches to vent some wildly complex feelings about American identity #theres something to be said about the way Lafayette and Hamilton express opposing views of humanity #in a way that is deeply connected to both how they view their “americanness”#and also the fact that only one of them was insanely fucking wealthy #theres cynicism born from poverty and a pervasive sense of otherness #vs a sort of naive hopefulness coming from wealth that isolated in an entirely different way #and they're brothers #I don't know what Im cooking but its something #marquis de lafayette #might as well tag him at this point #this was supposed to be a shitpost how did I get here

177 notes · View notes

todayisafridaynight · 4 months ago

Note

Each time you draw Daigo or Masato in a corset I gain 500 HP thank you

do you accept corset tops. may you live a thousand years

#rgg #ryu ga gotoku #ryu ga gotoku 7 #yakuza series #yakuza 7 #yakuza like a dragon #masato arakawa #snap sketches #hello friend .... i wanted to draw masato in this top at some point so im glad ive been given the excuse to now JAWLKJWA #i enjoy putting men in corsets if only cause i just really wanna share whats in my closet #this is one of my fave tops tbh .... its really hard finding tops this color in styles i like #i dont want my closet to JUST be black actually. sometimes we can have a dark red or brown. emerald auspiciously #one time i found a really nice green top but my arms were too big for it and there was no other sizes- like everything else fit But My Arms #how does that even make sense. hate it here but we carry on #this wasnt what i wanted to draw this weekend but when will i ever compalin about drawin masato. never thats what #i still have my silly doodles planned for this weekend so i hope those turn out well #for now im sleeby BYYYYEEE thank you anon for supporting me adn my work :]]]]]]]]]

108 notes · View notes

casurlaub · 4 months ago

Text

Remus Lupin doesn't have visible scars

In the books Remus doesn't have any visible scars that we know of (don't talk to me about the movies). It's safe to assume that Greyback's bite/attack left a scar because Greyback scarred Bill without even having transformed, but we never see Remus's bite scar. Remus himself tells us that werewolf wounds are cursed and that he bit and scratched himself. But there's nothing to suggest Remus has scars on parts of his body usually visible to the public, let alone is covered in them.

In fact, it's far more likely that he doesn't have any visible scars, or if he did, that they were very inconspicuous.

Because - although Harry can be oblivious at times - Harry notices a great deal about his appearance. Forgive me for not using the exact quotes here, but:

Harry notices that Remus looks quite young, notices his hair color (light brown), but also that it's already flecked with grey, he notices the state of his robes, he notices his pallid skin (more than once), he notices how he looks as if he had a few square meals, he notices how he looks ill again, how his robes hang loosely from his shoulders, he notices his facial expressions in great detail (e.g. shaken and pleased), he notices throughout the years how his hair becomes greyer, and his robes more patched and shabby. But he never mentions facial scars or scarred hands. And when he calls Remus to him in the Forbidden Forest, Remus - in death - looks younger and his hair is thicker and darker, but Harry doesn't notice any sudden absence of scars.

So, it's one of two things... Either Remus cast glamour charms on himself regularly (but why wasn't his corpse covered in scars then?)... or he simply didn't have any scars in places that would be visible when wearing normal clothing. Considering Harry's astute observation (that sounds sarcastic, but for once I'm not), the latter is far more likely. After all, he notices Moody's scars right away.

Why does this matter, you ask? Let the man have scars! It adds to his tragedy! Well, I disagree.

It matters because it shows that the whole idea of him (werewolves) being dirty, contaminated, stained is linked to his very being. Nothing he does can change a thing about it, it is linked to him because he is a werewolf, not because he looks or acts like a werewolf or any certain kind of way. His 'dirtiness' isn't something that you can see from the outside, it isn't slammed into your face by his looks, meaning his appearance cannot be used as proof to justify prejudice against werewolves along the lines of 'oh, see, of course the violent werewolf is slashing himself'. It matters because it shows just how deep the stigma carries (not that discriminating against people who are considered physically unattractive is okay by any means - it's not!). People are appalled by him even though there's no visible proof of his alleged unhinged nature, they simply assume once they know because that's how werewolves are, right, and don't even give him a chance. Well, the thing is, Remus serves as proof that it - unhinged and feral - is not how werewolves are. In fact, the author made a great effort to make Remus as un-werewolf-y as possible. Yes, he's poor, his clothes are in a bad state, but that's due to the circumstances; he didn't discard basic hygiene and surrender to his wolfish nature like Greyback. He's not only fighting for the side that continues to oppress him (and ffs, he's even identifying with it!), dying a martyr for them, he's constantly narrated as talking 'mildly', 'softly', 'pleasantly', and 'quietly'. Yes, Remus isn't always nice and he's not naive; he's a real warrior. But covering him in scars takes away from that alleged contradiction, it takes away from how meaningful it is when he at times loses his precious self-control, because it is already putting him closer to the feral, unhinged being he is in society's eyes.

Also, the absence of visible scars puts much more weight onto Remus's character. He is mild and pleasant and quiet although he doesn't really have to be. There's nothing on the outside he has to make up for. He's not physically intimidating, there's nothing feral about him, nothing to give away his werewolf status at first glance. And he still does it because it's just so important to him not to be seen as the usual werewolf. That must never happen. If he had visible scars he would have much more reason to adjust his behavior. So, him doing it nonetheless hits harder, because it shows us, how much he himself really identifies with being a werewolf. He's not primarily acting like that because the expectation of others he wants to prove wrong, but because he himself sees it a necessity even before others can have any expectations of him. It puts a different weight onto his avoidant behavior and his self-loathing. Because he is shunning himself in anticipation of being shunned. It's not his appearance that takes the decision away from him. It really shows how deep his self-loathing runs, how deep the mere knowledge of being a werewolf, not looking like one, not acting like one defines him. And I think that's part of the point of his condition - his own view of himself and the view of others, both looking at him through the lens of 'werewolf' first and foremost although there's no real evidence to suggest he's different from other people - at least not in a sense that should matter to others.

Moreover, his scars might - would probably - serve as a reminder of how awful his transformations truly were. Without them, it - the pain - becomes invisible to a degree. Which is part of the tragedy. It is so easy to forget an illness you cannot relate to when it's invisible. And by forget I don't mean really forget, but forgetting what it truly meant for him. No matter your compassion - a reality that isn't yours might slip your mind unless it is constantly brought to your mind. But with a lack of scars it isn't.

Focusing on the scars as much as we do also seems to drag the focus away from one aspect of lycanthropy that is canon - him being weary, exhausted, drained of energy. He's constantly pale, pallid, looks as if he hasn't eaten enough, he sleeps through the train ride to Hogwarts in PoA despite the Sneakoscope going off, the trolley witch, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle visiting, Ron knocking things over. Don't get me wrong, it's possible to show them both hand in hand - scars and exhaustion - (and I've seen it done well), but more often than not his scars/physical wounds take over the main focus. Suddenly the focus shifts to something that is cooler, more sexy instead of showing how unsexy a chronic illness feels. What should be a reminder of his suffering is used to glamorize his condition, hung as a medal of bravery around his neck, is at worst misused to serve for some sexy scar tending while other aspects of his lycanthropy are tossed out of the window. Because tiredness, exhaustion, queasiness, soreness, pain, patience running low and nerves stretched thin because of all that and feeling like a burden to those around you all the while pretending to be fine for fear of actually being a burden just aren't sexy. So... just no.

Sympathy is all good and well, but don't use his scars as an excuse to turn his condition into something cool.

#I hope that makes some sense I'm honestly struggling to string my thoughts together #but I needed to put this out here #I'm not as anti as this sounds - I read fics featuring scarred Remus and I've seen great fan art showing scarred Remus #but it's everywhere #remus lupin #canon remus lupin #remus lupin meta #hp meta

134 notes · View notes