#i should have known it was going to be a problem when one of the first things out of their mouth was ‘so are you going to be good tonight?’

[wtfaniii]

I can do it alone, but he can also save me

Fem reader x Hwang In-ho / Fem reader x Hwang Jun-ho

Part 1 // Part 2

•Summary: Jun-ho's girlfriend was a decorated policegirl, strong and brave, she, along with Gi-hun were taken to the games to stop them, however, there was a setback in between

•Note: Thanks for the support! Here I bring you the second part of this one shot that is personally one of my favorites.

•Warning: Maybe some drama, Some violence and attempted abuse, ¡Don't worry! this man arrives on time like a prince on a white horse

N/A: I haven't checked this yet, sorry if it has spelling mistakes

Gi-hun had told some participants that the next game would be dalgona, but it was not so and now they were upset with him, surrounding him and complaining about his mistake, calling him a "liar."

—You guys decided to play these games —the girl said standing in front of Gi-hun —Face the consequences and don't expect someone to come and save us.

—He's a fraud! —Player 100 shouted at him, pointing at accusingly and with contempt.

—ibelieve in him word —001 interrupted, standing next to her.

Due to the first impression that the two made on all the players, the complaints immediately stopped and retreated.

—It's nothing, I really believe you —Young-il said with a friendly expression

—And if you allow me... I would like to be on your team.

The next game would be in teams of five players, counting the girl, Gi-hun, Jung-bae, Dae-ho and now Young-il, they were full, however, when they were talking to get to know each other a little, a woman with the number 222 on his uniform approached them cautiously.

—¿Can I be on your team? Please —Jung-bae was going to interrupt her to tell that they were full but the young woman finished his sentence first —I'm pregnant.

The five pairs of eyes fell on the small bulge of her belly and noticed that it was true. Immediately, the woman spoke. —I'll look for another team.

—¿Are you sure you'll do it?— In-ho asked, looking at her carefully. A person who looked out for someone else's well-being in these games was rare to see, but considering the situation, it was quite understandable. He wouldn't give up his place if he wasn't so interested in his enemy.

She nodded confidently and left to find another team, it didn't take long, after all, most people took advantage of having someone like her on their team just by considering the word "police" in their introduction.

Once the teams were formed and they were told what had to do, they sat on the floor to wait the turn.

As time passed and gunshots mixed with screams sounded in the background, the young woman thought silently.

¿Will Jun-ho be okay? She really hoped so, she had known him for four years and knew that there were times when he could go to extremes to get what wanted.

It was something she loved about him but right now just worried about.

—¿What game are you going to play? —246 asked sitting next to her, momentarily taking her out of his thoughts.

—Gonggi —answered immediately, she was very good at that game, it had been his favorite since she was a child.

The others nodded and continued talking, she didn't go there with the intention of socializing too much.

For starters.

She was only there because Jun-ho had asked her to.

Jun-ho...

She just hoped him could find her and Gi-hun in time.

The policeman had no intention of stopping now, even without having the tracker active and with the fact that apparently someone was sabotaging them from inside, he was not going to stop searching.

The woman he loved was in those games, that wasn't going to be the plan, she was only supposed to be Gi-hun's bodyguard but things didn't go as planned.

—I think we should stop, it's almost time to eat and we're a bit far from the shore.

—We can't be so close now —he said, somewhat irritated and helpless. —Every minute they spend on that island is a danger.

He felt guilty for having dragged her into his own problems.

He remembered the last conversation he had with her before he lost sight of her.

[...]

—We are police officers —Jun-ho said, showing his badge to the guard who was guarding the entrance of the place

—Just like everyone else tonight —the man said with a mocking laugh, pointing at the long line waiting to get into the Halloween party.

Jun-ho didn't have enough patience to tolerate this, so with no other choice he went up to the man and took his gun out of his pocket.

—¿Do you want to see if this is a toy?

The guard stepped back in fear, giving them free passage.

The girl smiled proudly and waved her hand as if it were hot while sighed.

—That's my man —she boasted to the guard as they crossed the entrance. Jun-ho managed to hear her and inevitably a sly smile appeared on his lips.

—We have to find him before they do —he said, referring to Gi-hun searching the crowd but no masked pink guard was visible.

—It will be faster if we separate —she added, taking out her weapon and pointing it at the ground just to be ready in case used it —When we leave here it will be fondue night —she said without losing her charming touch.

It was something they both shared, despite being in tense situations like this, comments like that were never lacking, especially from the girl and that was something Jun-ho adored, her daring was part of what made the policeman fall in love with her.

—Maybe I should drag you into my problems more often —He replied with a smile and separated from her.

The girl was the first to find Gi-hun and surprisingly they let her get into the limo with him.

Jun-ho was unhappy about that but he couldn't change her mind and just when they thought they could intercept the front man of those suicide games they were forced to make a last-minute decision by shooting at the tires of the cars.

[...]

His stomach turned just remembering what people go through inside those games, he trusted that she could survive but the odds of not making him tremble and want to vomit.

—Okay... we'll call off the search —He relented after a few minutes.

He looked up at the sky and asked whoever would listen him to keep the woman he loves alive.

Meanwhile on the island, they had managed to get through the second game alive, she was sitting with Gi-hun's team silently watching around them when 001 sat next to her.

—Hi... —he greeted her with a soft smile, hoping that the mask being Young-il was convincing enough to fool her —I'm curious... if you're a police officer, ¿how did you end up here?

—¿Debts? —She replied with a false smile —My job was to take care of Mr. Seong but it didn't turn out the way I had in mind —she admitted, looking away again but feeling Young-il's intense gaze on her.

—So... ¿you're here as an undercover agent? —he asked, feigning surprise and curiosity.

He himself was the one who gave the order to allow her to also get into the limousine to accompany Gi-hun.

In-ho knew his brother would be worried about her, searching for her relentlessly, but it was inevitable, he needed to meet her in person and be sure how good of an influence she was on Jun-ho.

Or at least he thought it was a good excuse.

—Yeah... —She looked at him silently and attentively when she noticed a certain peculiarity in him appearance —¿Do I know you from somewhere? I feel like I've seen you before...

Him face seemed familiar but she couldn't figure out why. In-ho kept eye contact with her, waiting for her answer.

It was a pity, if she recognize it him had no other option to let her die in the next games but luckily for the girl she denied it.

—Forget it, I'm just stressed ¿And why are you here?

—My wife is sick and pregnant.

She looked at him with pity as he told her his story, it wasn't a lie, it was just that it happened years ago and he couldn't do anything to keep her alive.

—I'm sorry —The girl said after he finished his words.—I promise we'll get out of here and I'll help you as much as I can with the expenses.

The police had money, not to say that she was a millionaire but she lived in a good social status, she was willing to help him only because her heart was softened by him story.

–You barely know me, ¿why would you do that?

—My boyfriend has also had a somewhat hard life and I took this job for a reason, to help others.

She did not consider herself a saint, but if she had the opportunity to do something good for other people, she would do it regardless of the consequences.

—Also... I think I'm pregnant —She said with a small smile.

How chaotic and unfair could fate be that just one night before she was to go to the medical laboratory for her results, she was taken to those games against will.

On the other hand, she could also feel a slight connection with this stranger, which was why she revealed that to him so naturally, but she still didn't know exactly why.

—I have to go to the bathroom, I'll be right back.

He nodded and watched her leave but his eyes also noticed three other suspicious looking players who followed her into the bathroom.

Without thinking twice he also stood up.

Not even two minutes had passed since she entered the bathroom when a woman grabbed her by the collar of the jacket and threw her backwards, making her fall on back.

–¿You remember me? —the woman demanded, looking at her with disdain and annoyance

—No —She answered standing up.

—You threw my husband into prison and won't be out for another twenty years —The woman pulled out a small pocket knife and another woman stood behind the police girl to hold her —I thought about how to kill you for days.

—Very cute, I still don't know who you are.

Those words only made the woman even more furious as lunged at her and tried to stab her,

Her hard training served her well in this unarmed fight.

But she was counting on another man to come in to help the two players who were trying to kill the young policewoman.

—Three against one unarmed is not fair... —she gasped for air as saw that he had a small opening in his head, her had hit himself on the sink at one point during the fight.

—¡It was also not fair that my husband was sentenced to twenty years in prison for attempted abuse!

—Oh, believe me, I tried to make it forty.

A kick to the face from one of them managed to stun her long enough to give them time to pin her down on the cold, damp bathroom floor.

She couldn't hear clearly what they were saying but when she saw how the man placed himself on top of her, their intentions were quite clear.

She didn't have enough strength to continue defending himself, her felt bleeding from his leg from the knife and the cut on his head hurt, but like a hero coming to save the day, Young-il walked through the door and shouted "Hey!"

That small interruption was enough for her to hit the man in the genitals with her knee, making him move away and moan in pain.

She was too stunned to see what was happening, but before she knew it, he had her in him arms and walked out of the bathroom leaving the two women unconscious on the floor and the man with a bleeding nose.

—¡You should do a better job as guards! —he yelled at the two pink soldiers guarding the door, she didn't know it but that scolding was enough to fire those two.

He carefully led her to the men's room where, due to his front man advantages, he was able to have a guard deny another player access until he said so.

—Thanks... —Her murmured as he dropped her on the ground—But I had it under control.

She let out a giggle that made his ribs hurt, In-ho refrained from laughing, now he had to focus on fixing her wounds.

—Being a police officer you made many enemies —He said while using his jacket with some water to clean her.

—You have no idea.

In-ho continued to clean her wounds and after a few minutes everything was better for her, the girl stood up cautiously because of the wound on her leg and thanked Young-il with a small bow.

—Thanks for helping me, for the second time.

—I hope it doesn't become routine —he said with a soft smile, looking her up and down unconsciously.

When they came out of the bathroom there were suspicious glances but neither of them cared.

It was cute, she liked the way this man treated whenever her found himself in trouble, in a way he reminded her of Jun-ho,

She liked that even though she could defend herself, there was still a knight in shining armor who would arrive in the worst situations.

Young-il, the gentleman who arrived just in time and the only one who knew about her suspected pregnancy.

tag list:

@raya4643 @lvspedri @iloveoldermen0204 @ravenslocked

[peachesofteal]

I know Azriel has amassed a ton of wealth over centuries from doing the dirtiest work, and rarely spends it. He's never really had a need to. Of course, he buys gifts for his family, covers tabs at Rita's, buys himself things, essentials, etc but when it comes to spending for enjoyment or spending to indulge, it just doesn't happen.

He's not looking for reasons, either, until he literally stumbles into one.

You trip and fall into him in the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Trip over something on the ground, get twisted up, and flail forward, right into his path. You're rose and pink pepper, floral, sharp, sweet in a way he cannot fathom, and he doesn't think before stopping your fall. He just reacts, grabbing you around the arms and pulling you upright, holding you steady as you recalibrate your balance, looking up into his face, eyes shining bright like the stars. They're brilliant, full of life, but lined with an undercurrent of stress, of worry, he does not understand.

You're fumbling over an apology as he studies you, scrutinizing every detail on your face, down to the chap of your lips.

He's never seen a High Fae look so... off before, and they're not known to be clumsy.

"Are you alright?" It's polite to inquire, he assures himself, it's the right thing to do.

"I'm fine," you smile but it doesn't touch your eyes, "thanks. Sorry about that. I wasn't watching where I was going." He's unsure what to say next but before he can come up with something, you're giving him a quick thank you, and then disappearing into market.

He thinks about you that night. Wonders about you, as he stares at the bedroom ceiling. You obviously weren't well. Maybe he should have done more. It's his duty, isn't it? To Velaris? To care for it and its citizens, to protect them. Or at least, you. Do something to care for you, protect you.

He's not sure what to do, so he pushes the lingering questions from his mind.

And then the following week, he sees you at Rita's.

You're waiting tables, waltzing across the floor delivering drinks with a smile, the same one that slips away as soon as you're out of sight. Your shoulders slump as you stand at the corner of the bar, covering your mouth with your palm, yawning into it again and again.

Maybe he should do something, maybe you need a healer, maybe he could help-

No. He shouldn't. You probably wouldn't want him to, anyway. Right?

He shakes it off, tries to shake you off but can't stop himself from watching every step you take, trying to diagnose the problem.

It takes too long for it to click.

You're not sick, or clumsy.

You're exhausted, and it makes him irrationally angry, fills him with a need to drag you away from Rita's and tuck you up into a house somewhere, a place you'll never have to lift a finger again if you so choose. A place where you could be taken care of-

maybe even by him.

It takes him very little time to find the ramshackle duplex you live in on the outskirts of town, the roof too sloped, the wooden steps too rotted, the siding too loose.

It makes him uneasy, makes his skin crawl. Why are you here, in a place like this? Who has allowed this?

Why does a place like this even exist when Velaris has such wealth?

He begins to play a game, and at first, he tells himself it's to make himself feel better, that he's doing it for selfish reasons.

It's winter, and you don't have gloves, so he buys a pair and the shadows deposit them on your front step, and it makes the sick feeling in his stomach go away. For a few days.

When it returns, he buys you a hat, and this time, he delivers it himself, eager to see your reaction.

He doesn't expect to see the gloves still sitting on the porch, and he frowns. Did you not see them? Did you not like them? He leaves the hat at their side and lurks on the roof of the house across from yours, hiding in shadow, in wait.

The sun is still rising when you leave for your first job of the day, and you stop short at the sight of the hat. He perks up, expecting to see you relax with relief, or happiness, but is left confused when you hold the hat in your hands for a moment, reverently tracing the stitching, before dropping it back next to the gloves.

Why? You need these things. They're being given anonymously, alleviating some of awkwardness of accepting gifts, and he had hoped it would spare you from feelings of obligation or embarrassment. Perhaps you are too proud, he wonders, but shadows echo a different sentiment, one of distrust, of wariness.

The gifts scare you.

The guilt churns the bile in his stomach, and he flexes his fingers into fists before flying away, cursing himself the whole way home.

Idiot.

You're very surprised when he approaches you on your walk from the Palace to Rita's, so much so that you jerk to a dead stop, staring at him with your mouth dropped open as he tries to explain he has something to give you.

Yes, he knows you don't know him. Yes, he's aware how strange this is.

Yes, you will be taking this scarf whether you like it or not.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is for you." He extends the scarf towards you, holding his breath. Your eyes narrow.

"Have you been leaving things on my porch?"

"Yes." There's no point in lying. He's standing here trying to gift you a scarf, for Cauldron's sake.

"Why?" Your voice is tight, anxious, and he wishes there was a way he could reassure you without frightening you further.

"You needed them." It comes off as arrogant, but he doesn't care. He's getting to the point where he's past caring, where he's past watching you freeze and work yourself to the bone. His jaw is clenched so tight the muscles are straining, and it takes effort to steady his voice. "You're freezing."

"I-"

"I want you to have this." Just take it. The shadows skitter around him, trawling across the brick to where you stand, and you glance at them briefly, surprisingly unafraid, before looking back at him. He expects a fight, some kind of resistance, but it's all been bled dry. The only thing he sees is defeat, and it stings. You're suffering, you're suffering and he's got everything he could ever want, material wise, and then some. "Please," he murmurs, stepping forward, and you shake your head.

"I shouldn't."

"It's just a gift, I don't expect anything in return."

"You say that now." Your voice trembles. Anger cracks like lightning through his veins. Is this what you fear? A transaction? An exchange for help? There are only so many things one could want in a situation like this, and all of the them fill him with rage.

"I promise you," his voice is steel, firm and unrelenting, "I want nothing in return."

"You promise." It's not a question, and you won't meet his gaze, but he pushes on.

"I do." You reach for it hesitantly and wrap it around your neck, tucking your chin into the softly spun wool, cheeks lifting in a very small, shy smile. Good girl.

He chose perfectly. It complements your skin, your eyes, illuminates your already striking beauty.

"I... thank you. This is really nice. It's lovely." The shadows hum, and he secretly preens, the warmth in his chest spreading as you tell him your name.

"I'm Azriel," he says in return, and you nod.

"I know." You sigh, and look past him, down the street to where he knows your work awaits. "I have to go."

Or he could take you. It's tempting, so, so tempting. It's wicked, and rotten, but satisfying at the same time, and it soothes the reckless pieces of him calling out to you.

No. He shouldn't. He settles on a different course instead.

"I'll see you soon." Your brow furrows.

"You will?" He nods, spreading his wings, preparing to launch into the sky, pleased by how you marvel at them.

"And you'll wear both the gloves and hat when you're outside from now on." Your lips part with surprise. "Yes?" It takes a beat, and then two-

"Yes."

[withleeknow]

wishful thinking. (08)

chapter eight: ships in the night

summary: the instruction was plain and simple: no strings attached. but you should’ve known from the beginning that it could never apply to you and him.

pairing: minho x f!reader rating: 18+ (minors dni) genres/warnings: friends to lovers, friends with benefits au, college au; fluff, angst, smut; i’ve been told this is the angstiest chapter yet saur yk you’ve been warned, mentions of past seggsy times, oc is self-deprecating self-sabotaging, oc has an anxiety attack in this one, erhm just Big Sad overall methinks, also could've been more edited but i am a godless monster word count: 7.2k note: wt is backkkkkk!! and it's the penultimate chapter omg :( lowkey nervous about how this is gonna be perceived bc i feel like my brand is Sad™️ and i haven't properly written anything Sad™️ in a WHILE. but yeah, wt8 is yours now have funnn. also ty chessica @matchannie for proofreading!!

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

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Sorry, I know that comment wasn’t funny Just wanted you to love me, but I didn’t go about it right Sometimes the best advice that I can give Is to bite my lip and listen with my big fat mouth shut tight

big fat mouth - Arlie

You don’t think you can ever forget the look on his face, the hurt in his eyes when the words had tumbled out of your mouth in a panicked frenzy. The regret was immediate, but so was the damage.

Saying things you didn’t mean, watching Minho so utterly defeated that it kills you, and the deafening silence after he had walked away from you on heavy footsteps – you can’t describe how it all felt that night. It’s just… sinking, and sinking, and sinking; endlessly spiraling in an ocean of your own guilt and despair. It’s true what they say – misery loves company.

Distractions don’t work, because whenever that overwhelming dread eases by even a fraction, you’re once again reminded by the bracelet that’s wrapped around your wrist with the tiny dove charm hanging on the side. Neither of you paid it any mind the other night, that much is clear.

You know you should return it to him eventually; it’s never belonged to you and it never will. But every time you go to take it off, you can’t bring yourself to simply undo the clasp and hide the bracelet somewhere you can’t see. It lets you delude yourself into thinking that you haven’t lost him even after what you said, even after you stomped on his heart and left it bleeding where you stood. 

You’d been upset, thinking that you were the only one falling, terrified that you’d crash headfirst into the cold, hard ground because there’d be nobody to catch you. And yet, when Minho told you he loved you, it provided you no relief at all. The fear magnified tenfold, taking over you until you couldn’t see straight, until it consumed you whole.

Home is something you find, and you’ve found it in him. Your sun and your spring and your home, and everything good that you can ever name.

All your life, something is always missing, an empty space that you never learned how to fill. Like when you exit a room and there’s a nagging feeling in your gut telling you that you’ve forgotten something even though all of your belongings are accounted for. Like when you lose your favorite ring, one that’s a little too loose but beloved anyway, slipping over your knuckle without your permission and disappearing forever, and you keep running your fingers over where the golden band used to be until you come to terms with the fact that it’s never coming back and you’ll spend the rest of your life mourning the loss of that familiarity.

You’ve always looked for things you lost in places you’ve never been.

You just want to go home, but you know you’ll only ruin it in the end.

The problem has never been Minho or anybody else. It’s you, and how there’s something intrinsically wrong with you. You paint the ending before there’s even a beginning. You’d rather run and hide than let yourself feel anything, because if there’s happiness then there’s going to be hurt inevitably.

You don’t want him to wake up one day and look at you like you’re a stranger, to realize that he’s wasted his time and effort, that you just weren’t worth it after all. 

It’s funny how, when you’re a child, time seems to move so quickly. One minute, you’re four, maybe five years old, and your mother is refusing to speak to you because she thinks you ruined one of her bags, a large scratch running along the otherwise smooth leather surface like it’s been met with a pair of scissors or simply accumulated on her way to work and she hadn’t noticed until she got home and you happened to be in the vicinity of her anger; the next, she’s letting you relish in all your favorite desserts, cavities be damned.

One minute, you’re being rushed to the hospital with a bad case of food poisoning, your parents staring down at you as if you’re actually about to die; the next, you’re already at home, watching cartoons that you couldn’t understand but you like anyway because they’re full of pretty colors and princesses and fairies.

You don’t remember how your mother came to forgive you for the bag even though it wasn’t your fault, or what the hospital felt like or if what the doctors and nurses did to make you feel better even hurt. You only know that you wish to return to a smaller version of yourself whose memories you can’t even recall, return to a time in which you once so desperately wanted to escape from.

Now, when you’re hurt, time doesn’t pass in a blink of an eye like it used to. It stands still, sucks you down a vortex and makes you feel everything. 

No one ever really warns you about growing pains, that they’re unavoidable no matter how hard you try to avoid them, that they can last a lifetime because you never really stop growing, and it never really seems to ache any less.

Hyunjin: Attachment: 1 Image. Hyunjin: i sent this one in  Hyunjin: u??

You’d almost forgotten about the exhibition until Hyunjin had sent you those texts. Even though you’re not one to neglect deadlines, you suppose it’s fairly reasonable that this one in particular had slipped your mind. You haven’t really been able to wrap your head around that many things after all.

Every semester, yours and Hyunjin’s department rents out a gallery near campus for a whole week to showcase students’ works. It’s nothing exclusive, nothing like a competition where they pit a couple hundred kids against each other just for a spot at a fancy art gallery. Almost anyone in the Faculty of Arts can register before the submission deadline, and you suppose that’s another reason why you’d overlooked it so easily – because you didn’t earn it. It didn’t feel special. It was just another meaningless event to attend.

Regardless, you spent a chunk of an afternoon pondering your selection though it didn’t matter that much, almost two hours dedicated to picking out paintings you realized you didn’t love. Some you even turned out to hate, even though you could remember the pride radiating from you the moments the canvas had felt the last brush stroke. Maybe the glamor eventually wore off, the momentary high that coursed through you when you’d shown your finished works to your professors and peers, and received showers of praise in return.

The piece you chose in the end wasn’t your favorite by any means, but it was one of the only pieces you could still bear to look at without nitpicking too much. It was a painting of the waters, and you’ve always loved the waters.

You could recall the day you went to the promenade by yourself with a need to be away from everyone and everything, and an overshirt that was too light to combat the September evening chill as summer transitioned into fall. You watched the sky slowly darken after the sun had disappeared from view, watched as the buildings on the other side of the river lit up one by one until they made up for the light that retired for the day.

The thin layers made you shiver – the consequence of your poor choice in clothing that night – but there was something about sitting by the waterfront after dark, kicking pebbles around underneath your feet, and the gentle caress of the wind on your face and your hair that made the cold feel welcoming. You always thought the city was more beautiful at night, more calming amidst all of its perpetual chaos. It made you feel like you were inside a dream long forgotten, took you back to a north star that you left to gather dust on an abandoned shelf.

You could recall wanting to dive into that dream again, a dream in which you could chase a perfect version of you that would never exist and find light at the end of the tunnel, instead of returning to the reality where you always wound up suffocating in darkness. You wanted to be free, free from the noise and free from your own life despite one simple truth that you knew all too well – that you could run but never from yourself.

When you were young, it’s the moon that used to follow you everywhere. As you get older, it’s all of the things that keep you up at night.

You could recall your phone buzzing to life in your bag with Minho’s name on the screen, like a sign from the universe saying “Hey, this one’s for you. Don’t drown. You have a lighthouse.” and it was as though he could sense that you were falling, like someone had tied your heart to a rock and threw it into the very river in front of you to sink to the bottom. Your friends often said he had some sort of sixth sense when it came to you. Maybe there was some truth in that.

His voice pulled you out of it, even though he only called to ask if you wanted to come over and eat the boatload of food his mom had sent. He made you want to disappear a little less and in that moment, it was enough.

You left your hiding place to go to him, to lose yourself in stupid jokes and not-too-sweet desserts even if it was only for a couple hours. And when you returned home that night, everything spilled onto the canvas just from memory alone, from the feeling that you were desperately clinging onto with your shaking hands.

You always thought you could only run away to places. You didn’t know people could be escapes too, and somewhere along the way, that was what Minho became to you — your treasured escape, your new hiding place.

You manage to avoid everyone – with the exception of Hyunjin; you do have to see him in class after all – over the two and a half weeks leading up to the exhibition, drumming up excuse after excuse to bail whenever any of them asks to grab a bite together or just to simply hang out. If they saw you, they’d notice your puffy eyes and ask if you’ve been crying. They would ask why, and you can’t find in yourself to make up a lie believable enough for that kind of question.

You think Hyunjin has noticed. He’s a bit of an idiot sometimes, but he’s not stupid and he’s still blessed with the gift of sight. He doesn’t mention anything though, despite you showing up to almost every class with puffy eyelids. You suppose you’re grateful for that.

Minho hasn’t talked to you at all since that night. Doesn’t ask you how your project’s going, doesn’t ask you about the exhibition, barely even speaks in the group chat, not even a boring comment about the weather. What were you expecting anyway? You get it, you do.

But despite the silence, you never doubted that he would show up to the exhibition. If not for you, then he would be there to support Hyunjin.

The only person who really has an inkling that something is wrong is Jess, when you were getting ready together earlier tonight and she helped you conceal your puffy eyes. She’d tiptoed around the question before settling on  asking “Everything okay?” — simple, easy, quickly dismissible if you didn’t feel like sharing.

You didn’t, and she dropped the subject because there was no point in badgering you for answers anyway. 

Chan picked the both of you up afterward, and Jess didn’t have to explain anything to him when she slipped into the backseat with you instead of riding next to her boyfriend.

Now here you are, standing in a room full of your friends and peers, wearing a black dress that Jess helped you choose, and Minho is nowhere to be found. You’d spent all day pacing around, anxious at the mere thought of seeing him and even talking to him. What you hadn’t anticipated was the disappointment, the unbearable feeling in the pit of your stomach in response to his absence. You can’t tell which is worse; maybe every moment without him all sucks the same.

When Hyunjin starts whining and takes out his phone to spam Minho’s messages demanding his location (you’re thankful that it didn’t have to come to you), all he receives in return is a measly “Running late.”

And that’s it. A mere text is enough to satiate everyone’s curiosity. Well, everyone but Hyunjin, because he’s still a nagging drama queen.

Minho is running late, and to anyone else, it’s the most normal thing in the world.

But to you… it means something beyond that. Because this was him. This was your Minho. Your Minho who’s never been known for his tardiness, who’s never once broken a promise, who’s always there for you no matter what.

All you know right now is his absence, and it makes you sink.

You sink, and then you wait. Not a lot to be done about it.

You slip away to a quiet spot, a vacant hallway, to be by yourself while everyone is out there wandering around and gorging themselves on the free food and drinks. You shouldn’t be with them anyway. All you need is to wallow in peace and not be the black cloud hanging over everybody’s heads.

There’s something so incredibly lonely in the act of waiting. Waiting to board a plane, waiting in line at the grocery store. Waiting for a phone call or text message that you know won’t come, waiting for a person whom you can only hope would show up. At the end of the day, that’s what waiting is, isn’t it? It’s wanting. It’s hoping, and if there’s one thing you know about hope, it’s that it’s dangerous.

You wonder if this is how Minho felt all this time, waiting on a girl who’s always prepared to leave. You wonder if, that night, he had expected you to reciprocate his feelings. You did. You do, and a part of you wanted to tell him that you loved him too. The words were there, and yet…

It’s true that you love him, and it’s true that you don’t want to. If hope is dangerous then love is fucking terrifying. 

He’d been so patient with you, so awfully gentle and quiet in the chasm of his waiting that you mistook the tenderness for everything except for what it actually was – love. Or perhaps you did know. Maybe deep down, you knew that you would’ve loved him back with everything you had, with every fiber of your being. That you would’ve let him be the only one to ever really know you, and it felt like a fear greater than you could bear. 

In the end, did you lose him? Can you lose something you never had? It wasn’t a love that you let slip away; it was a what if.

You’re in a room with people who love you and yet, all you can think about is Minho. You miss him so much that it feels like someone has spliced you in two, that it physically makes you ache every second that he isn’t with you. As selfish as it sounds, you want him to walk through the door and you want everything to be okay again. You want to be back in a bubble with just the two of you and a locked box filled with words unsaid. You thought you could stay in that bubble forever, where it was safe and you could pretend that you were happy, and maybe you really were happy with him. But all things — good or bad — must come to an end. The bubble burst, and this was the real world.

You want to undo your cruelty, want him to take back his sincerity. You want an ocean of distance between you and him, you want to pull him as close as humanly possible. All your wants are contradictions. You’re a paradox of puzzle pieces that never seem to fit together.

You want to tell him that it hurts. Want him to make it better because he’s the only one who can make it better.

But miracles rarely happen and there are no shooting stars in sight. Minho was the closest thing you got to a shooting star, burning across your night sky for just a brief moment. Blink and you could miss it. Blink and you did miss him.

Your fingers find his contact in your phone before you could stop yourself, and soon enough, you’re pressing the call button. It’s like drunk dialling, only you aren’t intoxicated. Or maybe you are; maybe you’re under the influence of his absence and how much it stings.

You don’t know why you’re calling him, don’t know what to even say when he picks up.

Thankfully, you don’t have to wonder for long.

“Your call has been forwarded to voicemail. Please leave your message after the tone,” comes the automated voice on the other end.

For some reason, you don’t hang up. You wait for the beep, then you wait some more. It’s not until ten seconds later that you find your voice, the only thing to come out of your mouth is a quiet Hey.

You clear your throat, rub the sweaty palm of your free hand on your dress. “Hey,” you try again. “It’s… me. I’m at the gallery with everyone. Uhm, they’re all waiting for you. Are you on your way? Are you stuck in traffic? Or did you forget it was today? Hyunjin is trying really hard not to blow up your phone–” You pause to chuckle dryly. “But you know it would mean a lot to him to have you here. It… it’d mean a lot to me too if you were here. I don’t know, I assumed you’d come. I’m sorry, that was stupid of me. I just…” Another pause. This time, it’s so that you could take a breath. “Listen, Minho, I didn’t mean what I said to you. I’m sorry I was an asshole. I’m sorry that I hurt you, I don’t have any excuse for that. You deserve better than me. It’s going to pass, you know? I’m sorry if you’ve wasted your time on me, but… you’re going to find someone else, and you’re going to get over it. I’m sorry I fucked everything up. It’s fine if you never want to talk to me again, just please don’t let it get between you and our fr–”

The line beeps again. “To replay the message, press 1. To save the message, press 2. To delete the message, press 3.”

You purse your lips together. There’s still a lump in your throat and no peace to be made. It’s like drunk dialling, only you pull yourself together at the very last second. Your thumb hovers over the dial pad on your phone until you eventually end up on 3, because your cowardice will always triumph in the end. Back to square one. Everything’s still the same as it was five minutes ago.

You force your legs to move, like how you'd force yourself to get up and eat and drink water and shower and be a person these days. When you round the corner, you bump against something solid. A person. The collision isn’t hard enough to knock you backward; they weren’t moving, they’d only been standing still.

You look up at Seungmin, who merely blinks at you. You don’t know how long he’s been here, if he heard anything at all. You swallow once, considering whether you should just play dumb and gauge his reaction or ask point blank if you’ve been caught. He beats you to the decision though.

“You and Minho,” Seungmin says, a bit hesitant, like the topic is weird to bring up. “You’re the girl.”

A deer in headlights, you are. A pathetic one at that, too.

But even then, you’re not panicked, not really. You’re just sad, and the truth was bound to come out eventually. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” you say.

The discarded voicemail that he overheard, the dejection written all over your face, the silence from both you and Minho recently — it’s obvious to pretty much everyone, and Seungmin is smarter than most.

He opens his mouth and shuts it again like he’s choosing his words. The Seungmin-esque blank stare melting away to make space for some pity, then a question, “Is there anything left to tell?”

You escape to the empty garden in the back where there were a few lonely chairs set up, so you could have some privacy to talk. Despite everything, it feels like you’ve got a little breathing space, just being able to share this with someone. To not have to carry it all on your own. You’re glad that it was Seungmin who found out first. You have a feeling that he would understand, at least to some degree. You’re relieved, even when the first question that he asks is, “So, how did you fuck it up?”

“Why do you just automatically assume it was me?” You’re mildly offended, even though he’s right.

“Between you and Minho, I’d bet on you.” Seungmin shrugs. “You spook easily.”

“I deeply resent that notion.”

He turns to look at you, no trace of any teasing. “Can you prove me wrong?”

But you can’t, and it tells him as much when you avert his eyes in favor of the ground, where you kick at a lonesome pebble sitting among the grass. It lands somewhere between the green blades, lost in the shadows that cast over parts of the garden that are poorly lit.

“So what happened?” he asks, turning away again to stare out at the empty space. You like to think of it as him giving you some elbow room, to ease the pressure of being scrutinized. And as much as you appreciate it, it still takes you another brief moment before you can formulate a coherent sentence, another minute of twiddling your fingers in your lap.

You tell Seungmin about your first night with Minho – not the details, of course; that would be weird and it’s none of his business. Just that it happened, how you both let it keep happening over the past few months while nobody suspected a thing.

Seungmin nods solemnly, like he’s putting together the missing pieces.

“Did you ever notice anything?” you ask.

“I mean… not about you hooking up, but we thought you’d end up together eventually.” He shrugs. “We always kinda assumed that you two would become those people who make a pact to get married if you’re still single by 40 or 50, if you didn’t get together before then. It makes sense. You and Minho just sort of make sense.”

“Oh,” you say. Your heart swoops. Hearing it from Seungmin makes you sad. Not the same brand of sadness that you’ve been wearing lately though. A different kind, the kind of sadness that’s a little numbing and makes it difficult to breathe. “Well, sorry to disappoint everyone but I don’t think any of it is gonna happen anymore.”

“So… how did it happen?” Seungmin asks again, mimicking explosions with his hands.

You let him off easy without a punch in the shoulder, because you just really don’t have the energy for it right now. “Minho wanted something more,” you tell your friend, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, then with the necklace charm resting on your collarbone. “And I just… I don’t know. I guess I freaked. I… said some awful stuff to him.”

Seungmin hums a sound of acknowledgement. He looks like he’s thinking about it, about you and Minho and what it means. “Classic,” he chuckles after a brief moment, mostly to himself. Maybe he’s thinking about what it means beyond just the pair of you too.

You side-eye him. “You’d know all about it, wouldn’t you?”

He shoots the glance back at you. “What are you trying to say here?”

You remember her, the only girl that Seungmin has ever hinted at liking. He never admitted it out loud to any of you, but you could all see it.

You only used to see her in passing at house parties, and even then, it wasn’t Seungmin nor her who brought the other one around. They would show up separately with their own group, mingle for a while, find each other after a couple of drinks before they disappeared to god-knows-where for the rest of the night. Sometimes, Changbin or Hyunjin would catch them before they could sneak off and insist that Seungmin let everyone get to know his friend.

These brief interactions are all you have with her, meaningless small talk for a few minutes before Seungmin’s patience ran thin and he whisked her away like they’d both intended. You liked her; she was nice, and she was really pretty. You liked her even though you didn’t know her, because she was the one person who Seungmin cared about enough to keep away from prying eyes. A secret shared only between the two of them, a bubble in which only they existed.

The last time you saw her with him must’ve been at least three months ago, maybe even longer. No one really knows what happened, just that she stopped showing up to parties, and Seungmin never brought it up again. You all assumed whatever he had going on with her had run its course, though it doesn’t really stop Hyunjin and Jisung from mentioning her every now and again just to tease him.

“I seem to recall a Halloween party last year and a certain someone was in a bee costume and–”

“Fine,” Seungmin interjects, rolling his eyes. “Fine, we can form our own dumbass club. Happy?”

You laugh a little, even though the whole thing isn’t very funny. Your shared experience is nothing to take pride in.

“So how did you blow it up?” you ask.

He gives you a sour glare before his eyes soften. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and in his silence you find that you and him are more similar in ways that you’ve never cared enough to admit before. This sadness that you carry, you have a feeling that he knows it all too well.

“Like I said, classic,” Seungmin tells you. “She wanted something more. I freaked. I ghosted her.”

A mirror. Two sides of the same stupid coin.

You lean back against your seat. “Did you like her?”

It takes a beat, but his answer comes out as an honest, “Yeah, I liked her. Liked her too much.”

“Why did you do that to her then?”

“Why did you do that to Minho?” Seungmin deadpans, but he doesn’t seem to want a response from you. He just sighs, wistfully adding, “I’ve thought about it a lot. It’s scary to be wanted because it means someone’s putting you on a pedestal, and when you’re on a pedestal, the more it’ll hurt if you fall off. The more they’re counting on you to not let them down, the easier it is to fuck it all up. People like us, we’re flight risks. We can’t help it. We think it’s better to just leave before we can do any real damage. When you said whatever terrible shit you said to Minho, that was the first thing you thought about, right? To be cruel? That’s what I did too. Such a fucking stupid knee-jerk reaction.”

You don’t know how to respond, so you just sit there, completely still. 

Then Seungmin turns to you, and for the first time in all the years that you’ve known him, he’s looking at you, really looking at you. No snarky side-eye, no playful faux glare. Just a strange and unfamiliar sincerity, like he’s asking you to fix what he couldn’t, undo the cruelty that he never bothered apologizing for.

“Minho would understand, you know? If you’d just talk to him,” Seungmin says. “You made a mistake in the heat of the moment. But you want to have something real with him, don’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here talking to me about this and beating yourself up over it.”

“I told you. That ship sailed.” And you’re standing up for no apparent reason other than the fact that you’re suddenly restless, your stomach twisting in knots out of nowhere. “He’s not even here. He didn’t even show up tonight. I think that’s saying enough.”

Your friend rises to his feet too, probably because he thinks it’s weird to be the only one sitting now while you’re upset and pacing about. It’s not until Seungmin takes a step closer that you realize you’re shaking a little.

“Hey, you good?” He puts a hand on your shoulder. “I talked to Minho yesterday. He said he’d come. Maybe something came up or he just–”

Hyunjin’s voice interrupts Seungmin in the middle of his sentence, the excited squeal carrying itself from all the way inside the gallery to the back garden through the door left ajar. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, maybe there’s a reason why people say it. It’s laughable, really.

You and Seungmin both turn your attention to the brief commotion indoors, where you see Hyunjin smiling so big that his eyes have crinkled into crescent moons, where he’s standing with his arm thrown around Minho and shaking him by the shoulders.

These days, it’s easy to pretend that time is standing still. You don’t even know if time is even passing at all; you’re just looking at him, dressed in a black blazer and some dress pants. Casual but he looks good. He always does.

You watch as he says something to Hyunjin that seems to calm the latter down a bit, at least enough for Minho to quickly scan the room, searching. You watch as his eyes sweep through all the people gathered inside, not stopping until they land on you, finding you on the other side of the glass door. Even in this terrible lighting, not entirely visible you assume, he sees you.

There was a conversation you had with Minho some time ago, when you two were sprawled out on your couch munching on strawberry Peperos and not paying attention to the movie that was playing on your TV, when he asked how you wanted your life to be at 40.

You knew what the boring answer was – you wanted your life to be stable, and you told him as much. Isn’t stability always the goal? Maybe a lame corporate job if the whole starving-artist-who-makes-it-big-overnight dream didn’t pan out. A cat and a dog named Mochi and Mocha, if you could afford two pets at once. An apartment that you owned, with framed pictures of everything you loved scattered all over the place, and stupidly cute fairy lights that you often see on Pinterest, and an unfathomable amount of plushies that your inner child was never indulged in. A peaceful and quiet life, at least to some extent. 

The honest answer, the one that you didn’t tell him, was you wanted to not live with regret.

But as you lock eyes with him, for a split second there, you know that you will.

About twenty years down the line, when you look back on your life and think of this chapter, you’ll think about a boy who loved you and whom you loved. How you broke both of your hearts trying to protect your own. You’ll wonder if he’s married, if he has kids, if he still reminisces about the girl he used to love when he was young. If he’s happy and if his dreams came true. If the sadness you caused yourself was worth it, if the pain meant anything at all. If you could go back in time and undo everything, would you?

You’ll get over it eventually – surely you will; heartbreak isn’t the end of the world – but you’ll live with the grief of what could’ve been if you weren’t afraid. You’ll be left to mourn the road not taken, your almost but never was. 

You’re the one who moves first, when it starts to become a struggle just to breathe. You stumble away from Minho’s line of sight, until you find a wall that you can rest against.

Seungmin is quick to follow. “Hey, woah, are you okay?”

Your hands alternate between balling themselves into tight fists and attempting in vain to grab at the flat surface of the concrete. There are no words that you can form to answer him. Only your ragged breathing and your pathetic effort to take in some air through your mouth.

“Okay, shit, uhm,” Seungmin sputters. “Hang on.”

Then he’s taking off. You don’t know how long he’s gone for, where he’s gone off to, and frankly, you can’t really bring yourself to care. Your hands abandon the wall in favor of your dress, something that you can actually hold onto. Your trembling fingers clutch the hem of your dress like they’re pretending it’s a lifeline, bunching and twisting the fabric in your sweaty palms. Hoping it’ll help, but it doesn’t at all.

Even over the sound of your heartbeat ringing in your ears, you could hear new footsteps coming out into the empty garden. Rushed at first, then they stop for a brief moment. You know who it is before he even approaches you.

Damn that Kim Seungmin.

The familiar scent of his cologne greets you before his voice. You spent hours and hours enveloped in this scent until it was dulled by sweat from the activities you were engaged in, if it wasn’t already softened by the kisses you would leave all over his skin.

When he calls your name, it comes out so soft, like you never broke his heart in the first place and that night was only a figment of your twisted imagination. He sounds so gentle, yet it sends you further down the crippling spiral. You don’t deserve him; maybe you never did, despite what Seungmin tried to put through your head earlier.

“I’m fine.” But you know your appearance has already betrayed your words. The first thing you say to him in weeks, and it’s a lie. You’re still leaning against the wall with your arms wrapped tightly around your trembling frame and your eyes squeezed shut. It’s a pitiful sight. Even more so when it registers in your brain that it’s Minho of all people who’s witnessing it. 

He doesn’t say anything else, only lets out a sigh, and then his hand is on your body, a warm palm touching the small of your back out of habit before he moves it upward to rub between your shoulder blades. “Can you breathe?”

His question makes you all too aware that there’s something gnawing inside of your chest, makes you think for a second there that you’re going to die though you know that you won’t. You shake your head with your eyes still closed, your breathing coming out more ragged by the second. You can’t even bear to look at him and absorb the worry in his eyes; you’re sure you’ll only cry if you do, and it’s the last thing you need right now.

But it turns out that seeing Minho’s face isn’t the only thing that can bring you to tears. When you feel him tug at your arms, his warmth on your bare skin, you start crying anyway and that makes it even harder to breathe. There’s not a single ounce of resistance in your body, your limbs obeying him easily when they untangle themselves around your waist to fall by your sides as he pulls you into his chest, with one hand over your sternum and his thumb rubbing back and forth. He’s careful about it too, like he’s handling broken pieces of something that used to be beautiful.

“You’re okay,” he says, but you’ve got your face pressed into the crook of his neck and your tears are staining the collar of his shirt. “You’re gonna be fine. Just… listen to me.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to speak next.

“Name three things you can see,” he says. “You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think about it.”

You open your eyes finally, angling your head until most of your vision isn’t obstructed by the proximity of his body. Minho tightens his arm around you, and you blink away some of the tears.

Your black heels that your mom got you for your birthday a while ago.

The grass, darkened green and damp.

Him. 

“Three things you can hear.”

Light chatter coming from inside the gallery.

Cars passing by on the adjacent street.

Him, the sound of his breathing.

“Three things you can touch.”

The soft material of your dress against your skin.

The bracelet, hugging your wrist, weighing you down like an anchor.

And… him.

Him, him, him.

You don’t know what reason Minho makes up to excuse you for the rest of night, but you don’t bother asking. There’s really no space left in your head to think about it twice, to care about leaving your friends or feel guilty about Hyunjin because he was so excited about today. It’s too much; all you want is to go home, get away from here.

Minho calls you both an Uber back to your place. During the entire ride, he doesn’t say a word and neither do you. And even though you mostly opt for looking out the window at the other cars and houses and people passing by, every now and then you could feel his eyes on you from the other side of the backseat.

When you arrive, he keeps a hand on the small of your back as you make your way up the stairs. When you unlock the door, you leave it open so he could follow you inside. You suppose that one is a force of habit. You’re not used to shutting the door in his face. At least, not in the literal sense anyway.

Then it returns, that gnawing feeling. A feeling far too colossal for your body to house. It sits somewhere inside your ribcage, sharp and desperate, with claws trying to dig its way out. And for the first time in maybe ever, you understand what it truly means to want something this badly. You love him, and it hurts. You love him even though it hurts.

Minho moves around the place while you remain frozen in the middle of your own apartment, as if he’s the one who lives here and you’re just visiting for the night. You let him take off your makeup (with a wipe; you’re going to hate yourself in the morning), let him help you change into clothes that you can sleep in, even let him tuck you into bed like you’re a helpless child. If he notices the bracelet on you, he doesn’t say anything. Everything is done in silence.

You don’t look him in the eye. You don’t think you can handle what you’ll find there.

But you do reach for his hand when he tries to leave now that there’s nothing left for him to do here. There’s not a single thought behind your action, just a need to have him near.

“Can you…?” 

You aren’t brave enough to finish the question, your voice trailing off and the words dissipating like smoke after a lonely cigarette drag. You’re being selfish right now, you’re awfully aware of this.

Minho doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even let out a single sigh. For a second there, you think he’s about to leave you here, cold and alone, just like you had done to him. It would be nothing less than what you deserve.

But then he’s shrugging off his blazer and your heart is in your throat. When he slips into bed beside you, something hurts, the kind of ache that spreads all across your chest and makes your lungs burn.

Earlier tonight, he could’ve walked away and let you be somebody else’s burden. Your friends were all there, it’s not like they would’ve left you stranded.

You’re not really sure what to think. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t hate you, but maybe it’s just enough confirmation that he doesn’t hate you more than he loves you.

You break the deafening stretch of silence with a whisper, “I’m sorry.” You don’t know what the apology is for. Are you sorry for that night, for the things you said to him? Are you sorry that you’re only yourself, that he just had to go ahead and fall for you of all people? Sorry that you’re too much of a coward and a lost cause to love him right? You don’t know, but it feels appropriate to apologize. You owe him that much.

“Don’t…” Minho says after a while. “You don’t have to do that.”

The familiar sensation returns – the one that stings the back of your eyes, burns your nostrils and makes you all choked up. You try to hold your breath and will it away, but the first tear spills without your permission, and you can’t help the shaky inhale – close to a gasp and followed by a sniffle – that punctuates your lungs when they start protesting against the sudden lack of oxygen. 

You grip the sheets so hard you think you could rip through the fabric and dig into your own palm. It’s a pathetic feeling, like a strange kind of embarrassment that you can’t quite describe. The room is deadly quiet; you know there’s no way he didn’t catch the noise.

You hear Minho shift from where he lays behind you, some rustling when he moves against the duvet and the mattress. “Don’t cry,” he sighs. And it’s still so gentle. You’ve never known him to be anything but gentle.

You bite the inside of your cheek, blinking some of the tears away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… don’t cry.” It sounds like he’s holding something back but you aren’t sure. “Don’t cry. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning, if you want.”

You sniffle some more, and maybe that makes Minho think he still needs to appease you even further. He reaches out finally, to brush a comforting hand against your arm. “Go to sleep. Promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You don’t know if you want to talk in the morning, because there’s nothing for you to say. All you really have is what he’s already heard – I’m sorry, like an utterly broken record. But you want him to stay even if it’s only for the morning. Even if all he’ll get is silence at best and choked up breaths at worst. Your last-ditch attempt at grasping straws, a futile effort to chase running water.

“Okay,” you tell him, and neither of you says anything afterward. The tears keep falling for a while, and at some point it tires you out enough to slip into a dreamless sleep.

When you open your eyes hours later, the sun is already up. The clock on your phone reads 7:06AM and the first thing you register is an uncomfortable dryness in your throat. Behind you, the bed is still warm. You can actually feel it underneath your fingertips when you reach out, the warmth dwindling from the side of the bed that’s been left vacant. Minho has never broken a promise to you before.

He’s gone, and you sink again.

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 08.01.2025]

[neragufetta]

Who, when, why and how did they wrote the diary?

I'm still thinking about the diary appeared in BAe1, since it's the one reveal which comes completely new, all the rest we had already known or at least conjectured. Who wrote it? For what reason? When? How could it be so accurate? Here's my hypothesys.

To be clear, in this post I'll consider "present" the date June 10th 2019, 03:55 PM.

Let's first start with what we know and what we can deduce: it is handwritten, in a mix of Chinese and Latin, which seems to show the intention to hide the diary from any potential reader or hacker; it details to the minute events that only CXS, LG and QL witnessed, and, the way the scene is edited, Lu Guang seems to be recalling the diary, which means it was written before present events.

There are different possible scenarios to explore but, without getting too lost in chatter, I want to start with one theory in particular, leaving the rest for later.

In my opinion, we should ask ourselves the question: ‘Who do we know that is aware the diary exists, knows the events transcribed in it, has a reason for transcribing them, and has the power to write them bofore happening?' I know it sounds trite to say but the most obvious answer is Lu Guang: Lu Guang has experienced the events personally, he intends to change the past but he needs to have perfect and maniacal control over every detail, which could explain the nees to to transcribe all the events in as much detail as possible in order to plan precisely what to leave unaltered, what to change and how.

The problem is that, if Lu Guang is the author of the diary, one has to wonder how he managed to write it down: Lu Guang experienced these events in one or more previous timelines, true, but how could he have transcribed the events with so much minutiae simply from memory? If he knew the events by heart, he would have no reason to transcribe them, and for the time being, I feel I can rule out the possibility that the diary has travelled through time.

As far as we know Lu Guang possesses at most two powers:

 - his original power, which, in his own words, allows him to know the twelve hours after a photo was taken, provided it was taken more than twelve hours earlier

 - the power to immerse himself in photos, obtained from CXS, which we do not know, however, whether or not he retains once immersed.

Writing down the diary with these powers seems impossible to me, so in order to explain how he succeded we have only two option: either Lu Guang lied about the nature of his powers (which is likely, ngl), or, and this is my guess, having both powers had an expected effect: the condition that the photo must be older than 12 hours in order to be used ceased to exist, allowing Lu Guang to take a photo and then use it to find out the next 12 hours in advance!

I know this sounds far-fetched but let me explain: from Lu Guang's point of view, coming from September 13th 2021, all photos prior to this date were taken well over 12 hours earlier, so even a photo just taken in 2019 for him is past and usable, nullifying the 12-hour restriction.

This way, by taking a photo he could know the future 12 hours in advance, transcribe them and then assess what to leave untouched and what to change.

I may have also spotted a possible faint piece of evidence to support my thesis, but since it is related to the kidnapping of CXS by Vivian's clique, and there are still a lot of unresolved details about that event, I won't go further.

Now, I know that this is just one possible explanation to part of the evidences, but it is also the one I wanted to focus on and share with you, without boring you too much. However, if you are very, very curious, the following section expand the other possible explanation I could come up.

-----------------------

THE BORING ANALYSIS

Let me repeat and expand some of the info I briefly shared before:

The events are written in Chinese, whereas the rest is in latin

This could be because the authors of Link Click didn't want to disclose the full content of the diary and decided to throw in a bunch of anonymous ipse lorum sentences, which mean we can ignore the latin content. However, if it was actually written in latin, it would mean that whoever wrote it put good effort into hide its content to the casual viewer, only to leave the most important details (like events and corresponding times) in clearsite. Not a wise choice, imo, but characters in fiction aren't always wise, tbh, so both option are in place.

2. It's handwritten

Whoever handwrote it spent their good amount of time doing it, considering that writing it on a computer would have taken him far less time. It makes me wonder what advantage manual writing might have had over digital writing and the only answer I can come up with is that a computer could be hacked and the author did not want to take the risk. That's shows proper dedication.

3. It contains details from an event known only by the trio

Whoever wrote it was either present when the events took place or had access to the memories of those who were present or had an insight into the future.

4. It is briefly displayed while LG thinks that everything is going the same way

The speach - video association seems to imply that Lu Guang had had previous access to the diary, he read it and possibly wrote it.

5. It contains a number of detailed events that had yet to happen

I can think of only two explanations: either the diary was written in the future and then transported in the past, which would require a complete new power, never seen in the show before, or it was written in the past, which suggests that either the author went from the future back to the past or had knowledge of present events before they occurred.

With this in my, let's proceed with the questions one by one:

WHO wrote it?

Someone who became aware of the facts, due to one of the following option: - they were present at the time of the facts - LG, CXS or QL - they foresaw the events thanks to some power - Such powers could be those of Xiang, Lu Guang, Li Tianxi, or someone we don't know yet  - the facts were reported to the author, by someone who experienced and/or foretold them - in this case they could be anyone.

WHEN was the diary written?

Either in the past or in in the future and then sent somehow back to the past

On behalf of WHO?

The author wrote it either for himself or for another recipient

WHY did the author write the diary?

So that someone, the author themself of a different recipient, could keep track or learns the events in advance and: - stick to the events as they happened - could intervene at the appropriate time and change the events - could intervene at the appropriate time and prevent someone else from changing the events, or at least adjust the course, should some change occur

Extra questions with a yes/no answer: if we assume that Lu Guang read the diary, was he an intended recipient? Is the diary safe?

What strikes me the most, again, is that the events are listed by the minute and, let's be honest, if the author had written the list of events based only on memory, they could not have been so accurate, therefore the scenarios I can imagine are the following:

 - the recipient of the diary is the author themself, and they cannot rely on memory only but have knowledge of future events thanks to some power or someone sharing the information

 - the recipient of the diary is the author themself, they have detailed memory of the events but still need to write them down for planning

 - the author and the recipient are different people, the author knows the events to the minute and wrote them down for the recipient's interest.

I hope it makes sense, explaining these past/future concepts is brainwrecking and I'm pretty tired at this point and not all that interested in exploring other possibilities,  such as that Lu Guang is not the author of the diary but stole it or received it from someone else. Feel free to explore the possible outcome yourselves.

Bye!

[rook-laidir]

Random Rook Banter 2: Electric Boogaloo

These are all made up by me!

Part 1

Harding: You seriously expect me to believe that you just so happened to have the exact cards you needed for every hand?

Rook: You’re really not letting this go, huh?

Harding: If I can prove you cheated, you have to give me my gold back.

Rook: How do you plan on doing that?

Harding: Neve’s on it.

Rook: …Shit.

~~~

Rook: Ok, let’s say I did cheat. How much would I owe you?

Harding: Forty gold.

Rook: Forty gold?!

Harding: I talked to some of Neve’s friends. They said to add a fee for the inconvenience of getting cheated.

Rook: You went to the *Threads* about this?

Harding: Neve said if I want to get back at a scammer, I need to go to the experts.

Rook: I’m not a scammer!

~~~

Rook: Ok, Harding, here you go. 40 gold, fair and square.

Harding: My fee’s gone up.

Rook: Seriously?

Harding: Lucanis’s contract negotiator is really good.

~~~

Rook: So the Dalish, are other elves allowed to just join?

Davrin: Don’t tell me you’re thinking about spending your days living in the woods and herding halla.

Rook: Gods, no. I just knew someone who would’ve liked it a lot, I think.

Davrin: Most clans are pretty accepting of city elves who wanted to go back to the old ways. Not sure what the stance is now that our gods are trying to kill everything in sight.

Rook: Right, almost forgot about that.

~~~

Davrin: So why didn’t your friend go to any nearby clans? There are clans in Rivain, right?

Rook: Only a handful. And nowhere near where I grew up. My mother and I were along the coast, so there wasn’t really a forest to wander around in. She always wanted to visit one, though. Learn more about our heritage and all that.

Davrin: Not much of a heritage left nowadays.

Rook: Before or after our gods turned out to be the worst?

Davrin: I’ll let you know when I decide.

~~~

Rook: You know, just once I’d like to come to Dock Town without there being a corpse involved. Or at least a limit. Can we limit it to three corpses maximum next time?

Neve: You said you wanted the full tour.

Rook: I meant more along the lines of fried fish and stray cats and less blood magic and ritual sacrifice.

Neve: (laughs) Next time, I’ll make sure there are as few demons and blood magic as possible. Maybe we could actually enjoy The Cobbled Swan for a change.

Rook: It’s a date, Neve Gallus.

~~~

Neve: Rook, Dock Town’s my problem. You don’t have to keep coming here.

Rook: You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Gallus.

Neve: I meant with the slavery. The odds of you getting recognized are low, but…It can’t be easy coming back here after everything. I can keep you updated if you prefer.

Rook: There are people here exactly like me who are in chains because of their ears or their status or because they can’t use magic. I got out because I got lucky. I can’t leave them behind.

Neve: If we survive this, I’ll have a talk with Ashur. The Shadow Dragons could really use someone like you.

~~~

Emmrich: Rook, I had no idea you were so interested in ancient Nevarran burial rites!

Rook: Beg pardon?

Emmrich: Back at Blackthorne Manor, I noticed you slipping a first edition copy of Nevarran Burials and Customs into your pack. Had I known you had an interest, I would’ve gladly lent you my copy.

Rook: Oh, right, yeah, real interesting read.

Emmrich: In the future, I would recommend against touching any tomes without proper preparation. Most Nevarran books that ancient have various anti-thieving wards.

Rook: Wait, really?

Emmrich: Certainly. Books on burial rites can often make the owner see horrific visions, should the book be acquired by less than legal means.

Rook: Good to know. Hey, not related, but there’s a merchant in the Hall who might have some questions about that.

Emmrich: Oh dear…

[starscreamisreginageorge]

Facing the Past

Ratchet and Wheeljack go down to the sublevels to see what can be salvaged. Whilst down there the reality of Wheeljack's past hits them both.

For the first time in 50 cycles the mines were devoid of life, with energon now freely flowing again it was hardly worth the risk of gathering their sole resource. The equipment used to mine the materials however, that they could find use for. Which partially explained how Ratchet and Wheeljack had found themselves making their way down into the abandoned sublevels. At first the idea had been for a group half made up of ex-miners and  to go down and collect as much equipment as they could carry. That was until it had been pointed out that sending a group of people, of whom half of which would not know what the equipment was for, and the other half would not know whether it could be repurposed at all, might not be the most efficient method. So in the end Optimus had asked Wheeljack, arguably the only person on cybertron who fit into both groups, to head down and catalog everything. He wasn’t entirely sure why Ratchet had volunteered to help him but he wasn’t going to complain. The older mech was fast becoming a good friend to him, and he was keen to see his reaction to his old home. Though home was not really the right word for it. Sure he’d recharged down here, spent time with his friends, ate, all the things you did in your home. But could you ever call a place like that a home?  ‘Well here we are.’ he said as they stepped into a room full of recharge pods. At first Ratchet said nothing as he stood in the doorway. Trying to not let it bother him, Wheeljack made his way over to one of the pods. In the past he could have stepped inside it no problem. But now, well even if he somehow managed to squeeze his body inside he’d probably have to keep his head bent.

‘Wow I’d forgotten how small I used to be.’ he laughed as he glanced back at Ratchet.

‘These are sparkling pods.’ Ratchet’s words at a surface level sounded like a simple statement. But Wheeljack could tell there was more underneath them. You were smaller then, small as a sparkling. He didn’t want to think about it.

‘Come on the equipment lockers are down this way. That’ll be a good place to start.’ 

***

‘Oh and that’s where the mine shaft Jazz nearly died in was, you can tell because of the scorch marks.’ Ratchet wasn’t sure but it seemed like Wheeljack was talking more down here than he’d ever known him to before. Granted they hadn’t known each other that long. Still it wasn’t a comfortable chatter, more the kind you make when you’re trying to distract yourself. His servo’s were also moving seemingly non stop. Not the flapping motion he did when he was talking about his latest project, but a clenching, unclenching motion that seemed to indicate to Ratchet that he wasn’t happy to be back down here. Not that he could blame him. Still as much as he was eager to get out of there himself, seriously Ratchet was no believer in the supernatural but there was something haunted about this place, they should probably take a break.

‘I don’t know about you but I really could do with something to eat right about now.’

‘What? Oh yeah sure, go ahead.’ Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but he could have sworn Wheeljack had grown even more uncomfortable.

‘You should eat something too.’

‘Yeah alright. In a bit.’

‘Did you not bring your own supply? If you didn’t I can share mine but you really should…’

‘I’ve got my own supply.’ Wheeljack cut in. Ratchet blinked in surprise. He’d never heard Wheeljack snap at someone like that before. He’d been snarky at times, and he’d heard him grumble a little. But he’d never known him to snap like that.

‘Sorry.’ Wheeljack sighed. ‘It’s just. I don’t really like eating in front of others.’ Now Ratchet was curious.

‘How come?’ No response. ‘Has it got anything to do with your mask?’

‘It’s not a mask. I mean it is a mask, but it’s also my face… I’m not really sure how I can explain it.’

‘Well why don’t you show me.’ When Wheeljack didn’t move or speak, Ratchet added. ‘I’m a medic Wheeljack, whatever it is. I've probably already seen it, or I’ve seen worse.’ That seemed to convince the younger mech who reached up and grabbed the mask. This surprised Ratchet, he’d expected it to retract into his head like any other mask. Instead Wheeljack pulled it off along with what looked like most of his mandible. In fact, seeing him without it, Ratchet realised that the mask was the entire lower half of his face.

‘So doc, seen anything like this before?’ It was odd hearing him talk when he  had no mouth, his face ended part way down his nose ridge. Ratchet wasn’t even sure how it was possible. Whatever had done this to him must have hit him at a very specific angle so as to spare his vocalizer.

‘I can’t say I have. But how exactly does something like this happen?’

‘I was one of the first miners.’ Wheeljack began. ‘Back then no one really knew how the mines worked, so there were a lot of casualties. Not many of us survived, so I guess I’m lucky in a way.’

‘What happened?’

‘A drill exploded in my face. It wasn’t a big explosion. But the top half hit me with enough force that it tore my face off.’

‘And you never got it fixed.’

‘Couldn’t afford it. Since I could still work and there was no “further risk to life” any attempts to repair the damage would be considered cosmetic.’ For a moment Ratchet said nothing. He was angry, not at the younger mech, but at… Well at Sentinel mostly. How many miners had died under his care from mining injuries, when they should never have been down here in the first place. He still remembered that one femme that had been brought in, her spark by some twisted miracle had still been going. But her helm had been so badly crushed there was no way her processor could have survived. He had sat with her until she died, though he doubted she was able to think or feel anything the whole time. She should never have been down here, she never should have died. Not like that. What had been her name? J something. She hadn’t even had a real name.

‘Well we’d better eat something. Sooner we do that the sooner we can leave.’ he said breaking the silence. For a moment he thought Wheeljack would argue. But instead he simply nodded and took a seat on an upturned mine cart. Ratchet sat down next to him and watched as he pulled out a bag of liquid energon, with a long tube attached.

‘Uh do you want to eat before I do this?’ Wheeljack offered. ‘It’s just I know a lot of people get put off their own meals when I eat.’

‘Medic remember.’ Ratchet wasn’t sure how someone could give off the impression of a grin, especially when they had almost no face, but Wheeljack somehow managed it.

‘If you’re sure.’ Ratchet watched, now curious, as Wheeljack took the tube and tilting his head back began to feed it down his throat.

‘You know one of the good things about this is I can talk and eat at the same time.’ Wheeljack said.

‘So I can see.’ Ratchet said getting his own energon out.

‘Not that I often have anyone to talk to when I eat.’ Ratchet nodded and began to eat. It didn’t take him long to finish and when he did he noticed Wheeljack’s bag was only half empty.

‘Sorry it can take a while.’ Wheeljack said when he saw him looking.

‘It’s fine.’ Ratchet reassured him. ‘I guess you got a lot of scrap for,’ for what? The way he looked, the way he ate?

‘Everything?’ Ratchet nodded

‘Yeah.’ Wheeljack agreed. ‘I mean my friends were fine with it, newbies could be a bit funny about it. Guess I was an unpleasant reminder of how risky the job could be. But they got over it eventually, for the most part. It was Darkwing that gave me the most scrap for it. Kind of ironic for a guy who didn’t even have a face.’ Ratchet made a sound that could have been a snort or a scoff at that.

‘Of course he did.’ 

***

They were about to make their way up the stairs when Wheeljack stopped and looked back.

‘What is it?’ Ratchet asked.

‘Nothing I’m just… Is it weird to say goodbye to a place you hated?’ He watched the older mech’s face carefully, but found he couldn’t read it.

‘I have a feeling it’s more than just this place you’re saying goodbye to.’ Wheeljack wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but in a way he understood. Taking one last look around he silently said farewell to the place, before continuing up the stairs. 

‘You know I could probably fix your face if you’d like?’ Ratchet said, nearly causing Wheeljack to stop walking in surprise. He thought about it for a moment. Then shook his head.

‘I’ve been like this for most of my life. I know it sounds weird but, this is me. It’s not always the easiest thing to live with. But I can’t see myself being any other way.’ He expected Ratchet to argue.

‘Alright if you feel that way. But my offer will remain open if you ever change your mind.’

[binggiu]

I BELIEVE YOU'RE MY SAVIOR

“I believed you would be there when all the blue sky turned to ash before my eyes, I thought you would still hold my hands as my mother's ashes turned into a statue. How foolish to think my love would be my savior.”

The desperation to have complete knowledge in a situation was the most bothersome for Caitlyn. Known as someone who is pragmatic and dedicated to solving existing problems and puzzles, having something unresolved in her life was like going against all the principles taught to her since she learned to read and write.

The first puzzle that left a small movement unfinished in her mind was the imprisonment of Violet, or Vi, as she was said to be called.

The woman at first glance was like one of those who should keep their distance, just as her mother insisted on saying and quoting the words of the recital that her family always followed to the letter. At least that was what they pretended outside the Kiramman family walls. Caitlyn knew about the game of silence and good posture that her family maintained, but curiosity was thrown in her direction when a woman appeared in her life.

Vi wasn't his type, not at the moment when everything was so right in his mind, but spending time with her and hearing the words that came out of her mouth and her grotesque actions, began to stir his heart considerably. And even though she knew the difference between their nations and their lives, the belief that they could still be together was constant in her mind.

Living in Vi's shadow was not a healthy option, much less one to be considered, but she followed the woman, still with the false emotion that Piltover and Zaun could still have a friendly relationship, even with all the chaos caused by Silco and Jinx. The belief that the joining of nations for an end was so false, that even with all the red flags and warnings ringing in her mind were ignored regardless of how they were commented.

The false belief placed in someone was like a double-edged sword, it could be useful at a certain moment, but regardless of the moment you removed the knife from your hand, your skin would be cut or pierced by holding the other part of the blade.

Caitlyn knew that family came first, she was like that, always thinking about her parents, especially her mother. She was the first on her mind when it came to family, the teaching, the company, the affection and love, everything encompassed her mother. From the teachings at home to those who dedicated their lives as sheriff. All were, without exception, the construction of the person she was today.

If it were commented on family.

For a brief moment, Caitlyn considered Vi her family, the one she had fallen in love with, no matter what troubles were going on in their lives or whatever problems they might face. Her heart and mind were intertwined in the same feeling: Vi was part of her family.

Until the moment when the realization that she was nothing compared to Vi's old family dawned.

Not that she judged, on the contrary, if she were asked to choose at such a moment between Vi and her mother, almost certain that her answer would be her mother, and that was not a lack of love for Vi, but that she still had priority over the choice of her mother, the one who gave her love throughout her life, she had.

When she looked at Vi and asked what she would choose in the meantime, she believed they would be the same choices, but they weren't. Caitlyn followed a dark line, which had a shadow in her space, so realizing the gaps between her relationship with the possible love of her life, was not easy.

Caitlyn considered the love of her life as her love, but in truth, she was not even her love, but her salvation.

As soon as her mother died at the hands of her love's sister, Vi still tried to keep her side in her favor, but the truth was that Vi never considered her something real, not before her family. The biggest problem was not her mother's death but the choice without a moment's thought, to save Jinx, the one who not only killed her mother, but countless other people in her nation.

Caitlyn loved Vi, but she still loved her family, or rather, the ashes that remained of her.

Caitlyn believed that the blue sky would remain until the end of her life, but when the gray of the dirt hidden by the pipes took over the freshness of Piltover's life, squeezing her hand in an empty space without support was the turning point for her to understand that in the end, she would never have peace.

Looking at the statue of her mother, which was formed with her ashes, made her understand after so many days alone that Vi would never be her savior, not while Jinx was still alive.

[samueldays]

You mean me, @feotakahari? I'm not part of Rationalist Tumblr.

I will accept "-adjacent" because at least one of my mutuals is a rationalist.

Fourth point to the above about data collection: data can be interpreted both ways even in a single source, like Ella Cockbain's demographic count of offenders found in British police operations against grooming gangs, from Offender and Victim Networks in Human Trafficking. High evidence threshold, but low N=55.

I saw the same study used by different people to argue for two contrary theses, briefly summarized as:

This is a native problem, because over 3/4ths of them had British citizenship

This is an immigrant problem, because over 3/4ths of them had Pakistani ethnicity

Personally, I find the second point more weighty, because the second disproportion is larger (only about 2% of people in Britain have Pakistani ethnicity), and the first point is a legal fiction. But I can see why some other people might put more weight on citizenship than on ethnic background.

I think it is hard to move people with data here. This is veering into being a values question of which personal attributes one prefers to emphasise.

feotakahari wrote:

“We’re not punishing sex offenders as hard as the government says we are” is not a question, it’s a statement that requires evidence.

Drop the word 'we' here. My stance is more like "Britain's government* has admitted not punishing Pakistani sex offenders as hard as it should", asterisk because the government is far from unified, evidence comes from other parts of the government, sometimes there's for example an Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Exploitation in Rotherham commissioned by the Rotherham Council, and it says things like:

By far the majority of perpetrators were described as 'Asian' by victims, yet throughout the entire period, councillors did not engage directly with the Pakistani-heritage community to discuss how best they could jointly address the issue. Some councillors seemed to think it was a one-off problem, which they hoped would go away. Several staff described their nervousness about identifying the ethnic origins of perpetrators for fear of being thought racist; others remembered clear direction from their managers not to do so.

and

In two of the cases we read, fathers tracked down their daughters and tried to remove them from houses where they were being abused, only to be arrested themselves when police were called to the scene. In a small number of cases (which have already received media attention) the victims were arrested for offences such as breach of the peace or being drunk and disorderly, with no action taken against the perpetrators of rape and sexual assault against children.

and

Child A (2000)6 was 12 when the risk of sexual exploitation became known. She was associating with a group of older Asian men and possibly taking drugs. She disclosed having had intercourse with 5 adults. Two of the adults received police cautions after admitting to the Police that they had intercourse with Child A.

Police cautions.

This sort of thing keeps happening. Failure, directives to not notice, non-response and mis-response, noted well after the fact.

Then a repeating pattern of the government going 'well we convicted some people and wrote about it, done now, shut up' despite the convictions being far fewer than the victims report and inquiry estimated the number of offenders at, and then another "Asian" meaning mostly-Pakistani grooming gang gets exposed, and another, and another, and ten more, and it's evidently not done. Telford:

It would in my judgment be wholly wrong, and undoubtedly racist, to equate membership of a particular racial group with propensity to commit CSE; That said, on the papers disclosed by key stakeholders, it is an undeniable fact that a high proportion of those cases involved perpetrators that were described by victims/survivors and others as being “Asian” or, often, “Pakistani”. The Inquiry has itself also heard such accounts from victims/survivors. In considering the evidence, and in particular the disclosed material, I have been cautious not to infer too much from names, which may indicate wider geographical background and indeed religious heritage, but are wholly unreliable indicators of national background and (in particular) religious belief. Even bearing that in mind, however, the evidence plainly shows that the majority of CSE suspects in Telford during my Terms of Reference were men of southern Asian heritage, including all the men convicted in Chalice, and Operations Delta and Epsilon.

More on Operation Chalice.

Ahdel Ali was found guilty of one charge of rape, 11 charges of sexual activity with a child, three charges of controlling child prostitution, one of inciting child prostitution, a charge of inciting a child to engage in sexual activity and meeting a child after grooming.

He got a nominal eighteen years for that, the longest sentence of the group, and was released after serving eight years. Even when the government manages to secure a conviction, it seems half-assed.

Again, I think the data question bleeds into a values question about process and severity, and a wider epistemics question: when does one infer that a set of convictions is "got most of them" vs "tip of the iceberg"? A similar question applies to complaints against the police, as with the Independent Office for Police Conduct doing an investigation into failures at Rotherham.

An eight-year investigation and report by the Independent Office for Police Conduct (IOPC) identified examples of officers turning a blind eye or ignoring the plight of girls as young as 11. In one case, they failed to investigate an older man who was found undressed in a bedroom with one of his victims. In another, they did not act when a perpetrator handed over a missing girl as part of a deal not to arrest him. One victim’s father was told by a senior officer that nothing could be done to help his daughter because of “racial tensions” surrounding the investigation. In another case, a victim reported that a police officer had bought illegal steroids from her abuser. When victims tried to report cases to the police, they were often ignored or in some cases even blamed for being abused. After the scandal was exposed in 2014, the police watchdog carried out 91 investigations covering 265 separate allegations against the police, made by 44 victims of abuse and exploitation. Out of the 47 police officers investigated by the watchdog, eight were found to have a case to answer for misconduct and six for gross misconduct.

Is this a bad sign of the system having such failures, a good sign of the system noting its failures, or a false good sign of the system noting its failures without moving from "noting" to "fixing"?

But the final report, published on Wednesday, confirmed that not a single officer had lost their job or been prosecuted as a result of the scandal.

Again, [a part of] Britain's government says [another part of] it is not doing the job of punishing sex offenders properly.

My enemies are soft on child molesters.

My enemies are soft on child molesters for race reasons, according to government reports. The next question is whether this is softer on child molesters than "normal" - the British government's apologists still have the option to say that Britain is just a pedo state in general, don't let your kids out of sight.

[ @feotakahari ]

Okay, I found the point where I was confused. I didn’t realize coming down hard on sexual predators was supposed to be a change. I mean, isn’t that what courts do already?

As Americans, we keep getting reports that the UK are giving short sentences to violent criminals, letting them out early, or prosecuting "hate speech."

The problem with reduced trust is that the distance information can travel on the graph collapses. Someone will say, for instance, that "the critics are racist" because "there isn't enough data." Well, of course, the government can decide whether to create that data, can't they? And if they're still concealing the scale of the problem, they might use the bureaucratic tactic of just deliberately not creating the data, and then claiming it doesn't exist.

A defender might point to one example of an offender getting a long sentence, and that would help (it's a far sight better than just shouting "racist!"), but if someone on the outside thinks the defender would omit information about other offenders not being prosecuted or getting shorter sentences, then the defender can only establish that >0 offenders were properly prosecuted, and not that the problem has been "solved" and is no longer relevant to other politics.

Someone can demand infinite evidence as a political tactic, but this goes in both directions - someone can also say "he's just demanding infinite evidence!" (when the demands are not actually infinite) as a means not to do the work of being trustworthy.

This is a good reason not to exile people from the coalition for not being highly conformist. People who are a bit more disagreeable and independent-minded, who have a history of sound or at least reasonable criticisms of coalition leaders, can establish a path of trust to reach people who could not otherwise be reached.

Politics is about coalitions, margins, and thresholds.

If there were only one right-winger in the UK and he had 50% of the vote, then he could just refuse to cooperate. However, opposing political coalitions are composed of a large number of varying people, and not only are their personalities and life experiences not identical, but their beliefs are not perfectly inflexible.

People are human beings, not merely political units. There should be a focus on cooperating to create good policy, not merely building temporary engines of power, and where it is too difficult to cooperate, it may be necessary to first step back and see how it might be made easier.

[transmaverique]

amab and afab, if they were used as shorthand for the actual full phrases that they signify, with emphasis on the "assigned" part, and an understanding that they are enforcements of normative (ie, dyadic and cisgender and binary) sex, would be like. really useful. but people took the terms and started using them as shorthand FOR normative sex instead of the ENFORCEMENT OF normative sex. so when other trans people (almost always dyadic trans people) ask for your agab they are almost always asking for your Original Genital Situation. your starting point, so to say. and the reason FOR asking is also almost always bc they are trying to also enforce a certain kind of normativity within queer spaces (which is stupid bc being queer is inherently non-normative but here we are). like, you cant be a lesbian if you're ftm, bc you ARE m, so if you ARE a lesbian, then that means you're lying about some aspect of your identity. does that make sense?

it is always always always incredibly.... i do not trust dyadic trans people that use cagab terms, even moreso than i do not trust dyadic trans people that just use agab terms. agab is also coopted intersex language, but the "coercive" part of cagab SPECIFICALLY refers to medical "intervention" of intersex characteristics, such as "corrective" surgeries and hrt. i am deeply fucking suspicious of any dyadic trans person that uses those terms exactly the same as described above, even moreso if they do so bc "all gender is coercive".

like. yeah. that's true. but you use these terms to erase and overtake intersex discussions on the medical abuse of intersex infants. and i cant help but wonder why you would feel the need to do that.

[blujayonthewing]

I wish I had any way of knowing whether people have gotten Weirder™ about my name in recent years or if this has been happening behind the scenes the entire time

I've been going by Jay since I was 11. At the time nobody objected to or questioned this, at least not to me; I found out many years later that Jay is supposedly a "boy's name," but nobody ever said 'you can't use that as a nickname, it's a boy's name' and it went completely uncontested by anyone when I switched. Lots of kids announced some manner of name change at the start of a new school year in middle school; it was all normal and fine. My mom and, you know, grandmas and other relatives kept calling me Jessica, which was also fine! I didn't make a big family announcement or correct any relatives on this, I just wanted to differentiate myself from the half dozen other Jessicas in school.

For twenty years!! This has gone on being perfectly normal! My Real Name™ is an increasingly obscure bit of trivia I get to spring on friends who didn't realize I had one, which is always funny (my brother in law didn't believe me and demanded to see my driver's license). My mom and grandmas have largely still called me Jess, and that's also fine! It's nice, even! There's a particular intimacy there of having a name only my mother uses-- but, crucially, I have never asked her not to, or said that I don't like it. And as FAR AS I KNOW, this has all been true and fine for TWENTY YEARS.

My own feelings about it have never changed, and feel, to me, very straightforward: if I tell you that my name is Jay, and you decide that no it isn't, that is a problem. That's the rule. That's literally it. I had a high school teacher who asked on the syllabus for us to write down if we went by something other than our full name, who was nonetheless UNIQUE among all of my teachers from 6th grade onward in always and only ever calling me Jess, even though I signed all my work Jay, all the other teachers called me Jay, he literally asked whether anyone wanted to be called something else and I answered Jay, and I had him for two semesters. I met a work friend of Justin's once who asked upon introduction whether Jay was short for something, and when I told him it was short for Jessica he took it upon himself to call me Jess instead. This isn't me having a problem with any particular iteration of my name, this is just asshole behavior! I told you what my name was and you said 'no it isn't'. The problem here does not seem complex to me?

But within the last [hand wiggle] handful of years I feel like it keeps getting weirder? Apparently my dad and grandma argued about it at my wedding rehearsal-- she, dramatically, insisting 'I don't care, her name is Jessica, I'm going to call her that ;n;' and my dad angrily defensive that no it isn't, I go by Jay, that should be respected. And I'm sitting here listening to my dad relay this in utter bewilderment like. Well dad I love the energy but I have never been bothered at all if grandma calls me Jessica. I have never even once asked her not to or complained to anyone that she does. But also this is the grandma who HAS called me Jay more often than not?? My mom's mom never picked it up, but I was astonished to hear my dad's mom was acting like this was some New Dramatic Change that she Hated and not a thing she's literally already been doing for, again, twenty entire years. Why are you suddenly making it weird! Last weekend Justin's stepmom mentioned seeing my mom at the hospital where mom works, and how she said something like 'yes I'm Jessica's mom-- wait, no, Jay, she hates it when I do that' and I just?? I literally don't, the only problem now is that people who know me won't know who the fuck you're talking about

all of this and I'm just. I am literally just sitting here. why are we inventing problems out of this two decades later. what is going on

[kimetsu-chan]

I went on a walk with my dad

[adxmanial]

—

[iwakuraz]

it's not going too well

[prettydumbmutt]

.post hookup yapping in tags.

[medicinemane]

You know, looking at a diet soda can it occurs to me that it might not be so wretched to me if the cans weren't so unpleasant

Like we know that things like color play a role in how our brain perceives things, and I realized looking at the can that they're always this bland but at the same time nasty looking silver and it just... it looks foul and I think that compounds with the fact that I also just plain don't like diet soda

My point here isn't to say anyone else shouldn't like diet soda, just how I never realized how much of an impact the can has on me not liking it... there's just something offputting about it to me

[bookcub]

Cozy Fantasy and Why It Doesn't Work

I think I am among many who feel like they should love cozy fantasy and have found it an incredibly lacking genre.

This newly branded "cozy fantasy" genre that has taken readers by storm since 2020 and while it is new that books are now marketed as cozy, the genre itself isn't new. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones is a great example of the genre before it was labeled and also how to make it work.

Cozy fantasy is defined by many as fantasy with low stakes. Fantasy aesthetic but less sword fights. On paper, it sounds great. But the execution has been less than stellar for readers like me. The lack of physical stakes has also impacted the emotional stakes of these books, creating forgettable characters with boring problems. As a romance reader, I find this frustrating. Romance is known for being a predictable and formulaic genre, the now defunct Romance Writers of America defined romances as needing happy endings, a term romances have continued to follow. Yet these romance texts manage to have low physical stakes (how to date your neighbor, how to confront your toxic friends, etc) while still maintaining high personal stakes that keep readers invested and begging for more. So I was initially confused why cozy fantasy authors struggle to write texts that connect to readers like me.

I think I have found the answer which is the genre is just here for vibes. It is all about aesthetic, not even worldbuilding that fantasy is known for as most cozy fantasy I read have so many problems as soon as you ask one question. It is hard to acknowledge that a genre that is pitched to work for readers like me doesn't work for many of us. Especially because occasionally there is one that works beautifully to my taste.

I often say my favorite cozy fantasies that are more contemporary are short and visual, which I plays into the idea of the genre being an aesthetic. The Bakery Dragon by Devin Elle Kurtz is a good example because it is a simple story that is given the perfect amount of pages and gorgeous visuals without dragging on when the message is very clear and easy to understand. Books like The Phoenix Keeper and Legends and Lattes have absolutely nothing for me, their very clear message hitting the reader over and over so the readers don't miss it and focusing on the aesthetic of worldbuilding rather than the reality of the fantastic elements within the world.

I guess my point is. . . I realize this genre isn't for me since I have realized it is more of an aesthetic than anything. .. .but I want it to be. Should I let it go and put my efforts elsewhere? Or should I keep exploring this new trend and find the hidden gems?