#insidious truths about me

[lntrusiveknock]

when what hides behind this angel face (Jk) is the most demonic soul

[iwieldthesword]

I need to talk about this because it's making me feel insane.

Last week, my white leftist goyisch friends sat me, a wholeass antizionist Jew, down for a "talk" because they "needed to check in about Palestine" and make sure "our values aligned before we hung out again". They apparently needed to "suss out" where I stood on Palestinian rights, despite having had several conversations about Palestine and them being some of my closest friends. They needed to check, to search for and uncover my true values, because I had said some "disturbing things" that had made them "suspicious".

Disturbing things included:

Supporting IfNotNow which is a "liberal zionist organization" because it normalizes Jewish heritage in the Levant

Not bringing Palestine up enough, despite them also not bringing it up (this was apparently a test)

Mentioning that the Houthi's flag talks about cursing all Jews

Saying Stalin was antisemitic because of the "all the paw-grihms"

...and apparently other things they wouldn't specify, but had been tracking for months.

To clarify, I am an antizionist Jew from three generations of antizionist Jews. I have been vocal in my support of Palestinian liberation and in my condemnation both of Israel's actions and its violent founding as a state, and of zionism in many of its forms. I am a regular donor to Palestinian and Jewish NGOs and advocate for Jewish antizionism in person, at temple, and online. I have been talking about Palestinian liberation before they could point to Gaza on a map. But they needed to make sure, they needed to "suss out", they needed to check. And it's notable that the majority of moments that made them suspicious of me were times where I talked about antisemitism: not about Palestinian liberation, not about Israeli decolonization, not about anything actually relevant to Palestine. It was talking about antisemitism that made them check to see if I was a cryptozionist.

One of the most pervasive and insidious forms of antisemitism is the idea that Jews are inherently untrustworthy and suspicious. You have to constantly be on guard, track what they say and do, "suss out" the real truth. You have to keep them in line and and watch them carefully because they're liars and sneaks, and if you're not looking closely they'll return to their real values (and drag you down with them). This is where the idea of "cryptozionist" comes from and what it's directly building off of: the inherent untrustworthiness of Jews and the need to check. Because no matter how close you become you can't actually trust them, and any upstanding gentile should make sure to avoid associating with Jews before "sussing out" their real allegiances and intentions. You have to make them turn out their pockets, just in case.

I'm the first and only Jew they actually were friends with; I know because they've told me (strangely proud of it in the way white Americans are proud of that kind of thing). They've asked me questions about Judaism and fawned over how beautiful and unique it was for me to be connected to my community and culture. Pre-October 7th, one of them had even mentioned being interested in coming to services at my temple. She still has my copy of our siddur. But now she needed to "check" before she could be seen with me in public. Which is what it was: it wasn't a "you're my friend and I need to give you some feedback because you're fucking up" kind of intervention (which is normal and important to have), it was a trial. It was a last chance for me to prove to them that I'm clean-enough that they could afford to risk being seen with me in public, just in case someone noticed them fraternizing with a hypothetical Enemy and their leftism was compromised. It was a test to make sure that I behave properly when required to, that I'd play along and do what I'm told and turn out my pockets if asked (because any refusal would validate the notion of having something to hide). And above all it was an opportunity for them to reaffirm their own cleanliness by putting my imagined immorality in its place.

I did what I needed to do: I smiled. I apologized. I "didn't know that". I "appreciated the feedback". I turned out my pockets because what else could I do? They'd decided who I was and what I believed, regardless of what I said or did, so there was no point in explaining that they were wrong about me. If I had told them they were being antisemitic, it would just have been proof that they were right. Caring about antisemitism is a dogwhistle in the spaces they've chosen: it's not a real form of oppression, it's a tactic for sneaky, lying Jews to weasel out of admitting their true alliances. There was nothing I could say.

Nothing's really changed for me. I'm going to continue my activism for Palestinian liberation rooted in my culture and my faith. Antizionism is still not antisemitism. But I got a reminder that many white goyisch leftists fundamentally just don't trust Jews, and that the activist spaces they're in not only exacerbate their antisemitism in an increasingly insular echo chamber, but also allow them to finally vent their internalized bigotry in a socially-acceptable way. In my former friends' eyes, what they did was activism—disavowing a Jew (and making me feel humiliated, scared, and unclean in the process) as a cathartic stand-in for doing fucking anything for actual Palestinian liberation—but for me it was a grief that I'll be feeling for a long time: not only over losing friends I loved and trusted, but also over my sense of belonging and security in leftist spaces.

[tittyinfinity]

it's rude as fuck to hop on a stranger's post to "correct them" about their own personal life experiences, but many people on this website seem to see this as totally normal behavior

[supernova2205]

The Silence Of The Mole

Poly 141 x Medic Reader

Summary: A field medic and lover to the 141 is caught in a web of suspicion and betrayal after a mission goes wrong. Accused of being a mole, the reader faces harsh interrogations from the squad, leading to deep emotional scars. As the truth comes out, trust is shattered, and the reader must decide whether they can ever forgive the team, especially those they were closest to.

Warning: ⚠️ Ghost being extra mean ⚠️

The mission had gone to hell in seconds. You crouched behind cover in the wreckage of what was once a safehouse, blood staining your gloves as you worked frantically to save an injured operative. Shouts and gunfire echoed around you, the air thick with the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

The intel had been airtight, or so everyone believed. You’d moved in with precision, confidence, and a plan. But the ambush hit hard and fast, your every move countered like they were reading from the same playbook.

You didn’t have time to think about how it had gone wrong. You were too busy pulling Soap out of the line of fire, throwing yourself between Gaz and the sniper that had him pinned, dragging Ghost back when shrapnel ripped through his shoulder. The fight was chaos, but somehow, you all made it out alive—just barely.

When you finally made it back to base, everything was eerily silent. No one spoke as you filed into the debriefing room, the weight of the failed mission pressing down on all of you. Price stood at the head of the table, his face like stone, and you could feel the tension in the room simmering beneath the surface.

“This wasn’t bad luck,” Price said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Someone sold us out.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You looked around the room, seeing the same shock and disbelief mirrored in everyone’s faces. A mole. Someone had betrayed the team.

The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until Ghost spoke. “We need to find out who.”

It wasn’t long before the rumors started.

It began as whispers, quiet and insidious.

“She always knows where everyone is.”

“I heard she was asking a lot of questions before the mission.”

“She’s close with all of them—maybe too close.”

At first, you ignored it. You told yourself it was just paranoia, that people were looking for someone to blame. But then the stares started. The sidelong glances in the hallways, the conversations that stopped when you walked into the room.

You tried to push it aside, focusing on your work in the med bay. But the tension followed you everywhere, growing louder and more hostile with every passing day.

The breaking point came when Price called you into the debriefing room.

The room felt colder than usual, the air thick with tension. Price sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Ghost was next to him, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture radiating controlled fury. Soap and Gaz sat farther back, their expressions uneasy.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” you asked, your voice steady despite the sinking feeling in your stomach.

“Take a seat,” Price said.

You hesitated, glancing at the others, but eventually sat down. The silence stretched on, oppressive and uncomfortable, until Price finally spoke.

“There’s been a development,” he said. “Rumors are going around that you’re the mole.”

You froze, the words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “What?”

“It’s not just rumors,” Ghost said, his voice low and biting. “We have to investigate.”

Your stomach twisted. “You think I did this?”

“No one’s saying that—” Soap started, but Ghost cut him off.

“We’re saying we can’t rule you out,” he said.

Your breath caught in your throat. “I’ve been with this team for years. I’ve saved your lives more times than I can count. How can you even think—”

“Enough,” Price interrupted, his tone sharp. “We’re not accusing you. But we need answers.”

Your chest tightened, anger and disbelief warring with the hurt that clawed at your throat. “So, what? You’re interrogating me now?”

No one answered, but the tension in the room was answer enough.

The interrogation started that night.

Price, Ghost, Soap, and Gaz all took turns questioning you, their voices sharp and relentless as they picked apart every detail of your actions before and during the mission.

“Where were you two hours before deployment?” Price asked, his voice calm but cold.

“In the med bay, prepping supplies,” you answered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table.

“Alone?” Ghost pressed, his tone unreadable, though the accusation was clear.

You nodded. “Yes. I always prep alone; you know that.”

“That’s convenient,” Ghost said, his eyes narrowing.

Your jaw tightened. “What are you implying?”

“Just stating the facts,” he replied, his voice clipped.

Soap shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze. Gaz leaned forward, his brow furrowed in conflict, but he didn’t speak up. It felt like they were watching you drown, unsure whether to save you or let you sink.

The questioning dragged on for hours, each question more pointed than the last. They dissected your every move, twisting your words until even you started doubting yourself.

“Did you access the mission brief before it was officially released?” Price asked.

“I didn’t,” you said firmly.

“We’ve got logs showing someone accessed it from a med bay terminal,” Ghost said, his voice hard. “You’re the only one who uses that terminal.”

Your stomach dropped. “I didn’t touch it. I swear.”

“Then who did?” Price asked, his eyes boring into yours.

“I don’t know!” you snapped, your voice cracking under the pressure. “But it wasn’t me.”

Your words hung in the air, but the doubt in their eyes didn’t waver.

The interrogations became a daily occurrence. They pulled you into that cold, sterile room every night, questioning you until your voice was hoarse and your body ached from the tension. The physical toll started to show—dark circles under your eyes, a tremor in your hands that you couldn’t hide.

But the worst part wasn’t the exhaustion or the relentless questions. It was the way they looked at you.

Price, the man who had been your anchor in countless storms, now looked at you like a stranger. Ghost, your silent protector, treated you like an enemy. Even Soap and Gaz, the ones who always comforted you and usually had your back no matter what, kept their distance, their expressions torn between doubt and guilt.

It wasn’t long before the interrogations escalated.

One night, after yet another grueling session, Ghost stood and loomed over you, his towering presence casting a shadow over the room.

“You’re not telling us everything,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” you said, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

“Lies,” he said simply.

Before you could respond, Ghost’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist in an ironclad hold. You gasped as he pulled you to your feet, his grip bruising.

“Ghost,” Soap said sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”

But Ghost didn’t let go. “People died because of that ambush,” he said, his voice cold and venomous. “Our people. You think you’re walking out of here without giving us answers?”

“I didn’t do it!” you shouted, your voice breaking.

Ghost’s grip tightened, and panic surged in your chest. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

“That’s enough,” Price said, his voice sharp as a blade.

Ghost hesitated, then released you, shoving you back into the chair. You stumbled, clutching your wrist as tears blurred your vision.

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to choke on.

The physical strain from the interrogations started to show. Your body ached from being yanked and shoved, your wrists bruised from Ghost’s rough grip. Your hands, once steady and skilled, trembled constantly, making it harder to do your job in the med bay.

It wasn’t just the physical toll. The emotional weight was unbearable. The 141—your lovers, your partners, your family—looked at you like you were a stranger. No matter how much you pleaded, no matter how many times you swore your innocence, they refused to believe you.

Only Gaz and Soap seemed to falter. They still looked at you with doubt, but there were moments when you caught glimpses of something else—guilt, hesitation, maybe even regret. But they didn’t say anything, and their silence hurt almost as much as the accusations.

A week later, the truth finally came out.

You were in the med bay, stitching up a soldier’s wound with trembling hands, when Price walked in. The look on his face was unreadable, but there was something heavy in his eyes.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice softer than it had been in days.

You nodded, though your chest tightened with apprehension.

Price led you to the debriefing room, where Ghost, Soap, and Gaz were already waiting. The tension in the room was palpable, but this time, it felt different.

“We know the truth,” Price said, his voice low.

Your heart stopped.

“It wasn’t you,” he continued. “The intel breach came from someone else. A jealous operative spread the rumors to cover their tracks.”

You stared at him, the words not fully sinking in. “What?”

“They’ve been discharged,” Ghost said, his tone clipped.

You looked between them, your anger and disbelief bubbling to the surface. “So that’s it? You spent a week tearing me apart, treating me like a traitor, and now you expect me to just move on?”

No one answered.

“Do you have any idea what you put me through?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “What you did to me?”

“Lass, we—” Soap started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” you said sharply, tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare try to justify it.”

They tried to apologize, but the damage was done. The betrayal cut too deep, and no amount of words could erase the memories of their accusations—the way they’d looked at you, interrogated you, hurt you. It had shattered something fundamental between you and the people you once trusted with your life.

You stopped sharing quarters with them, opting instead to sleep in the med bay. It wasn’t ideal—your back ached from the stiff cot, and the sterile smell of antiseptic filled your dreams—but at least it gave you space. You couldn’t bear to wake up beside them, to feel their hands on you, knowing what they’d done.

The med bay became your haven. You threw yourself into your work, tending to wounded soldiers and drowning yourself in the steady routine of bandages, stitches, and medications. You thought if you stayed busy enough, you wouldn’t have to think about the past week—or the aching void in your chest where their love used to be.

Soap and Gaz tried the hardest to make amends.

“Lass, let me help you with that,” Soap said one evening, stepping into the med bay as you struggled to move a heavy supply crate.

“I don’t need your help,” you said coldly, refusing to look at him.

“Please,” he said, his voice quiet. “I just… I want to help.”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, letting him carry the crate to the storage room. He lingered after, standing awkwardly by the door as if waiting for you to say something.

“Is there something else you need?” you asked, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice.

Soap flinched but shook his head. “No. Just… sorry.”

You turned away, refusing to let him see the tears welling in your eyes.

Gaz was more subtle, his attempts to bridge the gap quieter but no less earnest. He stayed late in the med bay, helping you clean up or organize supplies without saying a word. He brought you coffee in the mornings, setting it down on your desk before slipping away.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” he said one night as you worked side by side. “And I don’t blame you. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. For all of it.”

You didn’t respond, keeping your focus on the sutures in your hands. But when he left, you found yourself staring at the door long after it closed, wondering if maybe—just maybe—he meant it.

Ghost and Price, on the other hand, kept their distance.

You saw them in passing—Ghost’s hulking figure lingering in the shadows, Price’s steady presence in the command room—but they didn’t approach you. They didn’t try to explain themselves, didn’t offer apologies or excuses. At first, you were relieved. You didn’t think you could handle hearing their voices without breaking all over again.

But as the days stretched on, their silence began to weigh on you. It felt like they were avoiding you, like they’d given up on even trying to make things right. And maybe they had.

One night, as you sat alone in the med bay, the door creaked open. You looked up to see Price standing in the doorway, his hat in his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he said, his voice softer than usual.

“Where else would I be?” you replied, your tone sharper than you intended.

He stepped inside, hesitating for a moment before sitting down across from you. The weight of his presence filled the room, the silence stretching unbearably between you.

“I owe you an apology,” he said finally.

You stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I let my judgment get clouded,” he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. “I should’ve trusted you. I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? What you all put me through?”

Price looked up, and for the first time, you saw the guilt etched into his features. “I can’t take it back,” he said. “But I want to make it right.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “You can’t make it right, Price. Not after this.”

Ghost came to you a few days later.

You were organizing supplies when you felt his presence behind you, a familiar weight that sent a shiver down your spine.

“What do you want, Ghost?” you asked, not turning around.

“I wanted to talk,” he said, his voice unusually hesitant.

You laughed bitterly. “You? Talk? That’s a first.”

There was a pause, and when you finally turned to face him, you saw something you had only seen when he showed you his face: vulnerability.

“I was wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was wrong about you. And I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, the words hanging in the air between you. For a moment, you almost believed him. But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you during the interrogations—the cold, unyielding fury in his eyes—and the anger surged back.

“You think ‘sorry’ is enough?” you asked, your voice shaking. “You didn’t just accuse me, Ghost. You hurt me. Physically, emotionally���you broke me.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“Good,” you said, your eyes blazing with tears. “Because I don’t think I can forgive you either.”

Soap and Gaz were the only ones you started to let back in. It was slow—painfully slow—but their earnest efforts began to chip away at the walls you’d built around yourself.

Soap made you laugh again, his humor cautious but genuine. Gaz stayed by your side during the long, quiet nights in the med bay, his steady presence a comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

Price and Ghost, though—they remained on the outside. No matter how much they apologized, no matter how many times they tried to reach out, you couldn’t bring yourself to let them in. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And yet, despite everything, a part of you still longed for the family you’d lost. Whether that longing would ever outweigh the pain they’d caused, though, was a question you weren’t ready to answer. Not yet.

Authors note: Hey everyone! I hope you enjoyed this week’s fic! It was definitely a rollercoaster for me to write my heart was all over the place! I’d love to hear your thoughts on it, so please let me know what you liked and if there’s anything else you’d like me to explore. Looking forward to your feedback and what you’d like to see next 🫶🏼

[drchucktingle]

more on the hugos (not just 2023)

i am sorry buds but it has to be said: lots of talk about the 2023 hugo awards being fraudulent because of actions of leader dave mccarty. this is true. but if we are going to be REALLY honest there is a difficult truth to accept, ANY past hugos dave ran are likely fraudulent

i do not want to have to say this as it casts a lot of doubt and i honestly do not think there is any action that needs to be taken, we should keep trotting along and give credit to winners, but it should at least be addressed. THIS DOES NOT JUST HAPPEN ONCE, IT GETS NOTICED ONCE

just went back into old emails and dave was IN FACT in charge of both the years i was nominated. will i ever know if there is any legitimacy to those results? was it politically best for me to be nominated but MAKE SURE i dont win? who the heck knows.

of course i am not saying my trot is MORE DESERVING or BETTER than the winners these year (and like i said we should respect these results), but acting as though actions of dave and the committee only effect 2023 seems a little short sighted i am sorry to say. it is much much worse

heres the thing that really bothers me when scoundrels treat outsiders and marginalized buds like this (same feeling i got from texas library banning) CHUCK is suddenly the one who has to wrestle with 'should i speak on this? will i ever be nominated again for ANY award now?' THAT is insidious part

[diamondcitydarlin]

Just fair warning- I said on my personal post about this that I wasn't going to talk about Neil Gaiman anymore, but as it's becoming clear that him and his publishers and anyone else who makes money off of him is circling the wagons and trying to bury these allegations, as well as some fans still defending and trying to 'rationalize' this information, I feel like, actually, we need to keep talking about him (as much as I cannot stand him and feel physically disgusted now when I so much as see his face somewhere). Specifically, the fact that he's a liar, master manipulator and should not, under any circumstances, be given access to his fans like he has in the past. At the very least. (And if you need to blacklist his name or even unfollow me so as to not be triggered, I completely understand, but I will always try to tag these posts accordingly and I think it's crucial right now that the truth be put where people can see)

This post specifically is in response to those 'rationalizations' I've seen, some that have gone as far as to blame the young fans/groupies that hooked up with him for being 'golddiggers' or just making a mountain out of a molehill for something they now regret. It's not that simple, yall. (And, again, this requires some amount of completely ignoring the story about him extorting his tenant for sex under threat of eviction of her and her three young children, I'm not sure how you 'rationalize' that under the best of circumstances)

So let's be clear here. What we know is that NG has routinely, for possibly an upwards of 30 years, pulled sexual 'partners' from his fan groups, most of whom are 18-22 year old young women (though possibly younger, accounts are coming forward of 16 year olds having allegedly been inappropriately touched/flirted/propositioned by him, which ig is the age of consent in the UK but still?? 16 year olds!!). This wasn't one or two times in the course of three decades, this was a constant pattern of behavior for him and for a very insidious reason.

This isn't to try to infantilize those fans or young women/young people in general or try to suggest that they couldn't have consented to sex with an older person or famous person. In fact, the onus isn't on them at all. This is about an older guy with a lot of fame, power and wealth choosing to sleep with people that he had already conditioned to idolize him and using that power imbalance to coerce them into doing things they didn't want to.

Regardless of one's age or gender identity, it can be difficult to impossible to say 'no' to someone like that. After all, you've been 'chosen' by the chosen one, you're special and not like everyone else, and if you don't do what the popular person everyone trusts is telling you to do you could end up ostracized. Alienated. Or worse. And you know what? Gaiman knew that! He knew it when he was crafting his 'approachable dad' persona on tumblr. He knew it when he was cultivating a fandom of personality. He knew it when he was having huge meetups to try to ensnare more victims. I hate to even think it, but I'm starting to believe he knew it when he was writing children's books too.

It's been talked about again and again in separate issues, but needless to say something not being strictly illegal does not make it inherently, morally okay. It does not erase the fact that this man has been essentially grooming his fandom to feel safe meeting/speaking with him so he can coerce those he can snare into sexual acts they're not comfortable with. That is predator behavior, whether strictly 'illegal' in the eyes of a court or not (but ofc I think he should be criminally punished even if I'm not naive enough to think he actually will be, because this IS rape and rape should be criminally punished)

I'm not personally advocating for anyone to give up being in his related fandoms, but what I am personally advocating for is that people don't forget who he is and what he's capable of, especially when he tries to crawl back to where he was (I'm almost certain he will eventually, as I've said).

Again, at the very least, we need to use what little influence we do have to keep him from infiltrating fan spaces again. He should not be on tumblr yukking it up with young people, he should not be at public appearances hitting on teenagers, he should not be given the unrestricted access to fans that he's 'enjoyed' for the past 30+ years because he is not a safe person. While I wish there was more in the way of restorative justice that could be done, I think at very, very least we should do what we can to limit his proximity to people he could hurt in the future. Make sure no one forgets, because sweeping this under the rug means Gaiman gets to hurt more people.

Lastly, no one is the wrong for having been manipulated by him. Let's make that very clear. What we're NOT gonna do is blame ourselves, each other, the victims, etc, for evil acts that Gaiman chose to do himself, time and time and time again. It doesn't help the situation and it certainly doesn't protect future potential victims. We were all duped because we're human and we attach and a lot of us want to believe there are good people out there, particularly those who make art that means so much to us.

And there are. But let's also use this a teaching/learning tool about how much faith we place in famous people in the future, regardless of how 'approachable' and 'safe' they might seem. Let's remember to have a healthy suspicion of creators/famous people that are oddly immersed in fandom spaces- yes, even the ones you still currently like that seem fine, as difficult as that may seem.

At the end of the day, we don't know them or what they're capable of doing or what they might be plotting to do to us. Support victims. Amplify their voices. Don't forget.

[pukefactory]

✦ ─ ˗ˋ SWING THE MICROPHONE ˊ˗ ─ ✦

⬨ Summary: Black Sapphire Cookie x Reader headcanons

⬨ Character(s): Black Sapphire Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

⬨ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

⬨ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

⬨ Image Credits: Devsisters

��� You are his favorite headline. Whispers spread like wildfire in his presence, yet out of all the tangled lies and twisted truths he spins, you are the only story he never shares. No rumors of your whereabouts, no half-truths woven into the airwaves. You belong to his world, and his alone—why should he let anyone else indulge in the intrigue that is you?

★ His words are silk, wrapping around you effortlessly. Compliments laced with amusement, teasing observations layered with double meanings, murmured affections disguised as passing remarks. His voice is a constant presence—dripping into your ears like honey, weaving itself into your thoughts until you start to wonder: is he playing a game with me, or am I the only thing he’s ever been honest about?

★ Black Sapphire Cookie never simply speaks—he performs. Even his affections are theatrical. A slow, deliberate dip of his head as he takes your hand, lips grazing your knuckles with an impish grin. A murmured endearment, spun so poetically that you almost forget it comes from the most notorious liar in Earthbread. But when his microphone floats to your lips, catching even your most absentminded sighs, you realize—he records every sound you make, a song only he should hear.

★ He does not request your attention—he commands it. A casual conversation can turn into an impromptu broadcast, his voice filling the space around you to ensure you hear only him. If your eyes wander, he guides your chin back with a feather-light touch, an amused hum in his throat. “Oh? Distracted already? Now, that won’t do… You should know, dearest, my best work requires full audience engagement.”

★ The world is a stage, and he has cast you as his co-star. Whether you like it or not, he weaves you into the narrative—your name slipping into hushed whispers, your presence an unspoken mystery to those who listen to his broadcasts. He never confirms, never denies. Just laughs, voice curling like smoke through the radio waves. “Now, now… don’t you all love a secret?”

★ To him, rumors are an art form, and he paints the world with them. But when it comes to you? Not a single lie is spoken. No matter how much the world craves a scandal, how they beg for a whisper of who has ensnared Black Sapphire Cookie’s elusive attention—he keeps you locked behind velvet curtains. You are not for public consumption. You are not for them.

★ He thrives on chaos, yet with you, something shifts. He spins lies to watch kingdoms crumble, to see how easily the world unravels at the seams. Yet, when you are beside him, his words change—still playful, still laced with that teasing edge, but softened at the core. A rare honesty, buried beneath layers of performance. “You’re quite the anomaly, aren’t you? I can’t tell if I want to break you or keep you all to myself.”

★ His jealousy is quiet, insidious. He does not lash out, does not sulk—no, that would be boring. Instead, the airwaves twist with veiled jabs, whispers slipping into the ears of those who dare steal your attention. Words become weapons, illusions twist into whispered truths. By the time he’s done, the offender is left questioning whether they ever knew you at all. After all, why would you need anyone else, when he has already rewritten the world in your favor?

★ He constantly tests your trust. A half-truth here, a playful deception there—he delights in watching you unravel them, seeing if you can keep up with the game. And when you do? Oh, the delight in his eyes. “Clever, clever thing,” he coos, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I do believe you might be my favorite audience yet.”

★ The only thing more terrifying than his voice filling the air is the silence when it vanishes. Black Sapphire Cookie is everywhere—his voice threading through radios, his presence lingering like a shadow behind the scenes. But the moment he stops speaking, when the ever-present hum of his influence fades—that is when you know something is truly wrong. Because silence means one thing: the performance has ended. And what happens next is a script only he knows.

[rose24207]

Just a salesman pt.2

Summary: Your perfect world shatters when a furious stranger bursts into your home, accusing your loving, devoted husband of being a monster responsible for countless deaths.

Genre: angst, dark

TW: mention of death, little gaslighting, reader is a little twisted about the situation, the games in general

A/N: Wow I didn’t expect for pt. 1 to blow up like that and for so many requests about a second part. But here we go! I take requests about squid game btw. English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Pt.1

Masterlist

The room fell into an unbearable silence as you stood there, trembling, your tears streaking your face. Gi-hun’s words echoed in your ears like a bell you couldn’t unring. Your husband, your safe harbor, was a killer. A manipulative, calculating man who had built a world of lies around you.

And yet...

As much as your heart screamed in betrayal, it also whispered something darker. A small, insidious part of you—a part you didn’t even recognize—wanted to protect him. Wanted to believe that somehow, some way, this could still make sense.

“Leave,” your husband said, his voice low and commanding. It wasn’t directed at you, but at Gi-hun.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gi-hun spat. “She deserves to know the full truth.”

“I said, leave.” Your husband’s tone grew colder, sharper. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed at his side as though itching to act.

Gi-hun took a step forward, his jaw set. “You think you can scare me? After everything I’ve been through because of you? I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m not—”

“Stop,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Both men turned to look at you, surprised. You wiped your face, straightened your back, and forced yourself to meet Gi-hun’s eyes. “Please. Just… go.”

“What?” he said, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”

“I need to talk to him,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “Alone.”

“You can’t trust him,” Gi-hun argued, gesturing toward your husband. “He’s a monster. He’ll manipulate you, just like he’s done to everyone else.”

You shook your head. “I don’t care what you think. This is my marriage. My life. And right now, you’re not helping.”

Your words were harsh, but your heart felt like it was being ripped apart. Gi-hun looked at you, his face contorted with disbelief, before letting out a bitter laugh.

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “Do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He shot your husband one last glare before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Silence settled over the room once more. Your husband stood there, watching you cautiously, as though waiting for you to lash out or collapse. But you did neither. Instead, you walked to the table, picking up the strange card Gi-hun had left. You turned it over in your hands, the cryptic design doing little to ease your growing unease.

“Is it true?” you asked finally, your voice barely above a whisper. “What he said about the games? About you?”

Your husband hesitated, his jaw tightening. Then, to your surprise, he nodded. “Yes.”

The word hit you like a physical blow, but you didn’t falter. You set the card down and looked at him, your tears drying as a strange calm settled over you. “Why?”

“For you,” he said simply, stepping closer. “For us.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, your voice cold. “Why would you do something so… horrific? Why would you—”

“Because it’s the only world I know,” he interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “And it’s the only way I could give you the life you deserve. Don’t you see? Everything I’ve done has been for you.”

“For me?” you repeated, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and something darker. “You think I wanted this? That I’d ever want you to hurt people—kill people—for me?”

He stepped closer still, his eyes locking onto yours. “You don’t understand,” he said softly. “The world isn’t kind to people like us. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t take control, who don’t make the hard choices. I made those choices so you wouldn’t have to.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. Every instinct told you to run, to call the police, to do anything but stand there and listen to him. And yet… you didn’t move.

“Do you love me?” you asked suddenly, your voice raw.

His expression softened, and for a moment, you saw the man you’d fallen in love with. “More than anything,” he said. “You’re the only good thing in my life.”

Something inside you twisted at his words, at the sincerity in his voice. He was a monster, yes—but he was your monster. The thought made your stomach churn, but it also filled you with a strange, horrifying sense of power. He had done terrible things, but he had done them for you.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if I can ever look at you the same way.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he said quietly. “But I need you to understand that I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To keep you with me.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as you took a shaky breath. “You’re going to tell me everything,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you. “No more lies. No more secrets. If you want me to stay, I need to know exactly who you are.”

A flicker of relief crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by something darker. He nodded. “I’ll tell you everything.”

As he began to speak, unraveling the web of lies and horrors he’d kept hidden, you felt yourself sinking deeper into a world you didn’t understand—a world you weren’t sure you wanted to understand. But one thing was certain: you weren’t ready to let go. Not yet.

Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @blueyesuguru, @annimoony, @jasmineee05, @astrophe0, @riri53, @putrescentpoet

[emmiesoverthemoon]

don't push me away

BIGBANG APRIL WRITING CHALLENGE: DAY 7

Pairing: choi seunghyun / t.o.p x soloist reader

Word Count: 2.5k.

Summary: Seunghyun has a huge crush on you and doesn’t know how to express it due to underlying insecurities, so he ends up hurting your feelings instead

Tags: angst, internal conflict, external conflict, miscommunication, insecurity, hurt comfort, friends to lovers

There was something about the way Seunghyun looked at you. Or at least, you had believed there was.

It was evident in the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long when you laughed, as though he was committing to memory the precise manner in which joy manifested upon your features. In the way his fingers ghosted against yours when he handed you a water bottle between takes of a collaborative music video—a touch so fleeting it could almost be dismissed as accidental, were it not for the fact that it recurred with such consistency that it could no longer be mere coincidence. In the way his voice altered ever so slightly when he spoke your name, imbued with an alluring intimacy that seemed almost subconscious, like an unguarded secret slipping through the cracks of his restraint.

It was all so subtle. So minuscule. Yet you had learned to perceive the nuances that eluded others. You had trained yourself to decipher the spaces between his silences, to hear the echoes of what was unsaid. And so, you told yourself that perhaps, just perhaps, he felt the same amount of endearment about you as you did about him.

To the world, you and Seunghyun were merely friends—close friends, undoubtedly, but friends nonetheless. You exchanged teasing remarks during interviews, stood within a breath’s distance during collaborative performances between yourself and the group, allowed the atmosphere between you to shimmer with a tension that neither of you acknowledged aloud. And yet, the line remained uncrossed. You never breached it, because Seunghyun never did. He remained fixed in the liminal space where something more could take root but never did, and so you followed his lead. You told yourself that this should be enough. That despite his silence, his actions should suffice.

Actions spoke louder than words, right?

Yet, in the quiet hours of the night, doubt seeped into the crevices of your certainty, relentless and insidious. For all his gestures, for all his proximity, he never truly allowed you beyond the carefully constructed façade. There was always an invisible barrier, an impassable threshold just beyond the precipice of something deeper. A silence where a confession might have dwelled.

What you were unaware of was that he was ensnared in his own self-imposed restraint.

Seunghyun believed that you perceived him only as the polished veneer he presented to the world—the effortless wit, the practiced charm, the understated warmth that drew people in—and that was the “him” you wanted. He was convinced that if you were to see beyond it, if you were to glimpse the depths of him that he had spent years concealing, you would come to the inevitable conclusion: that he was not enough. That the light in your eyes when you looked at him would dim with recognition, that the effortless way you fit into his life would unravel, leaving only distance where there was once closeness.

Thus, he chose inaction. He allowed the moments to slip past, permitted his own heart to bear the weight of unspoken truths, convinced that this was the only path he could take. That preserving the illusion was preferable to the risk of watching it fracture.

He never realised that you would never see what he saw. That the flaws he feared were mere phantoms of his own making. That if only he had dared to reach out, to let himself believe, you would have been there, unwavering, waiting, with upmost loyalty and love.

The moment after your most recent show was one of those intoxicating in-betweens, when adrenaline still hummed beneath your skin and exhaustion had not yet dulled the edges of your excitement. You turned to Seunghyun, breathless, a grin stretching wide across your face.

"You were incredible tonight," you said, your voice tinged with unrestrained admiration. "That part in your second verse? The way you delivered it? Absolutely insane. I don't know how you manage to make it look effortless and cool every single time."

Seunghyun chuckled, a deep, reverberating sound that curled around you like warmth, adding to your post-exertion heat. "Coming from you? That means everything to me," he murmured, reaching out in an absentminded gesture to fix a strand of hair that had fallen into your face. His fingers barely brushed your skin, but the gesture was enough to make your heart stutter in its rhythm and for your eyes to widen.

The exchange lasted only moments, but the weight of it lingered. And when he walked away, the remaining members of BigBang wasted no time closing in on you.

"You know he's never going to make the first move, right?" Jiyong said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. His tone was not unkind, but it was firm, laced with something like exasperation.

"He's terrified of losing you," Daesung added, his expression softer. "That's why he hesitates. He thinks if he speaks it aloud, he'll ruin everything."

"And you?" Youngbae’s voice cut through the haze. "Are you going to keep waiting? Or are you finally going to do something about it?"

You swallowed, fingers curling into fists at your sides. "I... I have a feeling he might feel the same way?" you admitted, though uncertainty still gnawed at the edges of your confidence. "But I'm not completely sure. What if it's just so that I'll be on his good side? To keep up the stage chemistry?"

"He absolutely does feel for you, don't overthink that," Daesung said without hesitation. "Trust us. He's a subtle guy, but this is the most obvious he's ever been with anyone."

"Honestly, it's almost exhausting watching you both dance around it, everyone knows something is going on," Jiyong placed his hand on your shoulder, "It's tiring watching you guys practically edge each other. Tell him. Soon."

And with that, you decided to make the first move.

The studio was dimly lit, shadows stretching long against the walls. Seunghyun sat hunched over his notebook, scribbling absently, the furrow between his brows deepening with thought. You hesitated in the doorway, nerves coiling tight in your stomach.

"Hey," you greeted, your voice steadier than you felt.

He glanced up, offering you a tired but genuine smile. "Hey. What are you doing here so late?"

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat. "This isn't easy for me to admit," you began, heart hammering. "I really like you, like, like you, so would you want to go out for dinner sometime? Just us? There's a nice place near here I want to try."

Seunghyun froze, pen stilling against the paper. His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh. "That's funny," he said. "You almost had me there."

You could feel your heart drop to your stomach, "I... I'm serious, Seunghyun. I really do."

The humor drained from his face. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "We can't do this," he said, the words cutting through you like a blade. "You think you want me, but you don't know me. Not really. You love the idea of me, not what I actually am."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. "I don't understand," you whispered, voice shaking.

"You will," he said, voice low and firm, his gaze averted. "One day, you'll realize that I was never what you thought I was. And when that day comes you'll regret ever speaking to me in the first place, so it'll hurt a lot less if you walk away now. Leave."

Tears blurred your vision, but you refused to let them fall until you were out of his sight. You turned on your heel, leaving before he could take it back, before he could say anything else that might shatter what little composure you had left.

And Seunghyun? The moment the door slammed shut behind you, he cursed under his breath, slamming his fists against the desk. "What the hell is wrong with me?" he muttered, hating himself more than he ever had before.

Time passed, and on stage, you remained flawless. But behind the scenes, everything was unraveling.

The performances continued, a seamless illusion of perfection. Under the glare of the stage lights, your voice never wavered, your smile never faltered. The chemistry you shared with Seunghyun—the unspoken synchrony, the effortless push and pull—was still there, almost muscle memory at this point. To the audience, nothing had changed. To them, you were still the same pair, the same magnetic presence that blurred the line between friendship and something more.

But offstage? Everything was different.

The spaces where laughter once existed between you were now filled with silence. Seunghyun was distant, retreating into himself in a way that felt deliberate, like he was trying to make himself untouchable. His words were clipped, his touches absent. He recoiled before you could have an attempt make contact, not that you wanted to anyway. He was not cruel, not outright, but the coldness was worse than cruelty. It was calculated. A punishment. A severing.

And you were exhausted.

You tried to pretend you were okay, that you were left unfazed, that the dull ache in your chest was not growing heavier with each passing day, that it was not breaking you to stand beside him, knowing what you had lost before you could properly have it. But it showed. In the way your spark seemed to have dimmed, in the way your laughter was a little less bright, in the way you withdrew from the others when they tried to reach you.

And the others noticed.

It was Jiyong who came up with the idea to confront him.

The dressing room was empty aside from the other three members of BigBang and Seunghyun, who sat with his head in his hands, his entire posture weighted with something unspoken. But Jiyong had never been one for silence.

“What the hell did you do?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the thick air. There was no humor in it, no playfulness—just barely restrained frustration.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Seunghyun's voice was sharp, dismissive.

But Jiyong was sharper, "Don't start with me,"

Seunghyun's head remained lowered. “Don’t you start with me.”

Daesung scoffed from the corner, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “No, actually, we will start with you. Because whatever you said to her? It wrecked her.”

Seunghyun clenched his jaw. “She’s fine.”

“She’s not,” Youngbae interjected, his voice quieter but no less firm. “She’s pretending to be, but she’s not. And if you weren’t so determined to keep your head buried in your own self-loathing, you’d see it.”

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

“She would often talk to us about how she wanted to be with you so badly,” Jiyong said, softer this time, the anger giving way to something closer to disappointment. “And you just let her go. No, worse—you pushed her away.”

Seunghyun exhaled harshly, dragging a hand over his face. He wanted to tell them they were wrong, that this was for the best. That you deserved better. But the weight in his chest told him otherwise.

Jiyong sighed, standing up. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not working. And if you don’t fix this, you’re going to regret it. Be a man.”

And with that, they left him alone with his thoughts, his inner turmoil clawing at his chest, creating deep cavities of regret and self exasperation beneath his ribcage.

Hours later, Seunghyun found himself outside your door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. He had no plan, no perfect words to undo the damage he had inflicted. But he knew one thing: he could not let you keep thinking you had been wrong to love him.

He knocked, once, twice, and when the door opened, the sight of you knocked the breath from his lungs. You looked exhausted, emotionally drained, but still—still so achingly beautiful it made his heart twist painfully in his chest.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice was wary, guarded.

“I fucked up,” he admitted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but all I did was hurt you. The truth is, I feel the same love for you as you for me, if not more. But I believed that if I opened up fully, you wouldn’t like the real me, so my walls instinctively went up, and they hurt you in the process. And that’s the last thing I ever really wanted. I'm really sorry.”

You swallowed hard, but your words remained inside. He took a step closer, hesitating before reaching out, his fingers barely brushing your wrist—just enough to feel the warmth of your skin, just enough to let you pull away if you wanted to.

You remained still.

“If you’ll have me,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion, “I promise I’ll treat you right this time.”

You hesitated, eyes searching his face for something—sincerity, regret, hope. Whatever you found there must have been enough, because your breath hitched, and in a voice barely above a whisper, you said, “You hurt me so badly, Seunghyun.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “And I’ll spend forever making it up to you, if you let me.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, you stepped forward, collapsing against his warm chest, where you could feel his heart pacing at a million beats per minute. His arms wrapped around you immediately, holding you with a desperation that felt like he was terrified you might slip through his fingers again. And then, finally, after everything, he tilted his head down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that felt like both an apology and a promise. It was soft, his way of nonverbally pouring each and every ounce of love into you.

And this time, the only way he would let you go is if the heavens themselves came down to tear him out of your warm embrace.

The days that followed were soft, warm in a way that neither of you had allowed yourselves to believe in before.

Seunghyun had always been gentle with you, but now, there was no hesitation, no reluctance in the way he touched you. His fingers found yours easily, threading together as though he had been made to hold you. He would tuck you against his side without thought, his head resting against yours as if your closeness was something he had starved for.

One evening, curled up together in the quiet safety of his home, he traced slow patterns over the back of your hand, watching the way your fingers twitched beneath his touch. “I should have done this sooner,” he murmured, voice low and warm.

You tilted your head up to look at him, the soft glow of the lamps casting shadows across his face. “Done what?”

“This,” he breathed, bringing your knuckles to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss there. “Loved you the way you deserved from the start.”

Your heart stuttered, a slow, blooming warmth unfurling in your chest.

“You have all the time in the world to make it up to me,” you whispered, "The rest of our lives."

And when he smiled— a soft, real, unguarded smile—you knew he already was planning to.

thank u for allowing me to participate in the challenge! it was so fun i would love to do more challenges or similar stuff like this in the future ☆

here are the usernames of the other accounts participating in this challenge! show them some love :D @loveesiren @bluesunss, @berfgrimm @eru-vande @sevendaysummer @gdinthehouseee @infinetlyforgotten @petersasteria @currentloser @makeitworse @wcnderlnds @ldydeath

regular taglist (ask to be added): @floofeh-purpi @breakmeoff @aizshallnotbefound @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @burlesquerade @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii

[icaruspendragon]

was telling my therapist about how i've always used books, fanfic, and storytelling as escapism but now instead of me consuming stories, stories consume me. dalton gave me The Look (the one that means he's gonna say something i need to hear but don't want to) before asking, "you know that snake that eats itself?" to which i said, "yeah, ouroboros." and he replied, "i didn't know he had a name, that's cool. anyway, you're the snake. i know you've convinced yourself the consumption is filling, but it's not. when it's you you’re eating, it's destruction."

like yeah i know that’s not what the snake represents and ex-cowboy-turned-combat-vet-turned-trauma specialist dalton probably does not know the exact symbolism behind it but like. jesus christ man did that to lay me to waste at 10:30 on a wednesday morning.

and even though he hurt my feelings with the truth, it did put it into perspective for me.

it’s not levity’s lighthouse guiding me to port when depression’s darkness and anxiety’s turbulent waves make it difficult for me to sail smoothly on my voyage.

it’s not a way to alleviate my symptoms, it’s a manifestation of them.

it’s a compulsion, deceptively insidious when cloaked in distraction’s pseudo-warmth. when easily covered by procrastination’s much easier to swallow explanation.

and i’m sure you want to say “but reading is a healthy coping mechanism!”

and it is. when done in moderation.

it’s no longer coping when your screen time is 16 hours a day. when 12 of those hours a day are spent scuttling about ao3 on all fours. when you sit in the same spot on the couch for hours on end with your head buried in the sand. when it’s literally all you can think about.

the consumption isn’t coping. isn’t creation. isn’t reconstruction or rebirth or reformation. it’s chaos. it’s compulsion.

it’s cannibalism.

[undiscovered-horizon]

[Old love never rusts. Shanks has to face that truth when he meets again the husband of the girl he almost had.]

Shanks's version | Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

Shanks knows he has no right to ask this question. Not when he's the one that up and left in the middle of the night, without even a word of warning that could soothe your aching heart. Nevertheless, he can't help but indulge his yearning:

"How is she?"

Mihawk raises his eyebrows barely noticeably. He seems surprised that after Shanks's disappearing act and a decade of dead silence, he's still interested in you, even if motivated by pure courtesy. But before Mihawk answers the question, he notices something strange in the red-haired captain's eyes, a sensation he's rarely seen in them before - sadness.

Interesting, how some things never quite change.

"Well," Mihawk answers laconically. Instead of indulging Shanks's lovesick longing, he wishes the man would finally accept his utter failure and move on. You're married to Dracule and this isn't going to change anytime soon. If ever.

"Wells tend to be cold and musty," Shanks jokes but his tone is far from lighthearted. In fact, his voice sounds strained like he's holding back tears. "I hope she fared better with you."

The Red-Hair pirates laugh at their captain's joke but quickly turn quiet again. Something about the tense confrontation makes their good humour virtually nonexistent. Especially when Mihawk gives them a curt, cold glare. He doesn't find his past rivalry with Shank to be funny in any way.

"She has everything she could ask for," he says with a sense of finality to his words. Mihawk feels himself growing irritated.

"Good, good..." Shanks nods, lost in thought for a moment. He clenches his hand, giving away the unpleasant tension inside his chest. The captain has promised himself to let go of you. Alas, here we are. "Is she happy?" he suddenly asks.

Mihawk furrows his thick eyebrows in an angry frown. It's almost insulting for Shanks to have any doubts regarding your well-being under the Warlord's care. "What sort of question is this?"

"A 'yes or no' sort."

"Then yes," he drones his words.

Shanks forces a wide, playful smile. There's agony hiding in his eyes and as though Mihawk is a blind man, he's trying to play it cool and appear unaffected. The truth is, the red-haired man is holding on by a thread.

"I bet she talks about me all the time," Shanks says in faux amusement. His voice almost doesn't shake. "We both know I've always been her favourite."

"And you'd lose." Mihawk begins to feel an insidious satisfaction from the distress of the other man. "In fact, I doubt she thinks about you at all."

"You keep telling yourself that, hawk-eyes."

"This misguided flattery is much unwarranted," Mihawk warns him. "No one bets on losing dogs."

But she would, Shanks thinks to himself. She always did.

Short fingernails leave bruising marks on the inside of Shanks's palm as he's clenching his fist. Once again he's reminded that when it mattered, he was a coward and fled from the overwhelming, crippling love he feels for you. Only know there's no hope, there's no ifs - you belong to another man.

Afternoon sunlight reflects off of Mihawk's gold ring. Shanks glares at it for a moment too long to pass off his intense stare as circumstantial. He can almost hear the mocking laughter of the universe as the consequence of the amalgamation of his bad choices is merely two meters away from him. There is nothing he wouldn't give up to turn back the time and make sure that things go differently, that he never became afraid of being too deep in love.

But time, like the seas, has no master.

_____

I was so torn about this one, I couldn't decide until the very end, so if you want to read a version where the scenario is flipped and Shanks is the 'lucky guy', just hit me up.

[darlingdreadwrites]

Hi!! Can u make a hurt/comfort fluffy but ig also angsty eyeless jack and/or ticcy toby(separate) x gn reader who feels ignored/like people dont care to listen to them? Itd be a nice comfort fic! Its okay if not tyy💗💗

YES IM ALIVE AND THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING!!! i’ve never done something in this format before

pairing: Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader

contains: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

word count: 998

masterlist

a.n: remember to take care of yourself <3

@uhnanix

You want to ignore this feeling – no matter how much you tell yourself you’re overreacting. These were your friends, of course they care about what you have to say. But you can’t help but notice how they brush off your input or ignore it altogether. You were used to it. The way your words seem to dissolve before they reach anyone’s ears. They would nod, hum, pretend to listen, but their minds have already moved on. You can feel the heavy lump in your throat as Jeff talks over you once again, and you decide that you’ve had enough. You would just blink back your tears and stay silent, hoping someone would notice.

But, of course, they didn’t. Not even your boyfriend, it seemed. He is usually this quiet and withdrawn – why would he care? So, you figuratively take a step back, biting at the inside of your cheek and holding yourself back despite wanting to speak up so badly.

You don’t bother getting out of bed today, not when you know you’d basically be a ghost. That slow, insidious shadow of insecurity has won you over. Whoever you talk to, they’ll only lose interest the second you open your mouth. The slightest shift of their gaze to something else would certainly send you down a spiral. It was exhausting. You only want to save yourself from that disappointment, you tell yourself. It’s so cloudy in your mind that you don’t even notice the soft click of your door opening.

As you stare at the wall, the hollow ache in your chest tightens, Jack lingers in the doorway for a long moment.

“Feeling tired today?” he asks, the air shifting around him. His voice is low, with an unnatural smooth stillness to it. There’s curiosity laced between his words, he’s making sure there’s no demand for you to spill what you’ve been bottling up. You swallow, debating whether to answer at all or pretend to be asleep instead. What was the point?

“I guess,” you mutter, turning your face into your pillow.

Jack doesn’t move, weighing his options. Then, soundlessly, he steps inside and closes the door behind him. The room feels significantly smaller with him in it, but not in a suffocating way. You’re hit with the urge to tell him everything, but you’re not sure he’ll understand.

He doesn’t push or pry – instead, he sits beside you on the bed. You can feel the weight of him near you, and you slowly turn to lay on your back. For a while, the only sound in the room is the quiet hum of your own breath.

You sigh, rubbing at your tired eyes.

“I just… I feel like no one actually… listens,” you admit. His silent patience working to make you spill your words before you can stop them. “Like… I could disappear and no one would notice.”

The silence that follows is different from before, and you swear you saw him flinch. Jack doesn’t react immediately, but you feel the tension in him. His fingers twitch where they rest on his knee.

“I would notice,” he says in the same steady, deliberate tone.

Your breath hitches.

Jack isn’t one for unnecessary words. He never speaks just to fill space; never said things he didn’t mean. And now, as his voice settles and soothes you, you know with certainty that it is the truth.

He shifts slightly, his head tilting as he continues. “I hear you. Even when you don’t speak.”

You turn your head toward him, searching for something in the expressionless mask he always wears. The dark voids where his eyes should be give away nothing, but his voice holds a quiet sincerity that makes your vision blur.

“I listen,” he says, softer now. “Because you listen to me.”

Your voice cracks. “Jack—”

“I know I don’t always say things out loud,” he interrupts, as if anticipating your doubt. “But I notice everything. I notice you.”

You swallow the lump formed in your throat, the tears streaming down the sides of your face. No one had ever said that to you before – not like this.

“You don’t have to be loud for me to hear you.”

Something in you finished cracking at that, the exhaustion pressing against your ribs suddenly lifting. Jack’s presence has always been quiet, but now you realize that his silence isn’t indifferent. He existed in the background like you did, unnoticed by most, but never by you. You shut your eyes tight, letting out a shaky exhale.

Slowly, cautiously, his gloved hand moves over to your face. The rough texture of his thumb glides over your warm cheek to wipe your tears. Jack isn’t one for physical affection, but this silent reassurance moved you beyond words.

You swallow hard, then shift to lift the edge of your blanket.

Jack hesitates, then, without a word, he slides under the covers beside you. His body – steady and solid against you – runs cooler than yours, but you find the contrast comforting. You cuddle up to him, and he inclines his head to press it against yours.

A small giggle bubbles up while you finish wiping at your tears as you feel the smooth, cool material of his mask pressing against your cheek.

Jack tenses slightly at the sound. “What?”

You shake your head, smiling softly. “Nothing. Just… your mask.”

He lets out a low exhale, something close to a chuckle. You hesitate for only a moment before lifting your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the surface of the mask. It isn’t much – just a light brush of your lips against the material – but it is enough to make Jack go completely still beside you. He leans his mask closer to you, as if deepening the kiss, earning another soft laugh from you. Hie hand tightens ever so slightly around yours, and neither of you speak after that. There is no need. For the first time in a long time, you feel heard.

pairing: Ticci Toby x GN!Reader

contains: angst (but not a lot i dont think), hurt/comfort, fluff

word count: 834

The silence in the cabin presses against your ears, making you hyperaware of every creak in the floorboards. You had tried – again and again – to interject into conversations with the others, but each time, someone else spoke over you. It was a familiar feeling by now, one you are used to. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You had joked about it before, played it off like it didn’t bother you. “Guess I’m just too easy to talk over,” you laughed once, expecting nothing from it. But Toby had tilted his head at you and said, “If you-you really had s-s… something important to suh-say, you’d just say it louder.”

You hadn’t said anything, but what he said stung. It solidified all your fears and insecurities because it had come from your boyfriend, of all people. He hadn’t meant to hurt you, but that didn’t mean it didn’t echo in your mind every now and then. It would sit heavily in your chest even now, as you sit there, arms wrapped around yourself in the dim cabin light.

Toby seemed oblivious. He was busy fidgeting, his foot bouncing where he sat on the worn-out couch beside you. He was always talking, always moving. It’s easy to assume he doesn’t really pay attention to the details of things – especially not you.

Then came the final straw. You had finally worked up the nerve to say something, to try again. You had barely gotten the first few words out before Toby, not even realizing, barreled over your sentence with his own tangent. And that was it. You shut down.

Your shoulders slump, and you press your lips into a thin line. You stop trying – looking at the floor instead. Toby doesn’t notice at first, and he keeps talking like nothing happened. But something must have clicked. The way your face went black, the way you had been trying all night and now you weren’t saying anything at all.

Toby tilts his head at you, squinting. “Hey-hey, you’re doing that sad thing. Stop… that.”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “It’s nothing.”

Toby goes still.

For anyone else, that wouldn’t mean much – but Toby was never still. The jittery, twitchy energy that hums under his skin suddenly settles, his dark eyes staying locked on your face. “Bullshit.”

You try to wave him off, but he grabs your wrist.

“C’mon,” he presses, his voice just a little softer. “Wuh-what’s wrong?”

You pause. Maybe it’s the way his usual chaotic energy had faded, or maybe it is the way he sounds like he cares – really cares.

You test him, letting the silence drag out. To your surprise, he doesn’t press, sensing that you are truly upset.

“I just... feel like no one listens to me,” you reveal, finally looking at him.

He’s still silent, waiting for you to continue. But years of keeping to yourself have constricted your throat, and all you want to do is cry instead. You quickly regret saying anything, your mind scrambling for any way you could turn this into a joke. But then, his mouth pulls into a frown.

“That’s stupid – of course, I listen to you.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Do you?”

His frown deepens. “Yeah, I… do. I mean… maybe I s-s-suck at showin’ it, but I do.”

His hands twitch against his thighs before he leans forward, eyes bright with something fierce.

“You always com-complain about wanting to p-…pick out something new when we go out to-to eat, but you never do. You act-act like you will, but you… you don’t. You hum when you’re ner-nervous. And-and that dumb joke you…made about elephants the other day? I stuh-still think about it. It was funny.”

You blink. “…What?”

His knee starts bouncing again, his neck twitching to the side for a moment.

“You think I… don’t hear you juh-just ‘cause I talk a lot? I hear everything.” His voice lowers to a more serious tone. “I hate being-being ignored. Hate it. And you—” His breath hitches, and he swallows before continuing. “You shuh-shouldn’t have to feel l-like that.”

The sincerity in his voice creates a warmth that spreads through your chest. Tears well up for a moment because of how seen you felt.

Toby watches you for a moment before launching himself across the couch. You barely have time to react before you’re tackled into a bone-crushing hug. He wraps his arms around you so tightly that it steals your breath. He peppers your face in loud, dramatic kisses as he rocks you back and forth.

“You’re s-so-so dumb,” he mutters into your shoulder, his words muffled. “Thinkin’ no one…listens to yuh-you. I listen. And if any-anyone else ever ignores you, I-I’ll cut their tongue o-off. No one ignores… my person.”

You let out a half-exasperated, startled laugh. “Toby.”

“Not jokin’.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, a grin tugging at his lips.

You lean forward, giving him a loud, dramatic kiss of your own.

[theriverbeyond]

how exactly is John lying (/about what) and is that the worst part of him and how explicit is it in the books? i often dont understand general/fandom characterizations of fictional characters and HtN is definitely not the book I paid the most attention in, so I just wanna see if I missed something wholly obvious

So John is a Lying Liar Who Lies, and I think the most damming evidence for the sheer enormity of it all is this bit in HtN, page 482:

Many of the things John says are like, him reflecting or discussing things only he has memory of, with no one left to dispute his version of events, and it's clear that he has long ago lost the "objective truth" of his own history--some of this is likely the side effect of being alive for ten thousand years, but a lot of it is probably due to the fact that he doesn't want anyone to know what actually happened. HtN p. 158:

John is talking to Harrow here, but to Me, he is also reassuring himself. He KNOWS that people would judge him for his actions, and alters the stories he tells accordingly. Nobody has to know. It happened, and he can't undo it, and they wouldn't understand. He's motivated to lie, he's capable of lying, and he himself has stated that he believes that there is no difference between the truth, and the truth he tells himself. Because he's God.

Anyway. re: "how explicit is it", a lot of the times where we know for sure John is telling an untruth, he isn't directly lying per say, but rather misrepresenting events to such an insidious extent that it is functionally the same as lying. Here is a short and incomplete list:

All the times Harrow begged him to protect her from G1deon the First, and John was like sorry I can't do that, when in fact JOHN was the one who ordered G1deon to attack Harrow

Changing the names of all his friends and not telling them what their previous names or personalities were (and if he didn't tell them that, it's very reasonable he may have kept other things from them as well)

Saying that the House of the First was killed by "rising sea levels" and a "massive nuclear fission chain reaction" when the Earth actually died because John initiated a nuclear standoff, and then set off a nuke. like yeah what he said was technically the truth, but it also served to paint an extremely different picture when compared to what we learn in NtN

In NtN, in the dream, John tells Harrow about the time he killed all those cops, and he mentions that when it happened he was like "I swear to God, I didn't know what I was doing" "I freaked out, it was an accident", "I made a mistake". and then like half a page later he tells Harrow "Come on love. Guys like me don't have accidents"

Saying he ate peanuts "discreetly", and "the once"

"is this the worst part of him" I think that is up to you, I really like the layers this adds to the story. So much of NtN is literally just John telling Harrow/the reader a story, and we know he misrepresents events and tells untruths and is motivated to protect his own image and no longer sees a difference between the truth and the truth he tells himself. So it's like... we are getting all this info about what happened pre-appocalypse/resurrection, but how much of it is REAL? How much of it is reliable? How much of it would match the story if anyone else was alive to tell their side? It is so interesting to me. It's like a hefty peanut butter filled kong, to me.

[watermelonlicker]

i cackle at how antis echo chamber “louis hates larries” as if that’s so moving oh wow 1. most of it is pr drivel slobbering down his mouth and 2. even if there is truth to it and he doesn’t like that we know too much—being silent is something i can’t do. this is bigger than louis.

this is knowledge and knowledge is safety. knowledge is how you become aware of situations so you don’t fall victim to them and end up controlled by a tyrant like simon FOUL. knowledge is what louis & harry didn’t have as preyed upon CHILDREN that were eaten alive. bcos of that lack of knowledge (FOR ME) larry is more than a ship. it is a goddamn lifestyle (and no asshole) not in the way that it’s a cult, but in the way it literally teaches you the horrors of life and how to navigate those horrors and find power in community.

do you really think the larries didn’t play a factor (A FACTOR NOT EVERY FUCKING FACTOR READING COMPREHENSION) where harry felt safe enough to be more open and explore himself after 1d? do you think larries were not the backbone for louis while he was in that slave contract for 5 years after 1d? and no i’m not crediting solos bcos most of y’all believe the bullshit.

LARRIES are one of the FEW fandoms to recognize, dissect, and expose the insidious shit that goes on bts in the music industry. call us sleuths, detectives, free journalists whatever the fuck i’m sure they’ll teach a class on us one day about the dedication & power a fandom can wield and how those who are threatened by that power use gaslighting and bullying tactics to silence it. larry is not a conspiracy. it is the fucking truth in your blind eyes that your comfort and privilege won’t allow you to see. it wasn’t too long ago the general public thought britney spear’s fans were crazy for noticing shit was off with her FOR YEARS, but despite all the bullying they never gave up and the free britney movement happened. MANY of the people who joined the movement were og deniers btw but again people only join when it’s comfortable or brings clout.

and JEEBUS britney was the biggest fucking pop star in THE WORLD and yet she was being heavily controlled and abused and it was so unfathomable to you? so many of you were so fucking suprised but HOW? HOW WERE YOU SURPRISED??? you thought her breakdown was for shits and giggles? you thought she shaved her head and smashed a window bcos she was having a good time? but let me not even get started on how GROTESQUELY some of you treat addicts and then you fucks will say “ok so it happened to her but that doesn’t apply to your conspiracy loser blah blah” ok brainwashed fool—it is literally a copy of a copy of a copy, a p a t t e r n, a vicious cycle, A SYSTEM. what makes you think if the biggest pop star in the world wasn’t exempt the biggest boy band in the world was? the biggest boy band who again were manipulated and groomed as CHILDREN by the devil himself. and simon never hid he was the devil btw. when you have knowledge and life experience (god forbid trauma) these people can never hide who they are but so many of you still close your eyes to them?

like omfg supporting larry is so simple??! it is fighting for QUEER JUSTICE and QUEER LOVE and making space for queer artists to be themselves openly and not have their love be the thing weaponized against them to destroy them. queer artists should NEVER have to choose between their souls and their dreams. NEVER. THAT is why i became a larrie in 2012, am a larrie now, and will always be a larry truther. their relationship status and the decisions they make i might disagree with is irrelevant to this. the history is what’s important.

[hishumanbellestories]

The argument.

Part one: click here. Hi guys! Here is the requested sequel of the first part. I changed the narration type and included both Alastor's and the reader's pov. I hope you like it! Happy reading! ☺♥

The Monster in the Mirror.

She should not have forgiven me.

She should not have smiled.

She should not have touched me.

Yet, she had.

And now I was unraveling.

I had always thought myself in control, always thought I could shape my world like a master puppeteer, pulling the strings, setting the stage.

But this? This was chaos.

This was her hands on mine, warm and real. This was the way she had held me, the way her fingers had clutched my coat as if she were afraid I would disappear.

And the worst part?

I had let her.

I had let her.

I had stood there, in the circle of her arms, and I had felt.

Felt her heart racing against mine. Felt the warmth of her breath as she whispered my name. Felt—for the first time in decades—human.

And I hated it.

I hated how much I wanted it.

So I did what I always did: I ran.

The shadows of my room swallowed me whole.

My old radio crackled in the corner, filling the air with static, but it could not drown out the noise in my head.

I paced.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The monster in the mirror watched me, its grin wide, sharp, and mocking.

I hated him.

I hated what he had become.

A demon. A killer. A thing of hunger and cruelty and sin.

And yet—she had looked at me as if I was more.

She had touched me as if I was worthy.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh, raking my hands through my hair.

“Foolish girl,” I muttered. “Foolish, foolish girl.”

But the words rang hollow, because the truth was…

She wasn’t the fool.

I was.

For letting her get close. For letting myself believe. For daring—for even a second—to imagine a world where I could be hers.

I slammed my fists against the desk, breath ragged.

I had done too much. I had taken too many lives, played too many games.

I was a monster.

And monsters do not get to be loved.

A sick, sharp laugh clawed its way out of my throat.

She should be afraid of me.

She should have left, but she hadn’t, and that was my greatest torment.

Because no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise…

I didn’t want her to.

The Quiet Ruin of Me - Alastor's pov.

It started as a flicker. A brief, insidious thing that slithered through my mind the moment she turned her back on me. I watched her walk away, and something sharp and unfamiliar coiled in my chest.

I had expected anger. Expected to feel that familiar thrill of conflict, of another game well played, another opponent bested in a verbal spar. That was how these things went, wasn’t it? A little tension, a little sharpness, a little storm—only to break into laughter later, as if none of it mattered.

But this time, she didn’t look back.

And when she was gone, something in me snapped.

It was quiet at first. A strange, creeping sensation at the edges of my consciousness. I ignored it, of course—I had long since mastered the art of burying anything even remotely troublesome. It was a simple thing, truly. A matter of habit.

But habits, I have learned, are no match for grief.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Not irritation. Not even the thrill of a game lost too soon.

Loss.

A ridiculous notion. Utterly absurd.

And yet...

I did what I do best. I smiled. I laughed. I turned away. I let her absence settle into my bones like a dull, aching hum and convinced myself it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then the days stretched on.

And that quiet ache became a roar.

I stayed away. Not just from her, but from everyone. It was easier that way. No need for questions, no need for well-meaning concern from people who barely understood the first thing about me. Charlie’s gentle insistence, Angel’s sharp-edged worry—I saw it, felt it. But none of it mattered.

None of it mattered, because I had already begun to unravel.

I became a ghost in my own home, lingering at the edges, watching from the corners of rooms I no longer felt welcome in. Not because of anything she had said—no, she hadn’t even told me to go.

But I had seen it in her eyes: that hurt. That disappointment.

That wound I had carved into her with careless words, words that should have meant nothing but had somehow sliced through her like a blade.

And now—now she was everywhere.

I heard her voice in empty hallways. Saw the flicker of her silhouette at the edges of my vision. I would catch myself turning, expecting to see her, only to be met with the crushing weight of silence.

She haunted me.

Or perhaps—perhaps I was the one haunting her.

I found myself here, in this empty room, my fingers resting on the radio, feeling the familiar ridges of the dials beneath my touch. It was a comfort, in a way. Something tangible. Something real.

Unlike this.

Unlike her.

Unlike whatever this sickness was that had taken root inside me.

Love.

The word itself was a curse. A grotesque, hideous little thing that curled in my throat like bile.

Love was attachment. Love was weakness. Love was a thing meant for those who still had the capacity to dream of happy endings.

Not for me.

Not for something like me.

And yet…

The moment I lost her, I understood.

It had already been too late.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

I had felt alive with her.

And now, I was nothing but ruin.

So when I heard the soft sound of footsteps behind me—when I felt that familiar pull, that electric awareness of her—I did not turn.

Because if I did, I would shatter.

And I could not let her see the wreckage of me.

The Devil you love - Alastor's pov.

I had made my decision.

I would prove it to her.

She had to see—truly see—what I was.

No charming smiles. No laughter to soften the edges. No carefully curated mask of civility.

I would peel back the layers.

I would show her the truth of me, the darkness that pulsed beneath my skin, the hunger, the violence, the thing that should have repulsed her.

And then—then she would leave.

She would have no choice.

It began in the small ways: a whisper in the halls when no one was there; a shadow slithering just at the corner of her vision; a voice on the radio that should not have been playing.

She had called my name once—soft, hesitant.

I had not answered.

But oh, how I had watched.

I watched as she searched the empty corridors, as her brow furrowed, as she bit her lip in thought. As she refused to fear.

So I tried harder.

The hotel grew colder at night. The walls creaked with voices that did not belong. The lights flickered, bathing the halls in an eerie glow.

And then, finally—finally—I let her see.

I made sure she was there when I dealt with an intruder.

Some foolish soul had wandered too close, seeking deals with the devil, thinking they could outwit me.

How delightful.

How tragic.

I let the shadows stretch long as I stood before the poor wretch, my grin carved sharp, my voice a melody of doom.

And then, I played.

My laughter was the only mercy I offered as I tore him apart, limb from limb, his screams swallowed by the static of my radio.

And she was watching… I made sure of it.

She stood at the end of the hall, frozen in place, eyes wide.

There it was—she saw me now.

Not the grinning fool. Not the trickster. Not the teasing presence at her side.

She saw the thing that lurked beneath:

The monster.

The demon.

The truth.

I turned my head, meeting her gaze across the bloodstained floor, expecting—no, needing—to see the fear, the horror, the realization that she had been a fool to care for me.

But instead…

She stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

No.

No...

No. NO. NO!

She should have run.

She should have screamed.

She should have done anything but this!

But there she stood, unwavering, her breath coming in uneven gasps, her fingers trembling—not with fear, but with something else.

Something raw. Something aching.

“Alastor,” she whispered, my name slipping from her lips as if she were praying, as if she were praying to ME.

I felt it then.

The weight of it.

The way it wrapped around me, pulling me down, dragging me into the very thing I was fighting to escape.

Her love. Her care for me.

It was suffocating.

It was terrifying.

It was undoing me.

I took a step back.

“No,” I rasped, my voice fraying at the edges, my fingers clenching into fists.

She was supposed to fear me.

She was supposed to hate me.

Not look at me like this.

Not with understanding.

Not with love.

I turned on my heel and disappeared into the shadows, my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.

Because if she would not leave…

Then I would have to do it for her.

The Death of Denial

I should have told her to leave.

I should have kept my back turned, let the distance between us remain untouched.

But I was weak.

She said my name, soft and uncertain, and it broke me.

I turned.

And there she was.

Standing in the doorway, bathed in the dim glow of the flickering light, looking at me as if I was something precious. As if I was something worth saving.

How cruel. How unspeakably cruel of her.

I laughed—sharp, brittle.

"Come to deliver your final judgment, my dear?"

She frowned, stepping closer. "Alastor."

That voice.

I had always loved the way she said my name. And now—now it hurt.

"You need to leave," I rasped. The words felt like broken glass in my throat. "You should—"

"Stop it."

She was right in front of me now, close enough that I could see every detail—every freckle, every flicker of emotion in her eyes.

God help me, I wanted to touch her.

I clenched my fists to keep from doing so.

"You're not okay," she whispered. "Stop pretending!"

I smiled, all teeth. "Of course I am, I'm not—"

She didn't flinch. Didn't waver.

"Then why are you avoiding me?! That argument was nothing to me. I care about you, Alastor… even too much."

Ah. There it was. The killing blow.

I inhaled sharply, something twisting deep inside my chest.

"Because," I murmured, voice shaking, "I am a coward."

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face.

"Because I have spent decades laughing in the face of love. Decades mocking it, destroying it, drowning it in blood and sound and static. Because I believed myself to be above it—untouchable, incorruptible."

I let out a breathless, humorless laugh.

"And then," I whispered, "you walked into my life."

She gasped softly.

"You, with your insufferable kindness. Your stubbornness. Your maddening way of seeing me. You, who should have run screaming the moment you realized what I was."

I took a step closer, closing the distance between us, my voice dropping to a ragged whisper.

"But you didn't.You stayed. And I—" my breath hitched. "I let myself believe, for one foolish, unforgivable moment, that I could have you."

Her lips parted, but no words came.

I reached up, trembling fingers brushing just barely against her cheek. "And then you walked away."

She swallowed hard. "Because you hurt me."

I shut my eyes, exhaling shakily. "I know."

Silence.

And then, softer now, "why, Alastor? Why did you hurt me?"

My hands shook.

"Because," I whispered, my voice breaking, "I fell in love... with you".

The words destroyed me.

And the silence that followed killed me.

I dared to look at her then, terrified of what I would see.

But she was crying.

Soft, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

And then—she smiled.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… pure.

Hopeful.

And mine.

She reached up, her warm hands covering my own.

"You idiot," she whispered, laughing through her tears.

"You absolute, wonderful idiot."

I choked on a breath, and when she pulled me into her arms... I fell.

Fell into her warmth, her light, her impossible, terrifying love.

And for the first time in my miserable, wretched existence…

I let myself believe I could be loved.

No Turning Back - reader's pov.

I should have been afraid.

After everything he had shown me—after the violence, the shadows, the terrible beauty of what he truly was—I should have felt something other than this unbearable, aching pull toward him.

But I wasn’t afraid. I could never be afraid of him...

Even now, as I found him in the dimly lit room, his back turned to me, his fingers ghosting over the dials of his radio, I only felt the same thing I had always felt with him.

Longing. Longing to be his friend. Longing to be close to him.

The air was heavy between us, thick with unspoken words, unacknowledged truths.

I took a breath, steadying myself.

“Alastor.”

His shoulders tensed at my voice, his fingers tightening minutely around the radio dial.

“You don’t frighten easily, do you?” he said, his tone light, but so, so tired.

I took a step forward. “I think you’re the one who’s afraid.”

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

Then, at last, he turned to face me.

And the moment I saw his eyes, my breath caught in my throat.

He looked… lost.

Like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at oblivion.

"You saw what I am," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "And yet, you are here."

The weight of that statement settled between us, thick and suffocating.

I met his gaze, my heart pounding. "You think I don’t know what you are? Alastor, I’ve always known! You're a cannibal, a murderer! But I'm here in hell too!"

A shudder ran through him.

He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and I saw it—the moment his world cracked, the moment his carefully built walls collapsed around him.

"You shouldn’t," he said, a thread of desperation lacing his voice. "You shouldn’t care for me."

And yet, I do.

I swallowed, stepping closer, my fingers trembling as they reached out—hesitant, unsure—until they brushed against his hand.

He flinched.

But he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he snatched my wrist, dragging me close, so close that I could feel his breath ghosting over my lips, sharp and uneven.

I should have been afraid.

But all I felt was heat.

A wild, shattering heat that had nothing to do with Hell.

His grip was firm, his hands large and unyielding, and yet—he held me like he was afraid I might break.

"This is a mistake," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.

I exhaled shakily, my fingers tightening around his own.

"If it is," I whispered, "then let us make it together."

His breath hitched.

And then—

He kissed me.

It was not gentle.

It was devastating.

A collision of fury and need, of desperate hunger and aching restraint.

His lips crashed against mine, stealing the breath from my lungs, drinking in every inch of me as if he had been starving for this—for me.

His hands tangled into my hair, gripping me like he was drowning, like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

And I melted.

I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, my body pressing into his as if I could mold myself to him, as if I could tell him with every touch, every gasp, every trembling breath—

I am yours, Alastor.

A shudder ran through him, a broken sound escaping his throat, and for a fleeting moment, I felt it—his surrender.

The great and terrible Alastor, the Radio Demon, who had spent his existence untouchable, untamed—had finally given in.

And I knew, as his arms tightened around me, as his lips pressed deeper, more desperate, more real—there would be no turning back.

No Turning Back - Alastor's pov.

I ran.

I ran from her, from the unbearable tenderness in her eyes, from the truth I had tried so desperately to deny.

But I could not escape it.

Her presence lingered like a melody I couldn’t silence, a haunting refrain playing through my mind, pulling me back, pulling me home.

Home.

What a ridiculous notion.

I was not meant for such things.

And yet—

She would not leave me be.

Even now, as I stood in the hollow dark of my favorite, long-abandoned room, trying to choke down this unbearable thing clawing at my insides, I could hear her footsteps.

Soft. Hesitant, but determined.

I did not turn when she entered.

“Alastor,” she said, her voice quiet, gentle. Too gentle.

I laughed—because laughter was all I had left.

“You don’t frighten easily, do you?”

She took another step closer.

“I think you’re the one who’s afraid,” she murmured.

The words cut deep. Too deep.

I inhaled sharply, my fingers curling against the old wooden radio.

My lifeline. My tether. My prison.

“You saw what I am,” I said, my voice steady, yet hollow.

“And still, you are here.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You think I don’t know what you are?” she whispered. “Alastor, I’ve always known! You're a cannibal, a murderer! But I'm here in hell too!"”

The room tilted.

The breath I didn’t need hitched in my throat.

She always knew?

No—no, that was impossible.

I turned at last, my movements slow, deliberate.

I had to see her face.

And there she was—standing before me, bathed in the dim glow of the radio’s soft red light, watching me with that maddening, unshakable devotion.

I had torn apart a man in front of her. I had shrouded myself in shadow, wrapped my hands in blood and ruin. I had tried to scare her away.

And yet—she looked at me as if none of it mattered.

As if I were more than the monster I had shown her.

And that—that was the most terrifying thing of all.

“You shouldn’t,” I rasped. “You shouldn’t care for me.”

She swallowed, her throat bobbing, but she didn’t look away.

“And yet, I do.”

No.

No, no, no, no—

This was not how this was supposed to go.

She was supposed to hate me.

She was supposed to run.

She was supposed to leave me in this eternal abyss.

But instead—instead, she reached for me.

A trembling hand, brushing against mine.

Fingers ghosting over my knuckles.

And I broke.

With a sharp breath, I snatched her wrist, pulling her close—too close.

Her gasp was soft, a whisper of sound, her breath warm against my lips.

I should have let go.

I should have walked away.

But she was so close, and I—I was starving.

Starving for her warmth. For her touch. For something real.

I bent my head, my lips barely brushing hers, my resolve hanging by a thread.

“This is a mistake,” I breathed.

She shivered—but didn’t pull away.

“If it is,” she whispered, “then let us make it together.”

God help me!!!

I crashed into her.

The first touch of her lips sent a violent shudder through me, a force unlike anything I had ever known. Fury and longing, agony and bliss.

I devoured her.

I poured everything into it—every ounce of my torment, my need, my devastation.

Her fingers tangled into my hair, holding onto me as if she knew—as if she knew I was unraveling.

And I was.

I was coming undone beneath her hands, melting into the warmth I had denied myself for so long.

I kissed her like I was drowning. Like she was the first taste of life after an eternity in the dark. Like I could never have enough.

And for the first time, I understood—

I would never be free of her.

I didn’t want to be.

Because this—this was no mistake.

This was the only thing that had ever been real.

I am hers.

taglist: @thatbadassauthor

[darnmand]

A Postcolonial analysis of Marius

(Disclaimer: This is not me trying to fight with anyone, this is just my own analysis of Marius. He’s an extremely complex and difficult character and so I have a lot of thoughts about him. I don’t 100% hate or like Marius. But more importantly, I don’t make moral judgements about how OTHER people feel about Marius because at the end of the day these are fictional characters.)

~

I think a big part of what I am going to call the Marius Problem (which I am not gonna take pains to describe here bc iykyk) is that Anne herself didn’t really seem to see a huge problem with him, and that affects his portrayal in the narrative.

There is of course the obvious way he treats Armand, and anyone who is familiar with Anne’s corpus of work knows that that relationship dynamic is something she revisits a lot and often in the context of erotica which is like a whole other bag of worms but…

The thing I feel like we don’t really talk about with Marius enough is his very Western Eurocentric view of the world. From a postcolonial perspective Marius’s philosophy is deeply unsettling. The way he polarizes the “east” and “west” and the modern and medieval, reason and superstition, are very insidious ways of defining things, as is his idolization of the Enlightenment, which was at its heart a positivist, Eurocentric, and deeply prejudiced school of thought which managed to convince the world that social constructions like race and gender were “scientific” in nature.

Marius is basically the embodiment of imperialism, not because he’s some malicious Big Brother twirling his moustache but because he is a very powerful, very privileged, and deeply misguided man who is takes his experience of the world as a universal truth, and who mistakes his own subjective feelings and desires for objective morality.

One of his greatest crimes against Armand that no one talks about is that he tries to force him to conform to a culture that goes against Armand’s own nature and history, and discounts Armand’s view of the world as fundamentally flawed and wrong just because it doesn’t align with his. In the book the conflict of ideologies is between classical humanism (Marius) and Eastern Orthodoxy and mysticism (Armand). In QotD, Marius even laments his failure to “perfect” Armand. Even as he showers them with gifts and affection, Marius treats Armand, Pandora, and even Akasha like dolls. Due to the changes made to Armand’s character in the show, I imagine the dissonance will be even more intense and the suppression of Armand’s selfhood will feel even more disturbing, because it will register on the level of race as well as other forms of identity.

But regardless, the most difficult part of this is that Marius is not doing this out of malice. Marius genuinely thinks he’s doing the right thing. He thinks he’s helping Armand. He thinks he is liberating the subaltern subject from the dark shadows of superstition and oppression. He thinks he is educating a being who must not know his own self and his own rights because he is fundamentally ignorant. He does not realize that what he is trying to do is efface the Other and absorb it into himself. And he eventually abandons Armand, in part, I think, because of his failure to succeed at this mission, and so facing Armand means facing the Other in himself which he wishes to repress to be the ideal enlightened western man. Marius is not even aware of his own need to dominate.

(But please please remember that Marius’s need to dominate is not likewise reflected by a need to be subjugated in Armand. Armand is equally able to move in spheres of dominance as well as submission because Armand does understand much of what Marius does not about the nature of power. Marius does not have this kind of mobility.)

This is at the heart of imperial discourse. This is what gives it momentum, what immortalizes it— the idea that we (the West) occupy some moral high ground from which we can liberate and speak for the subaltern subjects which we ourselves have locked into oppression and victimhood.

And sadly, I don’t think Anne wrote all this into the books consciously. She herself said in an interview that her own philosophy of the world aligns more with Marius’s than with Armand’s, and I think that is part of why Marius is a fundamentally sympathetic character. She made him that way. And I don’t necessarily blame her for it because these kinds of discourses are epistemological and extremely tricky to parse out. Power is that which we cannot name. So yeah, I don’t think Anne was intentional or malicious in it either.

And I don’t think all of us who look at Marius and probably feel somewhere deep down to be like him, to have his power, are doing it because of a fundamental flaw in their humanity or their politics. It’s a flaw in the epistemological system, and I don’t think it’s a flaw anyone can really see unless they’re the Armands in that equation, or they’ve been extensively trained to see it.

And before anyone gets defensive, this is not an attack on anyone or a criticism of any individual. It is a criticism of a system of knowledge and knowing which we likely cannot escape. And it is also a call for people to look at this story differently than they might have before. A call for lovers of Marius to try to begin to understand things from Armand’s perspective, and a call for lovers of Armand to remember that he is far more than just a victim, and that it would be very dangerous and reductive and harmful to his existence as an autonomous subject to understand him in that way. And if you feel the same as I do about these things, please talk about it, don’t get stuck in the surface level dynamics of the Armand/Marius relationship.

And if you’ve stayed with me for this long, I applaud your patience and thank you for your commitment.