#its okay to romanticize suffering if it's your own

[choking-on-ice]

me about all my ships all the time. Bc I'm sick and wanna see my faves suffer

do u ever just point at two characters and go “i want that one to get hurt and i want the other one to get really angsty about it”

[kazoo-world]

okay. i debated not posting this because I was worried I’d get death threats (that says a lot doesn’t it) but it needs to be said, because its upsetting me.

a woman who publicly says she feels very sane and has “never been to therapy” and who breaks up with her boyfriend in part because he can’t just “”get over”” his depression to love her the way she wants/needs does not.

I repeat, does not.

get to use the imagery she did in her fortnight video.

I’ve been seeing gifsets and screenshots all day of her chained to a bed but ~aesthetic~ and being fed a pill after a cheeky side eye and strapped to a glamourfied ECT machine and no one has said anything about it so I will. those images are genuinely triggering for me.

people have been restrained, forcefed pills, and given electroconvulsive therapy or subjected to the electric chair for severe mental illness against their will. these are not fun props anyone gets to throw around to express that they feel depressed or in a “manic phase” or like they were “raised in an asylum.”

she doesn’t know how a real asylum fried my grandmother’s brain or real cops restrained me because I was psychotic and manic. she doesn’t know what it feels like to be dehumanised that way.

do better. demand she do better, too.

edit: I say that this content is triggering to say that it causes real harm. I do still have a responsibility to myself to curate an internet experience for myself. this does not negate her responsibility to avoid replicating harmful tropes in art which is deeply influential. she does not get to co-opt institutionalization or psychiatric violence as a romanticized aesthetic or as a metaphor because real people like myself have suffered greatly under the things she is representing as glamorous or cool. institutionalization silences and violates mentally ill people in a way that marginalizes them, and that experience should be treated with sensitivity and care rather than being commodified to reduce stigma. if she had experienced these things, I might feel differently, but other ableist content on the record and her statements on her life and art indicate otherwise. she is a woman with immense privilege and power and should not be using that privilege and power to punch down on mental illness.

edit 2: I want you all to know I have seen your criticism. I will not edit the post but I do respect that she has had mental health struggles since that outdated quote. That is my mistake, I own that. My apologies.

However, mental health struggles =/ experience with psychiatric violence. Experiences of mental illness are heterogenous. Aestheticizing, romanticizing, and glamourizing mental hospitals is straight up gross regardless of your experience with mental illness. It’s tasteless and offensive.

I do understand metaphors. I think that her calling her life an asylum as a metaphor is in poor taste. I think her representing her relationship struggles with the imagery of a mental institution is insensitive given the impacts that real asylums and mental hospitals have had on my life and the lives of many others like me, so I had to say something about it.

It’s ableist to assume that critics of your fav “can’t read”, “don’t understand a metaphor” or “don’t have brains” when they clearly demonstrate that they are thinking critically. Do better.

[perverse-idyll]

@hprecfest 2024 - Day 5: a romantic fic

Yeah, it's Dec. 23rd 26th, but I haven't given up hope of posting a few more of these. Therefore, onward! More Snarry!

Miles to Go Before I Sleep by pluperfectsunrise - This is so far into sweet romance territory it risks setting off the skeptical Scrooge in me. See, it's rare that I swoon over emotionally mature versions of Snape. But this fic is so elegantly written and so perfectly constructed I was seduced by its humor and the writer's light and loving touch, so it didn't take me long to fall for its charms. (Much less time than it takes Harry to fall for Snape's, I'll tell you.) The premise: once a year, Harry and Severus dance together at the Ministry's Solstice Ball. Over the course of 14 years, undercurrents of yearning rise to the surface as they waltz closer to confessions of the heart. It all comes together (yes, I did that on purpose) in a consummate final scene, with several lightning strikes of dialogue the Gollum writer in me covets and the Snarry fan adores. This story knows exactly what it's about and takes you there with tenderness and grace and a kind of snowlit intimacy, beautifully crafted. Pluperfectsunrise has a gift for writing restrained romance that blossoms in a rush of resolved UST.

Contempt/Devotion by danpuff - Two stories, two sides of the same coin, and part of an ongoing series, Love, Your Enemy. Okay, this is definitely my drug, my poison, the flavor I crave above all else when imbibing my OTP, and it's the kind of conflicted, even unhealthy romanticism that contains the seeds of self-destruction but also healing. With Snape/Harry, it feels right to me that strains of love/hate pollute the flood of desire, but in the end I want their relationship to survive, whatever it takes, and this series does not disappoint.

In these paired fics, Danni gives each of the men their own voice and viewpoint on the same events, each mirroring the other's out-of-control emotions and internal struggles to resist. Contempt is Harry's story, and it's soaked in the wildly contradictory heat of his passion for Snape and his anger at the fact that he can't wean himself off this secret addiction. He's cruel to Snape in his mind, hammering on all the reasons why he's contemptible, the reasons their liaison is unthinkable, and why he should stay away. (Spoiler: he doesn't stay away.) It's an untenable and guilty cycle of near-madness. Harry's engaged to Ginny and playing the role of faithful, upstanding lover, all the while telling himself that he'll end things with Snape … just not yet. That he'll do what's right, even if he's beginning to doubt what that is. The emotional impact of this fic is intense, erotic, compulsive, and at times makes you wonder if a happy ending is even possible. Snape's version in Devotion is even more self-lacerating because of course Snape knows exactly why Harry should hate him and why he only compounds his past mistakes by not driving Harry away. He anticipates rejection, despises his own longing, and yet is horribly aware his soul belongs to Harry, even though he considers himself unworthy and certainly the worst thing that could happen to Harry's reputation. But he chooses to suffer jealousy and self-loathing rather than give Harry up, and is willing to risk being destroyed by the inevitability of Harry leaving him.

And through Danni's gorgeous, intimate descriptions and red-hot sensual detail, the reader is inside their skin with them, experiencing every breath and rapture and torment, all the rationalizations and temporary ecstasy. Danni is amazing at mapping the emotional hardships and rewards of coming to grips with an inappropriate love, something so consuming that it feels dangerous. And the series isn't complete yet, so the outcome and consequences of their illicit relationship remains open and uncharted. Even as a WIP, this is one of my desert-island stories and a personal touchstone for everything I love about my ship.

[apollokids]

Thoughts about tsats, trauma, and the cocoa puffs

Nico’s personality in tsats feels most reminiscent of what he was like in The Titans Curse which (imo) is a sign that he is slowly healing and living with his trauma.

The Sun and the Star emphasizes that trauma and PTSD can make it feel like one’s past life events happened to a completely different person, and it mentions that Nico relates to this feeling. This distancing of oneself from past memories, experiences, and personality can result in feeling disconnected for a while, taking on new personality traits, feeling like a chameleon mimicking others, or just feeling empty.

For some people (maybe, depending on when trauma occurs), healing can be about reconnecting with our childhood selves. Depending on what someone was like before trauma, like maybe Nico for example, that can mean becoming more emotional, being more playful, indulging in your childhood interests (eg. mythomagic cards). And Nico’s progression practically mirrored mine exactly through the years, and the ways I changed in ED treatment.

It's hard to let go of a disorder when in some cases it feels like the only thing that’s stayed stable in our lives. Suffering is touted as the pinnacle of art-- we see its romanticization everywhere. It sounds weird to say that I miss being sick, or I miss my suffering, when I'm actively trying to make my life better, but those thoughts do come up. And when it comes to characters I project that misery on to? Well, if I’m suffering, then they have to suffer with me! (After all, they’re just characters, it’s not that deep, right?) Except I found that the more I made my characters suffer, and focused on the ‘beauty’ of suffering, the harder it was for me to heal from my own. Whenever my health was in decline, I characterized my favorite characters the same way. It was just as hard to allow those characters to heal as it was to allow myself to heal. (Other people might not feel the same, though.)

I think Nico choosing to accept the physical manifestations of his demons (while also setting them free, and allowing them to exist as they please) mirrors the suggestion I was given in treatment when I struggled with the idea of ‘giving up’ my eating disorder– because to me, it was always either defeat the disorder or be consumed by it, and defeating it sounded like killing a part of me or erasing a part of my past or my home. Approaching treatment from the standpoint of killing my eating disorder scared me too much. I knew my disorder had caused problems for me, but many of the habits and behaviors I’d developed had served as my coping mechanism and they helped me survive. 

So, my therapist told me: “You don’t have to shun your disorder, kill it, or say goodbye. Instead, you can acknowledge that it served a purpose during a point in your life in which you used it to survive, but you no longer need to hold on to it and that’s okay — you’re setting it free. Maybe even instead of saying goodbye, you can say ‘thank you, I’m alright now.’”

And that’s pretty much… exactly what Nico did with the demons. Bob, too, acknowledged that he was a titan, and that was part of his past, and that’s okay — but he’s allowed to change. And Nico is too.

I just found that really really wonderful because I related to it so heavily. He didn’t want to conquer his trauma in battle. He wanted it to just… be acknowledged, and set free. And it followed him, but he can have a better relationship with his past now. He’s not consumed by it. It’s just there, it’s a part of him, and he can continue to live his life. And I think reading this book (while trying to maintain and navigate post-treatment life) was exactly what I needed to remind myself why I’m doing this.

[peachmi1k]

hey guys. i can’t believe i actually have to make a post like this, but it apparently really needs to be said because some of y’all don’t know how to act right. trigger warning for self harm, suicide, and cursing cause i’m mad af

lately some of my mutuals have been getting some asks that simply aren’t okay, ie requesting they write things about reader being admitted to the psych ward, etc.

i genuinely cannot fathom how anyone thinks that’s an appropriate thing to ask for from a stranger on the internet. you might think it’s quirky and cute but some of us have genuine issues that are absolutely disgusting of you to be trying to romanticize like this.

i have had severe depression for my entire teenage and adult life. i lost my best friend to suicide when i was 17. pain from something like that never ever goes away. another one of my best friends tried to unalive herself when i was 22. i worry about her every day. before finally being medicated at 18 i was going through the absolute hardest time of my life regarding my mental health, and surprise, it wasn’t fucking fun.

i have to assume that the people sending in these asks have no clue what its like to be in this situation or don’t know anyone who has, because if you did, you would know that shit like this shouldn’t be talked about this way.

and i will say, i am a firm believer that you are welcome to cope with your own trauma however you see fit, as long as you are not hurting anyone. yes, i joke about my own trauma with my close friends, because its mine, and however i choose to make myself feel better, i’ve earned that right.

but there are still boundaries that must be respected when it comes to things like this. i know that joking with my very close friends will not make them uncomfortable, because they too share some of the same trauma as me.

however, an account you follow because you like their writing is someone who you know very very little about. we choose what we get to share on social media, and extremely sensitive topics like this need to be respected in the presence of someone you know next to nothing about.

you don’t know if the people you’re asking these things of have been in this situation, and it’s extremely dangerous to assume you can joke about thinks like this with people you don’t know. you could genuinely fucking hurt someone.

people who are actually admitted to a psych ward are people that struggle just living a day to day life. its not a fucking vacation, they are suffering and they need help. and some of you, sending in your stupid fucking asks like “omg being lovey dovey with cc in a mental institution” is so insulting its insane.

grow the fuck up. this isn’t wattpad 2012 core, mental illness isn’t a “just girly things uwu” quirk. its real, and its serious. attempt to see someone else’s perspective. step into the real world for one fucking second and get yourself a reality check.

if you disagree with anything i’ve just said, don’t let me catch you on this blog. as max said, if this makes you angry then it fucking should. you are not welcome here.

[bandzboy]

My ask was too long to send previously so I'll try to keep it short this time haha.. I agree with what you say! I think it truly is important to talk about what's happening in the kpop scene, especially lately when so many things have come to light regarding companies and their staff, and the things that have been happening to these idols and groups. It's so dehumanizing to see moas downplaying Gyu's situation and making light of what happened to him. They see their favorite person they CLAIM to support crying but instead of actually talking about WHY or the reason they make memes, hit tweets about shipping or etc?? Do they not see how wrong that is?! He is not an object, he is not a toy, NONE of these idols are but they treat them just like their company does?? Yet they claim they don't? No moa I see has discussed how sad what happened to Beomgyu is, I don't see ANY moa on Twitter or tiktok talk about the reason WHY he was crying. These idols are overworked but the fans couldn't care less. They tweet about them needing rest but then act like nothing happened the next time? They use their vulnerable moments for their edits or their own narrative to prove something but they don't truly care about them or what they're facing or going through.. I truly hope things change for kpop next year and every single idol gets the rest they deserve. I hope they're all okay physically and mentally, it must be so hard to be so overworked like that. I hope these companies get their karma for treating their artists horrible. I'm glad we can talk about this because it seems there's no one or nowhere else too..

this reminds me of a convo i had not that long ago with my bestie tiff (shoutout to tiff btw) where we talked about this situation where kpop stans seem to almost enjoy their faves suffering just so, in a sick and twisted way they can use these situations in fanwars to be like "my fav suffers more than yours" (which i've seen people on twt do not that long ago btw) even tho they know they are overworked or mistreated, they don't do anything about it. it puts these fans in a comfortable position where they have to get real about the industry and its effects on idols. but i guess if they keep suffering it's almost good to these people bc they can keep this "underdog" narrative going that people love WAY too much to play into to show that despite it all, they are still successful. the truth is, they shouldn't have to go through all of these hardships in order to make it. i feel like we can acknowledge them and have more respect towards these idols for that but there's this certain tone of romanticization that kpop stans use to describe these moments that sometimes were very traumatic to idols and companies play on this thing too all of the times and it's weird

but all of this to say that, it truly seems like most kpop stans enjoy that their idols go through tough times and, like you mentioned, use these types of clips where they are crying and being emotional for edits and it's truly unsettling. if i was an idol and i saw my fans doing that with moments where i was at my lowest and my most vulnerable i don't think i would ever want to show emotions in public to anyone ever again. it's just disrespectful and weird overall.

i keep saying this and it feels like the most generic saying in the world at this point but it's evident that some people still don't get that idols are humans. they deserve to be respected as such and to not be seen as entertainment and as commodities like seungkwan said in his statement (and that statement resonated with many idols btw). it's sad that this even need to be said because people just don't truly get it.

i feel like it's time that moas (and other fandoms truly but in this case it's moas) just address the obvious elephant in the room which is the fact that txt as a group went through a lot of shit this year health wise and they are EXHAUSTED from being overworked and soobin went on hiatus because he probably couldn't take this insane workload any longer. part of me can't shake the feeling that he endured for the sake of the group since he is the leader but it got to a point that he couldn't do anymore and honestly, i wish moas would honestly think about this sincerely. this is not a good thing to think about. i am not exactly this happiest when i discuss this but is it necessary for the sake of trying to fight for their rights as workers? FUCKING YES. this is all about giving up your comfort to stand up for the right thing and someone you supposedly love (if some do like they claim). i hope, for the sake of txt, moas start to do better

[acourtofthought]

It hurts me to see so many Tamlin defenders these days it's all so triggering for me.

My parents relationship is exactly like what happened with Feyre but only the fact that she never got the chance to get out and she's still stuck and now it's too late. I see Feyre in my mother everyday but I live in a country and community that doesn't care for women opinion and they're considered as being "dramatic", "over-reacting" and "selfish". Exactly the things they call Feyre.

My mother knew while they were engaged that this wouldn't end well but her parents didn't listen to her and they said you should marry him and fix him, bring him children he will be better... bc my father been through some traumatic stuff as well. (Honestly while I was reading acotar and acomaf, I find it a cruel joke) So that was the way to justify his actions. And bc my mother didn't wants us to hate him, she would say this to us as well that it's not his fault but we grow up and we realised this isn't normal as much as he wants to claim he's traumatised. (Sounds familiar?)

my mother gave and gave and gave but never received anything from him still receives nothing from him. And you know what he does to make her shut up and don't complain? He buys her things or for us. He used to pay for my grandparents treatment. Just like Tamlin who paid for Feyre's family to keep her were she is so she wouldn't leave him.

My mother can't go out without being questioned that where is she going, how long she's out, when will she come back? She doesn't have a job!!! And the fact that he's doing it to me and my sibling as well is also very disheartening... I can't go out with my friends without being questioned bc its dangerous outside and you don't know what's coming for you... (I'm being serious this is exactly his words)

And he never hit us or hurt us in physical way that is visible, he hits with his word how he degrade my mother and sometimes us. So no one really sees what we've been through no one believe us bc there's no evidence of it...

And knowing that ppl don't even consider Tamlin an abuser but just a misunderstood character and deserving better treatment from readers while the ppl around him suffered? Yeah... its feels like people are not seeing us just bc he's hot or have money or is powerful or whatever...

I wonder if someone tells them they're overreacting and being dramatic how they would feel? To not be seen and tell them "you're acting childish suck it up"? How would they feel?

And only bc you did some nice things doesn't make you less of an abuser we need to remind that to ourselves... (just bc tamlin help in a war HE CREATED (bc he thought Feyre was his trophy) and help Rhysand to live doesn't make him less of a shitty person that he is...)

ps: this is just my experience I know for a fact that a lot of ppl experienced worse than us. its okay if you ignore this but I only wanted to get this out somewhere that might some ppl see and rethink what they're saying...

First, I'm honored you shared your story with me and I am so sorry that both you and your mother are still in such a difficult situation. It's easy for someone on the outside looking in to say, "why doesn't she just leave already?" but anyone who has first hand experience of what she's going through (either because they have witnessed a love one going through it or they themselves have) know how difficult it can actually be to walk away. They might be struggling with years of their significant other chipping away at their self esteem to the point that they truly don't think they are worth more than the treatment they've gotten, they might be in a position where they can't set off on their own for financial reasons, they might fear for what the significant other might do if they were to leave. And I do understand why, as you are currently living this, it is triggering for you to see people romanticize Tamlin or explain away his behaviors as "he was struggling so he couldn't help himself." Of course he was struggling however, that never gives someone the right to take their struggles out on others. I don't think we'll ever be able to stop those who are fans of the Justice for Tamlin rhetoric but hopefully you take some comfort in knowing that the author herself has been vocal about how wrong Tamlin's behavior was. Others can interpret the text however they want but at the end of the day, SJM, the creator of his character has told us that he is a toxic male, that the High Lord of Spring is a "douche" and I think that's all that should matter to you. You feel his behaviors were not acceptable and the one who wrote him agrees. I'm not necessarily opposed to seeing Tamlin begin to heal but I personally don't think he's redeemed himself at all at this point and I have no interest in seeing him fall in love again, regardless of his one "heroic" gesture in the war. He still physically assaulted his friend afterwards and threw Lucien's clothes on his front door. A year after the war and he's still making no effort to try and be the High Lord his people need. It's not that someone who was abusive doesn't deserve the opportunity to better themselves but I don't think they deserve forgiveness until there are actual steps being taken to actually better themselves. Since Tamlin still, as of SF, has not made any progress in the right direction, I understand why it's frustrating when excuses are being made for his behavior. Again, I am so sorry that you and your family are going through this. Growing up in that situation often effects our own relationships and self esteem and I hate that you have become a victim in something you never had any say in. Sending you lots of love ❤️

[moonlyxe]

my maladaptive daydreaming experience

⚠️ !! major tw: mentions of su1c1de, sh and depression !!

okay, i came across this disorder "maladaptive daydreaming", which is when a person can get so immersed in their own fantasy world that it disrupts their life. and i think i may or may not have it.

children are dreamers--they have an extraordinary imagination, often living inside their fantasies in hopes of painting the monochromatic reality surrounding them. even i've been existing inside my own fantasy world since i was very young. i played with barbie dolls and stuffed animals--sometimes even with random objects i found lying around the house--and i had poorly-drawn sketches, wrote stories, made skits with my sister using mom's camera, and pretended i had magical powers like Elsa. i did anything to bring out my inner world. i often fantasized out of mere boredom while studying too. who hasn't done that when they were a child?

as time evolved, so did my naive daydreams. i discovered anime at the age of 12, along with tons of other shows, animatics and comics, and they intensified my imagination. i made room for a variety of characters, though many of them left forgotten. i don't know why i'm elongating this. of course, it's not that deep.

ah, then COVID-19 came, and so did my loving companion--loneliness. things were rough during quarantine, and i didn't realize how frequently i retreated to my fantasy world. i used to spend more than an hour in the shower, acting out scenes with fictional characters, and even more before sleeping. just like any teenager, when i turned 13, i found myself intrigued by the concept of romance. even if i was stubbornly in denial. i started reading more romance books, crushing over anime characters--i was practically introduced to a whole new world. romanticizing about love with fictional characters brought me warmth during my stressful moments.

when i turned 14, i was already suffering from depression and intense suicidal thoughts, oh, and not to mention, my self-harm tendencies. i started believing no one could provide me the love and support i desperately craved for, so i sought refuge in my inner world. music often played a major role in this--it's basically the perfect catalyst for daydreaming. i grew emotionally attached to my 'paras', in a way how one can be obsessive over their partner. i imagined myself in the arms of a lover, being comforted while receiving words of affirmation. i imagined how 'he' would react when i was hurting myself or attempting suicide. i cried to 'them' instead of asking for help. i didn't think anyone would help me, so why bother?

this excessive habit of fantasizing became my escapism--an addiction. i was so lost in my world that it started affecting my own life. i was losing track of time, couldn't focus on simple tasks and studies, and knocking things over while walking. i always kept my Spotify tab open so that i can daydream while listening to my playlist mid-tasks. when i fought with my parents or when they were fighting, i locked myself in my room, put my headphones on, and blasted my eardrums with songs and daydreamed.

music became my alcohol, and daydreaming was my escape from reality. who needs therapy when you can escape to your fanciful brain? 

here are some OCs i created for myself: Ryuu, Noelle, and Azar. luckily, they don't solely exist inside my head--thanks to my artistic hobbies, i've conjured them into my own works. Azar is one of my recent paras, also the reason why i started my project, 'Soulbound'. and i drew Lucian and Ryuu in my sketchbooks.

on the brighter side, daydreaming can have its own benefits i guess. only sometimes.

i never really came to terms with my illness until now, and though i wish to get better, i also don't want to. these characters in my head are like my companions, whom i can feel safe and find comfort in. they've helped me bring out my artistic side, and i cannot be any more grateful. and sometimes, it scares me to think of what would happen to them once i get an actual partner. will i grow out of my daydreaming? will i lose my creativity and get accustomed to my tedious routines? will i see my own self-worth and face reality in a proper way?

do i really have to say my last good-bye to the characters whom i've grown to cherish the most? it makes me want to cry just thinking about it. i love all of them dearly.

(idk why i ended up writing sm uhh oh well- if anyone ends up finding this, i appreciate you taking ur time to read it <33 to those who are going through this, ur not alone. let's hope we can overcome this together :3)

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Okay so here's a lil' prompt for you

How about some rough foreplay between a jealous Geralt and Jaskier being all "fucking finally you dumb sack of potatoes"

my darling nonie, thank you for your patience, im sorry it took me so long to get my writing vibes back, but we're finally back in business!

Warnings: horny, lil bitey/manhandle-y but nothing past netflix canon consistent roughness, grumpy dumb geralt and jaskier doing his best to get him to use words, lol and swearing.

_________________

“You don’t scare me, Geralt,” Jaskier huffed, leaning back against the footboard of Geralt’s bed. They’d been sitting on the floor by the fire in his room for hours now, enjoying the warmth and reveling in the rest that the last few weeks of winter provided. Geralt, of course, had been getting a little antsy, ready to pack up and go, but also reluctant. So of course he had expressed this by being a bit of an asshole.

“I don’t want you scared…” he grumbled, picking at a hangnail and feeling a little bit like an idiot. He couldn’t exactly tell Jaskier how he wanted him, and that was probably the most frustrating thing on his mind that night. No matter what, he was going to keep the bard around as long as Jaskier would suffer his foul moods and emotional illiteracy. But it hurt to have him so close but so far out of his reach and he was constantly angry with himself for continuing to want.

“Then how do you want me? Hm?” Jaskier asked, flailing his arms about, expressing nearly as much frustration as Geralt felt, “Are you looking for a fight? Someone to hold your hand? Would you like me tied up instead? For fucks sake Geralt just fucking spit it out.”

Clenching his jaw, Geralt growled as he did his best not to picture his best friend tied up and desperate for him, “No.”

Jaskier got up on his knees and shuffled a little closer to where Geralt was leaning against the opposite wall, looking something like a praying monk, “Mellitelle, Geralt. I don’t think I can get it through your thick skull that I will absolutely not run and hide or abandon you if you tell me what you’re thinking. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Especially if it’s uncomfortable.”

As Geralt tried to find a way out of the corner he’d backed himself into with words satisfactory to the bard, he made the mistake of glancing at him. Jaskier looked like a romanticized painting in the firelight. His hair glowed in an orangish warmth and the low golden tones made his blue eyes sparkle even in the fading light. It really wasn’t fair. How the hell was Geralt supposed to say anything other than what he truly wanted?

Fear. Fear of rejection, or worse, of Jaskier, thinking it was some ridiculous joke and laughing him off like that couldn’t possibly be what has Geralt so worked up. That was plenty to keep Geralt from telling him exactly what he felt and thought. So he stayed quiet.

“You absolute-” Jaskier grumbled, almost to himself before starting in on a lecture, with animated hands and everything, “Here I am, quite literally on my fucking knees asking you to tell me what’s bothering you - which appears to be about me, so I think I have a right to know- and you just fucking look at me. What the ever-loving fuck makes you think I’m shivering my ass off in this haunted keep for, not getting laid in a warm castle - or even by your brothers down the hall- for anything other than a pathetic devotion to your grumpy ass?! Are you blind? Are you really so self-loathing? Do you just not care? For fuck’s sake, Geralt. Tell me so I can make it better because I’m not allowed to make the leap here! I’m not a sorceress! I can’t just probe your mind to-”

Geralt lunged, not a single thought in his head, just a frustrated need to tell Jaskier what he meant and an inability to do so with words. ‘The first leap..’ Fuck he hoped he’d read that right. If years traveling with the bard and constantly unraveling his riddles was anything to go by, he absolutely had. But the chance of rejection still hung in the air and pushed him near the edge of tears.

His hands gripped the front of Jaskier’s chemise and yanked him closer, so he was almost hovering over Geralt, and he recklessly mashed their lips together. Jaskier had to brace himself on Geralt’s shoulder and for a moment the witcher was terrified he was being pushed away. He was about to let go and quite literally tuck tail and run when Jaskier’s other hand laced its way through the hair at the back of his neck and tilted his head for him, deepening their kiss and adding a little intent to the passion.

Geralt groaned and hauled Jaskier up with him as he clambered to his knees, only breaking the kiss out of necessity but sealing their lips together whenever he could. He’d been given permission. After years of wanting and wishing and guilt-ridden fantasy, he could finally taste what he’d been longing for and self-restraint was rather hard to come by. So he didn't bother.

He crushed Jaskier to himself, needing to know this was real, not just one of his many dreams. In turn, Jaskier hooked one leg around his hips, an awkward position for the two of them standing on their knees on the cold stone floor, but it spurred Geralt on nonetheless. He lifted one knee so the bard was practically sitting on his thigh and rose to stand, kissing and sucking dark red marks on the bard’s jawline and neck. Without a second thought, he used his momentum to slam Jaskier against the wall, trapping him against his own body. Exactly where he wanted him. The bard let loose a soft grunt on impact but dug his nails into Geralt’s back regardless.

“Sorry,” Geralt murmured before leaving a set of angry red crescent teeth marks on the bard’s exposed collar bone.

“None of that, I’m in heaven,” Jaskier gasped, rolling his hips against Geralt as he rested his head back against the wall, “Fucking finally.”

Geralt made a confused grunt, not entirely too concerned with the conversation as he worked on untucking Jaskier’s shirt, clumsily and forcefully yanking it over his head.

“You thick sack of potatoes, I’ve been flirting with you for years. Fucking claim me already,” Jaskier gasped, gripping Geralt’s hair and pulling him back to him in a punishing kiss.

If there’s one thing Geralt was good at, it was following orders. And he followed this particular order with hitherto unmatched enthusiasm, in Jaskier’s words, “going above and beyond the call of duty.”

[cregla]

Could you elaborate on the problem with Mafia AUs?

Yeah, sure. However, I didn't sleep so my English may be a little more bad than usual.

Before explaining why a Mafia!AU is something really fucking terrible, we need to know what Mafia really is. (Unfortunately, some of the links I can provide you are only in Italian, but they should be easily read with google translate)

Okay, so usually people outside of Italy are introduced to the Mafia by movies like the Godfather or other tv series or comics which portray Mafia as being a crime family, but with honor. Which is, well, complete bullshit. Mafia is fucking terrifying.

Mafia hasn't got honor. All those lies about "respecting the family" and having a "code", as if they're crime knights who won't harm children and innocents? Yeah, lies. Mafia not only harms innocents, but they do it in the cruelest ways - children aren't safe from them, they are taken or killed as revenge against their parents. People die because they see the wrong thing, because they ask for the wrong things, because they are related or in the same place of people who try to stop Mafia. People die because they seek justice, or they're just trying to do their job, and can't or don't want to pay them. And people die even if they're part of the family, if they go against its will.

Mafia isn't just "crime." Mafia is a lifestyle - if you are born in it, good luck leaving the family. You don't. As soon as you become a "Pentito", as soon as you try to go away, it's over for you. Even if you survive it, everyone will turn on you. Your family will turn on you, your own mother will turn on you. Family matters to Mafia as long as it's loyal, otherwise you're not family - you're a traitor and a future victim.

And Mafia isn't gone, isn't just something you find in a movie - it's still pretty present and it's a big problem, especially here in South Italy (mostly in Sicily and Campania, but it's in the whole Nation). People still suffer from it, people still die from it, people still try to escape from it. It influences the lives of everyone - it has its hands in every single part of Italy, it's in the Government, it's hidden everywhere. They've just become more subtle about it, so we can "forget" that they are a problem, but they're still here.

Now - as I said in my notes, I'm all for "write and let write", if you can call it like that. But you also need to know what are you writing about. I'm not against Crime Families!AUs, as long as you're creating your own family, your own rules, so you can decide what is right and what is wrong (heck, I read villains!au !) . And I'm not against real Mafia!AUs - the problem is? That they're usually romanticized. People use the denomination "Mafia" because it's "cool" and they either write something that isn't Mafia at all, or they romanticize the hell out of things that look "cool" only because they really don't know what are you talking about. It's offensive to the victims of the real Mafia, to those who are living in this country and suffering from it, and to be honest, even to the CCs since you're basically putting them in those shoes. Like, at least when people write it in other fandoms they're using fictional characters - in Mcyt, even when they use the "personas" or the "characters from the smp", they're still using at least the names of real people, at least. And I realize that usually the intention is good, out of innocent ignorance - which is why I don't go around screaming at the writers, but still, I'm fucking tired of seeing them all around like this.

So TL;DR Mafia is very fucking terrible, and not like in the movies, i'll link the movie that I watched when I was a kid and made me realize what Mafia really was, please if you want a Crime AU don't use Mafia, thank you. Hope that this was understandable.

[rjalker]

Giving it its own post because I'm pissed of.

Skylar36 said in response to this post:

You can ship it with your more romantic head canons and still acknowledge that the source material is fundamentally flawed here.

We do it all the time.

Sexual harassment is completely unacceptable. If these were real people, I would be calling Adrien a creep. Hell, when I watch the show, I cringe at Cat Noir’s behavior because she’s clearly not into it and it makes her uncomfortable.

I still ship them and read fanfic and whatnot.

These things are not mutually exclusive. You don’t have to defend the source material or justify why you like a ship even when the source material is “problematic” or whatever.

-

My response:

Why in the world would you feel the need to reblog a post about misogyny and the romantisization of sexual harassment to say that it’s still okay to ship it? Why would you reblog this post to defend shipping this abusive relationship. Are you aware that shipping is inherently romanticizing? You are admitting that this is an abusive relationship and you are still fine with romanticizing it and ignoring these problems.

-

This entire shows whole premise is built upon misogyny and the romanticization of sexual harassment.

The entire premise of the show is that it does not matter how much Marinette’s suffers, because the only one whose feelings matter is Adrien.

Adrian is allowed to sexually harass Marinette and stress her out and traumatize her and it’s fine because it doesn’t matter what Marinette thinks, the only thing that matters is that Adrien is happy and gets to do whatever he wants.

No, it is in fact not okay for you to be aware of all of this and then ignore all of it in favor of shipping them and continuing it to romanticize this abusive relationship. It is literally in fact not fucking okay for you to ignore the source material in favor of making shit up and letting people believe that that is the source material.

Every single facet of Marinette and Adrien’s relationship is misogynistic and built on the idea that Marinette literally only exists for Adrian’s pleasure. She exists so that he can date her. Her feelings on the matter do not fucking matter. She is literally just a trophy for Adrian to win and torment every second along the way because he like tormenting her.

Instead of shipping an abusive relationship that exists literally only to brainwash children into thinking that misogyny and sexual harassment are normal parts of romantic relationships, literally just come up with your own original characters because if you are writing this misogynistic trainwreck as a healthy relationship, you are not writing about Marinette Dupain-Cheng and Adrien Agreste, you are creating OCs that you’re just giving their names while you validate their cannon relationship which is 100% abusive and the entire fucking thing literally hinges on misogyny and sexual harassment.

Do not fucking write fics where you ship Marinette and Adrian and act like their relationship is healthy and always has been. Literally all you are doing is helping it to contribute to the misogyny. You are helping to contribute to the fucking brainwashing of children into thinking this shit is normal and healthy and romantic.

If you actually understood how horrible Adrian’s cannon behavior is, if you actually understood how bad it is that this show is romanticizing sexual harassment, you would not be shipping them, because morals literally would not allow you to.

If you still think it’s okay to ship Marinette and Adrien, then no, you are not acknowledging that the source material is harmful. If you were actually fully aware of how fucking horrible this level of misogyny is, you would not even be able to imagine shipping these characters and putting Marinette through that.

Instead of contributing to misogyny and the glorification of sexual harassment while showing everyone around you, including children younger than you, that it’s okay for boys to sexually harass girls, literally just write your own fucking original characters. It is literally free. It cost nothing just open a new document and come up with some names and a random setting and just start writing about original characters instead.

But do not ship poor fucking Marinette with Adrian and try to claim that you care about misogyny and you care about fighting against it.

Shipping is not more important than fighting bigotry.

All you are doing by shipping this abusive relationship whose literal foundation is misogyny and treating women like objects is further teaching the children, especially the young girl in this fandom, that this is how they deserve to be treated.

-

If you see a post talking about how Adrien is sexually harassing Marinette and the writers are portraying it as romantic and normal and telling the audience that we should laugh at Marinette's every boundary being violated and we should laugh at her being upset by this, because they're misogynists who are setting their audience of kids up to be abused, and your immediate response is to defend your desire to ship this abusive relationship, you are in fact a bad person.

You are, in fact, a misogynist. You are, in fact, perpetuating the very fucking misogyny being discussed.

If your response to people saying, "this abusive relationship is being protrayed as romantic in order to groom children into accepting abuse"

is to say "well yeah that's true. Anyways I'm gonna pretend it's romantic anyways" then you're a bad fucking person!

[radiorenjun]

nightmare surfs || hrj

¤ pairing: huang renjun x reader

¤ genre: angst, slight fluff, idol!renjun

¤ warnings: nightmares lol, the reader has a panic attack, crying, pain, idk mentions of the readers health worsening, soft kisses

¤ summary: you've been suffering from random nightmares as of late. You didn't know how but when they get too far, you're glad you have something (or rather, someone) to seek comfort.

¤ wordcount: 1.3k

¤ song rec: freaks - surf curse

¤ a/n: I cried while writing this lmfao

¤ disclaimer: I am NOT ROMANTICIZING having panic attacks or having mental breakdowns. I just wrote this somewhat based off of my own experience to vent. Look away if these sort of things trigger you

¤ tagging: @neowritingsnet @nct-writers @neoturtles @culture-cafe

Your body flinched as your eyes shot open, blinking as your brain tried to decipher that you were no longer in the hellhole you were previously in merely moments ago. A dark empty feeling sank in your chest, something you've never felt before. It was an ugly feeling, you couldn't get it out. Your senses were heightened as if something was going to hurt you, yet you didn't know what to do. The dark feeling lied deep inside of you and you didn't know how to make it stop or go away.

You couldn't breathe. As if the lump in your chest had spread through your lungs, inevitably enabling them to stop letting air flow through. You sat up against the headboard of your bed, trying to calm yourself down as your mind scattered into a mess right before you. Trying to breathe through your nose, you ran a hand through your hair, gripping it tightly as you closed your eyes as tightly as you could.

I dream

"Hey," a familiar voice called out softly. The sound of sheets rustling beside you grew deaf to your ears as your head began ringing loudly, flashbacks of the nightmare you just had replaying itself over and over again in your head like a broken record player. You then felt finger wrapping themselves around your wrists, gently tugging your hand away from your hair. You slowly opened your eyes at the sudden soft touch, surprised to see Renjun's soft yet concerned gaze on your face.

"Breathe for me," he whispered, his fingers moving to hold your palms in his, massaging your hands soothingly in an attempt to calm you down. "Breathe in," he coaxed gently, his melodious voice reaching your ears as you slowly obeyed his words, trying your best to shoo the thoughts away as you took a deep exhale. The pain in your chest wasn't going away as Renjun continued to help you breathe your thoughts out, it scared you.

Of you

It scared you even more that you wanted to cry, but as if your tears had run out from your previous crying sessions, you couldn't. Your eyes burned with tears but they couldn't stream down your face, they stayed stuck to your waterline. "It's okay, it's going to be okay," Renjun told you as your eyes shot down to your hand being caressed in his, your throat running dry as you were unable to form words. You weren't sure if it was because you were overwhelmed with all the different emotions at once or if it was because you had him right in front of you, comforting you right when you needed him.

You watched as he released one of your hands to cup your cheek, running his thumb soothingly against your skin. "It's okay to cry, don't hold it back. It's not healthy to bottle up your emotions like that, I know you're scared right now. But you're okay, I promise," he reassured, giving you a soft smile.

God, that smile.

It was enough for the tears to finally flow from your eyes, a simple reassurance that you were allowed to cry. You were allowed to feel scared. To feel sad. You were allowed to embrace your emotions and let it all out. You didn't even realize the tears flowing from your eyes like a water tap until you let out a small sob, the memories flooding back into you once again as you gripped Renjun's hand tightly. Your free hand coming up to his wrist, holding it tightly as if you were to let go, he would disappear right in front of you. A part of you knew that he will. He will disappear. He wasn't yours to keep.

Almost every night

"That's it, let it all out," he pulled you to his chest, wrapping his arms around you to give the biggest and tightest hug he could muster as you broke into a fit of sobs and hiccups. You clung onto him as if he was your only reason to live, as if he was your air, as if you couldn't live without him. At the moment, you truly felt as if he was your reason to live. Your hands clutched onto the fabric of the white shirt he was wearing, burying your head into the crook of his neck as you let out silent sobs. Your tears soaked the fabric of your shirt, but neither of you cared.

"Please don't leave me," you begged, your voice cracking as you spoke, sniffling loudly as you shut your eyes tight. You felt his grip tightening around your body, his arm hugging you closer by the waist as his other hand made its way to run his fingers through your hair in a weak attempt to sooth you. "I'm right here, I'm not leaving," he pressed soft kisses against your temple, his voice growing heavy as a lump started to build itself up in his own throat at the sound of your harsh sobbing.

Hopefully

"Don't leave," you whispered into his skin, sniffling back your tears as you started nuzzling into his warm skin in contrast to your cold one. He rocked your body back and forth as if you were a small child, shushing your cries softly as he pressed a longing kiss to your hair, playing with it in between his fingers as tears began to leak from his own eyes at the sight of you in great pain. "I'm sorry I can't take the pain away," he mumbled into your hair, pressing another soft kiss as your heart swelled for him. You shook your head at his words, mumbling how it wasn't his fault.

Your chest never stopped hurting as the nightmares kept replaying in your head. You didn't want to go back to sleep, you wanted to bask in Renjun's warm embrace as long as you could. You wanted to bask in the feeling of having someone to comfort you when you needed it the most. It felt like heaven. To be in the arms of your loved one. To be able to cry your emotions and stress out. You refused to let go of his embrace, you didn't want him to let you go.

"God, you're getting worse. Your nightmares are getting way worse," he hissed at your ear, causing you to shut your eyes tight. You tightened your grip on his shirt, nuzzling into his shoulder, inhaling his sweet scent as you chose to ignore his words. "Are you listening to me? You're getting worse," he repeated once again.

I won't wake up this time

Your eyes shot open, your body was covered in a cold sweat. Your head was on the pillow, tears staining your pillow and cheeks, your blanket was messy. It was barely covering quarter of your body in the cold air conditioned room, as if you were thrashing wildly in your sleep. There was a dull ache panging inside of your chest as you slowly sat up, choosing to ignore it as you reached over your nightstand for your phone to check the time.

3:28 AM.

You saw a few texts from your friends who were staying up late gaming. You felt numb as you opened the groupchat, seeing the messages your friends sent before placing your phone back on the mattress. Placing your palms against your forehead, you groaned internally as your phone screen illuminated the dimly lit room. A picture of Huang Renjun, your favorite idol, on your lockscreen as you began to shed tears.

Your mind liked to play mean tricks on you. You didn't mind them anymore, you were used to it. But you couldn't help but admit that this dream was the worst one yet in comparison to the other nightmares you've had the past few months. It left your heart stinging and aching, it left you crying and sobbing through the night. It leaves you in the reality that you had no one to comfort you when you needed it the most. It was a sign that you truly are getting worse

@RADIORENJUN 2021. All Rights Reserved

[starcrossedyanderes]

Halloween idea: the boys as slashers? I imagine Avery as a candyman type where it is tragedy that created him and a fear that sustains him. There is also an odd romanticism between Candyman and Helen, who is the main character of Candyman (1992).

In your small town there lays a legend. Like that of the Lizardman combined with the scary games children play in the dead of night.

If you go out and stare at your reflection in the dead of night and repeat the name, “Corvid” three times then the monster shall appear.

Many say he has monstrous lanky figure, and sharp, black claws. But of all, people whispered, was the pitch black wings of a fallen angel.

But that was a legend made by parents to continue the town’s anti-crow propaganda. And then little kids used it to scare one another. Nothing more than a fable.

At least that’s what you tried to tell your friends during your nightly hang out during Halloween.

“Guys, it’s literally just a made up story. Nothing is gonna come for you.”

One of your friends chuckled.

“Oh really, (Y/n)? So why are you so adamant about stopping us?”

One of your friends made funny faces at the mirror.

“Simple. Because I generally don’t want to mess with things. Do I believe in it? No. But why would I want to test that theory?”

“Just sounds like you’re too scared~”

“Boi you’re the one who sounds scared. You just don’t want to go first, you scaredy-cat!”

They shrugged their shoulders before shaking my bring their cup to their lips.

“I don’t know~ you actin’ kinda sis right now.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh my gosh fine. I’ll do it. But just watch and nothing happens. But if something does I’ll tell it to go for you first.”

You sashayed up to the mirror before making your own silly faces at your reflection.

“Aight, let’s get this stupid thing over with.”

You took a breath before speaking.

“Corvid.”

“Corvid.”

You turned around and did a shimmy for added suspense. You then did a turning jump around to face the mirror once more and spoke the last word.

“Corvid.”

…

Nothing happened.

“See? Nothing happened. Made me pause that movie all for nothing.”

With a huff you plopped yourself back down on the couch.

“Okay, you’re right. I was being a scaredy cat. But have you heard the back story behind that thing?”

You pondered the question for a moment.

“Hmm, guess not. I thought it was just because this town hated crows.”

Your friend dawned an evil smile and made sure to turn on a flashlight beneath their head.

“Hehe. Well the legend goes that a long time ago in this same old town there was a great famine. A famine that left no member of the town unaffected. The people attested it to the large number of crows that appeared in the area. They thought it was their beaks picking every morsel for themselves. Their just so happened to be a boy they said was of the birds. A child of satan born with the unholy features of a bringer of death that brought the crows with him. So to end their suffering they decided the best solution was for the boy’s death. They say the boy’s spirit is the legend we speak of today.”

…

“Lame~! That is just a whole lot of malarkey made by people who hate crows. You’ve ever seen Rango? I bet it’s a same sort of situation going on.”

Your friend popped some candy into their mouth.

“Whatever you say~”

They were going to say something else but were interrupted by the rapping on the window.

“Huh. Must be windy.”

The knocking continued.

“Alright, are some kids throwing pebbles at it? (Y/n) go check it out and tell them to ‘Get off our lawn!’”

So per request, you opened the drapes to the window to find the offender.

Only to be found with the culprit being smaller than you thought. On the windowsill sat a simple crow who seemed to have accidentally flown into the window with a shiny little thing in its mouth.

“Oh shoot, it actually worked!”

Your friend shot up to the window.

“What do you mean it worked?”

You laughed as you opened up the window.

“Well, I said Corvid out loud three times. And behold! A Corvid.”

You let the little guy in to check if it’s beak was alright.

“You.. huh.. wha?”

“Poor guy must not have seen the glass and flew into it. At least it’s beak looks alright. Must have wanted to take some back to its hoard. What do you have in your beak anyway, little guy?”

“You let it in!!?? Why??!”

“Poor thing was probably hurt and who knows what our neighbors might have done with it. Now could you show me what you got there?”

The bird obediently opened its beak to drop the item into your palm. Upon your further inspection it appeared to be..

“A ring?!”

It was once those words were spoken did the crow hop off your finger. Its bones began to crack as it began to horrifically morph before your eyes. As your friend started screaming its body elongated and completely changed its anatomy.

The ring long laid on the floor from you dropping it in shock until this man, no, creature stood before you.

It had long black talons, a lanky figure, and those infamous pitch black wings. It has messy black hair in front of its eyes and a sinisterly small smile on its face.

Your friend started to run around screaming but that was quickly stopped once a talon stopped its insanity.

It finally raised its head towards you and showed you its purple eyes which made its smile seem to be softer.

“Please, (Y/n), be my victim.”

[romanticchemacademic]

Dear future health professionals and stem professors,

We need a revolution of thought. Only through a renaissance of pure and genuine passion towards medicine and other sciences will we have competent doctors, nurses, other healthcare workers, and teachers. We live in a world where people pursue noble professions for the sake of social and economic advancement. However, we lack individuals who love the process of learning and their career.

I recollect quite a marvelous excerpt written by one of the world’s greatest scientific minds, Albert Einstein. In his book, The World As I see It he writes:

ACADEMIC CHAIRS ARE MANY, but wise and noble teachers are few; lecture rooms are numerous and large, but the number of young people who genuinely thirst for truth and justice is small. Nature scatters her common wares with a lavish hand, but the choice sort she produces but seldom.

We all know that, so why complain? Was it not ever thus and will it not ever thus remain? Certainly, and one must take what nature gives as one finds it. But there is also such a thing as a spirit of the times, an attitude of mind characteristic of a particular generation, which is passed on from individual to individual and gives a society its particular tone. Each of us has to do his little bit towards transforming this spirit of the times.

Compare the spirit which animated the youth in our universities a hundred years ago with that prevailing today. They had faith in the amelioration of human society, respect for every honest opinion, the tolerance for which our classics had lived and fought. 

  I believe that one of the faults lies within education institutions. Educators rely on testing, textbooks, and detached memorized lectures. Lectures lack passion and another essential factor: the real practice. The theory is important but the practice is necessary to understand the theory. But without passion, nobody will learn to love the material being taught. Ibn Sina is known for being one of the greatest physicians and teachers of Islamic medicine. I am not completely sure whether what I am about to mention is true. But I read that when he lectured theory to the medical students at the Madrassa (University) he would show them how it worked. Besides medical history and theory. He also taught physics, astronomy, philosophy, and mathematics. However, he is also famed for being an excellent teacher duly because he would take his students to test out the theories and practice what they have been taught. If they were learning medical theory, they were taken to the hospital to observe patients and their cases. If they were learning astronomy, they would all gather in the evening to look up at the heavens to look at the constellations. Lastly, his passion for his vocation was the final touch. Educators without the drive cannot teach. Learning is about understanding oneself, others, and the world. Learning evolves our minds and our spirits by making us get in harmony with the universe. I believe this ties in with Aristotle’s famous saying, “The unexamined life is not worth living”. Though my interpretation may be a wee bit off, I translate it as thus; we can gather all textbook knowledge as possible but if we do not put into practice the knowledge learned, what is the point? I yearn and I pine to experience all that I have learned. I want to see why the theory makes sense in reality. I want to conduct experiments. So much potential is being wasted. Biology is the study of life. However, when I took the course, it was so cold to a point that it did not even feel like I was studying the human body but something alien instead. There is also such a rush to memorize material within a couple of weeks because of exams that the material ceases to be interesting and becomes more of an arduous chore instead. Our sense of time-shifted completely after the industrial revolution. Perhaps this is a reason why we feel the need to rush through everything and not take our time to study profoundly. 

We need another Scientific Revolution, curious minds thirsting for the acquisition of knowledge and unanswered questions. However, I believe that the leading force behind this is a necessity. I would like to mention an example to illustrate what I mean from a novel I read a while ago called, The Physician by Noah Gordon. A boy from Medieval Europe lost his mother from an unknown disease leaving him orphaned. He then grew up with the necessity to learn what the disease was and how to prevent other similar deaths, so that others do not suffer what he has suffered. He then worked with Barbers (people who performed medical procedures in Medieval Europe). But the medical knowledge these professionals had was not enough to answer his question. Thus, he traveled to Persia where there was a quite renowned and exclusive medical school. He did not have the economic means or previous schooling to attend but he impressed the headmaster with his passion and knowledge. Thus, the headmaster admitted him into the Madrassa. The European boy then invested all his time doing research, dissections and treating patients until he finally found out what ailment caused his mother’s death, side sickness (appendicitis). He figured out a way to treat this illness, removal of the appendix. From his initial necessity which was the driving force for him to pursue a medical career, he became a famous physician and felt that all his suffering and odyssey were worthwhile. The sense of necessity leads to the feeling of passion. It was his love for his mother that made him follow such a journey full of obstacles. I am beginning to apply that to my own life. I want to figure out my necessity which will be the driving force to power through university and medical school without ever feeling burnt out. I want to feel fulfilled. I believe this is what all pre-medical students and teachers should think about. What is your necessity? We are going to be dealing with human life, someone’s mother, father, friend, sister, uncle, lover, husband, or child...It is not something to be taken lightly. I know so many doctors lacking empathy because they went into the medical field with just the intention of being acknowledged as “Doctors” and getting rich. But I feel that even the most apathetic healthcare workers can become great empathetic professionals the moment they realize that something was triggered deep inside them, perhaps a loved one having an unknown disease. This would lead the apathetic doctor to do mass amounts of research to try to find a cure. This feeling becomes a necessity. A necessity to not lose the loved one. A necessity to save lives. Thus, finding passion, purpose, and becoming a better person. Though each person is different, we all share a selfish feeling. Most of the time we do not truly care about other peoples’ suffering until it happens to us. Once we are affected by something, we drive all our time and attention to find a solution or a way to deal with a problem. We become consumed and completely obsessed by it. I regard this as passion. I do not think passion subsides, it lingers on inside us. It is a fire that never burns out. I remember my high school teacher writing in my yearbook:

Remember a few things, BE PATIENT. You are eager and you will accomplish so much. But take your time, you are always rushing. Life is a journey, it is not about the destination. Be picky. You love everything with enthusiasm but enthusiasm can burn out. Find a fire inside yourself that burns for a long time.

-V

We cannot rush our personal legend. I believe it comes to us. It is Maktub (it’s written). But we also have to do something. Imagine you are on a stranded island but you have a machete, a fishing rod, coconuts, a cave for shelter, wood for a fire, an ocean full of fish. Everything required for survival is there, but you simply have to cut open the coconut with the machete, go fishing for food, fire to cook, and warmth. The fish isn’t going to swim right into your hands and the fire will not light itself. We must use our resources and do our bit. The Universe has a lot going on, we must help out a bit.

If you ever think about quitting, try to remember what made you start your odyssey in the first place. I do not know what my necessity is yet but that is okay. I believe it will come to me eventually. So for now, I simply love to romanticize academia. I like to imagine the: earthy tones of the universities archways, cobblestone paths, laboratories with clean Erlenmeyer flasks, beakers, pristine white lab coats, bunsen burner flames changing colors as different salts are added, Bromothymol Blue pen stains, elegant calculations inside a worn leather-bound notebook, formulas scrawled over the blackboard, forgotten cold Irish breakfast tea on the desk, academics discussing theories, applause from a successful experiment, gray rainy days spent inside the lab, Whitman, Hemingway, et Sir Arthur Conon Doyle being read during break, intellectual conversations with professors, chemistry reports being written, molecular models built, volumes of ancient words, fire slowly burning in the stone fireplace, trying to understand, looking at the constellations on a clear night in the astronomy tower, reciting poetry, Tchaikovsky playing whilst completing a long lab report on Lê Chatelier’s theory of Equilibrium, curious minds, sleepless evenings in the library, beautiful anatomical illustrations...Just imagining these things motivate and inspire me to continue my path. Though it may seem superficial, it awakens something inside me. I yearn and I pine to become a Chemistry Romantic. 

I want to conclude this letter by saying that pupils and educators keep ideals alive and can change them accordingly as well. We have the power to become excellent professionals or simply exist and do nothing for the human race. But if you plan on becoming a physician or educator, you must find the trigger which brings your passion to life, your necessity. Once you find that, you are guaranteed greatness and fulfillment. However, do not rush. Perfection takes time. A couple of obstacles should not hinder you from persevering. Many will tell you to give up but do not. That is the Universe testing you. Do your best until you master the topic. Once you know better, you are then able to do better. 

Regards,

Confessions from a Chemistry Academic

[wendimydarling]

Cover the Mirrors

Summary: Amber is earning a masters degree in mythology and folklore; when a handsome stranger sweeps her off her feet, she’s left wondering how, and struggles to keep up with his lifestyle.

Pairing: Vampire!August Walker x OFC (first person reader)

Word Count: 6826

Warnings: Alright, we ready to get into the menu of delights we will be reading today? Okay but seriously, if you are triggered by anything on this list, it is your responsibility to not read this work of fiction. The warnings are as follows: manipulation, subtle exhibitionism, fingering, penetrative sex, mention of oral (male receiving), biting, clawing, choking, blood, male violence, gore, non-con, rape, spitting, fear play, primal play, breeding, mention of death, torture, and potentially cannibalism, if you squint.

A/N: Okay so this story is based off of this thread where @killjoy-assbutt-1112​ gave me a fic title, but I added another twist to it that I’d been brewing for months; I was excited about it but now I’m not. Whatever, I’ll give it to you anyway. Sources for my vampire lore came from here and here. Cover art was made by me; August was drawn by the amazingly talented @cheyentjj​ and has been used with her permission. Thank you so much to everyone who brainstormed with me, and a special thanks to @agniavateira​ for betaing! 

“If you look at the Slavic region, vampire folklore runs rampant. One especially interesting specimen is the Pijavica. The Pijavica (translated “leech”, or “drinker”) was a rare species of vampire— traditionally male, and a powerfully strong, cold-blooded killer. The potential for conception is most commonly believed to be through the incest of the deceased with his mother during his life, though some believe that one can be created through the exceptionally malicious and evil acts of the deceased before his death. 

The birth of a Pijavica is attributed to many different causes, including suffering an “unnatural” or untimely death such as suicide, excommunication, improper burial rituals, or even simple causes such as an animal jumping or bird flying over either the corpse or the empty grave, being conceived on certain days, or being born with a caul, teeth, or tail.” 

I paused my typing, fingers leaving the keyboard in order to brush loose strands of hair from my face. Around me, the baristas of my favorite coffee shop were buzzing like worker bees in an old hive; they were gearing up for the lunch rush, and I realized I’d been here four hours already. 

This place had long been my go-to study zone. It was small; there was just enough hustle and bustle to keep me from descending too deep into the abyss of studying and yet, it had the respect of the patrons that a library does. The owner, Fred, made sure that conversations were kept in hushed tones, courteous to those of us who needed to work in noise instead of quiet. 

“If ya wanna be loud, go sit at a Starbucks!” He’d huff at those who didn’t heed his warning.

My eyes took in the familiar surroundings as I stretched. An oversized wood-burning fireplace filled the wall next to the vintage cash register; it was sandwiched between two built-in bookcases housing stories of all kinds that were meant to be read and enjoyed. The old stone clackling ran all the way up the wall, and a custom mantle made from an old oak tree that had fallen in Fred’s backyard sat delicately above the firebox. Yes, this shop was magical. It held a special place in my heart, and I’d visited so often that old Fred had deemed the table I sat at as “my table”. It was always kept reserved for me. 

I reached for my coffee without looking; my brain needed more caffeine. I’d spent months on this master thesis, and yet for some reason, the notion of vampires was such a struggle. I didn’t understand the fear of those who lived back then. The origins of bloodsuckers were chaotic, the “treatments” laughable and still, people were willing to kill their own offspring over such nonsensical superstitions. Cold drops of stale roast hit my lips in a harsh reminder that I’d finished my previous dose. I sighed heavily and dropped the cup to the wooden surface of my table. Eyes closed, I laced my fingers around my neck and drew my elbows together to stretch my spine. Coffee. I need more coffee.

“Having trouble?”

A man’s baritone, smooth as whiskey interrupted my thoughts. My body jolted at his leisurely tone, and I nearly tumbled off the chair as my eyes snapped open to view the intruder. Sitting across from me was anything but a man; I was in the presence of divine artistry, two breathtaking orbs of gray-washed sky centered below auburn curls that adorned his perfectly symmetrical face. A sharp nose pointed to his strong jaw, while an amused smirk tugged at the corner of lips that I’m certain could send even a nun to her bedroom for self-maintenance. He wore a crisp, pinstripe suit, the buttons of his dress shirt undone sinfully low, revealing a smattering of additional curls. 

My oversized turtleneck sweater and leggings suddenly felt subpar.

“The name’s Walker,” he mused further, gesturing a large hand toward the empty paper tumbler that was now lying on its side. “What were you drinking?”

“I--I um,” I fumbled with my words, embarrassed by my sudden inability to form a proper sentence. “I had a flat white? With two extra shots of espresso.”

The man named Walker had the cup in his hand and was out of his chair before I could blink; he was already ordering another coffee by the time I managed to process his intentions. I watched him hand the barista a bill I couldn’t see, but by the shocked expression on her face at the man’s declination of the change, it must have been a sizable amount. He sat down at the table again and stared at my chest unabashedly, making it clear he wasn’t just looking but imagining as well.

I should have been offended or felt objectified, but instead I felt drawn into his gaze.

“Having trouble?” He asked again, gesturing this time at my laptop.

“How long were you sitting there?” I blurted out, still too flummoxed to answer his question. Walker laughed and I swear, time stood still. Never in my life had I heard something so beautiful.

“Long enough.”

His reply was short and cryptic, a dismissal of my burgeoning curiosity. The barista chose that moment to bring two orders of coffee to the table, offering both of them to Walker by mistake. I took in her awestruck countenance, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that if my face matched hers I’d sink to the floor and die of shame. That notion shook me from my stupor and I was finally able to address his question.

“It’s my master thesis,” I explained, taking a sip of the scalding liquid he handed me. “I’m a History major, with an emphasis in mythology and folklore.”

I took another sip and tapped my phone, large numbers greeting me on the screen. Numbers that told me I was extremely late.

“Oh my god I have to go, I’m so sorry!” I apologized, scrambling to pack my things. In my haste I knocked my drink off the table. Resignation sunk in deep, submission to the knowledge of further humiliation at the impending spill. None came however, as Walker caught the drink in his hand before it crashed to the dark tiles.

“Thank you,” I murmured, gawking at him in bewilderment. Who was this man?

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, standing to help me collect the remainder of my books. “I’m interested in your thesis, could we perhaps discuss it over dinner? I don’t want to keep you from your next engagement.”

“I—” I stared at him, his face open and inviting. I’d been asked out before, but never this abruptly, and never by someone who looked and behaved like him. It sounded like an adventure…or a good story to tell on girls’ night at least.

“You know what, sure. Why not?”

I scribbled my number onto a napkin and slid it his way, grabbing the rest of my gear and heading toward the door. As I pushed against the hard metal, Walker’s large fingers caught my wrist, wrapping around it like ivy wraps around a lamppost. They were cool to the touch and yet somehow, my entire body immediately felt heated.

“We forgot first names,” he chuckled, “I’m August.”

I grinned sheepishly, pulling my arm from his surprisingly firm grip. The clank of the metal door handle resonated with the introduction I threw over my shoulder as I left the warmth of the shop and the handsome man behind.

“Amber.”

It took August a full week to call me. I felt like a fool; Did I leave on a poor note? Had I offended him somehow? Did he simply decide to change his fucking mind? I was kicking myself for saying yes; how could I have agreed to go on a date with a complete stranger? Now that I was no longer in his flustering presence, I began to see reason again. I knew nothing more than this man’s name, and the fact that he was more than likely rich. He could be a cold-blooded killer for all I knew, and I had every intention of telling him off.

I was in my apartment when he called. Still stuck on my thesis, I was currently unable to determine how best to explain the theory behind the sexual appeal of vampires. In my frustration, I hung upside down over the side of my bed, reading a book that discussed the many different works of literature revolving around vampirical romanticism and hoping the blood rushing to my brain would help me ascertain how to go about my explanation. The book was written by two authors who essentially argue the whole time, one of them convinced that the human fascination with vampires stems from the cannibalistic nature of bloodsucking or that it alluded to other bodily fluids such as semen, whereas the other stood firm in his belief that it held a much simpler cause; it was nothing more than the presence of oral fixation and sadism that caused the fantasy to plant its seed.

My phone vibrated but I ignored it, too engrossed in my book to be bothered with answering. I was so close… the answer was right there, it just continued to escape me. It wasn’t until my phone vibrated a second time to notify me of a voicemail that I put the pages down and picked up the electronic device.

The moment I heard August excusing his delay in calling to a work emergency, I immediately sat up and hit redial. There was something in his voice that made my heart quicken and my pulse race; it made the hair on my arms stand on end. I regretted sitting up so fast as it rang, the blood surrounding my brain draining quickly into the rest of my body. August answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Amber.”

“I—hi.”

I rolled my eyes then flinched in pain, congratulating myself sarcastically on how pathetic that response sounded with a slap of my palm to my forehead.

“Please, allow me to apologize again for waiting so long to call,” August insisted, seemingly unphased by my lack of vocabulary. “I still intend to take you to dinner, that is if you haven’t written me off completely.”

“No it’s fine, I totally get it,” I assured him. I had completely forgotten my earlier annoyance. He had explained it after all, and it could happen to anyone.

“Perfect. I’ll send a car tonight then, at seven. Wear something revealing please, I wasn’t able to see that pretty little neck of yours last time.”

My insides shook with an unexpected pang of shocked arousal at August’s request. The sexual confidence saturating his tone had me instantly reduced to nothing more than a deep desire for him to drag me to my knees by my hair. Why I wasn’t offended by the dominantly abrupt way this man spoke to me, I’ll never know. I put on the best flirty air I could manage in my stupor.

“I think I can manage that. Might have to charge you though.”

August laughed for the second time since I’d known him and I smiled, proud that I’d caused such a melodious sound to grace this earth.

“I like your spirit; you’re gonna be fun. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I—okay bye,” I managed to say before he hung up. I stared at my phone stupidly, as though I thought he was going to call again. Instead, the large clock face glared up at me like it always does, an ever present reminder that I live on a different plane of time than the rest of the world. I fell back on the bed, thinking about the man named August.

He likes my spirit? I hadn’t really shown him much, I’d been unable to do anything but stammer and trip over my words like a schoolgirl would when confronted by the cutest jock at school. What could he possibly see in me? The woman I truly was, the one I knew was underneath the bumbling idiot finally answered me. You’ve got three hours, Amber. Show him what you’re made of.

Resolve set in, and I bounced off the bed and walked toward my closet. For whatever reason, he’d chosen me, so I was going to let my confidence in that thought override all the self-doubt that was threatening to surface. I pulled my favorite dress from the hanger and set out to work. He wanted revealing? Then revealing is what he’d get, but I was going to do it my way.

The car was punctual, though I was less so. I scrambled to put diamond studs in my ears while being driven to some unknown location, my nerves making my hands shake. Once again, the notion that I could be driving to my death crept up my spine, but I brushed it off. Rich men send cars, it’s what they do. And I am an intelligent woman, I wouldn’t let myself be put in that situation.

Would I?

Touching the final stroke of Red Wine lipstick on my lips, I pulled my loose curls over my shoulder to expose my neck and put my things in my vintage black clutch, staring out the window at the ancient building that housed the most expensive club in town. I was suddenly grateful I’d chosen such a fancy dress. I fidgeted with the soft hem of the sleeve at my wrist, drawing it back and forth between my fingers while I waited for the driver to come to a stop.

I saw August there waiting, looking sharp as ever in another expensive three-piece suit, buttons undone just as low as the first time. This time however, I felt much better matched to his attire, and my confidence rose right next to my excitement. August came down the steps to open the door and I took his hand, hiking the burgundy velvet up to my thigh so that I could exit the car smoothly. The heavy fabric dropped to the ground the moment I freed it from my grasp, allowing August to study how I’d chosen to honor his request.

August drank in my covered form, taking in the way my dress hugged my curves and accentuated what it needed to. His eyes darkened as they lingered on the single large triangular section of bare skin that started at my shoulders and came to a point between my breasts, and I watched his tongue dart out of his mouth softly. He looked downright hungry. August stepped closer, fingertips grazing the flesh on my collarbone before he fastened his grip onto my nape and inhaled the hair at my temple deeply, pressing his lips to my ear.

“You are simply mouthwatering,” he growled, low and possessive. His hand released my neck and slid down to the small of my back, sending a shiver down my spine. My insides quivered at his touch, fragrant drops of dew pooling rapidly in the flimsy lace that guarded my mound from potential intruders.

“You wanted to see my ‘pretty little neck’,” I teased his earlier arrogance, lifting my skirt to traverse the steps leading inside, “I thought I’d frame her for you, give her the spotlight.”

August cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement, sensing my challenge. His fingers dug into my hip a little harder than necessary as he guided me through the establishment with nothing more than a nod to the hostesses. Apparent jealousy marred the face of one, and I thought I saw a hint of worry on the other. We were gone before the emotion could register in my mind.

I was escorted to a private booth in the upstairs of the establishment. While the first floor was crowded and full of people, the second floor was empty; August had requested it for our use alone. I could hear the hum of nightlife below, the haunting, non-lyrical melody of a soft alto wafting over the balcony as we walked past, the whispered promise of an enchanting night. A few tables and chairs were strategically placed on the floor, hugged by back-to-back rounded booths on either wall. Light ethereal curtains hung on either side of them, offering privacy from the guests who would typically sit in the next box over. August led me to the corner booth nearest the balcony so that we could look upon the stage if we chose.

“Our table, milady,” he joked, leaving a wet kiss on the back of my hand. Though the charade was seemingly in jest, it could not have been farther from it. His piercing eyes never left mine and I gasped at the feel of his brazen tongue on my skin. The suggestion of what he could do with it hung thick in his gaze, lacing the air with the succulent first tendrils of decadent tension. Playing along, I took a sharp breath and curtsied. I stayed low as August stood to show him the appeal of my figure at this angle, tilting just my head to look up at him. He stood there, head held high like a king, and the smile I received at my display was downright sinful.

“What a treat you are,” he murmured, cupping my chin briefly. My breasts swelled as I stood, consenting August the claim to chivalry by way of settling me into the alcove. He swept my hair over my shoulder again, trailing a single finger down my neck in admiration before taking his own seat. My insides were nothing but a pile of kindling, and every touch he gave was a spark that threatened to ignite the dry leaves into a burning flame of need.

The courses came and went just like those moments, every phrase emphasized with physical intimacy of some kind, whether it be just a gossamer brush of his fingers on my ear or an intentional grasping of my hand. He went as far as to boldly stroke the back of his knuckle along my cleavage, making me dizzy with desire. Each touch was avaricious—like he owned me—and I had zero qualms about letting him.

We ate our fill, but August made no move to leave the comfort of our small corner. With the noise of people below dulled by the far reaches of our seclusion, it was easy to converse. I told him more about my master thesis and the Pijavica, how they could read minds and enjoyed the power of persuasion, how they were impervious to all but decapitation, and how only their offspring could kill them. He listened intently, sharing tales of his own career. It was how I discovered that he was a doctor.

“I don’t practice anymore though, I prefer to study and learn. Specifically, I’m attracted to tears.”

“Tears?” That struck me as odd; it wasn’t often you came across someone who had such a unique field of study. “Why tears?”

August swirled the whiskey in his glass and downed it abruptly. He subtly indicated to our attendant for another before continuing his explanation.

“I’ve always had a fascination for the small things, things that people don’t seem to think matter; the mind-body connection, you know? For example,” he brushed a thumb over my cheekbone, “Did you know that the cellular structure of tears looks different based on the type of tear?”

August cupped my neck with both of his hands, tilting my head this way and that, his calm features set in measured focus as he spoke.

“Basal, reflexive, emotional... they all look different.”

I closed my eyes, letting him caress my skin. August’s touch was intoxicating, addicting. Even his scent was an aphrodisiac to my senses. I couldn’t get enough of it, lured ever closer to his sturdy frame, letting him manipulate my body how he saw fit. He nuzzled my hair, his soft spoken words dripping with lust into my ear.

“In fact,” he went on, “Even among those categories they differ, dependent on the stimuli.”

I could feel his breath on my neck, his lips surrounding the pulsepoint in my veins as he spoke, my jaw his destination. A hand snuck under my skirt, skimming along my trembling skin toward the seeping treasure that awaited him at the end of his journey. I spread my legs willingly, inviting him into my deepest of secrets. August hummed as he went on, sending spirals of tingling vibrations through my chest.

“The sting of onions, the sadness of grief… the satisfaction of overwhelming pleasure.”

“August…” I breathed, but my voice was severed as August simultaneously laid claim to my mouth and my womb. Thick fingers penetrated me in the same moment as his probing tongue, and it was in that moment I knew I was lost; August Walker could pull everything from me and I wouldn’t care; I’d want it, need it. He had spent all night teasing me, testing me, manipulating me and filling me with nothing but a desire for more, leaving me empty and wanting. He had succeeded, I now craved him above all else in this world.

August lifted my skirts, hoisting me with little effort to straddle his lap and I cried out in shock. The sound of my sudden impalement on the thick steel of his manhood was camouflaged by the crowd of people below; no one heard the echo of carnal awakening that sang through the air. When had he undressed? I bit my lip as he sank deeper into my core until the salty bitterness of copper and iron stung my chin. August’s eyes fell to the red droplet, darkening until the only color left in his pale irises was the very absence of light. With a hideous growl he ravaged my mouth, tasting every inch of my bruised lips with the hunger of an animal that’s been caged for far too long.

Thrill and terror tangled themselves in my mind, weaving an intricate web of wanton desire inside of me as August took me right there in the booth. Time itself seemed to halt, the room disappeared. Were we still in the club? Was it still the dead of night? Did I still require oxygen to breathe? Or was my life source now August’s touch, the light in my very soul dependent upon his kiss?

I didn’t notice when we left, nor when we arrived at a house that overlooked the city. I didn’t notice the lock on the basement door, or the fresh garden in the yard. I didn’t notice the continual rising and setting of the sun. I didn’t notice when I grew hungry, nor when I grew tired. I didn’t notice, not anything but passion, need, and desperation.

I didn’t notice.

Sleep drained from my limbs slowly. I awoke to black silk caressing my skin, dim sunlight shining through the wall, diffused by a covering of clouds that hung in the sky. It confused me that it was coming through the entire wall, until I realized that said wall was simply one large window, and the room I found myself in was built into the rock of an obsidian cliff overlooking the city. The room was minimally decorated in dark tones that coordinated with the nature outside, save for a striking, golden painting of a woman crying on the far wall. I clearly wasn’t home, and last night’s events slowly returned to the forefront of my mind.

August.

August was, without a doubt, the most attentive lover I’d ever had. Memories of his lips, his scent, his god-like physique that was surely carved from marble entertained my thoughts, returning my mind to the pleasure I’d never experienced in my life. Chills ran up and down my skin, alighting in wonder as my hand drifted to my sex. My fingers found my petals, swollen from overuse, aching in the dull agony of satisfaction. I stroked them gently, soothing the pleasant tenderness, moaning softly as the blood rushed to swell my clit once more, my other hand slipping beneath the silk to join in the heavenly edging torment.

A sharp, sudden sting at the brush of my inner thigh caused me to cry out, my hands snatching away from their play. I sat up, peering beneath the sheets to discover a semi-circle of divots cut into my leg. Is that a… a bite mark? I pulled at the skin and felt the dried blood crack, a small pinprick of new red seeping through the scab. I lunged from the bed to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and look for other signs or markings, but what I found made me gasp.

Bruises peppered my neck, chest, hips and thighs. A few other crescents were scattered amongst them, standing out against the dark patches that shaded my skin. I took a physical inventory then, feeling the soreness in my jaw from being stretched by his cock, the ache of my neck from having my hair pulled, the shaky feeling of muscular fatigue in my legs from being tensed by orgasm after orgasm. I thought I detected a slight sheen on my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was from the tremulous bliss of a satisfying fuck, or if it was the sweat and oil caused by said satisfying fuck. Either way, I looked happy and content. I grabbed August’s dress shirt from the floor and threw it on as I left the room to explore.

The bedroom led to a hallway, the wall to my left still nothing but expansive glass that showed off the impressive view. On the other side were large, black and white abstract prints, hung evenly spaced against dark panels. To the left of each was a shadow box with an ornate glass vial inside; each bottle was thin, no longer than my palm and differing in design from the others. Tiny, intricate patterns were painted on the outsides in white, blue, and gold, and gold stoppers sealed each one. When I entered the main room, I discovered a curio cabinet that housed at least a hundred of them, and I leaned in to look at how varied each one was.

“Victorian tear catchers,” August’s voice was suddenly behind me and I whirled sharply, startled. He chuckled at my alarm and I laughed with him, enjoying that glorious sound.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured, turning back to look at the delicate glass. August pulled me against his naked chest, nosing my hair and kissing my neck.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, earning an eye roll from me. August chuckled and opened the cabinet.

“Would you like one?”

“Really?”

I looked at him, stunned. He simply nodded his head in the direction of the vials and I examined them, selecting one that had a white pattern on it that looked like lace.

“Mmm, a good choice. Perhaps I can collect tears of ecstasy for you,” August whispered. The thrill of what he was implying awakened my senses, and I let him lead us slowly back toward the bedroom. I felt like teasing him, so I delayed a bit by asking about the art on the wall.

“What are those?” I pointed to the first print, a cross-hatching pattern that looked like it was made of sewing pins.

“Those are tears of grief,” he stated, stopping in front of each as he walked me gradually down the hall.

“A yawn,” he said of the next, a white background with dark, fern-looking splatters. August traced his mouth along my jaw, his hand dipping beneath the button of his shirt to play with the sensitive nipples he had rediscovered. I keened as he continued shifting us toward the kitchen, struggling to keep my composure. The next print was a much darker gray, and it looked like it was covered in snowflakes.

“Any guesses?” August asked, mouthing my earlobe in tandem with the flick of his thumbs over my hardened nubs. I whimpered, my knees weak in his lustful embrace.

“Uhm… cold air?” I rasped as he sucked on my neck. August chuckled through his nose, the vibrations of his voice rippling through my chest to connect with his teasing fingers.

“Onions.”

“Yeah okay.”

I tilted my head so that I could kiss him, but suddenly the thought of onions turned my stomach. I lurched, pulling away and gagging slightly. Instead of concern, August smiled knowingly, seemingly unbothered by my retching.

“I see morning sickness has set in. It’s a little early and I had hoped you’d be able to avoid it, but alas, that’s not the case.”

My head swam suddenly, confusion mutilating all thought. I backed away from him.

“Morning what? What are you talking about?”

August took a step toward me, placing a hand on my belly and lacing his fingers in the hair at my nape.

“Women always taste better after they’ve conceived. And I can keep them longer; they make much more blood when they’re host to a fetus.”

I pushed against him, turning away and vainly attempting to process his words. Pregnant? Taste better? Blood? My eyes focused on a card I hadn’t noticed earlier in the shadow box, a single word printed on it.

Bridgette

“Isn’t it ironic,” August mused, tracing my collarbone with a thick finger, “That five weeks ago, you had a chance encounter with the very thing you’ve been studying for months, and now you carry his child.”

The room spun. I couldn’t think; my brain refused to process the nonsense he spoke.

“Five—five weeks?! No that’s not possible, our date was last night!”

“It’s more than possible, sweet morsel. Think about it.”

Bile rose thick and acrid in my throat then, threatening to spill. Memories and time started filtering into my mind, replacing the fog with everything I’d lost. The last puzzle piece clicked into place, confusion all but disappeared and I was left with nothing but the cold, terrifying truth. Pijavica. Vampire. Monster.

I’d fallen into the clutches of a monster.

I did the only thing I could think of; I slapped him as hard as I could and took off through the house, ignoring the sharp pain of a chunk of hair remaining in his hand. My heart pounded in my chest, desperate to be free of this sudden nightmare. I slammed into the front door and grabbed the handle, a strangled sob catching in my throat when it wouldn’t open.

I rattled the door knob, panic consuming every fiber of my being. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my life I was fighting for; apparently there was a life inside of me that needed protecting. The child of a Pijavica that was depending on me to escape, so that he could come back and kill his father. I have to get out. I gave up on the door in anger, spinning around and looking for another way.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

I heard August’s voice again, but he was nowhere to be seen. His voice came louder, penetrating my mind. I have to keep moving.

“It was because of your name; they match your eyes.”

I whimpered at his words, sneaking my head around a corner to survey the living space for some form of an exit.

“Amber has a historical application, you see,” he went on, louder. I dashed over the floor, desperate to be gone from him. Door after door remained locked, and my terror grew with each attempt. Every now and then I could hear August, whether it be a rustle of fabric or the knock of his foot on the wooden floor. The scholar in me knew that it was on purpose, that he was luring his prey, giving chase to his food, and yet my rational mind refused to take charge. I was being led by my flight response, and his jarring monologue wasn’t helping.

“Throughout history, whenever a goddess cried it was typically tears of amber, save for the goddess Freya, who cried gold. You met her in the bedroom.”

His laughter echoed through the dark walls of his lair, and chilled me to my core. It was no longer a beautiful sound, but grating and horrible. I was nothing but a petty human to play with, some toy that he could eat when he tired of me. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I came to the last door. Dear God, please let this one open. To my utter relief, the door swung wide and I was met with stairs. Stairs went down, and we were on a cliff. Down was good. Down meant freedom.

I clambered down the steps and flung open the door at the bottom, stumbling into the room and falling to the floor in horror and fear. There in front of me, was nothing but mirrors. A maze of mirrors, each one showing me my trembling features, mocking me, letting me know just how fucked I was. I turned back, intending to go back up the stairs and try another way, but August’s silhouette stood at the top, preventing me from going back into the house. I heard a scream and realized it was my own.

Scrambling off the floor, I took off into the maze, blinded by my tears.

“Each of those girls made it this far you know,” August taunted. I heard the slam of the door and nearly choked as I ran. “You’ll die in this room, just like they did.”

His nonchalance, his continual unconcern about chasing me, his arrogance that he would no doubt catch me made me so angry. I raced from path to path, growing ever more frantic every time I reached a dead end. I didn’t even know if this room had an exit, I just knew I had to keep moving. I tripped over something as I rounded a corner, screaming when I saw what it was.

“I see you found Bridgette,” August chuckled, and I looked up from the skeleton to see his hideous face marred with a sinful sneer. I gasped and took off again, turning this way and that. Hitting another dead end, I doubled back and ran smack into August’s broad torso. He caught me and held me close as I screamed, ripping his shirt from my body. He spun me around, pinning my wrists between my back and his belly, trailing his fingers languidly over my naked frame in an inspection of his handiwork. My jaw was gripped in an iron vice and August forced my gaze to the mirror.

“Do you see what I see?” he mocked. I could only stare in horror, for nothing but my own terrified expression stared back at me.

August had no reflection.

“Out of all the patterns in the world, do you know which tears are my favorite?” August continued to torment. He inhaled my hair deeply, snaking his tongue along the length of my cheek, tasting the stains my tears had left in their wake.

“Fear.”

I heard August growl as I fought against him, his iron grasp caging me against his cool skin, more of the cursed moisture pooling in my eyes. Glassy drops fell, retracing a new path toward my chin but August just kissed them away, shoving me to the floor when my knees buckled of their own accord. He let go of my hands to fidget with his slacks, pulling me back toward him every time I tried to crawl away as a parent would to a petulant child. On the third attempt he snapped my knee, a scream tearing from my throat in my woeful submission to his desire.

Finally free of his clothes, August lifted my hips, lining his rigid cock up against my sweat-soaked folds. He dove into my treasure without care, forcing his way into the depths of my belly, stretching and tearing my walls until he was fully sheathed. Strong arms wrapped around me again, and I felt two sharp points prick the junction of my neck and shoulder. I cried out and thrashed in fierce protest, knowing that small pinch was just a warning of oncoming pain.

August’s teeth punctured my skin easily, shredding muscle and sinew until they hit bone. I howled in pain as I watched blood drip from the wound, a familiar crescent shape joining its brothers on my body. Searing heat shot through my neck with his first draw of thick plasma; the violent removal of blood causing an intense burn that I felt all the way down to my injured leg. August released my neck and I clapped a hand over the fresh wound.

I looked over my shoulder at him; his head was tilted down, mouth still full of my blood; the lack of a reflection behind him unsettling to my senses. August opened his wicked maw slowly, dark scarlet trickling from his lips onto the junction where my hips met his, run through by his sword. He looked up at me with a nasty grin, bloodstained fangs curdling my stomach. I closed my eyes and turned away as he swiped a hand through the mess. His fingers penetrated my core alongside his cock, deaf to my sobbing objections.

“You’d better open your eyes, pet… This needy little cunt is dripping, I’d hate for you to miss it.”

August emphasized his sick joke by grasping my hair, shoving my head to the floor, forcing me to look once more into the polished glass. My desperate wails for mercy were all that kept me grounded as I watched him thrust, my battered hole be stretched beyond capacity. Nothing but empty space plundered my core, crimson air bruising the very place within me that only just last night had been treated with such tenderness and care. Not last night. His slick fingers found my mouth and violated it effortlessly; no amount of pressure I could apply would break through his tough skin.

“God, you look so beautiful.”

August pulled me up and took to my neck with fervor, latching onto the broken sliver of skin like a leech. The more he drank, the weaker I became, until there was no resistance left within me. I could see the color drain from my bloody face, I could see black slowly creep into my vision, but I was powerless to stop it. August was in charge, he held my entire existence in his hands, and he intended to extinguish it. I closed my eyes again, accepting my fate.

I was going to die.

One of my favorite places to visit is a small outdoor cafe, very near the coffee shop where I met Amber. Mmmm. Amber. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of that tantalizing woman.

She lasted so much longer than all the others, you know. I was able to feed off of her nearly three full months as she hung there in my basement, until the last drop of her tantalizing nectar was finally extracted. She smelled of carraway and saffron, tasted of sweet mulled wine, and with the rich, heady, piquancy of her fertile womb seasoning each sinew, every inch of her opulent flesh begged to be consumed. I must admit, I should have dispatched of her sooner, but fascination overtook my curious mind as her own was consumed by insanity.

First it was freedom she asked for, and then death. Sometimes she would beg to speak to her mother one last time. But by the end, she only asked for one thing.

“Please,” she would whisper, “Please… Cover the mirrors. Just cover the mirrors.”

She asked so nicely, but how on earth could I hide such beauty? Her tears were just as rare, you see. They hold a beauty unmatched by any of the others that hang on my walls. I’ve never seen such a fear pattern like hers; it is more exquisite than the dawn of a misty spring day in the countryside, more beautiful than a woman at the height of euphoria. And they way they sparkled against her skin, lustrous tracks that wound down her temples and through her hair, glinting in the mirrors with each slow rotation of her inverted body... well, it was as if I was living among the stars. Adding her ashes to my garden was such a shame.

I sat at that little cafe, eyes closed, viewing the world through my enhanced scent. Each drop of bitter coffee, the pollen of a nearby bee, the oil in the bike chains of two clumsy humans as they rolled past; each note and fragrance alerting me to its owner. A familiar scent reached my nose and I turned my head sharply, focusing on it.

Carraway… Saffron.

I smiled softly, opening my eyes to greet the woman that now sat at my table. The honey irises that had intrigued me all those months ago met mine and I chuckled low.

“Amber.”

Read on AO3.

[marzipanandminutiae]

Hey, I know you live in MA and are into history. Do you have any strong opinions about the salem witch trials + the romanticization/horror storyfication of the trials?

Yes. But I have different thoughts about the romanticization and/or horror-ifying of the events and the town of Salem as it is today.

For the first, strongly against. 20 innocent people were executed, and more suffered mental and physical trauma during imprisonment. It’s not a case of ~creepy evil demonic magic~ or even #girlpower with witches as we now understand them victimized by the Christo-patriarchy. A bunch of Puritans judicially murdered a bunch of other Puritans. The least respect the victims deserve is to be represented accurately.

(My favorite fantasy representation of the Salem panic is the Physick World series by Katherine Howe. The tired old “real witches in Salem!” trope made new by a historian author with clear understanding of her subject, who manages to handle it gracefully and in its proper context.)

The city of Salem gets a lot of flak for the way it capitalizes on a tragedy, mostly by people who’ve never been there or only visited once. And yeah, if you’re going as a tourist, all you’re going to see is the very tacky surface: the crappy tourist trap “museums,” the “Good Witch/Bad Witch” shirts, the poster that looks like a contract selling your soul to Satan in exchange for Hot Demon Sex(TM).

,..okay, I only saw that poster in one store. But still.

However, I can’t hate modern Salem, no matter how tasteless some of its cash grabs may be. Because I spend a lot of time there when the world is as it should be. And I unabashedly love it.

Tourism from the Panic has allowed a place that might have sunk into obscurity when it lost the shipping trade to flourish, becoming one of the weirdest and most wonderful cities in the USA. Salem has so many fun, unusual shops and restaurants; so many events that wouldn’t be sustainable anywhere else. So much emphasis on historical preservation, from stunning houses and public buildings to actual legit museums like the Peabody-Essex Museum and the Phillips House. And, yes, good tributes to the Panic victims, like the official memorial and an interactive show called “Cry Innocent” (based on the trial of Bridget BIshop).

Plus, you’d be hard-pressed- with apologies to Giles Corey -to find many communities with such open celebration of individuality. Alternative types, vintage and historical fashion enthusiasts, LGBT folks, pagans and witches, and combinations of the above all get to feel normal and accepted. Sure, there’s inter-community drama and the usual biases can still rear their ugly heads. But overall, the general atmosphere is very “anything goes.”

The tacky tourist stuff makes me cringe, but I can’t really regret what Salem has become. So little of the weirdness I love is even consciously linked back to the Panic that Salem’s witchy vibe has kind of become its own thing. I love Salem. I hate the fictionalizing/commodification of historical tragedies. I don’t think these feelings are mutually exclusive.

But cheesy, inaccurate horror movies about the Salem Panic can kiss my ass.