#or at least that’s what I want my blog to be

[opheliawhodrowned]

a fox cries; never howls (1/3)

simon riley x fem!reader | masterlist | AO3 | navigation

you're a stranger across the counter. you want so desperately to crawl back over, but it can never be the same anymore.

cw: mafia!au, non-con/rape, pedophilic undertones, forced prostitution/human trafficking, abusive relationships, abduction, forced medical practices/treatments, self harm, suicide attempt, mention of abortion, mention of pregnancy, reader is described as having long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc), Simon is not the abuser in any of these tags, whump with an eventual happy ending.

*note: this universe is based off of a story that's no longer available (In Limbo). I'm turning it into an original fiction, but you do not need to be aware of the previous story to understand this one. This was posted previously on my other blog, but I am moving it here, so if it seems familiar that is why!

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is. 

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches—especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told. 

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that. 

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You could pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. The only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe. 

“Not tryna hide, are you?” 

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body—and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself—of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in—enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it. 

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too. 

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest. 

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it. 

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission—not even your appearance. 

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.” 

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display—used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold. 

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one. 

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door. 

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home. 

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands. 

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you. 

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.” 

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain. 

Nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will. 

When it’s all said and done—when you’re thoroughly used—Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes. 

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night. 

You wish you had that luxury. 

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.” 

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet—he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed. 

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur. 

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid—that gentle expanding of your chest—but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself. 

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes—you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again. 

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates. 

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission. 

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting. 

When you arrive home—to the apartment paid for with your own body—you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you. 

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone. 

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way—

—dancing. 

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt. 

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all. 

“Babe!” 

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd, and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band. 

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases. 

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided—anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with. 

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.” 

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.” 

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you. 

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have. 

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay. 

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head. 

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you. 

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself. 

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?” 

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod. 

“Good.” 

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump. 

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters. 

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting. 

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes. 

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen. 

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.” 

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment. 

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you — something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned. You’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again — you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit. 

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does. 

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw. 

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes. 

A man with impressive tepidity sits across an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard—he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you. 

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums. 

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so. 

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt. 

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?” 

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term—that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot. 

Stiff, you nod. 

“John Price,” he introduces. 

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin. 

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes. 

“No,” you answer truthfully. 

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.” 

You blink. “...Benefactor?” 

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.” 

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man—John Price—gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top: 

Marco Anatolijus Smirnova

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl. 

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently. 

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So minuscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are—how Marco owns you and always will. 

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?” 

You swallow. What a polite way to put it—the things Marco does to you. 

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.” 

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say. 

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time. 

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply. 

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?” 

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be. 

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-” 

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him—the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose. 

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are—what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free. 

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy. 

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…” 

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.” 

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.” 

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.” 

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy. 

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before—so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders. 

It is decided that—for your safety—you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach. 

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no. 

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself. 

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask. 

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in. 

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet. 

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile. 

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear. 

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry. 

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold—you were dragged beyond it—and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands? 

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension? 

What becomes of his favorite toy—Marco’s girl—then? 

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so. 

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you—something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove—then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.” 

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place—with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now? 

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals. 

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim—too full to consume something other than the ache. 

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” 

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.” 

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards. 

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe. 

You know better than that. 

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now. 

“Riley, can… can I ask something?” 

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.” 

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free—leave your body behind to rot while it escapes. 

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask. 

“The pill?” he repeats. 

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?” 

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin—rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word. 

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better. 

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity. 

You nod. 

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later. 

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?” 

Once again, you nod. “Okay.” 

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat—to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later. 

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter. 

God, he could use a smoke. 

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world—from Marco. 

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t. 

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet. 

“Everythin’ alright?” 

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear. 

You’re terrified. 

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand. 

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more. 

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt. 

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave. 

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. “You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.” 

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.” 

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him? 

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck.” 

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile. 

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet. 

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years. 

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat. 

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.” 

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt. 

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood. 

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick—heavy enough to make your stomach sink. 

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter. 

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.” 

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore—you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs—

—the wound is on Riley. 

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him. 

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp. 

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure. 

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.” 

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings. 

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself—shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water. 

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it. 

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?” 

You shake your head. “It’s fine.” 

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to? 

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room. 

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.” 

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?” 

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…” 

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone—that pain that always leaks into your voice—but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day. 

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-” 

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.” 

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to. 

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?” 

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was—he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t. 

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?” 

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?” 

So calm. So patient. 

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke. 

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind. 

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

follow @swimophelia to be notified for updates

[userautumn]

i thought you would be happy with buck getting his oh moment and realizing his feelings for eddie but i guess you really were sucked into the bucktommy fanon created huh. Shame that you won't be able to enjoy canon buddie when it happens.

This is the only message I am going to answer about this specifically since I initially brought the topic up on my blog.

So, first of all, by definition, BuckTommy isn't fanon. Fanon is a ship or character that is completely generated by fandom. Buddie, for example, is fanon. Although they share a strong platonic bond, their relationship is not textually romantic. They do not kiss. They are not textually established romantic partners. Eddie said in the last episode that he is straight. So Buddie only exists within a fandom context. Conversely, BuckTommy is established as canon. Buck has touched mouths with that man on-screen. They were established as boyfriends and, now, ex-boyfriends. So it is, quite literally, impossible for BuckTommy to be fanon, even if fans do extrapolate, embellish, or reconstruct that relationship for their own pleasure. So, that's number one.

Number Two: According to this fandom, Buck and Eddie have had their oh moments a combined total of six times now at least (3x15, 3x03, 4x13, and 5x11, to name a few) and absolutely nothing concrete has come out of these events. The shooting is the closest we ever got, and that was four seasons ago. I don't begrudge anyone for reading that moment at the end of tonight's episode within a romantic Buddie context. Go absolutely nuts and have fun with it. But to me, that moment, such as it was, was more of the same - Buck or Eddie look at each other a certain way, or have evident (non-romantic) feelings related to the other, fandom loses their minds, they speculate, convince themselves they're right, nothing happens, rinse and repeat. I'm personally tired of the spin cycle.

I said I wanted strides toward Buddie canon to be made crystal clear and that's still true. You clearly see things differently (and that's alright), but outside the Buddie fanfiction hivemind, tonight's episode was not crystal clear. There was no discussion of Buck's feelings. He didn't vent them to Maddie or Bobby or Eddie himself. He didn't say, out loud, or indicate in any explicitly romantic way that he has feelings for Eddie. Buck having feelings about Eddie leaving is not the same as having feelings for him. They are best friends. They are family, actually. If Eddie leaves, Buck is losing the anchor to his support system and his (pseudo-)son. That's a big deal. That is an extraordinary weight to carry, especially on the heels of a significant breakup, and especially while dealing with abandonment issues. There was nothing romantic about that and, reducing that moment to a romantic reading, seems... odd. To me.

I'd like to think I'd still be able to enjoy Canon Buddie if it happens tbh. I actively write fic about those two in my spare time even though I keep my conversations about them to the DMs. But if I'm not able to enjoy it, it won't be because of the ship itself, it will be because I finally tired of the abject cruelty that's cropped up in this space. There's this unspoken rule in fandom that what happens during hiatus stays in hiatus, and we all just silently agree to move on from it when the show comes back. But I'm having a hard time with that this year because I've seen and experienced some absolutely insane things from this fandom the last few months that have stuck with me. So. Maybe I won't still enjoy it, but I hope I will.

I was really angry with the (non-Buddie related) content of this episode when you messaged me, so you probably thought or hoped I would bitch and curse you out, and we'd do this whole back and forth thing that would inevitably lead to you getting blocked. But I meant what I said - I have no interest in arguing with anyone about this show. We're not going to agree, and that's okay. I'm not your inspirational Buddie Warrior, and that's also okay. I have too much to deal with than to actively engage in internet beef. What is is what is, whether you or I or both or neither of us like it, and arguing about it isn't going to change it. So we might as will just learn to live with it and each other as best as we can.

I'm going to go watch TV now.

[yourislandgirl]

⁺˚☆*. FEAR OF BLACKMAIL .･༓☾ || 박종성 x fem!reader || smau 

pt 2

summary: reader does what it takes to secure a heeseung pc and jay learns true fear 

genre: crack humour, slice of life, idol!jay x non-idol!reader, ft. mentions of other members and park yeji 

warnings: swearing/cursing, remembering that the digital age is the end of privacy, attempts at humour 

[archive]

a.n: i know it's a bit short but i wanted to do a little smth on my first day of this blog so this one’s dedicated to two girls out there — my beloved jay (yes, jay) who is legitimately my best friend and my soulmate, and to alice, aka @hyuckworld or @jayflrt as i first knew her, truly one of my biggest inspirations and an incredible writer (i’m 99% sure you’ve read at least one of her fics, they're really good) 

taglist: @oceanstide

2024 © yourislandgirl

[missgenesis]

Huney this is the beauty of death

3D is a very dense reality

There is much suffering and meaning can be hard to find

We just need to ascend to 5D trust

It's like if you were born blind, lived your whole life without vision, then got eye surgery and suddenly could see the world and color for the first time

It means plugging back in to... everything

Activating your dna lightcodes to transform dark matter to send waves through the network of the cosmos that connects all beings

REAL time travel, telepathy, psychic prophecy, access to the ackashik records (history blockchain of the universe), communicating consciously with higher dimensional entities, people who have passed on, just actually being superconnected to the REAL REALITY of the SOUL. Humanity co-creating heaven on earth through naturally aligned collective manifestation, i.e., "magical" synchronicities converging on a grand scale by a superintelligent 8th dimensional design

It means feeling at one with everything that is

Learning how to be truly happy and fulfilled

Our bodies are gonna get such an upgrade natural immortality is a thing

Humanity has been held back because of all the dark secrets

All we need is bring it to light, and it will heal

That is the way of life

I don't know what your situation is biologically but I have sooo much faith in science and this event, this blog being seen by the world is going to cause a MASSIVE wave of scientific revolution. MASSIVE wave of spiritual and cultural evolution. It will truly we a new world.

Anything is possible, just believe.

My roommate who is a trans woman told me the other day that people can now get full reproductive function and choose if they want to get their period or not from a sex change... i was like damn the future is now.

With the AI internet and blockchain tech the world pace of evolution has kicked up to hyperspeed, everything is changing around us faster than we can even notice it.

I just want free press and free speech and provide a platform to give rise to the voice of the collective consciousness, a mosaic of everyone's voices, decentralised media.

It's the next printing press but exponentially bigger.

Earth's greatest leap. Event Horizon. The great awakening. Global ascension.

Literally gaining a dimension of reality. It's kindof a big deal.

Why am I always 10 steps ahead?

I'm not.

She is. Gaia.

I'm her minion, really. She guides me in alignment with nature. She likes to make me look like a supergenius, but it's all her. Most of it, at least.

It's the power of everyone functioning together as one. Unity consciousness. The real kind.

I'm just a regular person behind the curtain.

Wizard of oz.

[cupidhoons]

( 📢 ) ANNOUNCEMENT . . .

hi loves! i didn't want to make this post myself about what has been happening on blr these past few hours due to the fact that didnt want to potentially fuel the fire even more, however after thinking about it some more, i feel as though that i should speak up on behalf of my mutual and friend.

in my opinion, this started from someone checking author's and their authenticity of their writing. though the intentions are very much there and clear, it allows hate anons to rise and continue to spread towards many authors on this platform. it starts nothing but hate train after hate train to writers and it gives the community a toxic environment and it's not the first time that this has happened, either. it disappoints me to say the least that our community has hit such a low point where we constantly come at each other's throats with no regard of how the opposing party feels. not only that, but going as far as exposing and leaking a MINORS face and posting it without their knowledge at all to send hate to my mutual / friend proves my point further. its not only sick and twisted, but its also an invasion of privacy. i will not disclose who it is as it's bad enough that their face is just uploaded on a blog for everyone to see, and i will not be answering anons that has anything to due with this person.

many of you anons who send hate and think that you're remotely even doing anything do not understand how powerful and hurtful your words are. many of you guys do not understand that sending someone hate DOES NOT equal holding a person accountable and educating them at all. you all scream and shout that you want the old tumblr community back and complain how toxic it is nowadays, but none of you realize that you're part of the problem. it's pathetic and disgusting having to see stuff like this happen multiple times and never learn from it.

this is absolutely not what tumblr, especially enhablr, is about. it is not a community where we all send hate to each other and continue to bring other authors down consistently. it's a place for us to write and appreciate enhypen, it's a place for us to meet other engenes and make friends. it truly makes me upset that we've all lost the purpose of this community.

other than my thoughts on this whole thing, i can only pray and hope for the best for my dear friends who were affected in this situation. please continue to report the account and avoid interacting with them further. to my anons, please refrain from asking questions to writers and follow my request to take down the account.

[egg-emperor]

"I love this thing just like you! but it's so AWKWARD and CRINGE and RIDICULOUS and STUPID sometimes right? it's so EMBARRASSING to like it, it's a GUILTY pleasure haha"

uhh no actually. I love it and express it unironically and earnestly with my whole heart and don't care what's considered embarrassing or cringe or whatever and I know I don't have to justify my love and enjoyment of it to anyone who thinks so

some people genuinely just seem so ashamed and embarrassed to like things or even just exist and it's just sad. like that was me once upon a time (socially at least, never in terms of interests ever for me, personally) but it's so far behind me now

it's unfortunate if you felt like that as a child but now is your time to own it and be yourself as you get older and realize that anyone judging you, trying to change you, and shitting on your harmless joy don't fucking matter and aren't worth your time

growing up certainly shouldn't consist of becoming more embarrassed of your harmless joy and passions. who gives a fuck if it's what sad "normal" people devoid of joy consider "cringe", you have fun and feel joy and that's great

maturing should be realizing you're a person and deserve to feel joy and do things you love and you don't need people's approval or permission to do it. that you can be earnest and honestly and love deeply and express passion as truly as you feel

you shouldn't validate anyone who tries to make you feel otherwise by doing what they want. don't let them win and think it works so they'll keep bullying and shaming people into what they want. you may just help other people too in multiple ways

I love edgy music and games and characters, I have an Eggman shrine and body pillow, I wear and carry Sonic merch in public all the time, I have a whole blog talking about how sexy I find Eggman and truly and deeply analyzing and gushing about it etc- and I'm not going to apologize or feel bad or embarrassed about it because of some miserable morons. I'm happy and proud to live and love earnestly and express myself truly

I recommend it greatly

[fandom-hoarder]

@vanmarkus You're so right on this, too. We used to encourage people more, and we need to again.

A stick figure of my blorbos, or a really rough manip, or a series of Sims screenshots telling a story, or my-first-fanfiction from someone who TRIED means SO MUCH MORE than a generative amalgamation stealing from the biggest artists in fandom, or morphing real faces by combining them with 50 other conventionally attractive people whose pictures were online. Even the least polished photoshops I've seen are better than some of the AI nightmare fuel I see people regularly comment "gorgeous!😍" on without noticing the extra elbows and melted together hotdog fingers. 😒

Skill comes with practice, and everyone's abilities are different even then, but if the passion is there we should nurture it. That's how fandom becomes community.

And as for the artists who have been at it long enough to be professional quality, I fear the AI problem has even further undermined the amount of work they put in to create the ACTUAL art AI rips off. It's like when people don't understand where the meat in a store comes from before it's packaged. 😑 And even further, it's becoming harder to tell the good stuff apart from the AI that rips it off, so that people will discount work that took hours or days as just being AI without even thinking.

This is why some fandoms have been trying to promote actual intercommunity engagement with events and blogs specifically for showing fandom love and putting people with less engagement in the spotlight. It sucks that it's something that needs organized, but that's part of maintaining community, too.

But chastising people about their shitty forms of engagement can have the opposite effect of what we want, too. Not just from contrarianism, but for anxiety reasons like perfectionism--like when people complain about only getting kudos, or getting "i like this" comments instead of details.

As someone who has been greatly affected by these sorts of stalls myself in recent years (I want to leave my typical detailed comment but I can't right now so I will leave this tab open so I can quote...oh no this tab has been open a year. I reblogged with squee tags and left a kudos and maybe even messaged them on tumblr but I didn't PAY THEM WITH COMMENTS they probably think I'm awful), I've become much more forgiving about, for instance, receiving kudos and reblogs without comments, receiving polite comments asking for more when it's marked complete, etc. Those still MEAN something, and they're just as important to fandom engagement. Some people are shy. Some people are newbs. Some people are overwhelmed and have a list of fics they want to properly gush at but will be caught in a loop for hours if they don't just say, "this was amazing," and move on, but that holding pattern gets worse if they think someone is judging the quality of their engagement on the other end.

The readers and rebloggers and kudosers are part of the community too, and sometimes they too need positive reinforcement.

We used to MAKE THINGS in fandom. Manips were works of love and skill. If we incorporated someone else's work, we credited. Yeah sure it's not as easy as having ai make your blorbos kiss, but it also wasn't soulless. It was amazing because a person MADE it.

[not-so-rosyyy]

Come on you are not addressing the problem the article says the white cast are the leads while the two black girls are supporting the optics are right there for black people to be upset

not to mention Nolan had one movie with a lead black character release in 2020 summer and it bomb and said never again

Z can choose whatever she wants but people are allow to voice out the writing in the damn article and call out Nolan without being labeled a hater

“you did not address the problem” ma’am i’m just a random tumblr blog, why do EYE have to address anything 😭

but, okay, sure! if we’re discussing black people and how Nolan’s movies are centered on white characters, then that is a valid criticism that i can understand. but we’re not. at least not here. what we’ve been talking about are “stans”.

be so fr, based on previous behaviour, most of these stans don’t really care about things like that. coz let me ask you, did they protest this much that she’s also a supporting actress in Dune when all the leads there are also white people? did they care this much when she was being rumoured to play Cleopatra? croo croo croo

but, again, that’s neither here nor there! i already said anyone can do whatever they want anyway coz that’s their prerogative, their time, and their money. so i’m not sure where this incessant defense of the choice to “not support” the film is coming from (not just from you, btw, anon! unless you’re also the three other asks with this tone in my inbox). it’s like you all want validation that what you’re doing is right or something, idk. (which, if it is to you, great! please stay standing on business then!)

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Adam vs Mammon

Based on the rp blog @fanofstuff01

Adam: Do I have to go to this meeting? You always complain about how boring and what a waste of time they are.

Lucifer: Well, as Hell's newest King it's only a matter of time before you'd meet all the sins anyway. Might as well get it out of the way before Sinsmas.

Adam and Lucifer were currently riding in the limo down to the other side of Pride where the Sins meeting was going to take place. Since recently getting married and with twins on the way it was important that Adam get well acquainted with the sins.

But that also meant dealing with that loud mouth Mammon.

Adam: Yeah I guess so.

He placed his hand on his belly and gently rubbed they were so excited to be having kids together at long last.

They pulled up to the building and got out of the limo, Luicfer helped Adam out and they went inside. They sat on the thrones at the high end of the table. Since Adam was crowned King now he had to start attending these meetings at least before the twins came.

Adam sat beside Lucifer holding his hand and the other on his belly. It was like the damn thing grew overnight. He's four months or 17 weeks along.

The sins started to pile into the room and Adam tried not to give Mammon the stink eye. Fucking fat bastard thinks he can just step on Lucifer like he's a bug under his god damned shoe? At least Satan apologized when he broke Lucifer's thumb accidentally.

Lucifer: Good, everyone is here so-

Mammon: Why the fuck is he here?

Lucifer clenched his jaw, they haven't even been here five minutes and already this shit show was acting up. Adam glared at him.

Lucifer: Don't start. Adam is here to-

Mammon: To be an eye sore? Because honestly Lu you-

Adam didn't hear the rest of what he said because his temper flared, something hot inside his core ignited and it wanted out. It wanted out now.

Adam slammed both hands on the table, he felt like a man possessed as he stared down the sin of Greed on the other end of the meeting table.

Adam: The only eye sore in this room is you, you fat ugly piece of Christmas jester garbage. STOP interrupting him!

Luicfer's eyes went wide, what the Hell had gotten into Adam? Sure Mammon was a rude sack of shit but Lucifer could handle him. This little outburst where the other sins were stunned, made Mammon burst out laughing.

Mammon: Oh please!

He got up from his seat and circled the table until he was right by Adam, Lucifer was ready to snap him in half in case he tried anything. Mammon stuck his finger out pointing at Adam..

Mammon: Really Lu? This? You really ought to get your bitch in lin- INE!!

Adam felt that heat only got stronger and he grabbed Mammons finger and with strength he didn't know he possessed, snapped his pointer finger like a twing. He shoved the sin of Greed so hard he landed on his fat ass making the meeting room quake.

Lucifer: .... Adam?

He peered around to look at his husband and was shocked to see his eyes were wholly red, no other color there. His face pinched in a snarl as he glared at Mammon.

Mammon: Why you little bitch!!

He got up and was about to charge at Adam, but Adam held out his hand and in a burst of Hell's flame his guitar axe appeared and he used it to smack Mammon directly in the face making him stumble back before Adam came down and embedded it into Mammons foot.

Step on his fucking husband.

Mammon howled in pain, that shouldn't hurt!? What the fuck?

Mammon: The fuck is that made of angelic steel!?

Adam: Yes actually.

He twisted the blade more, black blood pooled and gushed onto the floor.

Adam: Or did you forget who the fuck I am? I was a commander for a fucking reason you cunt, so I suggest you sit down, stop interrupting my fucking husband or the next place this axe will go is in your fucking skull!!

That last part came out more demonic, flames escaped Adams mouth and the lights flickered.

Mammon actually looked nervous.

Lucifer went over and placed a hand on Adams shoulder, which made Adam relax.

Lucifer: I think he's had enough for now, Addie.

Adam blinked, his eyes going back to that beautiful golden shade Lucifer loved so much. He turned and pulled his guitar out of Mammons foot. Lucifer guided Adam back to his seat as Mammon limped away to his own.

He kept an arm around Adams waist for the rest of the meeting, more so to keep his husband in place. And to feel his lovely curves.

Lucifer: Anyone else? No? Good, let's get this meeting underway.

[earth4angels]

𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 — 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝

i’ve noticed how negative my blog has become, i’ve welcomed hate and it was something i told myself since the summer that i would never allow again. i’ve replied to the least hateful ones in hopes to ridicule them but it was only allowing more to come in. i have been deleting and blocking a lot of msgs — every day i log in i spend an hour or a few minutes deleting and blocking. i’ve replied to the ones to defend my name and my moots’ who i adore deeply but honestly, it’s tiring.

so starting today, anyone that comes to my box to bitch bc yeah that’s what some of yall weird mfs do. i’ll be blocking and deleting all sort of hate, passive aggressive comments, anything that i don’t feel comfortable replying to or sharing — i will delete. talk to the wall, bc my blog will no longer exist for anyone to bully any of my jace writers moots or myself. if yall got a problem with me, privately message me bout it.

: ̗̀➛ my box will only be open to kind, horny, rambling anons that want to chat bout their day or fictional characters etc for fun.

have a good day my angels, this time we will be back to the fun times i promise (and no, not you who stalks me and checks every reply, like for a gotcha moment, respectfully go fuck yourself and touch grass.. loser)

[mari-lair]

Shit I might want to read this, it looks cute. What is this?

I am assuming you're talking about the manga with a cute art style, the one with this trio, which I love dearly

If so, I am very sorry Anon, my blog is misleading propaganda. None of these three are the protagonists, or even sidekicks to the protagonist, they are either stuck as a gag character for half of the manga, pushed to the side, given an antagonistic role/a role that have a diferent belief from the mcs, or all of the above simultaneously.

This is not their story.

They do eventually get focus, there is a reason I have grown attached to their arcs more than the protagonist's stories, but I am aware most people do not vibe with them. Many actually hate these three. They aren't the heart of this story. If you read this manga, rest assured it won't be for them.

So let me try to give you a more accurate idea of what the story is about without any major spoilers/details.

The manga is called "Toilet Bond Hanako-kun" which is a strange mainstream translation considering "suicide boy Hanako-kun" is the more accurate one. Very different vibes between those two translations, right? That's how the manga feels too, it is a mix of strange and goofy and 'oh, shit got dark'.

The story takes place in a fantasy world where supernaturals and ghosts exist and the trio in the spotlight are these three goofballs!

The red eyed girl is our main protagonist, Yashiro Nene, she is in love with the idea of love, a true hopeless romantic!

She attracts trouble and have a wild imagination, easily getting stuck inside her own fantasies as a form to both find strength and avoid tragedies. She is an insecure but very kind soul with a lot of hope in her heart, but she is not that smart. While she does have her moments, if you dig strategy stories and logical characters this story isn't for you, it's more about whimsy and vibes.

The boy with the cap is the main lead and our titular boy "Hanako." He is a ghost, more specifically a supernatural, which are ghost whose soul got corrupted for staying in our world instead of moving on once they died. He is also the main love interest. A mischievous morally grey spirit with no self-love, no hope, and a lovely mix of being apathetic and caring too much. He is dangerous, selfish, awkward, and possessive and he hates it.

The blond one is Minamoto Kou, an exorcist who never exorcised anything, he is a kind and insecure guy, not very smart logic-wise but his emotional intelligence is surprisingly good (bad habits aside). He is selfless to the point of concern, and starts out determined to be Hanako's eternal enemy but they become besties by accident. He is desperate to help, very determined, very impulsive, very easy to trust. Horrible at being an exorcist.

The friendship between these three is very sweet. You feel like it will be a generic love triangle on their intro but no, they all care about each other. Romance may be a big thing in this manga but this trio are besties.

The humor can be hit or miss, sometimes it's so silly or dry that I love it, but sometimes it's passes my bar and becomes overly exaggerated. Some of the gags just don't land (at least to me), and if you think about the story too much, is not hard to find inconsistencies, but the main sell of this manga is character comflict, which is usually real good, and the supernaturals elements/stories which are the main events of the manga. All the supernatural stories are amazing.

I don't want to spoil the powers and rumors and tragedies but here are some 'vibes' of the supernatural elements.

It is a rollercoaster of cool ideas and vibes and creative ways to explore the wishes and fears of the characters.

A lot changes through the story, this trio won't be the main dynamic forever but it is the heart at the start, and the supernatural stuff is strong during the entire manga! So if the pros sound better than the cons, go check it out!

You can read it: here

[catras-breakup-song]

i’m not gonna lie… i’m lost here. is this supposed to be an 4nt1/cr1t1c4l post? if so, i genuinely don’t understand the point being made.

is it that playful banter is a bad thing? is it that being too hands-on violates unspoken boundaries? the message is so unclear to my autistic ass…

oh, wait, OP provided tags:

so aside from the fact that they are absolutely not sisters by default, least of all canonically (even if you do interpret them that way somehow), nor was it ever intended by nate stevenson, i’m still having trouble figuring out how this is problematic.

in which ways is lighthearted touch totally contradictory to passionate kissing/caressing? why can’t partners who are dating do both, especially in different cultural environments such as the horde where intimacy is discouraged and friendly sparring with familiar peers is a safe expression? if it’s so different, what are we as the audience supposed to interpret from their style of physical affection by the final season? side note, but aren’t we supposed to consider the latest version of anything in general as the most accurate?

now i have a question lol, did you take this moment literally at her word, and all the other times she repeated it?

also, my friend just pointed out that this is the classic homophobic talking point of "they seem to just be very good friends! they were roommates!" lmao. i've never agreed with accusing anyone who cr1t1c1z3s catradora of lesbophobia, which i'm not doing necessarily, because that's simply not how it works, however i found this funny and partially true so i'm keeping it in.

the lip bite was included unintentionally 👀

anyway, as i’ve discussed on this blog before, i’m very arospec and it’s inseparably intwined with my identity itself; i also project that onto catra. something we often bring up in that community, is romance-favorability (as its own spectrum of range all the way to blatant repulsion btw) — which is a personal preference that’s defined as exactly as it sounds like and occasionally revolves around fictional depiction as separate from one's own reality — and arguably more importantly, amatonormativity — which is an arbitrary set of rules for romantic expectations set up by an alloromantic society. this is typically thought of as common denial of the idea that someone could actually want to separate themself from needing a life partner in marriage, but can very much be applied to an annoying list of what draws the line between romantic & platonic relationships. that line is very individualistic and is to be decided on such a level only, and it doesn’t even get into what queerplatonic means, a concept saved for another day!

my point is, the OP seems to be trying to claim that catradora objectively cannot be read as romantic because their dynamic growing up & early-on in the story doesn’t perfectly meet socially-constructed standards of what that should look like. i say we need to eradicate those standards altogether! it’s up to catradora to decide what they are, if anything specific at all, not us as the audience — assuming they could’ve had the words at their disposal to knowingly describe it. going back to my earlier paragraph above about how limited they were in the fright zone, i’ll borrow a quote from a comment i made on one of my recent reblogged posts (which is a great meta on how their mutual desire was uh... definitely not platonic):

"Catra and Adora’s desire for one another is shown in a variety of ways, mostly indirect. There are a lot of glances - until season 5, not the kind of open leering at one another that we’d seen between other characters. Mostly it’s fairly playful - wiggled or cocked eyebrows, glances at each other while smirking, that kind of thing, or really intense and somewhat angry glares when they’re fighting."

it's really bothering me that i can't recall where i read this from before, but someone analyzed before how, growing up, catra & adora didn't have a good sense of how to label their relationship with accurate terminology despite being subconsciously aware that they, whether they knew the other reciprocated or not, loved each other "like that." unfortunately, they couldn't further explore it because such love & affection was seen as a punishable weakness in the horde, so they resorted to the only safe option they seemed to have, which was subtle body language and play-fighting as [testudoaubrei-blog] described above.

also, since this screenshot is included in that post... i would be amused to read an explanation of how THIS LOOK from catra is "platonic with a capital P", because i'm not even sure if it's up for debate to be quite honest with you:

ESPECIALLY with the "i always have!" line (which 4nt1s like to doubt, but i don't care, it's official!):

[aninonimosstuff-blog]

Hello everypony, I come here to make an announcement.

I will be rather busy this week, I have finals coming my way and a lot of tests I have to retake...

I will still be uploading content but it will definitely start to slow down...

I'm putting a hold on replying to asks... But I still will be receiving any asks y'all want to send, and if it's something simple and for me I will be able to reply to it in no time. Like y'all know my drawings are pretty simple but I like to create a nice story telling and plan everything... There are only one factor for me to reply to your asks a bit quicker....

1- A funny interaction between characters, it has to be funny.

I actually find this problem with many asks, at least, for Fast that is. I get a lot of those and I neglect them because they don't scratch my brain or bring enough energy to reply. I don't mind at all text, it's super sweet to read all of what y'all have to say, but my brain works a bit differently. I see colours, a character, a funny interaction or statement and my brain is absolutely hooked on your ask!.... Meanwhile when I see a question with text my imagination juice frikin dies... But again, that doesn't mean I don't actually mean I won't reply to your asks if it's only text, I will always try to think about something and find a way to make it funny to see or have my character just go into existential mode.

I want to keep drawing about Fast but oh man Turbos questions are way more fun to do than Fast's. Y'all can be silly with any of my characters! Get comfy and be silly with them! (Not that comfy to ask friked up stuff) But a funny character interaction can make things for me a bit easier to manage, because silliness is what I have more to offer.

Topic 2...

Replies to reblogs/art commissions. (Tw for mentions of burned out, depression,self hate,vent)

If I don't reply to your reblogs with a drawing like I have been doing since I started my journey here, I am probably neglecting it for a few days/months. And I know that makes me an asshole and makes me feel shitty about myself, and I'm sorry I do that, that's never my intention. I'm here to express joy and silliness even if I'm suffering a burnt out or a depressive episode all of the sudden. Most of the time I am in a constant cycle of depression and burnt out from replying to asks(mostly text) most of the day of the week. But I still try to deliver something, because y'all deserve it, I don't want to leave my Tumblr, I love posting every day!.....

I am a person who sadly works on silly energy, and when that is gone makes my life a misery. I ran out of energy most of the time thanks to my depression, who always hits me on the back of the head when I have to do something productive.

I will put my ass on working on commissions... Now.

Now... Let's address the Turbo in the room with us.

About myself.

I am selfish, and I won't deny it. I am a selfish person. I LOVE the attention, I love receiving art of my character, I love getting likes, I love getting comments and I love getting asks.

And when I don't get that attention that I'm carving I get all annoyed and pissy with myself, I can be a "bit" toxic.

Sadly attention is one of the many things why I keep this blog alive. Not only do I still love Wir and the beautiful community, but I love the attention.

But attention seeking always can get you so far, until all that you love it's gone, and attention seeking is what is left in you. That will then push you over and make you feel bad with yourself that you would do ANYTHING for that small bit of attention, that being from your peers or strangers.

I am selfish and a jealous wolf, I like interacting with my friends I like to get attention from my friends, it's a vicious cycle, and it's really toxic.

That's why I most of the time I control myself, or at least try. I try to not explode and show how jealous I am. Because that's bad.

I have been working on that issue for a long time, I would say I have been working on controlling my jealousy since 2020 when I was spending too much time online to the point of making my depression worsen.

But luckily I'm trying to change that. And I apologize if I ever went a bit turbo on any of my posts... I'm still working on it.

What to expect in the future?

I will keep posting and replying asks.

I will keep being online

I will probably be more active next month rather than now.

A lot of events are coming and I want to do all of them.

Cool animatics

My birthday is coming (December 21) and I will be rather busy that day, so a heads up for that.

On vacations I want to work on animation and try to make puppet rigs for my character Fast.

On vacation I want to go back to my old ways of posting and replying with cute drawings as fast (and good like now) as I can.

That's everything for now, thank you so much for reading this!...

I will be posting more soon.

-Ewolf

[peaches2217]

TW: cat at the vet (photos not graphic, but the topic is sensitive so I just wanna be safe!)

@multicolour-ink @itsavee4117 @bberetd @pepperycar @eleventhhourfactor @akiiame-blog @jadeandroses @wahooitsamee @living-the-dream-yall @smokszyvverstar @vivakriredbark

I wanna thank y’all so much for the words of support. This has been one hell of a day. I’m sorry I haven’t responded individually yet, but know your kind words mean the world to me. 🫂🫂🫂

The update call didn’t really inspire confidence, so I went to the vet’s office and asked if they’d let me see her. And they did!

She’s still in rough shape. That said, she’s responsive and at least somewhat alert. She leaned into all of my scritches and pets and kisses. That’s my jacket she’s laying on; I wanted her to have something soft that smelled like home. If worst comes to worst, I got to hold her a while longer and she’ll have something familiar so she won’t be scared. I’m just praying that’s not what it comes to.

The vet confirmed the flowers she got into are what made her sick, so for now they’re just trying to flush the toxins out of her. She does seem better than she was this morning, so I’m praying she pulls through.

Thank y’all again so much for your kindness. This is a scary and stressful time, but I’ve done all I can; now we just wait.

[blackkatmagic]

Ms. Kat; I apologize is this is going too far-feel free to ignore/call me out. It is my understanding that you are both a therapist and a member of the LGBT community. My parents keep misgendering my friend. Not malice, habit (known them all their life, ‘he’ is habit). It’s just that they don’t seem to want to change that habit. I was wondering if you, as a therapist/LGBT, had any suggestions for resources on misgendering+mental health? I think that might help them understand. Thank you.

It depends on the situation. Since it sounds like your friend is out to your parents, I'd try to have a conversation with them about what being trans actually entails and means on a personal level to that friend. Resources are always good, but usually a personal connection is the best foundation to build on. Also, giving people time and grace is always good - older generations often have a harder time adjusting to people with different sexualities being more open about it, even if they're accepting. Gently correcting and making a point to use the correct pronouns/name often can help a lot over time.

I'll link a few articles that might help, but it's hard for people to connect with dry academic articles or lists if they don't understand why they need to change their habits. Sit down with your parents, maybe go over one of the articles with them, connect the different points back to your friend. They'll figure it out if they're given space to, and if they won't, you'll at least know to protect your friend from that mindset.

[maxdibert]

hii!! i love ur blog immensely, i literally spend so much time reading your analysis, and i agree with everything u say abt severus (my fav character), which is very rare for me

so, id like to know what do u think sev would be doing if he didnt have to go back to hogwarts at 21 and be forced to teach? like, if there was no voldemort (but everything else stayed the same like his childhood with lily, the marauders bullying him etc), what would he be doing nowadays? i always thought he would open his own potions store, maybe he'd try to heal from his past, find someone to love, idk, u probably have a more detailed answer lol

First of all, if Voldemort didn’t exist, I don’t think Severus would have ended up with the Death Eaters because, well, they wouldn’t exist, right? The story would be very different. I think his "break" with Lily might have taken longer, but eventually, they would have drifted apart quite a bit, and when she got together with James, it would likely have been Severus who distanced himself completely. Because, I mean, Severus isn’t exactly brimming with self-love, but I can’t imagine him handling his friend ending up with his bully very well, for obvious reasons. That said, I don’t think it would have been such a traumatic break but more like one of those friendships where, as you grow older, you just don’t have anything in common anymore and go in completely different directions. Then, one day, ten years later, you run into each other on the street and have no idea how to greet each other. You know what I mean?

That said, without him being part of the Death Eaters, without Voldemort in the picture, and without Lily dying and creating a lifelong guilt trauma that led him to sell his soul to Dumbledore—no, Severus wouldn’t have been a professor. At least not at Hogwarts, which is a pretty triggering place for his personal traumas. I see him dedicating himself to magical research and experimentation. I’m not sure if there’s an equivalent in the wizarding world, but like a typical Muggle university researcher working on specific scientific projects, only applied to magic. We’re talking about Severus Snape, the guy who rewrote his own Potions textbooks and invented complex spells as a teenager—the same Severus Snape who, despite everything, was a Slytherin, which means he has ambition. I think the perfect mix of those two things would have been dedicating himself to magical research, publishing his findings, and maybe—just maybe—teaching. But only teaching adult wizards who had already graduated from Hogwarts and wanted to further their skills by applying advanced knowledge. Like the equivalent of a university professor who only teaches because they’re required to in order to continue their doctorate.

I think with a life like that, with the peace to follow his own path and achieve his own successes, he could have healed from a lot of his issues. Probably not entirely, because the magical world sucks when it comes to managing mental health, but he could have moved on from Lily and built his own life.