#saw the original post and thought of them

[er1nne]

the interview with drew goes viral (do not copy or plagarize, original work)

Your phone buzzed incessantly on the coffee table, notifications pouring in like a tidal wave. You had been trying to ignore them, focusing instead on the lukewarm coffee sitting untouched next to your laptop. But every time your gaze strayed to the screen, that unmistakable thumbnail glared back at you: Drew Starkey’s Red Carpet Interview Goes Viral.

You reached for your phone hesitantly, chewing on your bottom lip as your thumb hovered over the video. It wasn’t like you hadn’t already seen it—you’d watched it at least five times since it went live just hours ago. And yet, the views were climbing at an almost alarming rate.

1.8M views. 2.3M views. 2.9M views.

Your stomach flipped as you opened the video again. The screen flickered to life, and there you were, standing under the bright lights of the red carpet, microphone in hand, smiling up at Drew Starkey like you’d just won the lottery.

“Drew,” your recorded voice greeted, a bit too bright, a bit too eager. “Welcome. How does it feel to be here tonight?”

The video cut to Drew, his piercing blue eyes and easy smile capturing the camera—and apparently, millions of viewers. “It feels surreal,” he said in his calm, measured tone. “Like stepping into a moment that’s bigger than me.”

Bigger than him? The comment section certainly didn’t think so.

You reluctantly scrolled down, unable to stop yourself from diving into the chaos:

• “THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER. HELLO?!” • “Girl, you’re me. I’m you. We’re all the same.” • “Drew Starkey calling this interviewer good at her job and smiling like that??? ” • “Her laugh at the end!! She’s so flustered but trying to keep it together.”

You groaned, burying your face in your free hand. “Flustered” didn’t even begin to cover it. Watching the interview now, with the clarity of hindsight, made you cringe in the most infuriatingly embarrassing way. You hadn’t just been professional—you’d been fangirling.

It wasn’t that you didn’t love your job—you did. Interviewing actors and being part of the glittering world of film was your dream. But there was something about Drew Starkey that had completely unraveled you. Maybe it was the way he spoke, thoughtful and deliberate. Or the way his eyes lingered, like he was seeing past the bright lights and chaos to something more grounded. Or maybe it was the way his hand had brushed against your elbow when he leaned in, sending a shiver down your spine that you still couldn’t quite shake.

You glanced back at the video, biting your lip as the final moments replayed.

“By the way,” Drew said, his voice quieter now, leaning in just slightly, “you’re good at this.”

Your recorded laugh was a little too soft, a little too nervous. “Well, thank you,” you’d replied, the words nearly catching in your throat.

The camera lingered on him as he walked away, and you swore you could see him glance back at you, just for a moment.

You closed the video, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you. “It’s just a clip,” you muttered, trying to convince yourself. “People are overreacting.”

But even as you said it, another notification popped up on your laptop, this time from Instagram. You opened the app, scrolling aimlessly through the flurry of tagged posts and stories from the event. And then you saw it.

Drew Starkey had liked the video.

He liked the video.

Your breath caught, your heart leaping into your throat as you stared at the tiny heart icon next to his name. He hadn’t commented, hadn’t reached out—but that single like was enough to set your nerves alight.

You picked up your phone again, scrolling back through the comments on the video. People were analyzing everything—your body language, the way you laughed, the way Drew looked at you like you were the only person on that carpet.

• “No, but seriously, he’s into her, right? RIGHT?!” • “I’m not saying they have chemistry, but they have CHEMISTRY.” • “Lord when is it my turn.”

You exhaled sharply, setting your phone down with more force than necessary. Your thoughts raced as you paced the small living room, the memory of Drew’s gaze replaying in your mind like a broken record. Was it all in your head? The playful teasing, the subtle almost-touches, the way his smile had softened just before he walked away?

It was his job to charm people. He did this all the time. And yet…

You couldn’t ignore the warmth in his eyes when he’d said, “You’re good at this,” or the way his hand had lingered just a second too long when it brushed against yours. It hadn’t felt like part of the act—it had felt real.

And now the whole world had noticed, too.

You sat back on the couch, groaning softly as you buried your face in your hands. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you muttered, though no one was there to answer.

Your phone buzzed again, another wave of comments flooding in. This was going to be a long week.

[olenoidedserratuspilled]

You spent this entire response talking about how, unfortunately, I wouldn't read it and surely I would block you

Because that is genuinely what I expected, and genuinely what the more long-term productive move in your end is.

and then at the end you basically asked me not to respond. Lol.

Yes, because I don't believe this conversation is productive to either of us, especially when you yourself stated that it's besides your original point. Keep reading if you like, but I know you are not going to shift on your stance, and neither am I in mine.

None of the examples you gave are using man-hating as a cover for anything, at least not successfully.

Emphasis on "Not successfully". The notes on all of those posts were full of the OOPs and their defenders arguing how their takes shouldn't be considered racist because they're only targeted men.

But women don't ask people not to complain about cisness or whiteness or wealth, just to stop singling out women and being misogynistic.

And I never said women should not complain about men. Only that the statement that TERFs like men is incorrect (it is), and that there very much are people who use man-hating to excuse actual bigotry to themselves and to their peers (there are).

Everyone else can complain about their oppressors, but women can't, because someone somewhere might use man-hating as a justification for something else.

I never said that. I only pointed out that it's something that happens, that it's something TERFs specifically do, and that it's a reason why the notion that TERFs like men is wrong.

If a woman makes a post about misogyny and singles out Indian men, it might because she's racist or it might be because she lives in India.

I wanna ask you if you saw any of the screenshots I posted and thought "Well, maybe that OOP is part of the racial minority they singled out". I don't think you did, because people talking about a racial minority they're part of tend not to paint them as demons or deserving of violence and death.

TERFs on the other hand, do that, and it is racist to do that. Pointing that out was the point of my post, and nothing else.

There is a long history of women of color being pressured to stay silent about misogyny within their own communities using the reasoning that the community must be united and any negativity will give ammo to racists. This puts women of color in a really difficult situation. It also serves to prevent them from forming solidarity with other women.

That's true, yes. It's also entirely unrelated to anything I said. Women of color are free to speak up against misogyny from men of color as long as they neither A) single them out as being somehow innately worse than white men (like the posts I showed) nor B) paint them as deserving of racially motivated violence for behaviors that aren't exclusive to their race (like the posts I showed).

Man-hating is not a good proxy for other kinds of bigotry.

Sure. It doesn't mean people don't use it as one. All I did was point out that they do.

You focused a lot on whether or not TERFs like men, which was really tangential to the actual point of this post.

Did you read the tags I was responding to? Because I was responding to a tag saying that TERFs like men. I focused on that because that's the statement I was responding to.

"TERFs like men actually" was referring to their eagerness to form relationships with right wing cis men to gain political power.

Right, so you can agree TERFs don't actually like men (especially not POC men), and that saying they do is just factually wrong. If you can agree with that statement, then you agree with my point, because that's the only point I'm making. You're also not the one who wrote those tags, so you don't know what their person meant.

Also, before it finally got taken down, a decent number of the posts on the TERF subreddit were from cis men claiming to be radical feminist allies who the TERFs gleefully and hypocritically pointed to as "one of the good ones" while they bonded over hating trans women.

Again, not remotely related to what I said. If what I posted doesn't count as evidence of TERFs disliking men, why should posts from a dead subreddit count towards evidence of them liking them? Didn't you just say this was just tangentially related to your post? If so, why is not conceding to that point seemingly so important?

TERFs live in the same society as everyone else (unfortunately) and in a society as patriarchal as ours, few people really hate men as much as they think they do.

Cool that you can read TERFs minds I guess, especially when I didn't think there'd be anything to read in there, but in my experience when somebody says something it's because they meant to say it.

Using man-hating as a shield for bigotry doesn't make a lot of sense because man-hating isn't socially accepted just about anywhere. It always gets pushback.

It is in TERF circles, and while TERFs do have many racist tendencies, a lot of them still at least performatively frown upon bold-faced racism that doesn't have "men" attached to it. They use man-hating as a shield for bigotry in the circles where it is socially accepted, and to justify it to themselves. That is the only point I'm making.

And TERFs spend a lot of time with the far right, where hating men is certainly not acceptable.

And they don't use man-hating rhetoric with them. They use it with themselves, with each other and to outsiders that are still receptive to it.

I don't know where you live, but on the anglophone internet man-hating is not generally accepted. And even when you do hear "I hate men," the power dynamics of patriarchy are such that it's just not a real problem.

Notice how I never said it is. That is just not a thing that I said. I only ever said that TERFs, specifically, hate men and use man-hating to excuse their own bigotry. You say you didn't mean to put words in my mouth, but you keep doing just that.

Quite often in hate movements like that, the ideology is a post-hoc justification for the bigotry. So the logic of men oppress women -> trans women are men -> trans women are bad because they oppress [cis] women may be what TERFs say but it's often not an honest representation of their thought process.

It is how they justify their thought process to themselves, to each other and to those they want to recruit, however. That is what I'm describing. That's the point I'm making.

TERFs will even say, disingenuously of course, that it would be fine if trans women would only live as gender non-conforming gay men. It's transness that transphobes despise, the act of existing while trans.

Yes, I'm aware. I've never said that wasn't the case, only that TERFs will use man-hating as a post-hoc justification for their own transphobia.

In general, a post that singles out transmascs is probably not okay, because the relevant part is that they are trans, and being cruel to trans people is… wait for it… transphobic.

Yes it is. It's transphobia that is being rationalized by the people doing it as acceptable because they're singling out men. That's the thing that I said is happening.

but that's an intracommunity issue that I'm honestly not qualified to speak on, because I'm cis. I only bring it up because I've dealt with analogous intracommunity in some communities I am a member of; it's a fairly universal concern but the particulars here are outside my lane.

That's cool, trans men still have to deal with takes like these, though:

These are people using man-hating to excuse their rancid behavior towards trans men. That is exactly the situation I described, and the one you claimed doesn't make sense and doesn't happen. And that you replied to by saying man-hating isn't a real problem - which is not a thing I said at any point, ever. Here or elsewhere.

I am not saying man-hating is a real problem

I am not saying you should not be allowed to do it

What I am saying is this:

A) Bad-faith actors have and continue to use it to excuse actual forms of bigotry. Even if you don't think they count, I've shown proof of it.

B) Whether or not it is relevant to the discussion, the statement of "TERFs like men actually" is just not factually true.

If this is what you wanted to read, I'll gladly say I agree with your original post's point. I simply reblogged to disagree with one person on the tags who said that TERFs like men, because that pure and simply isn't true.

If you're done putting words in my mouth, I do think we should stop talking here, because this is only tangentially related to your original point and fighting each other is a waste of time.

But I know you're not going to read this. And that you're not done putting words in my mouth.

Something I want this website specifically to reflect on! Are you mad at women for talking about men the same way you talk about cishets or neurotypicals? Why?

[loves-alibi]

something bad

dark!141 x reader

original post

summary: There’s something wrong with the 141��

1.6k words

warnings: implied cannibalism, violence, blood, reader gets hurt, reader is implied to be smaller than simon

***

You’re not there for the op– out on the basis of a nick to your side. Not really a nick– but rather a 3 inch blade you hadn't seen before it was hilt-deep in you.

Kate calls you in the night. You're still not well. The stitches are out but you're not ready to be in. The wound aches and burns and keeps you up at night. You consider it a blessing tonight. On account of the throbbing, you're awake when Kate calls. She doesn't mince her words.

They've gone dark.

Are they supposed to?

No.

You're on base in less than an hour. They refuse to send you after them. Hell, they don't even allow you to go in uniform. Too official for someone who’s supposed to be resting. This is on a need-to-know basis, Kate says, and you need-to-know.

Siberia in December. You’re nauseous just thinking about it. Guilt, you think. You were supposed to be on that op, leading a platoon of non-141 soldiers. You should have been there, maybe things would have gone differently.

It takes thirty-seven days on base to track them down, on top of the fourteen that they were missing before Kate called.

You’re cleared by medical by the time the big day comes, yet Kate doesn’t let you join the rescue team. She says that the op needs a level-head. So you wait on the tarmac, arms crossed over your chest to stop the trembling of your hands. You squint up at the sky for hours waiting for the silhouette of their plane to finally appear. Eventually, it does.

You’re off before the engines stop chugging, running as fast as your legs will carry you to the lowering ramp. Please be alive, please be alive, please, oh please be–

They’re not just alive. They’re… statuesque. There’s no other way to describe it, but John, Simon, Kyle, and Johnny– each of them look better than when you saw them last. Warm skin and full cheeks. Your eyes are more sunken from this last month and a half than theirs. You’re so happy to see them alive that you don’t bother to wonder how.

The boys are kept in medical for a few more days. Something about hypothermia and wanting to monitor their vitals for longer. You don’t get it. Their vitals are strong, stronger than yours have ever been. But the doctors know best.

You visit them every day, spend your breaks by their sides. None of them talk much about Siberia, an eerie silence falling over the room every time you try to bring it up.

In the time you spend outside of the medical ward, you hear whispers. People look at you out of the corner of their eyes, lowering their voice to make sure you can’t make out what it is that they’re saying.

It isn’t until you’re in the mess hall one day, when a dumbass private who doesn’t know who you are tries to impress you.

“Did you hear about the 141?” He asks, a mischievous smirk across his face. “My mate was on the rescue team– said they found bones with scratches on them. No flesh, no blood, nothing left.”

Unfortunately for the private, you’re running his drills that afternoon. You make him and all of his meathead friends who bought all that nonsense run until they collapse. They call you a bitch when they think you’re out of earshot. You ought to give them another lap– another ten –but you can’t. You’re too deep in thought– images of bones, scratched up and licked clean–

No. Not licked clean. Decomposed, you tell yourself despite the nagging voice in the back of your mind saying that the Siberian winter would certainly slow down decomposition.

The nagging is over quickly, when the next afternoon, the boys are let out of medical. They hop right back into work. Meetings, paperwork, and training.

The day after their release, you join them at the gym. You don’t expect much, maybe some light lifting and cardio on their end, but you’re dead wrong.

Johnny’s on the bench. Kyle, Simon, and John watch from a few feet away. There are more plates on the barbell than you’ve ever seen. You don’t even need to count to know that there’s about three hundred pounds looming over Johnny. Johnny’s always been strong, but even he’s never benched that much weight before.

But he clears it.

One rep. Two reps. Three reps. All without breaking a sweat.

He stops when they realize you’ve entered. Nobody addresses Johnny’s newfound hulkishness. Instead, John clasps his hands together and suggests some friendly sparring.

Sure. You could do that. It’ll do everyone good. The whole team is out of practice, so when John calls you and Simon up first, you don’t blink an eye.

However, it quickly becomes evident that something’s not right. Simon’s always been strong. He’s nearly six and a half feet of pure muscle and rage. It’s a well-known fact that sparring with him will always end in a victory for him.

Against an opponent of his mass, agility is your strength. Where he’s poised to use brute strength, you can duck and weave. It’s enough to throw him off guard enough to delay the inevitable.

But now? You can’t keep up. It’s as though Simon is predicting your every move. Moves that once would make him flustered don’t

You’re thrown to the ground face first. You’re waiting for John to call the spar. You lift your head to look at your captain, but his face is a blank slate. No, not entirely blank, his eyes are sharp, observant. It’s not just him. Kyle and Johnny are right at their captain’s side, breathing heavily. Kyle’s canines tug at his bottom lip.

“Call it,” you groan. Something warm trickles down your nose and into your open mouth. The taste of iron explodes across your tongue. A heavy weight looms over your back. “John, call it!”

“Missed you,” Simon whispers. His breath burns the skin of your ear. “Smell good, so good.”

Something touches the back of your neck, wet and warm. It feels like a tongue, you think, before realizing that it is– Simon’s tongue. He groans as he licks a stripe down the length of your neck and to your shoulder where you’re met with the stinging sensation of teeth sinking down into flesh. Hard enough to sting, but tender enough not to break skin. Yet.

“John–” It comes out breathy and high pitched. “For fuck’s sake–”

“That’s enough.”

In the blink of an eye, Simon is gone and you’re hoisted up by John’s strong arm. He takes you to a bench tucked away in the corner of the room, though not away from the prying eyes of your fellow sargeants, now watching you with parted lips. Simon’s nowhere to be found.

Simon, who had just cornered you and pinned you unlike anything you’ve seen before. It was animalistic, like you were his prey. For the first time ever you found yourself afraid of what Simon could– would –do to you.

John reappears with a rag and a water bottle. He soaks the rag and hands you the water. You lean back to down the water. It’s a mistake, you realize as blood drips down the back of your throat. You were so out of it you hadn’t realized that your nose is still bleeding.

“Look here,” John grunts. He peers in your eyes and grunts again. “No concussion.” One hand comes to pinch your nose as the other uses the rag to clean up the blood. “Nose isn’t broken.”

You hum, eyes fixated on John. He seems so calm, like he hadn’t just watched his lieutenant go utterly ballistic on you and–

You shudder, remembering the feeling of Simon’s tongue on your skin, his teeth in your–

“You’re alright, sergeant?” John asks.

You consider lying, but John’s looking at you like he already knows what you’re going to say. “I just–” You stumble over your words, “Simon… He was so– I don’t know how to describe it –unlike himself? Did it seem weird to you?”

“No.”

You frown. “John, I’ve sparred with him before. It’s never been like that. It felt unnatural.”

John swipes the rag over your lips. “You’re just out of practice from the nick.” John takes his hand off your nose and lets it slide down your body. It toys with the hem of your shirt for only a moment before creeping up your side and to the healed wound. His touch is muted by the thick scar tissue, but that doesn’t stop heat from exploding throughout your body. “How is it, anyways?”

It’s undignified the way you lose focus. John’s so close to you, having moved in closer to feel the scar. He’s tracing it, fingers half on the wound, half on the sensitive skin over your ribs. “Good,” you whisper.

“Good,” John repeats.

Someone clears their throat behind you. You try to turn around but John tightens his grip on you.

“We’ll take the rag if you’re done.” Kyle. And you assume by the sound of shuffling feet that accompanies him, Johnny as well. John hands them the rag with a nod.

The sound of footsteps fade, but before they're entirely gone, you hear Kyle and Johnny bickering about first dibs. It curdles something in your stomach.

Your heart is racing so close to John. Everything instinct screams to get away, but you simply can’t. At least, not yet.

“John,” you ask. “What happened in Siberia?”

John smiles. He removes his hand from your side and brings it back to your face. Your nose is bleeding again. A much calmer drip than earlier. John brings a thumb to the stream and swipes it away.

“We survived,” he says. “Isn’t that enough?” John pops his bloody thumb into his mouth and smiles.

[th3mrskory]

Chapter 1: Unspoken Goodbyes

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

______________________________________________________________

Pairing: Original fem!Reader x Fiancé (past/present) / Original fem!Reader x Lumberjack Logan (future)

Word count: 2.3k

The morning of her wedding should’ve been a dream—a culmination of love and promises. Instead, she stood before the mirror in silence, the soft rustle of her wedding dress the only sound in the room. The knot in her stomach tightened, its weight dragging her heart down with it.

Memories of their last argument played on a loop in her mind, the words sharp and unresolved. Had she missed something? Ignored the signs? The questions clawed at her, each one pulling the knot tighter, as if her body already knew what her heart refused to admit.

She glanced at the clock—ten minutes, then fifteen—still no sign of him.

The bridal suite grew quieter with each passing minute, the hum of voices from outside the door fading into a distant murmur. Her mother had checked on her earlier, fussing over her veil and assuring her everything was perfect. But now, as she sat alone in the priest's private room, the knot in her stomach tightened.

Her bouquet lay on the table next to her, the vibrant blooms a vivid testament to what the day should have been—a celebration of love and unity. Yet, their liveliness seemed to mock the pallor of her trembling hands, a cruel juxtaposition to the ache that tightened her chest. They reminded her of the promises they had made, the plans they had woven together, and now, the sharp sting of those fractured dreams. She tried to breathe, to steady herself, but her thoughts raced, louder than the silence around her. Where is he?

He wasn’t one to be late. He had always been the responsible one, the steady rock in their relationship. If anyone had doubts, it wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

The door creaked open slightly, its groan breaking the oppressive silence of the room. She looked up sharply, her breath catching in her throat as her heart skipped. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and the faint scent of the wooden frame mixed with the distant murmur of voices outside, amplifying the moment's tension. For a moment, she thought it was him. Relief bubbled up, but it quickly evaporated as she saw who it was.

It wasn’t her fiancé. It was his best man.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He looked uncomfortable, almost pained, his hand fidgeting with a piece of paper.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice strained as she stood, her heart pounding harder. “Where is he?”

The best man hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the floor. “He wanted me to give you this,” he said quietly, holding out the folded letter.

She stared at it, her stomach twisting into knots. Her hands shook as she reached out to take it, her mind racing with every possible explanation except the one she feared the most.

The paper was light in her hand, but the weight of it pressed down on her chest, as though the words scrawled within it carried a gravity she wasn’t prepared to face. Her breath hitched, the air feeling heavy in her lungs. Slowly, she unfolded it, her breath catching as she read the words written in his familiar, careful handwriting:

"I can’t do this. I’m sorry."

The world seemed to tilt. Her vision blurred as the words echoed in her mind.

She looked up at the best man, her voice shaking. “What’s this?”

His shoulders slumped, his guilt palpable. “He left the letter this morning,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t tell me anything. Just... left this for you.”

Her legs felt weak, and she sank into the nearest chair, the letter crumpling in her hands. 

The best man nodded, his expression pained. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn. I tried to stop him, tried to get him to talk, but he wouldn’t. He just...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

The air felt suffocating, the walls of the small room closing in around her. The sound of muffled laughter and conversation from the guests waiting outside was like a cruel reminder of what was supposed to happen today.

Her mother burst into the room moments later, her expression shifting from excitement to worry the instant she saw her daughter’s face. “What’s going on? Where is he?”

Evelyn didn’t answer, couldn’t find the words to explain. Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, who still stood there, looking like he wanted to disappear.

Her mother’s gaze flicked to the best man, her expression sharp and demanding. “Where is he?”

The best man shifted uncomfortably, his hand running over the back of his neck. He glanced toward Evelyn, hesitant, before finally saying, “He’s not coming.”

Her mother froze, her brows furrowing as the words sank in. “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” Her voice rose, each word more incredulous than the last. “This is his wedding day! What the hell does that mean?”

The best man’s jaw tightened, his guilt and discomfort clear as he said, “He couldn’t go through with it. He’s gone.”

Her mother’s face turned red, a mix of disbelief and fury twisting her features. “Gone where? How could he just leave? What kind of man does that?”

“Mom,” Evelyn said weakly, her voice barely audible, the letter crumpled in her hands.

“No,” her mother snapped, rounding on her daughter now, her anger spilling over. “He doesn’t get to do this. He doesn’t get to just walk away! There are people waiting out there. He owes you—he owes all of us—an explanation!”

Her voice cracked, and for a moment, her anger seemed to falter, replaced by the raw pain of watching her daughter’s heart shatter.

The murmurs outside the door grew louder, the guests undoubtedly beginning to wonder what was causing the delay. She could already imagine the questions, the judgment, the whispers.

“What do we tell everyone?” her mother asked, her voice trembling.

Evelyn stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. Her hands trembled as she clenched the crumpled letter, her emotions bubbling to the surface. Anger. Pain. Humiliation.

“I don’t know, Mom!” she snapped, her voice cracking under the weight of her hurt. “Just... get me out of here.”

Her mother froze, her expression shifting between shock and heartbreak, but Evelyn didn’t wait for her to respond. She grabbed her bouquet off the table, not because she needed it, but because her hands needed something to do—anything to stop them from shaking.

She turned back to the best man. “Did he say anything else?”

“No…” he replied. 

Her heart broke all over again at those words. She pushed past them both, leaving the room and making her way to the car waiting outside. She ignored the stares, the questions, the looks of pity. She needed to get out, to get away from all of it.

That night, while the wedding venue emptied and the guests went home with their unanswered questions, she packed her belongings in silence. The apartment she and her fiancé had shared during their engagement felt suffocating, every corner filled with traces of a life they would never have. Her wedding dress hung limp over the back of a chair, mocking her with its unfinished story.The bouquet sat on the kitchen counter, its once-vibrant blooms already wilting.

Her parents arrived just as she was throwing the last of her clothes into a battered suitcase. Her mother, still in her formal gown, clutched her pearls with trembling fingers, while her father’s tie hung loose around his neck, his face etched with exhaustion and worry.

“Sweetheart,” her mother began carefully, stepping into the room.“You can’t just leave,” her mother insisted, her voice sharp yet quivering with emotion. “You’re upset, and I understand that, but running off won’t fix this. It won’t undo what he did to you.”

Her father stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. “Selling the house? Taking off? You don’t even know where you’re going.You need to take a breath, let us help you figure this out. This isn’t the answer, kid.”

She froze for a moment, then turned to face them, her eyes red-rimmed but blazing with defiance. “And what is the answer, Dad? Stay here and keep pretending everything’s fine? Wake up every day in a place that reminds me of him? Of what I wasn’t good enough to hold on to?” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care.

“Sweetheart, no one’s saying that,” her mother began, but she didn’t let her finish.

“Yes, you are!” she snapped. “You want me to stay here, smile through the pain, act like nothing happened. Well, I can’t. I won’t. I need to go. I need to get out of this town, out of this house.” She gestured around her, her hands trembling. “It’s like he’s everywhere. I’ll never get away from it.”

“Please,” her mother said, tears welling in her eyes. “At least sleep on it. You’re not thinking straight.”

She let out a hollow laugh, running a hand through her hair. “I’ve never been thinking clearer in my life, Mom. Staying here will kill me. I need to leave.”

Her bestfriend, Martha, showed up later that evening, carrying a bottle of cheap wine and wearing the dress she’d worn to the ceremony that never happened.

“I get it,” her friend said, breaking the silence. “I’d want to burn the whole damn world down if I were you. But you can’t just pack up your life and disappear. What about work? Your family? What about us?”

Evelyn shook her head, her fingers gripping the rim of her coffee mug so tightly she thought it might shatter. “I’m not running. I just…” She shook her head, biting her lip to keep her voice steady.“I can’t be here anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing at the altar. Except he’s not. He never was.”A tear rolled down her face, she sniffed and whipped her cheek“I just know I can’t be here anymore. It’s like... everything about this place is choking me. I need space to figure out who I am without him.”

Her friend sighed, but there was no point arguing. The decision had already been made.

Her friend hesitated, her expression softening. “What if you regret it? What if you run, and it just... follows you?”

“Maybe it will,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “But I’ll take that chance over staying here and pretending like everything’s fine.”

The house sold faster than she expected. Within days, strangers had walked through it, commenting on the potential it had—the very same potential she and her fiancé had dreamed of building on together. 

Walking through it one last time, she couldn’t stop the memories from flashing before her eyes—the corner where they’d put up the Christmas tree, the creak in the floorboard he always promised to fix, the way the light filtered into the bedroom where they’d planned to start their mornings together.

By the time she handed the keys to the new owners, her chest felt hollow, but it was a relief to walk away.

She packed her things into her old Chevy, a mix of essentials and sentimental items—though not much of the latter remained. The radio became her only companion on the road, playing Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, and Pink Floyd as she drove for hours aimlessly through towns that all blurred into one.

There was no plan, just the old creased map folded on the passenger seat and the faint hope that somewhere out there, she’d find a place that didn’t remind her of everything she’d just lost.

The miles rolled by in a haze of faded road signs and forgotten gas stations. The highways blurred into narrow backroads, lined with towering trees that seemed to close in around her. A week passed before she saw it—the sign, small and weathered, half-hidden by overgrown brush: Welcome to Clearwater.

The sign was small and unassuming, barely visible through the overgrowth vegetation.

The town looked like it belonged in another decade—or maybe another century. Small shops lined the main street, their faded signs creaking in the wind. A church with a tall steeple stood proudly against the skyline.

 It was the kind of place that seemed untouched by time.

She parked outside the church, stepping out of the car and stretching her legs. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, and for the first time in days, her chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Pinned to the bulletin board by the church steps was a weathered “For Sale” flyer. The edges were curling, and the ink was faint, but the words were clear:

Small cottage for sale. Fully furnished. Need’s lots of love. Located near the river. Please Contact Pastor Edwards.

She tore the flyer from the board and dialed the number from the payphone outside the general store, fishing a few coins from her pocket. Each turn of the rotary dial echoed loudly, and she tapped her fingers nervously as the line clicked and rang.

“Pastor Edwards speaking,” came a warm, steady voice.

“Hi, Pastor Edwards my name is Evelyn” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m calling about the cottage. Is it... still available?”

“It is,” he replied. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it’s got good bones. Peaceful, too. Folks around here say it’s the kind of place where you can hear yourself think.”

She arranged to see it that afternoon, and when she did, it took her breath away.

_____________________________________________________________

The cottage sat nestled at the edge of the woods, its shutters faded and crooked, the porch sagging with age. Ivy climbed the stone walls, and the river just beyond the trees glimmered faintly in the sunlight. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a sanctuary.

Pastor Edwards smiled kindly as he handed her the keys. “It just needs someone to put in a little love.”

The transaction was quick—cash exchanged for a set of old, rusted keys—that night, as she stood in the center of the dusty living room, surrounded by creaking floorboards and chipped paint, she felt something she hadn’t felt in weeks: hope.

The house wasn’t perfect. Neither was she. But maybe, just maybe, they could rebuild each other.

______________________________________________________________tagging some amazing people that showed interest on my previous post (if you don't want to be tagged please let me know):

@coocoocachewgotscrewed @latinapiscess @littlebunnybigheartfics @themareverine @pandapetals @logansbaby @the-quick-red-fox @throwmethroughawindow @ifyouseethisnoyoudont22 @galacticglitterglue @whos-nin1

@thisismajortom21 @may-vol-6 @Oh-basic @sarahbarbosa22 @luvpalepinkjazz @irish-pooka @yologans @equilight @lxrxvsp @h4nluv @uncannywolverine @thesecretlifeofmo @mystifiesjdmtcw @socisse @thickynicky547 @peculiarpiscess @tezooks @greenturtlegirl @greenbearplaidbow @eummm @benispunk @th8mz @gilmoregirlslvr @jounal3sports @alsoprettyinpink @softepiloguemylove @manicandobsessive @b-y-3-n

[lexirosewrites]

Okay the one person who had the thing about Eddie painting their kids rooms reminded me of a little small idea I had a while back.

Eddie and Steve are the first in their little found family to get married and mated, before the younger kids even graduate high school. When they announce their engagement Hop offers to clean up the area around the cabin for them to have their wedding and reception. All the kids decide to help with the preparations as a group gift, cleaning the area and doing all the decorations. I think it looks something like the wedding from Breaking Dawn, with lights strung all over the trees and hanging flowers. It fully looks like a fairytale.

Eddie takes all of Hellfire to pick his tux and their suits. Eddie gets a fully black tux and shirt but his tie and pocket square are the sage green he and Steve picked for their color.

Steve brings Robin, El, Max, Joyce, and Claudia to go dress shopping - he had originally brought them to look at a suit but they all saw him glancing at the dresses when he thought they weren’t looking. He ends up picking a simple dress with beautiful butterfly sleeves and lace detailing. Everyone else gets their dresses (except for Robin who managed to find a suit in the exact right color to match everyone else).

They get married and it’s absolutely beautiful, Hop tries to hide that he’s crying but Wayne proudly cries from his chair. When the ceremony finishes the kids yell at everyone to go inside so they can rearrange everything for the reception. Joyce and Claudia help get the food all set up and the clear space for a “dance floor”. Everyone has a great time dancing and celebrating. Jonathan and Nancy were able to come to town in time for the wedding and he takes photos all night, developing them and putting together a scrapbook for them as his gift.

(Now here’s where the previous post made me remember this)

A few months later, Robin and Steve are about to start school in Chicago and they had found a set of townhouses right next to each other to move into. Everyone who is able to comes out to help move the three of them in and then have a house warming party. Most of the gifts are standard house warming gifts: throw pillows, pots and pans, silverware, etc. Except for the gift Will hands to Steve and Eddie. It’s pretty big but not very thick, and surprisingly heavy. When they open it they find a hand painted version of their favorite photo from their wedding. It was during their first dance, holding each other close with their foreheads pressed together, with the largest smiles on their face.

That painting takes a place of pride in their living room.

~~Katie from MunsonFamilyBand (because tumblr hates sideblogs)

perfectly happy lil steddie wedding🥰🥰🥰

[stellarparallax]

Thank you to everyone who replied and reblogged with their own insights! I really do appreciate it 🙏

For so long I only ever saw therians and otherkin speaking about their kintypes with such a fond and familial bond that I thought I must have gotten it wrong or confused on my end. I spent a lot of time just privately grilling myself, thinking that surely I must have made a mistaken conclusion somewhere down the line. It was pretty exhausting, but even still I feel like I'm a little better for it.

Every time I would take a step back or re-anylize my feelings, I would still come up canine. Sometimes dog, sometimes dog a little to the left, sometimes fox, sometimes a nonexistent kind of canine that was still definitely a canine but fantastical or interpretive... I had come to the conclusion that despite my feelings, I was still canine.

I kinda just loosely shorthand it to "dog" nowadays, because it feels the most comfortable. But I'm a dog in the same way a child might point at a fox and cal it a doggy, not really yet separating the two in their mind. Everything else I've said still stands, I don't really particularly care or even consider them "kin" in the way kin can be used towards family or those like you. Not to say "lone wolf" or anything, but truly I feel better off as a "lone dog."

It feels nice hearing others say things similar, and how dogs not socialized with other dogs might not really like dogs in general. Feels like a bit of a relief, like I'm not come to any baseless conclusions after all. And I realized even if the conclusions I made about myself ARE baseless, I'm not sure how much it matters so long as my feelings are genuine.

I'm sure it's finding therian forums back in the early 2000s that left this impression of ruthless questioning on me lol

There's no real conclusion, I just wanted to say thanks and expand a little bit on my original point (since I kinda omitted every other canine for some convenient personal shorthand, and maybe misled some people, sorry) Thank you for taking the time to read my silly little posts!

Something I wanted to share about my feelings with therianthropy...

I am a dog.

I don't like dogs, I don't like being around real life dogs that much, they kinda tend to annoy me most of the time. I don't really feel myself having any affinity for dogs in general, even fictional dogs are just sort of "okay" to me. There are some cartoon dogs I can think "yeah he's cool or chill" but it doesn't really go any further than that.

I dont even see myself in dogs, but I see myself AS A DOG.

And I've never been able to change this.

I prefer cats, I feel more affinity for cats, I communicate better with them IRL, I've lived with cats all my life (my family never had dogs as pets) and in general I think cats are aesthetically more pleasing to look at than dogs, not that that's the dog's fault or anything.

I wish I could be a cat sometimes, I even tried to call myself a cat, draw myself as a cat, mimic cat behaviour, all that stuff where you try it on and see if it fits, makes you feel comfortable...

But I still feel like I'm a dog.

I've talked about this occasionally with friends and in some furry fandom spaces, which all of them said about the same thing. "Well why don't you just BE a cat then?"

To which my answer, with sadness and longing, is only "I don't know."

[thefadecodex]

Hi! I came across a post a while back about Mythals spirit. Basically they said they didn't agree with the idea of Mythal being a spirit of "Benevolence" and they said It made more sense that she was a spirit of "Protection".

I thought about it and based on past Dragon Age lore she was called the All Mother and the Protector. People went to her seeking Protection Justice Vengeance. And everything she did throughout the Dragon Age games did fit with someone who embodied "Protection". Helping our heroes save the world. And even when she ruled as an Evanuris the terrible things she did was to protect her People.

And When I think of "Benevolence" as a concept I see it as Compassion Empathy Kindness Generosity. Like I can't really see a spirit of Benevolence making the Titans tranquil?

The Mythal fragment that was the most like her original self called the titans monsters and I do not think she (and honestly most of the Elvhen back then) had the compassion/empathy to even see the dwarves as people. They just took what they wanted to benefit themselves and their empire and it led to war. So it doesn't feel benevolent, I guess.

Anyway, I'm definitely inclined to agree with that person's post... but Im also not pleased with how this revelation conflicts with canon (Hate when that happens LOL) it's kinda like I wanna reconcile the two together?

Basically, Morrigan calls Mythals spirit "Benevolence" but do you think "Protection" suits her better? Or is it something else ? whatever your thoughts are on the kind of spirit Mythal is id like to hear it!!

(Sorry for rambling! Love your work ❤️)

Greetings, seeker of veiled truths!

First, thank you so much for your kind words, and don’t worry—you weren’t rambling at all! This is such an intriguing question, so let’s unpack it together.

When Morrigan refers to Mythal as a Spirit of Benevolence, it’s crucial to remember how DA defines spirits. A spirit embodies a concept, but that concept isn’t a neatly human-friendly archetype—it’s a primal force, distilled and absolute.

In this context, Benevolence isn’t limited to kindness, compassion, or warm nurturing. It’s an overarching, self-sacrificial commitment to the well-being of others—specifically, in Mythal’s case, her people–the elves. This form of Benevolence operates on a grand, often cosmic scale, and its methods may not always appear kind or gentle from a mortal perspective.

Benevolence Doesn’t Always Look Kind

The tension arises because we often view Benevolence through a mortal lens—a figure endlessly warm, patient, and selfless. But spirits aren’t bound by mortal morality or sentimentality. Their concepts manifest in ways that can feel cold, ruthless, or even cruel.

Mythal’s actions—calling the Titans monsters, exploiting the dwarves, and even her acts of justice or vengeance—weren’t born from softness. It is likely Mythal saw her actions as pragmatic choices made to ensure her people’s survival and prosperity. In her view, these decisions likely aligned with her deeper purpose, even if they were morally fraught.

To Mythal, the Titans were��dangerous. Regardless of why/how the conflict began, they were at war. Mythal wasn’t observing the Titans as neutral entities—she was facing them as an active threat to her people and her purpose.

In war, perspective shapes action. To Mythal, the Titans weren’t just colossal beings—they were adversaries, capable of immense destruction. Whether her judgment of them as “monsters” was fair or justified is debatable, but in her eyes, it was likely a necessary stance to protect her people and their survival.

Protection as a Reflection of Benevolence

Protection is, in many ways, an expression of Mythal’s Benevolence. Sometimes that protection was fierce, even brutal. Sometimes it looked more like justice or even vengeance more than kindness. But at its core, the why of her actions—the driving force—was still rooted in Benevolence: the preservation and flourishing of those she cared for.

To draw a parallel: a mother wolf protecting her cubs isn’t gentle when her fangs are bared. She doesn’t negotiate with the predator threatening her young. But the reason she fights—the fire behind her fury—is love and care. That is Benevolence, expressed through the raw and unyielding instinct to protect.

In short: Protection is a tool. Benevolence is the purpose.

Morrigan recognizing Mythal as Benevolence is likely because she sees the root of Mythal’s nature. Beneath all the violence, cruelty, and compromises, Mythal’s purpose was always to care for, nurture, and preserve her people.

This isn’t a soft or idyllic Benevolence—it’s one that wages war to keep loved ones safe, that makes impossible choices in the face of extinction. It’s sharp-edged and relentless.

At her core, Mythal embodies Benevolence—not the comforting warmth of gentle compassion, but the unyielding drive to ensure others thrive, even when the means are harsh, messy, or morally complex.

It’s entirely valid to see protection as an integral expression of her Benevolence, but I think Morrigan’s insight holds: Benevolence was the root, and protection was the tool she wielded in its service.

Thank you for bringing such a thoughtful question to The Fade Codex—it’s one of those topics that reminds us just how layered and complex spirits truly are.

May your path through the Fade remain well-lit!—The Fade Codex

[zephyrchama]

hi! i’m the same anon that sent the long-ish ask before about how much i love your writing and how it’s really special to me. i saw that you wrote something about leviathan that was similar to the lucifer duality post, in the rad archives server. im like embarrassed as hell to be saying this here on anon because it’s cowardly, but i’m a lurker in that server because i’m anxious (lol), and i still want to express in some way that i really like both of those posts a lot. even though i didnt make it to the levi one in time.

i also really resonate with them but the levi one more so (probably some bias since he’s been my favorite for 4.5 years). i wrote a very long ramble about my interpretation of it but i felt like it was too long and i’m embarrassed (again) about it and its. very redundant. so i’m not including it. lol. so i understand you deleting the original levi duality post.

but anyways, it hit me hard (knocked me unconscious and kept swinging when i was down) and. actually made me tear up. so, once again, thank you Very much for your wonderful blog 🫶🫶🫶

You!!! [insert emoji that points at the viewer here] Hello!!! That message was so incredibly nice. It was incredibly well written and thoughtful. I spent so many hours alternating between blushing at the wall and pacing around. Thank you so much!!

(Don't be ashamed!! You're not cowardly! I'm also mega super shy. I feel bolder in public discord groups where there's a lot of talking going on because whatever I say will eventually be washed away by the conversation, but totally get that it's nerve-wracking to speak with people.) (I am nervous now hahaha. I must face the consequences of my post-deleting actions. I shall grow and learn.)

So, someone mentioned they get notified when I post!? and that they got the notification but it led nowhere. Apologies for that! I typed something up on my phone and deleted it in shame because after a while it had 0 notes and I thought perhaps it was out of character or poorly written. Sometimes my ideas flop, that's fine and I always leave them up anyway because I like them, but last night a little voice in my head made me anxious and we do silly things when we're anxious.

Here's what the post was for those that missed it, apologies again for deleting it:

---

Leviathan, Avatar of Envy, ruthlessly blasting a hole through Mammon's door and flooding the room to get his money back. Giving the cold shoulder to those who dare speak with him. Glaring at everyone he passes like they're dirt beneath his feet for being normies. Nobody is worth his time. He has more important things to attend to.

Leviathan, Avatar of Envy, weeping as he gently cuts into a pancake shaped like Azuki-tan that he, himself, ordered. He spent fifteen minutes taking photos and now the pancake is cold. His face is red and his body shakes with silent sobs while lifting a bite to his mouth. A passing waiter asks if he wants any butter. He nods. A tear rolls down his cheek and falls onto the collar of his limited edition Azuki-tan t-shirt.

[thecircularsystem]

So, I was recently part of a server run by a system as an experiment. A month of chatting with people, but we couldn't mention our origins, and at the end, we had to guess others origins.

Let's talk about it.

[Note: I am just going to be talking about the server, the survey, and a few thoughts about origins here. This is largely fluff and disappointment and bitching about the flaws I saw in the server. I'll be making a proper post about origins later that's not as connected to this.]

So, firstly, I used an alt account in order to participate in the server. My regular discord ID has my system name in it, and I didn't want to make things too easy. I popped in and talked, and I tried my absolute best to make it so obvious that I had a CDD, while also trying to make it obvious that I wasn't just a CDD system. I knew it would be next to impossible for people to guess my origins, so I was just there to have fun.

I knew immediately that I would dislike the server. For one thing, I already didn't really like the server runner -- sorry, if you're reading this, but genuinely, my system has an aversion to you. Not sure why -- don't fully remember -- but it's there and it made me wary. But, bigger than that, I figured out quickly just how poorly planned the server was. It got BIG, fast, and moderators were chosen seemingly at random. I remember a user was picked because the group names were based around food, and their username matched the food their group represented. That... is a very bad way to pick mods. Then there was the 2 minute speaking timer, which had to be circumvented with threads, and the realization that there was a thirteen year old in the server after I had brought up NSFW content... I do not join servers with younger people anymore and genuinely thought the server was 18+.

It was just... very disorganized. So, strike one.

Regardless, it was fairly easy to guess what people's origins were (not accurately, but I'll get into that at the end/in another post) at the most basic level, and who they were, as evidently, nobody else tried to hide their blogs or identities as hard as I did. I shared servers with around half of the participants already, and others were... fairly easy to guess from their syscourse presence. I think the highlight of the experiment was someone from the server contacting me (Circ) and talking about the experiment with me, not knowing initially who I was in the server. Genuine hilarity there.

But, of course, we were there to try to guess people's origins, so I was trying to find out what I could about those in my group. 7 participants in the group (myself included), and... Well, strike two.

Genuinely, this was the stupidest premise for a server in the world. In my opinion, at least. The thing is, all of these guesses have to be based entirely on stereotyping -- the language the system uses, the way they speak, the concerns they have about the community. A system who uses the term "headmates," is concerned about fakeclaiming more than symptoms of plurality, and focuses more on the plural aspect of systemhood than anything else is likely not experiencing a CDD.

Which, in this set-up, means you're endogenic. And that's a problem. But we'll get to that in the next section. First, I just want to mention that I consider this a strike against the premise of the server because so much was banned from being mentioned. It wasn't... formally said to be censored, but even amongst my friends outside of the server, I saw them say numerous times, "It's so easy to guess who X is because it's obvious they have a CDD!" And genuinely, that indicates nothing about a person's origins, spoken as a true CDD mixed-origin system. It's the Fenmere Clause, right? There's always an exception. So to see this sort of culture on never mentioning your disorder, never mentioning trauma, never mentioning your experiences in the system community while being asked to share them... Eventually, I just started censoring myself entirely in the server, cutting out chunks of writing with little brackets saying [Origin Information] or something similar.

If the point is to be able to guess origins, I need to be able to share more than just the stereotyping that people rely on. It needs to be a fair chance.

Then the end came, and... for fucks sakes, that's what sparked this entire post. I had planned to wirte up a post, of course, but lord.

At the end, we had to guess how likely it was that someone "had a CDD, was endogenic, or was a created system." Funny enough, my origins (mixed-origin, fully traumagenic CDD system with multiple created parts AND a dreamway part) weren't listed, not fully. Traumagenic wasn't even an option for those who don't have CDDs.

Now, look, I am a CDD system. I consider that to be my "main" origin. But to only count "CDD, created, or endogenic," you discount one of my parts entirely, one who is one of the most helpful parts. The survey also didn't ask if people had created parts, but if they were a created system, which... I'm not. So that furthermore discounts two of my parts who are created -- and still equally traumagenic.

Furthermore, when asked for clarification, the moderator had... this to say.

For CDD, you either have one or don't (or at the very least it's more cleanly binary than origin), so I asked for the positive For origin, people "testing for purity" for lack of better wording coming to mind usually care about any percentage of endogenesis. And while CDD does not necessarily mean traumagenic, traumagenic is very nearly a subset of CDD

To translate, as that left such a sour taste in my mouth I thought I threw up a little, what this meant was, "Some of the users are anti-endos, and so if you have one endogenic part, most of those users will assume you're entirely endogenic."

...

So, rather than the point of the server being, "Can you guess someones origin?" it became "Can you guess someones origin if I painstakingly make a survey that caters to anti-endo beliefs and erases the origins of members of the server?"

Wonderful. Strike three.

Genuinely, I'm not sure what possessed the server owner to phrase the questions this way. Catering to the anti-endos wasn't the point of the server, and it erases the members origins. There should have been a way to identify what, exactly, you felt each member IDENTIFIED as. If an anti-endo does not believe in endogenic plurality (which, yes, many members of the server did not), then at the very least, they can say that a user identifies as endogenic, or mixed origin, or spiritual, stressgenic, adaptive, quoigenic, OR ANY of the THOUSANDS of origin options out there.

I would've done a multiple choice list of, "Here's what members of your group identify as, based on their intake survey; can you assign each of these labels to individuals in your group?" What was the purpose of an intake survey at all if you ignore the origins to cater to the anti-endos?

I'm not going to lie, I was incredibly frustrated, more than a little mad, and just...

Disappointed. Which, I figured I would be going in.

The thing is, origins aren't guessable in this manner. Nobody in that server could have looked at me and gone, "Ah! Yes, it is clear that this individual is a mixed-origin CDD system who identifies with CDD as an origin while having created traumagenic parts and a dreamway part." DREAMWAY IS A LABEL WE FUCKING MADE UP!!!! It would be impossible to guess unless they heard about me personally.

And that's the reason this type of experiment is bullshit. Sure, you can... hazard a guess if someone has a CDD or is endogenic or is mixed-origin or any of the above. But... You can't know. You can't get it perfectly accurate. Sure, based on vibes you can guess, and maybe you can even guess accurately for the most part.

BUT EVERY SYSTEM IS DIFFERENT AND UNIQUE ANYWAYS. So why does it matter?

It doesn't.

But the system community doesn't seem ready to accept that yet.

All in all, I'm incredibly disappointed in the server and how it went. I enjoyed the conversations we had there, and I enjoyed the company. I'm still enjoying talking there!! Now that origins are revealed, I want to talk about how my mixed-origin parts impact my CDD parts, and how they are CDD parts at the same time. I want to discuss it!!!

I would even hazard to say I made some new friends, and likely a few enemies (someone from my group, not knowing who I was, was even liking posts that were actively libel against me from harassers I have. How fun!)

But the experiment portion of it was an entire, complete disaster. And I think... genuinely, most people expected it to be.

Sigh.

[zarekthelordofthefries]

I was quite peeved when I made the original post, too peeved for complex thoughts, so I wanna add some additional detail and nuance here, actually.

I don't think adults NEED to watch stuff for kids. Like, I think you definitely can derive meaning from childrens' media even as an adult, but if you can't connect with stories that are about kid stuff, if you don't feel like you can relate enough to kid main characters created for children, then there's nothing wrong with that. Like what you like.

And relatedly, I do think adults SHOULD try to seek out media intended for adults. There's a lot of good stories made for adults! There's great stories that reckon with themes and content that kids' stories don't or can't! There's whole worlds of fascinating, life-changing stuff out there.

Now, all that being said, I think problems start to arise when we treat that "should" that I said as a statement of morality rather than enrichment. I think you should watch movies for adults, but not because you have a moral imperative to do so -- you should do it for YOUR OWN edification. You should read grown-up books because many of them have great stories that you will connect with.

The original post is me vagueposting (because I don't wanna bother anyone over lukewarm media takes) about a post I saw that treated reading adult-intended media as some sort of moral imperative. Outright saying that you should be embarrassed and shamed if you only read kids books. And I don't vibe with that.

Shame is a dangerous weapon. I cannot condone shaming people for having limited artistic tastes in the same way I can't condone shaming people for eating unhealthily. Like, we're all progressive enough to know that that's bad, right? Shaming fat people into being skinny doesn't work, we know this, and even if it did, it would still be needlessly cruel.

Like, if a grown adult really does ONLY engage with stories for kids (an archetype of person that I suspect is far less common than people assume), then sure, I'm probably not gonna look to them for nuanced literary analysis. If they try to present themselves as any kind of authority on storytelling or media analysis, I'm probably not gonna take them seriously. If their experience is SEVERELY limited I might poke fun at someone (tabletop gamers who only play D&D, readers who only ever reference Harry Potter).

But like, if someone just mostly watches kid stuff...it doesn't affect me! They aren't hurting anybody! What business do you have shaming a stranger for that? Who gives a shit? Unless they're like, a professional reviewer or something, nobody OWES you media literacy! Argue with bad takes, encourage people to read more, that's all fine, but the brazen gall of "you should actually be embarrassed for this and I will shame you for it" is just so petty. Honestly? Grow up.

"it's embarrassing to watch and enjoy children's cartoons and you should be made to feel shame for it" ok. i think you should feel shame for needlessly being a prick but what do i know.

[dailykeiji]

today's keiji is: keisou

[sassy-man-apocalypse]

Is this anything

[franky-y]

Kiss Kiss 😘

[aclosetfan]

ope, hey guys, i'm still avoiding the work I'm paid to do. i thought of something sad and fucked up after rereading these original posts :)))

------

"But they all leave scars," Buttercup said with a tremble in her voice. Her eyes were unfocused, and she started to pant, "No, no. That can't be true—" She stood up abruptly, her chair clattering to the ground, "the scars, you said that because they all leave scars—"

"Buttercup," Dr. U cut her off, his voice grim. He looked on the verge of tears, "that was only a working theory."

"Well, find a fucking new one!" She screamed hysterically before zipping out of the room.

Dr. U didn't say anything for a long time. Neither of them did.

"Butch, son, I'm sorry." Dr. U finally said.

There had been a time when Butch was much younger that Dr. U had been slightly afraid of him. Of course, most of Townsville had once been afraid of him. It was an inappropriate time to think about the fear he once possessed over people, looking at the older man, who he now considered an in-law. But that was what he was thinking about. John Utonium existed in a perpetual state of grief like most of them did, but Butch had never seen the man so somber. Not even before, back in the day, when he had been slightly afraid of him.

Butch licked his dry lips. He felt angry, but he should have felt angrier. Mostly, he felt numb. Everything he had ever believed felt more true than it ever had before, and that was . . . unsatisfying, maybe? But he had always known, hadn't he? That his brothers were dead. He had processed that grief already. Right? He didn't know.

Maybe it was just shock. He didn't know.

"I'll go check on her." He responded after another prolonged period of silence. His voice was thick like he had a ball lodged in his throat that he couldn't quite swallow around.

Dr. U let him go without a parting word. He sat quietly in his makeshift lab. Behind him was the corpse of a shadow person. Its torso had been pinned open, its insides partly dissected. It looked like a gruesome autopsy, but Butch had seen worse things to feel affected by the sight.

Its head was patchy with black hair. The staples on its mouth looked fresh. Its mutation was not totally complete. Its hands weren't as claw-like as they should have been. Its flesh was not chalk white but a pale blush. It had a tattoo that belonged to their friend Harry, who went missing a little over four weeks ago.

He stared at his friend and thought of his brothers.

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

"Buttercup." He sighed, sitting down next to her on the wall. The LED lights that kept the wall in a constant blanket of blinding white light didn't allow her to hide for long, but he hadn't needed to look. He knew where she came to think.

She sniffed and shuffled over, allowing their shoulders to touch. He looked up at the night sky but saw no stars. He could hear shadows scurrying just beyond the light perimeter, pacing and waiting for them.

A chorus of them cried out to him, "Butch! I forgive you! Butch, I love you! Butch, I'm right here!"

He ignored them. It was easier now than it had been in the beginning. Still, he didn't understand why Buttercup tortured herself like this. She knew it was fucked up, but she had told him once I just like to hear their voices sometimes.

"He said it was just another theory."

"Bullshit." She croaked.

Butch nodded, "Yeah."

"We haven't found a single one like it all those years ago. And now, with Harry," Her voice broke, "god, that was Harry, Butchie."

She fell into him, then, and sobbed. He held her tight, trying to blink past his own tears, surprised they had finally managed to show up. Still, his anger was at a simmer.

"They're people. They're our friends." She continued. "They're being mutated."

He pulled her into his lap and rocked them back and forth. The voices below them only seemed to grow louder.

"It wasn't supposed to be a zombie thing," There was a bite in her tone, "it's a fucking zombie thing, now?"

"I didn't turn into one. And you've been scratched and bitten, and you haven't either." He tried to reason, "It's something else. We just don't know yet."

It was weird being the person of reason. Usually, it was the opposite. Usually, Buttercup was holding him.

"The one that stabbed you," Buttercup's voice broke, "the one that stabbed you, it had—" she choked out, "—it had tuffs of hair still. Blond hair. I remember it had blond hair, and it—"

"We don't know that for sure."

She pulled away from him, an angry sneer smeared across her face, "fuck you, we do! The Professor said it himself. None of the others have antidote X in them. The one that stabbed you wasn't some special breed of apex predator! That was one of our siblings! That was B-Boomer or Bubbles, and I killed them!"

Her voice fell to a whisper, "I killed them. They were right there, and I killed them. I didn't have to, but I did. I killed them and—" Her eyes were wide as silent tears fell down her face. "Do you hate me? What if it was Boomer. Do you hate me?"

"You didn't know," He grabbed her by the shoulders, "you were doing what you had to do."

"Do you hate me? Answer the question." She demanded, searching his face.

"Butch, I'm right here! I'm right here! Butch, I'm here! Listen to me! Help me! I'm scared! I'm right here! Why can't you find me! Why can't you see me! I'm. Right. Here." The chorus of screams intensified.

"Butch, I love you!"

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "No."

"No," he continued, "if that thing was Boomer—" It was his turn to pause, thinking it and saying it was two different things, "—if that had been my brother, the thing that stabbed me," he thought of the pus dripping from its infected wounds. He thought of the hollow eyes and the blistering skin. He thought of its joy, licking at the blood on its claw, "then I'm glad he's dead."

He looked her in the eyes, cupping her face, "I wanted him to be alive, Butters. But not like that."

She looked no less shell-shocked as she held his hand to her cheek. "Yeah," she eventually said. "Yeah."

--------------------------------------------------------------------(Buttercup, why weren't you fast enough? Why didn't you know? You killed me. Why did you kill me?)

(BC, why didn't you come with me? Come with me. It's your fault. Why didn't you come with me?)

(Butters, I hate you.)

Maybe 18 or 36 (hug prompts) for the greens? I always love the way you write them! 💚

Oh my gosh, you're seriously too sweet 💚💚💚 between the two prompts, I'll have to pick 36! @foxgloveglen requested that prompt previously, and I feel like it's finally time I sucked it up and committed myself to it!

Hug prompts: 36. I thought you were dead hug

Characters: Butch, Buttercup

Word Count: 2713

Content warnings: near-death experiences, body horror, slight gore, blood, demonic entities, implied major character deaths (but from the perspective of an unreliable narrator)

Basic background: Apocalypse AU where the world has ended under mysterious (HIM) circumstances (it was HIM), and now, man-eating creatures roam the streets. Through a series of unfortunate events, both the rrb and the ppg are all split up. Depending on who you ask, BC and Butch are the last known survivors of the two sets of triplets. Currently, they live in the last Townsville stronghold defending the “City” from those man-eating creatures as they wait for their siblings to make their way home. The stronghold is made up of the previous citizens, along with a few ex-villains. The tough of the tough are on night patrol (unless you’re an ex-con, then night patrol is mandatory), which is the City’s only chance at survival.

a/n: whoops i made this sad, but there's a happy (?) ending. sorry : ( this wasn’t at all what I had planned on writing but I was trying to think up a new angle for the prompt instead of the old same-old, same-old.

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

"No," Butch mumbled to himself, the mantra slowly ramping up in speed as he picked his way through the debris, "no, no, no, no, please no."

The sun was bright on his back, but the air was still too crisp, and the day was still too early to truly feel its warmth. He maneuvered around on auto-pilot, combing through one pile of trash to the next, careful to avoid the shadows. As long as the sun was on his back, he would be safe enough to search for her. But when it started to get dark out? If he couldn't find her in time?

"Buttercup!" He cried out, listening for an echo of an answer, but only hearing his own voice in response, "Buttercup!"

What would he tell everyone? What would he tell Bellum?

He tried again, shouting louder, "Come on, you fucking bitch, answer!"

Butch had no idea how he'd ever find the courage to tell the Professor. Or—he thought, his heart dropping into his stomach—her sisters. Butch couldn't.

When—not if (never if)—he found them all again—his brothers, her sisters—there was no way he could look Bubbles in the eye and tell her Buttercup was gone. Just gone. Done for. Dead. Her heart would break. His heart would, too, he thought dully, if it hadn't already. He didn't know; it was at the very least breaking, but he didn't think there was much of a difference—between broken and breaking.

Was his heart really breaking—or broken—or whatever the right word was? When had Buttercup even wormed her way in there and made herself at home? When had she started to mean this much?

Butch turned on his heels, checking for the sun, then for any clouds, revealing only a crisp blue mid-morning sky, before pivoting quickly in another direction to dig through just another pile of broken concrete. Still no Buttercup. He was less precise about things now, throwing the trash to the side and chucking concrete out of the way. They—those things in the shadows—would no doubt notice that he was being too loud, but Butch couldn't find it in himself to care.

"You just had to play stupid freaking hero, didn't you!" He was not entirely hysterical, but very close to it, "I told you not to! I said it wasn't worth it! And here we are!" He stopped digging and leaned back on his heels, whipping his head side-to-side, looking, searching, using the x-ray vision he was always forgetting about for any possible clue or sign she was around.

"This wasn't my idea! You were the one who wanted to do a night run!" He continued to gripe at the Buttercup living rather contently in his imagination—the one that kept laughing at him every time he turned over the wrong rock. 'Come on, Butch,' She mocked, 'if you seriously can't find me, how will you find our family?'

"Bu—Buttercup!" He called out, cupping his hands around his mouth, ignoring the way his voice cracked its way through his ever-tightening throat. When there was again no response, he fell onto his ass and held his head in his hands. "Don't leave me alone," He muttered, trying his best to blink back the stupid, pointless tears, "I can't be alone."

But he was, wasn't he? Butch hadn't seen Boomer in 789 days. The last time he had seen Brick was precisely two days before the world had ended. According to Buttercup, Bubbles had been gone for almost just as long, and Blossom had left three months into it all. She had been following some lead regarding the whereabouts of their sister, and supposedly, the apparent start to all of this madness. That, of course, had been almost four years ago.

Buttercup had wanted to go with Blossom; Butch knew first-hand how she still cried about it. But Blossom had said someone had needed to stay back—to keep what was left of the City safe. Buttercup had always been one of the best superheroes back in the day, so Butch understood why Blossom had made her stay behind. He didn't think Buttercup knew that, though, that people—that Blossom—had considered her one of the best.

Now, Buttercup was just another martyr on the ever-growing list. So, he supposed, her never knowing didn't really matter anymore.

"Tough my ass!" He yelled at the sky, sneering instead of crying because it was the easier thing to do, "Of course, you'd die! Of course, just to specifically piss me off!"

He fell onto his back and stared up at the blinding sun. It was now near noon. He could hear the creatures—the demonic things that stalked and hunted from the shadows—skittering about watching him. They didn't go where the sun touched; nightmares did their best work when it was dark out.

For a moment, Butch did little more than bask in the sunlight, watching almost numbly as a lazy cloud trekked its way across the sky. The moment it reached the sun, he would only have two options. The first was two-part: fight and run. The second choice was death. And the second choice was far more tempting.

The sun was coming out less and less now that the days were growing shorter. Even before the creatures had begun stalking the City, Butch had always thought winter was the most brutal season to get through. He wasn't big on the cold. However, winter was now more dangerous than it ever had been before, and if he didn't get back to the stronghold soon, the gaggle of survivors that made up what remained of Townsville would be dead within the week. It wasn't like Ima could keep handling the Night Patrol units by herself, especially with Princess still in the infirmary. If both he and Buttercup died today, Bellum would have her work cut out for her—figuring this one out.

But what was the point? Really, honestly? They were all dead anyway. So, what did it matter? It wasn't like the only thing he was living for would ever happen. He already knew he'd never see his brothers alive again. It was a fool's dream to think otherwise. No one had caught wind of Boomer anywhere. His baby brother had just seemingly disappeared. And it had been so long since Butch had last seen Brick, he wasn't sure he could even remember his brother's voice outside of nightmares.

Not for the first time, grief gripped his heart and he found himself mourning. He couldn't quit his brothers no matter how hard he tried, no matter how often he tossed their things away and tried to bury the sound of their laughter in some metaphorical grave deep in the recesses of his mind. Now, Butch could only see Brick in his mind—how wide his smile got when he laughed, how freckles covered him head to toe, how fucking smart he was, and how fucking dumb Butch had been all those years ago taking it all for granted.

The last thing Butch had ever said to his older brother was to go fuck himself. They had been fighting over the grocery list—Butch had forgotten the milk.

The fucking milk.

If he had just remembered the milk then—

His throat tightened unbearably, and again, he swallowed past the sobs, squeezing his eyes shut.

'They're not dead,' the Buttercup living inside his head chided, rolling her eyes, 'Are you thick or something? How many times do I have to this clear to you?'

He gritted his teeth, grinding them together as he tried his best to ignore her. He didn't want another ghost haunting him, especially hers.

'I believe in them, Butch, I believe in my sisters more than anything else in this world,' Ghost-Buttercup continued, 'They're alive. They'll be back.'

You don't know that, he thought, you really don't.

'Blossom promised.' Her voice echoed inside his head, something the real Buttercup had told him time and time again, 'Blossom doesn't break promises.'

Promises don't mean anything, he argued back, not anymore.

'Always put your money on Blossom, Butch, trust me.'

"You're dead." He told her ghost rather bluntly out loud as the world beyond his eyelids went dark, the cloud finally devouring the light of the sun, "You're gone."

"Butch?" Buttercup asked, and his eyes snapped open, "Who's gone?"

He stared up at her, mesmerized as she knelt above him, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. It was always falling loose from her stubby little ponytail, that dumb strand of hair; he dreamt about it.

"Buttercup?" He whispered.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, tilting her head ever so slightly to the left in question, "Yeah?"

He brought a shaky hand up to the cheek of her face, cupping it and ignoring how the temperature of her skin made him shiver. Then, quickly, he propped himself up on his elbow before fully sitting up so he could cup her whole face between his hands—her wonderful, beautiful, very alive face.

"You're not dead," He continued to whisper, still stunned—she was perfect. A vision.

Buttercup smiled, revealing the slight gap in her front teeth, "It takes a bit more than a few shadow freaks to kill me."

"You're not dead." He repeated, at a loss for words before the reality of the situation settled into his heart, and he swore he could have died right then and there, happy and content. "You're not dead! You piece of shit," He laughed, removing his hands from her cold face, so he could encircle them around her neck and bring her into a bone-crushing hug, "you scared the hell out of me."

She laughed, her breath tickling his ears as she returned the hug, wrapping her arms around him, "I'm okay!"

There was an odd tickle in his stomach, and he could feel the palms of his hands start to sweat, but he attributed it to the close proximity. He could count on one hand how many times he had hugged Buttercup in his life, and each time had left him more flustered than the last.

"Yeah," He agreed, heartbeat in his ears as he squeezed tighter, holding onto her like she'd disappear if he ever let go, "I thought you were dead."

"I'm not," She hummed after a long moment.

He broke out into a grin, agreeing quickly and hoping she wouldn't notice the tears of relief slipping down his face, "You're not."

"But you are, though." She said rather matter-of-factly, "You're dead."

His eyes fluttered open as he let go of her ever-so-slightly, "What?"

"Butch!" He heard someone scream, and he snapped his head to the left, following the sound, but Buttercup pulled his face back and locked her eyes with his.

"I said," Buttercup smiled—but now that he was looking, like really looking, it wasn't Buttercup, was it? Her voice wasn't quite right, and her smile was just a little too broad—and cupped his cheek, "I'm not dead, you are."

The nervous fluttering in his gut grew tenfold as black spots started taking over his vision. Butch tried shaking them away as he looked down at his stomach, his arms dropping on their own from around her neck. He swallowed, choking slightly on thick salvia mixed with blood, as he watched an impossibly long and bulky knife-like claw lodge itself firmly into his gut. The claw twisted around inside his body until the nail finally broke all the way through him, breaking through the skin of his back. Then, slowly, the claw began to pull out. With wide eyes, his head lulled up to meet Buttercup's stare once more.

Where bright, wonderful green eyes had just been, two ink-black eye sockets stared back. The stare was emotionless, but the corners of its mouth—whatever it was—was stretched out into a wide and grotesque smile with two pus-infected industrial staples keeping the corners of the smile permanently high up its face. It was almost cartoonish in style, but vaguely, it reminded Butch of HIM, how the demon's mouth would stretch up to its eyes when it was amused (or hungry).

The nightmare in front of him brought the blood-slick elongated claw up to its mouth, and a black tongue slithered out, wrapping its way around the nail. The blood that wasn't licked off dribbled down the creature's arm, where the black of its clawed hands gave way to the blistering and white skin of its arms. The creature sucked and licked contently, and with sick fascination (because he had never seen one of these things so up close before), Butch watched.

It had no nose or ears and only small tufts of hair covered its head. And it was horrible to look at, but Butch couldn't look away. Every inch of its large, awkwardly proportioned body was covered in peeling and blistered skin like it was suffering from a 3rd degree sunburn. When it noticed him watching, its' smile grew, irritating one of the staples that kept the corner of its mouth up, and Butch watched as pus began to ooze out of the wound.

"Butch," It cooed at him, "Oh, Butch!"

"Butch!" There was another scream, "I'm coming! Just hold on! Butch!"

"Buttercup lovesss you!" It giggled, "Oh yes, I doooo!"

Even though he absolutely knew that the thing in front of him wasn't at all his Buttercup (she was dead, he could remember that now), his traitorous heart still jumped at the admission. Or maybe, he was just dying. He couldn't tell. The last time he had died, he had just blown up. This was different altogether; it was like the Chemical-X in his body was frozen, unable to heal what was broken—it was just so cold all of a sudden. Where had the sun gone?

Butch's vision became darker and darker as the world around him swam. He slouched to the side, leaning onto his elbow, and tried to find his breath, barely responding to the sticky claw that tapped sharply against his cheek.

"Buttercup lovveesss you." The creature continued to coo as it began to push its' nail into the skin of his temple, "I lovvee you!"

"Hey, asshole—" There was a voice behind them as clear as day.

Startled, the creature looked over its shoulder with a hiss as Butch struggled to keep his eyes open. The figure was a tall green blob wearing a black hat, but Butch couldn't discern anything more. He was having a hard enough time remembering where his own feet were. Whoever the figure was, they snatched up the creature in front of him, grabbing it by its head like a bowling ball and holding its face up to the sky.

"—the sun's coming out." The green figure hissed, finishing their sentence, as the cloud from before finally moved away from the sun, continuing its lazy trek across the sky. The creature in the figure's grasp flailed about for a moment before it erupted into a high-pitched scream. The blistering on its' skin increased, bubbling as if the creature was being boiled alive.

Butch collapsed into a heap on the ground, too tired to support his own weight as he watched the creature's body bubble into a final convulsion. The gut of it exploded, a black substance spraying out, but the figure didn't seem interested in that as they chucked the monster's corpse far away and dropped to their knees in front of him.

"Butch!" They gasped, "Oh—Butch! I thought you were—shit, oh no, no, you're bleeding out! I—I need to get you to the Professor!" The figure in green, who smelt of sweat, blood, and something incredibly familiar and warm, scooped him up off the ground with a strength he had never thought a human could possess.

"Just stay with me, okay?" The figure pressed their foreheads together, their voice cracking, "Don't go just yet. I've got you now, okay? I'll protect you, I promise."

He tried answering, but his tongue was like cotton in his mouth.

"You're not dead yet," The figure whispered with a mouth pressed to the crown of his head, "we're not dead yet."

[xnyu09]

i envy you.

[moxielynx]

harry is too much of a loser to smoke weed lets be honest (i mean this very affectionately)

bonus