#the name is a work in progress. but you know

[the-vampire-fish-queen]

Update: its now law but again

DO NOT PANIC and DO NOT delete your accounts.

The law does not come into force for another 12 months and is likely to face a high court challenge!

I'm also seeing some changing there alias to there reals name because of how confusing this law is.

YOU DO NOT NEED TO USE YOUR REAL NAMES SO KEEP YOUR ALIAS.

This does show how bad the whole progress of this bills passing is and how much of a rushed mess it is where no one knows how it will work.

fucking australia’s trying to get everyone to link their government id to their social media accounts else you cant use them anymore, the actual fuck is wrong with this country

[endearng]

Lifeline

Pairing: earlyseasons!Spencer Reid x addict!reader Summary: How does one move on after seeing the lost versions of themselves on someone else entirely? WC: 8.8k Warnings: canon criminal minds violence (m-rder); pr-stitution and mentions of sex; s.h-rm; illegal substances consumption; mentions of dr-g abuse; panic attacks; graphic suicide attempt. Minors, please, do not interact. A/N: This is heavily based on "The A Team", "Gale Song" and "evermore" and also Skins UK's character Effy Stonem. Besides that, I was also somewhat inspired by CM'S 2x11 and I messed up the timeline. Feedbacks are always welcome! | masterlist

"Her name's Amelia Holden. She was found in a dumpster in an alley of a neighborhood in central Richmond. Along with her, we have four women murdered within two weeks." JJ informed as she briefed the team about the case they were invited to work on.

Their reactions always were different. Aaron Hotcher remained unreadable, often asking about the local police's findings. Derek Morgan usually worried about victimology and the modus operandi. Emily Prentiss used to brainstorm details on the pictures. David Rossi was the one to make comparisons with previous cases. Spencer Reid busied himself with data, statistics and whatnot about the locality.

Speaking of which, "This is an high-end neighborhood, not to mention the obvious fact that it happened in the capital of Virginia. Based on that, one could think that the citizens will cooperate to solve this as fast as we can."

Derek sighed, "I wish I could tell you're wrong in different circumstances, pretty boy." Spencer frowned, eager to ask, but Derek was faster, "Truth is, these girls were all prostitutes. The rich won't give a damn if they go missing, which is pure hypocrisy based on the fact that they go where the money is, which is, well... in their neighborhood." JJ pursed her lips, taking another look at the evidence.

There were pictures of four girls, placed so carelessly in the dumpster that it was possible to deduce that they had been all thrown in there already dead. Not a single chance of survival. Not a single chance someone could save them. JJ felt a lump in her throat and looked away from the photos.

“It’s most likely a male.” Rossi said.

Emily nodded, asking, "So what do you guys think? Maybe this guy is murdering them because he thinks he's doing society a favor?"

"It could be, yes. When prostitutes are targeted, the main reason is misogyny, but we can also associate these crimes to other forms of hatred. It can also be related to power." Spencer answered. "Are there any signs of sexual abuse?"

"No, only physical violence." JJ answered. "The coroner's reports indicate that they were drugged, some of them with multiple substances. There are red bruises as well as knife scars and stabs basically all over their bodies."

"Multiple substances in their body can be a sign of addiction, but also that our unsub drugged them to make them easier to drag around." Spencer continued. “Does the lab have the substances yet?”

“Garcia is working on it.” JJ replied.

"And the amount of cuts and bruises on their bodies mean that our unsub is angry. Like, uncontrollably angry." Emily finished.

"Well, he's killed both black and white women, so we know it's not race motivated." Rossi completed Emily's train of thought. "He's been getting more and more desperate, given the depths of the cuts as he progresses, look." He said, pointing to the picture of the last victim.

Emily gulped, shaking her head lightly.

“I’d say that, given the color of the bruises, they were beaten right before they died. This unsub doesn’t keep them for much longer. Most likely, he tortures them and kills them, getting rid of them in the dumpsters. The place of disposal is rather telling.” Spencer chimed in.

"Get Garcia to look up sex offenders in that area." Hotch said. "Try to find them all, no matter what their outcome was. Close, dropped... It doesn't matter. If the theory about social cleansing is right, maybe the offender has a past history with it. On the other hand, if he's rich, he probably got away with it."

"I'll call her right now." Morgan said with a nod.

"Great. tell the Richmond PD we're getting there in a couple of hours." Hotch announces. "Wheels up in thirty."

—

Arriving in the precinct, Hotchner assigned the tasks. Rossi and Morgan would go to the latest crime scene as Reid and Prentiss looked around for possible witnesses. JJ would stay at the precinct in case something came up.

"Check this out," called Rossi. "The... instrument was big enough to go through her body, from her stomach to her back." He said.

Morgan sighed. "Intensified violence means that he's not planning on stopping any time soon."

A couple feet away, agents Reid and Prentiss talked to one of the prostitutes. "We're always here, especially at night. Some girls are here during the daytime, but you know, it's slower. Nobody wants to be seen with us." She had bloodshot eyes, a defeated expression on her features. 

"Who are your usual... customers?" Reid asked, a little embarrassed to be talking to a woman who had that much expertise in a field he lacked any. A flash of worry and guilt crossed the young woman's face and she looked around as if making sure no one was listening to them.

"Don't worry, everything's classified. You're not gonna get in trouble if you talk to us. We're just trying to help." Emily said, trying to ease her nerves.

"Okay... I... The guys who work in the bank are often here. Cops, too. But they are very sneaky." She whispered, fright almost palpable in her voice.

"Did any of them ever pose a threat? Maybe too violent? Persistent?" The young doctor asked, again. She blinked at him, willing the tears not to fall.

"Most of them are just bored husbands or divorcees who want to get laid without the worry of being chased after." Looking away, she went on, "we’re the ones who can't afford to say no to the things they're into. We get the best of their roughness, so it's hard to tell." Emily gave her a sympathetic look.

From afar, you watched their interactions. The girl, whose name was Renée, looked very nervous and guilty. You approached them, looking a lot more skeptical than the emotional mess they were asking questions to. You took a look at them, took in the way they were dressed, besides the pens and notepads in their hands. The man took a second look at you, but you shrug it off, used to be perceived and not always in the best manner, given your appearance these days. “You ok, Renée?" You checked on her softly and she nodded in agreement. "Excuse me. Are you with the police?" You ask in a serene voice.

"Hi. I'm Agent Emily Prentiss and this is Doctor Spencer Reid. We're with the FBI," the dark haired woman answered, both of them showing you their badges. You nodded. "We're investigating the murder of women in this location."

Spencer looked at you as you inspected their faces. You wore casual clothes, nothing like the outfit Renée had on, and, for a moment, he thought what were you doing in there and how and why did you know her. It didn't make sense, albeit briefly, to him, why would someone so mundane be in that place, at that time. After a couple of seconds of watching you curiously, the pieces started falling into places, though. The crestfallen expression, dry skin and chapped lips... You were going through something.

He had a feeling he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what.

That is, until you actually started talking.

"Hello," you introduce yourself. "Oh, I see. I didn’t think the locals would be interested in solving these anyway."

“Why do you say that?” Emily asked, curious to know your answer.

“I suppose they don’t like the fact that some of us are so daring to the point of going to their station to report the abuse we all go through weekly,” you snorted, voice thick with disdain, although every person in the conversation was aware that it was not aimed at either of them, “like, why are we complaining? We want to do this, we are willingly here.” Emily sighed.

“I’m sorry.” Was all that Spencer could muster up.

“Anyway…” you sniffled. A telling sign. “How can we help?”

"Have you seen anyone violent around here? A-a new face, perhaps?" He asked, turning his body to face you properly. Emily looked at him, puzzled.

"Doctor, with all due respect, they are men. And they are paying. It’s basically a green light for all sorts of abuse, I'm sure Renée told you that much." You answered, in a much more certain tone than your friend had used.

"Did either of you recall anything about that night? The most basic detail can help us.” Emily inquired.

"Yeah." Renée answered with a quiver of her lip, clinging to you, trying to find some solace. You squeezed her shoulder lightly, glancing at her.

Sensing she might not be able to talk, you went on, "I can't think of anything out of the ordinary that night. I didn't notice they were missing until the next day. We try our best to watch out for each other. As I said, some men can be real creeps, but once you start your own thing, it's… hard” you exhaled, “for some of us to keep track of what's going on around us. Unless we run into each other again, we won't know for sure if we're actually safe." You explained, looking down at your feet. After a couple deep breaths that felt like you were inhaling the oxygen of the entire Earth, you looked back at them. Still avoiding eye contact, glancing between their foreheads, something you'd learned to do in order to escape the person you were with when you needed to.

Spencer watched you the entire time.

“I see,” the woman said, taking some notes. “Would you know if they share anything in common?”

“They usually stay in the park at the end of the street,” Renée answered, “They go there once things quiet down, and guys pick them up in their cars. The night they were… um, taken, was pretty intense. If they got kidnapped, we couldn’t even give you a license plate. We weren’t around.” Her voice dripped with pure guilt. You ran your thumb on her shoulder.

At the moment, though, there's something else entirely on your mind. Eventually, after a beat of silence, you decide to speak your mind, to expose your insecurities. Not worried about how you may look. Hell, it's been a long time since you stopped. "I'm sorry to press or if I sound too demanding. I know sometimes things get out of your control, but, uh, you're gonna catch this guy, right? I mean... we have to be here. I hope you don't think we have another choice."

As you talked, your soft voice and pleading eyes drew Spencer's attention to you with even more intensity. Your voice and mannerisms weren't something he was expecting. He berated himself after realizing how he was in the wrong by assuming you’d portray yourself in a certain way because of the area you worked in. Your voice was low, but firm. Your words were understanding, but demanding. Your posture was almost defensive, but the desperation of your tone told them how terrified you were. He couldn't help but notice the fact that you were sniffing quite often. His profiling skills were faster than himself and he made the conclusion that, given the line of your work, he presumed it most likely wasn’t only a cold.

Spencer knew, then, that you shared something in common with him. Something bad.

Again, not something he wanted to know about.

Emily opened her mouth to speak, but Spencer beat her to it, "We're gonna do the best we can, Miss."

"Glad to hear that," you muttered, unable to look him in the eye.

“Thanks for your time.” Emily said, a gentle smile on her face.

Spencer watched from the corner of his eye as you and René left, walking arm in arm. In a safe distance from everyone else, he saw as your friend broke down in your arms and as you comforted her, even if you had your own tears streaming down your face. He had reached Morgan and Rossi when you two walked away. Emily studied his face attentively, wondering why he was so fast to assure a possible victim like that, because, one, it was unlike him to want to partake in such sensitive conversations with the ones involved in the process. Two, what kind of agent, doctor, official, profiler, whatever, makes promises before such an intricate process such as their work?

“So, did you get anything?” Rossi asked him, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Oh, yeah. Those two women said that the victims usually waited for clients in the park right down the street.” Emily said.

“I think we should go take a look.” Spencer suggested.

Searching the park, which was full of passersby and families just spending some time outside their houses, Spencer couldn’t shake the feeling that this case had already hit him too close to home. The violence was something that still messed with his head and he thought he could never recover from the flashes of memories behind his eyelids once he closed his eyes to sleep every night. Still, it wasn’t that that baffled him the most, but you. He knew what it was like to struggle with addiction. He had been very harsh on Emily not long ago, during a withdrawal, so he knew aggressiveness and mood swings were to be expected. You and your mannerisms, however, were totally out of the addiction bingo. The way you looked, so broken, so sick, in every sense of the word, didn’t stop you from having a polite conversation with them, even if the topic was very much concerning to you. Plus, the caring nature you seemed to have and the way you made sure to be supportive towards you and the others who, just like you, went through hell every day for the most unspeakable reasons stood out to him.

It was intriguing, to say the least.

“Hey, I got something.” Morgan said as he approached the team with a piece of paper. “It says: They will not do it again.”

“Who’s they?” Rossi inquired.

“Maybe the prostitutes. The only way of stopping them is killing them.” Spencer answered, albeit his thoughts were still far, far away from the scene.

“But stop them from doing what? Causing a divorce? Being a homewrecker? Polluting the city?” She wondered out loud.

“These are all valid possibilities,” Rossi nodded, “we now know from your interview that rich men are regulars here. Maybe one of them was unfaithful and snapped after getting his divorce. Now, he might be taking it out on these girls.” He finished.

“We still need to figure that out.” Morgan sighed. “Hey, babygirl, we need a favor,” Derek said once Penelope picked up his call. “Can you check every upper-class man in Richmond that has recently gotten a divorce?”

“Sure thing, handsome,” she quipped, “it might take some time, though. And I know you’ll need to narrow it down.”

“We’ll keep you posted. Thanks, babygirl.”

“Always happy to help, hot stuff.”

—

Back at the station, the BAU team was surrounded by cops, sharing their findings so far. Spencer was the one to make sure that the cops would be on duty and laser focused on the areas he determined through the geographical profile. Those areas were most likely the ones the next attack would take place. He emphasized, very intently, that they needed cops especially in darker alleys and that they were looking for a male in his thirties. 

Spencer couldn't shake the thought of dread that crept up on him, making him almost paralyzed. The fear of getting to the unsub, of letting him get away, of being too late, of being too early, of not being enough. Every scenario was the worst, his mind working overtime to make sure he had at least an ounce of optimism for months on end, ever since he finally managed to stay clean off Dilaudid. The cops moved around, divided between groups to start surveillance. And the dread kept building inside of him, like a crescendo of horror.

Sitting next to Emily, he decided to break the morbid silence hanging over them. “I'm sorry I lashed out on you, Emily. I don't think I ever apologized.”

Totally not expecting his words, she looked at him, wide-eyed. It took her a second to gather her thoughts and form an answer. “It's no problem. I know what you were going through.”

“Still. It doesn't change much. It's not a good enough excuse for me to treat others poorly.” He couldn't look at her, fiddling with his fingers instead.

“Reid, why do I sense you're talking about something else?”

He sighed. He was so, so tired of keeping it in, of bottling everything in, of swallowing his words so as to not make anyone uncomfortable. “I am.” He confessed, after a moment of silence.

Maybe staying quiet was less morbid than the conversation they were about to have, he mused.

“What happened?”

“That girl, today. The second one. I could tell she's having issues. The same as me, I mean. And she was so nice the entire time. She was trying to make her friend feel better.”

“Spencer…” Emily breathed out, a somewhat reprimanding look on her face. Not that he could see it. “This comparison is unfair on so many levels. First, you've seen her for what? Five minutes? We don't know what she's been through, if she has a family… There are so many possibilities. Maybe she was having a good day—”

“How does one have a good day knowing that they have very high chances of being killed?” He interrupted. A sigh left Emily's lips.

“I don't know. But you do understand why that comparison you made was unfitting, to say the least, right?” 

Right on cue, to make the subject die, he muttered a “I guess.” so she could drop the subject. From afar, Spencer watched as you left a building with a glare on your face. He wondered what you were feeling and if your expression always told you off.

“There she is. Not looking happy.” Emily said, simply, not relating it to the use of any substances out of respect. She could only imagine what he was going through, being forced to watch someone she loves slowly lose themselves over something so trivial, but at the same time, dangerous as a substance.

Spencer pressed his lips on a thin line.

—

You laid there, on a big, albeit uncomfortable bed, simply enduring the sloppy, much erratic thrusts of a man who was old enough to be your dad. Grandfather, if you pushed it a little bit. Internally, you chuckled bitterly at the thought, because those two decided to want distance from you a long, long time ago. You had turned out into a person who many people didn't want to be associated with, so you kind of understood their attitude towards you. Still, it didn't make navigating through this world all by yourself any easier. In fact, it stung harder than you cared to admit, but, for the most part of the time, you were as high as a kite — your coping mechanism to shield your brain for reminiscing about the disgusting, vile man that you had to... satisfy to avoid starving to death. It was a never ending cycle. A torturous one that you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy.

Speaking of which, the man above you came on your stomach, meaning that the appointment had finally reached its end. You couldn't quite pinpoint if he was the first, second or even third man you've encountered that night, but you didn't care. The effects of the dope made sure you wouldn't remember them the next day. Actually, it had been a while since you had been exposed to daylight. Your routine consisted of being around all night with those men, getting home, scrubbing your skin hard enough to draw blood as you showered, trying to get rid of the feeling of the greedy, disgusting hands all over your body, sleeping all day, getting high and repeating it all over again. Some nights you didn’t have too much strength to do it all. Some days felt like they mashed together with how long it felt with the same ache, the same hole in your chest. Your life was miserable, and you often caught yourself thinking if it was worth it. And, if it was, what for?

"You're so good, princess, kept quiet all the time and shit." The man said as he pulled his shirt back on, covering his thin frame. You cleaned yourself the best you could with a washcloth. "You’re fairly pretty… If you weren't a junkie, I might take you home with me... keep you all to myself, you know?" He inquired, a smirk dancing around his features.

You didn't dignify him with an answer. Instead, you glared at him, even though he couldn't see your face, grabbed the money that had been placed in the nightstand and made a beeline to the door.

You stared at that money with burning rage. If you didn't need it so much, you would definitely tear it apart given the hatred coursing through your veins. You gulped, and it tasted bitter, and it was hard to swallow the lump in your throat. You sold yourself for something as ordinary as money, and it made you so angry because your family was swimming in it. Sometimes, you wished they would drown in it, just to see if your anger simmered down.

You weren't always like this, so... so rotten. Coming from a rich, traditional family, people expected highly from you all the time, thus, you had been an excellent, straight A's student, being the valedictorian of your class at a traditional Catholic school without your teachers needing to double check any records. You also volunteered halftime in an institute that helped old people, which made your parents immensely proud. At that time, you had gotten yourself a boyfriend, your high-school sweetheart, getting engaged to him as you started your third year at a great university, majoring in Psychology. It all went down, though, when you started struggling with addiction.

It started with lighter substances, like alcohol. You drank until you started mumbling out the words you meant to say, going even as far as embarrassing yourself and your fiancée multiple times at social gatherings that involved booze. You loved the thrill, the buzz, the lightness it made you feel, instead of the pile of anxiety that built and seeped into your very bones after being so pushed to the edge your entire life. You thought you liked your life, but after being in touch with people who had a much (what you considered to be) easier life than yours, you started to let loose. Since you didn't have any family around you to put you on a tight leash, you lost control altogether.

When your family realized what had happened, too engrossed in their own businesses and investments and money and anything that was more important than their offsprings, it was too late. You couldn't go a day without drinking, dropping out of schoolcALT without thinking about the consequences for your future. Ironically, you knew and understood pretty well the things you were going through, but battling an addiction requires a lot of strength that you didn't know where to find, since you were all alone. After all, you had pushed all your friends away, your fiancée had walked out on you and your family basically disowned you.

Left to your own devices and unable to keep a steady, serious job, despite your background, you found yourself in the streets.

Sigh.

Opening the door to your small apartment, you got rid of the clothes that began to reek of alcohol, throwing them mindlessly on the floor. You rushed to the bathroom and stared at your own reflection for a moment, noticing the dark spots under your eyes, your dry lips and the lifeless gaze that your eyes had turned into. You had lost quite a bit of weight, now looking like a dead skull, wandering around, doomed to search for any reason to continue living in a world that had been pitch black.

In the bathtub, you scratched your skin aggressively, not being able to avoid the feeling of the remnants of several unknown men, which sensation brought up the comparison that you felt similar to a person who suffers with phantom limb pain: you couldn't see their hands, you couldn't come up with anyone's face, but you couldn't avoid sensing their touch on your skin. But, unlike the syndrome, you didn't feel pain, feeling rather like needles were seeping into your skin, deep enough to reach your bones. But, like the syndrome, it felt like it was yours. Their touch, although invisible, was forever inked into your skin.

You couldn't help the tears running down your face, mixing themselves with the water that poured from the shower. Tears of both pain, disgust, desperation, regret. It was a whirlwind of emotions that you couldn't deal with. As you left the bathroom, you downed half a bottle of vodka, hoping that it would lull you to sleep.

Maybe for good this time.

—

A loud banging on your door roused you from sleep. Your mouth felt dry and your skin felt even worse — it felt like it had been days since you last drank water. Maybe it was true. The loud noise made your head throb in pain. Curled in bed, you tried to muffle the sounds by covering your ears with your hands, but it was just as annoying. The person on the other side of the door seemed hell-bent on seeing you, but you couldn't come up with anyone other than your landlord, because your rent was supposed to be paid yesterday.

Getting up from your bed with a groan of annoyance and pain, you threw on a flannel you found on the floor. Opening the door, you were surprised to see your older brother.

"Y-you?" You asked, baffled. Embarrassed by your own appearance.

"It's me." He said, the usual serious edge to his voice. He said your name, hesitantly. "Can I come in?"

You didn't know what he wanted. The fact that you had been left alone for so long made your heart burn with anger and you wanted to slam the door in his face. You considered it for a moment, but it wouldn't take a genius to know that you needed someone with you, even if for just a couple of minutes, even if it was out of pity. You didn't mind. You relied on the kindness of people to get by, so what harm would it be in accepting a little more pity? More self loathing than you already had and constantly feeded inside you? You judged it impossible.

With a curt nod, you gave him space to enter your apartment. The place was a mess, clothes scattered around, curtains drawn closed, the darkness in the room not only caused by the absence of sunlight. Something somber stopped light from entering. Your brother looked around with an unreadable expression and saw the countless bottles everywhere, from the floor to the couch, not to mention the many white remains on the surfaces like the small coffee table. He blinked away tears, desolate to see you in that position. Desperate to find words. Desperate to find you again in that vessel of a human you had become.

Clearing his throat, “I… heard what's happening. I was worried so I came all the way here to check on you.”

You bit back a bitter laughter. How could someone be this cruel? Abandon you and then treat you like you mattered? It made you almost want to throw up. “I'm alive. Happy?” You couldn't help the snarky remark.

“Come on, you know I'm not like them.” He defended, not able to look you in the eye.

You took a deep, shaky breath, trying to keep your emotions at bay. “If you weren't, you wouldn't have left me, too.”

“Come on, I was going through my own shit, I didn't realize what you were going through until it was too late.”

“Too late? Too late? I spent all my days wishing any of you would pick up the damn phone so that someone could come and get me before I was dead. But you're all the same. So self absorbed, so selfish, so… individualistic.” Your words were daggers, but you couldn't stop yourself from being mean, from trying to push away the only person who seemingly had an interest in helping you. Too bad you felt it was a little too late.

“Don't say that.”

At this point, the verbal vomiting was unstoppable. You sure looked like a maniac, rambling and jumping inconsistently from one topic to another, aiming to hurt him as much as they have hurt you, too. You knew what you were doing, but it felt for a moment that something else was forcing such cruelness out of your mouth. “The final blow was grandma dying, right? So you could finally pretend I don't exist. Keep doing that.”

“Let me help you.” He pleaded, coming close to you.

“I don't need your help.”

“If you don't accept it now, you're gonna spend more time wishing you had.” He said, holding your hands with his own.

“How are you going to help me? By sending me money so that I spend it all on drugs? On booze? Hah, nice one, really.”

“I wouldn't help you kill yourself.” He almost shouted, rage and sadness fighting over which would be the dominant feeling in his eyes.

“Then how? I basically just told you I'm helpless. I'm a ghost. I stopped existing a long time ago.” A sob broke through you, echoing in the walls of your dark apartment. You shut your eyes. “I don't know who I am anymore.”

Silence.

He's probably thinking everything through. Trying to find a way to let me down gently, you thought. “Let me take you somewhere safe. We'll see how it goes.”

You didn't expect that much. Despite wanting to say yes, your mouth was seemingly disconnected from your brain, so your words took a whole different turn. Instead of accepting his help, you simply stated, “I don't think I would stand to let you down again. I'm sorry.” He looks at you, bewildered, but, to you, not strong enough to put up a fight. “Can you please leave? I'm waiting for a friend.”

Defeated, he walks out the door. 

You don't notice the paper with his number left on the kitchen counter. When Renée shows up, dressed in a skin-tight red dress, she sees and runs her finger on the note as if it could save her from every single risk her life could show her. 

—

"We found another body."

Amidst the research and data analysis required to provide the profile, Spencer Reid got easily lost on his obligations and far too focused on his duties in order to help people as fast as he could, which was why he was seemingly terrified of one of the local officer's voice. 

At the crime scene, the found body was once Renée Woods. Spencer watched from afar as the coroner  examined their body and as Derek and Emily searched frantically for anything they could do to help, whether it was examining the crime scene or simply talking to the assigned legists. Spencer, unlike them, stood still. Muscles unable to make any movements besides clenching his hands in fists so tight that his somewhat long nails almost cut through the sensitive skin.

How would you take the news?

What if that was you?

The thought went as quickly as it came, because, from afar, he watched as you showed up, looking skeptical, but soon becoming hysterical once you recognized her, even from a certain distance. You could tell it was her by the clothes she was wearing. You cried hysterically, screaming as if someone had torn apart your heart with their bare hands, sobbing as if you couldn't breathe unless Renée was walking the Earth. A cop touching you, instead of soothing your turmoil, only served as a fuel to the fire raging through you. Sadness, anger, desperation, panic, everything flooding your chest, ragging your breath. You pushed the man away, trying to find a way to enter the crime scene.

Spencer finally was taking control of his body again. Approaching you, calmly, as if you would attack him too if he got too close and too abruptly, or worse, you’d run away, he made his way to you. Noticing your red-rimmed eyes, he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You said you’d do your best,” you said in a broken voice, looking him in the eye. Defeated.

Silence. All the noise seemed dull, distant, far away. You were in a bubble.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, wide eyes looking at his confused ones. Right now, talking to you felt like whiplash. “I know it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mean to accuse or blame you. Fuck,” you cursed, bringing your hands to your eyes. “Can I do anything to help? I can… I can try.”

Unbeknownst to you, Emily Prentiss watched your interactions with a puzzled look on her face. You looked and acted so distraught that she felt the need to approach, mindful of the damage the words from an enraged, saddened close friend of a victim would do. Unable to stop her own feet, she approached you. Spencer wouldn't utter a word. You looked nervous, looking from her to him and obsessively trying to wipe your tears that seemingly had their own will to run on your face.

"Can you come with me?" She offered, handing out a blanket for you. You looked at her and amidst the mixed feelings that the grief started etching into your eyes, you could give her a grateful glance.

By her side, you looked at Spencer, who was still frozen in place.

"I'm sorry..." You whispered, looking at the ground.  

He looked straight ahead. Once you were with Emily, he glanced your way with a pitiful look on his face.

—

Days passed. You were in the precinct once they called Renée’s family to break the morbid news. You watched as her mother fell to her knees once one of them told her what had happened to her daughter. You heard the chanting of "I failed, I failed, I failed..." endlessly. And by endlessly, you mean it is still haunting you to this day.

For three days, all you did was escape reality, whether by sleeping or doing drugs. Your brother's contact sat still on the kitchen counter, collecting dust and meaning hesitation from your end.

On the fourth day, you were sober for a couple of hours. You opened the curtains and despite the darkness still loomed around, it felt better. It burned, but in a nice way. As you stared at the note in the counter, untouched, Emily Prentiss knocked on your door to let you know that they were close to catching the killer. His profile was complete, it seemed. Something about a man in his 40s taking out the frustration of his parents’ broken marriage because of his father’s infidelity and his own divorce because of his affairs. Cyclic. Looking at your wrecked state, she told you all about him.

"Why are you telling me this?" You asked as Renée’s mother chant still echoed in your mind.

"First, I thought you needed hope. Second, I was thinking you might recognize him.”

Needless to say, she was right. Your lungs burned at each breath you took, and, in that moment, you decided you would try to be strong. Stronger. Renée’s face came to mind. You had nothing left to lose if you exposed a few rich men. Thanking Emily, you said softly, your tone contrasting with the vile nature of your words, “You said he dumped the girls in a specific place, right?” She nodded. “I don’t know if anyone told you about this one place, but they take some of the girls there. It’s kind of off-radar” 

As you gave her the location, her surprise betrayed her usual composure. “No, nobody did.”

“Do you think it could be helpful?”

—

You found yourself in one of aforementioned building’s room along with Dr. Spencer Reid, as sort of your protector, while the others patrolled the building and the people who came and went, and the local cops lurked around downtown, in the park. You felt nervous, reminiscing about your last interaction with the man. Taking a deep breath, you sat down on a chair. “May I ask you something?” You inquired, carefully. He hadn’t talked much to you unless it was information about what you knew and what he needed to know. He nodded at you, turning his attention to your figure. "Do you like your job? I only ask because... you know... nobody really likes this job."

"... I do, yeah." He muttered, albeit not the whole truth. It was gruesome, but he thought he could manage. Besides, you didn’t need to be exposed to even more disaster. It was bad enough as it was.

"I don’t know if you know or acknowledge this, but not many people choose to do this. It's more of a last option, the one you really don't wanna take." You justified, even though you didn’t quite know why.

You supposed it was the embarrassment that came with being with a man who knew what you did but wasn’t with you to do that.

Understanding flooded his features, a soft "I understand." making its way out of his lips.

"Thanks." I say with a tight-lipped smile. "It means a lot."

He nodded. "You keep fiddling with your necklace."

"It's a locker, actually. It's a picture of me and my grandmother. I don't wear it when I'm.. um... Anyway, it's kinda sacred to me." You chuckled, gripping the accessory tighter. “I wore it today so that it would give me the strength needed to help Renée. And myself.”

He glances at you as if he wanted to know more. After a beat of silence and deciding that it was enough, "Do you have a good relationship with her?"

"I did. We were very close, but she passed away last year, sort of giving my family the free pass to cut me out entirely. I believe they think that I was the one who killed her, my life choices and whatnot."

He furrowed his brows. "You didn't choose this."

"In a way, I did. I knew what I was doing, I just couldn't stop. It's just that... It felt good not to have so much pressure on me, you know? I felt finally free... but what did it cost me? A safe relationship, my education, my family and friends… They never gave me a chance, not even to explain myself. I needed help. Thus far, I have had company my entire life. I didn't know how to exist. Then one of those girls helped me, but I realized that she was struggling to pay rent and I needed to do something, not just sit pretty and be high with the money I had left.”

His silence was unexpected.

In reality, it was caused by the cliché of watching your life passing before your eyes took over his mind. He remembered being drugged by Tobias Hankel, he remembered the needles puncturing his skin and the relief he felt from the entire situation once the substance started running through his veins. He remembered taking Dilaudid from his abductor’s pockets and he remembered staring at his own reflection in the mirror and finding a stranger looking back at him. He remembered being given a chip of sobriety even though he wasn’t sober for that long. He remembered thinking of himself as unworthy as he became more and more dependent, especially when he couldn’t even disguise how affected, how it changed him. Looking at your defeated face, he muttered, “I understand. It changes your perception of things and yourself.”

You could act oblivious and assume that his knowledge of the topic came from books, but you don’t see that expression on just anybody’s face. You felt sorry for him. Sensing he didn’t want to talk about himself any further, even if, in your opinion, wasn’t nearly enough for someone who had battled something as deep as an addiction, you decided to respect his wish. You talked about yourself instead, hoping to give him something, someone to relate to, as you desperately wanted for yourself. “I wasn’t always like this.”

“I’m sure you weren’t.” His voice held that tinge of something you couldn’t quite describe, something distant, but so close at the same time. He saw himself in you, almost if he was talking to himself.

He might have had Penelope check your background. Something about the lost potential resonated deep within him, and it made him all the more anxious to be close to you, to repair something he hadn’t been the one to break. As he looked at you, all he could see was someone in dire need of something, someone to grasp onto. “How does one manage to move past all that?"

Despite the will growing and boiling inside of him, he couldn’t just come up with a magic solution to cut through the darkness surrounding you. "Honestly, I don't know." You couldn’t see when he gulped.

"It's a long way from home. At least, for me."

For a moment, you looked at each other, mouths shut, not a single beat of sound around you. You looked at him, searching for answers and for someone to relate to. Spencer hesitated for a moment, the silence hanging over you like a fog. He wasn't trying to seem disinterested or unkind, but he felt as if his curt phrases weren’t enough to calm your heart. He spoke again, his voice softer, offering a hint of deeper sincerity, "Sorry, I..." he trailed off, unsure how to convey his thoughts without making the situation more hurtful. "I'm sure you can manage it with the right people."

Your grip on your locket softened, letting it fall close to your chest once you let it go. Looking at him, a soft melody started playing in your head.

Patience.

“I’m sorry,” you said, earnestly, which made him look at you with recognition. “Thanks for talking to me. It’s been a while.” 

I missed this feeling.

—

After a few moments, the BAU team had captured the man before he could collect another soul. Everything happened so fast. In one moment, you were in a superficially verbal conversation with Spencer. Despite the shallow nature of the words exchanged, digging deeper, the interaction was filled to the brim with meaning, which made you rethink a thing or two. You shared that much with him.

“Goodbye.” He said, simply. To you, he was not one to speak much. “You’ll be home by spring.” I can’t wait ‘til then, he thought.

“Goodbye, doctor.”

Next thing you knew, as you got home, all by yourself, you decided to reach out for your brother. Telling him you needed help, that you were pessimistic but that it would be foolish not to at least try.

Days at rehab went on as smoothly as they could, considering you were suffering with withdrawal. Your behavior and emotions swayed like waves on a lake surface on a windy day. Deeply unstable, your mind was forced to remember all the hell you’ve been through on a daily basis for the last sad months of your life. Grieving for the version of you you could have been, for Renée, for your sense of self, self-respect and whatever you had lost during those dark times. Often, your hands trembled, you felt cold in a warm, cozy room and there were times your skin felt ablaze, not to mention the whirlwind of thoughts that made your head hurt. You missed feeling numb.

And when I was shipwrecked, I thought of you.

Still, there were afternoons that you would sit on the porch of your bedroom and simply take in the surroundings. The green grass that was taken better off by the employees like it was someone’s first born. The other patients who walked around and closed their eyes as they felt the sun kissing their skin for what it felt like the first time in years. The trees that casted shadows on the grass so that some of them could lay beneath them. The breeze that engulfed your figure and gently touched you, unlike you had been treated. The immense sense of belonging to this existence, of not longer being a stranger to your own life. You would take deep breaths and your lungs wouldn’t ache like before. You pictured the two reasons responsible for making you take the decision that brought you to this place sitting next to you. You held what was left of one of them between your fingertips.

The sudden and constant mood swings made your attitude change at breakneck speed.

Tonight, taking a quick break from the notebook you were scribbling on, you took a look around you. At that moment, everything around you was spinning. You couldn’t breathe, feeling as if the hands that touched you in the past stopped you from inhaling oxygen altogether. You shut your eyes closed and tried to breathe in like the doctors had told you to when things got too hard — it was not working. Panicking further, you stumbled your way to the ensuite bathroom and took a good look at your reflection. You felt shivers running down your body, an uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach as you desperately tried to turn on the faucet to splash some cold water to your face. Unsuccessful, to say the least.

The feeling grew as time went by. You couldn’t stand the discomfort and the memories and the feeling of being inappropriate to go back to living in the real world again. For a moment, you quieted your struggle. You gave in. You glanced at the mirror and although the tears blurred your vision, you were able to wonder if that was your opportunity of finally having the control of your life back. Maybe it was for the better, you thought as you reached for the small blade you secretly kept on the bathroom window. As you started feeling dizzy by the lack of oxygen, you couldn’t help but to think back to the interaction you exchanged with Spencer before you thought of accepting your brother’s offer. Picturing his face, of himself as a person and as a professional, you thought that, for a moment, he was a reflection of all that you wanted to be, all you wanted for yourself.

The blood that gushed from the open cuts of your arms, that drained from your body, felt like the catharsis you needed from all the mishaps that had taken place in your life. As you watched it dribble down your skin and as it stained the floor, you took a deep, difficult breath, feeling lightheaded. No thoughts swarmed your mind anymore. A sob, from both the dull sting of the cuts and of your difficulty breathing, echoed through the bathroom.

No!, you thought you heard a familiar voice scream.

In the cracks of light, I dreamed of you.

Finally taking short puffs of breaths, you kept thinking this was it. That it was for the better. That nothing could save you, nothing could stop the blood from cleansing you and taint the floor in the process. You finally shut your eyes as the tears never ceased to flow from your eyes, feeling hands squeezing your arms where you had drawn vertical lines with the blades. From that moment, everything around you felt mixed, the swaying of a vehicle, the alarmed voices, the brightness behind your eyelids. You never opened your eyes. You couldn't bear to open them and still be here, facing the people who were doing their best to help you.

As you lost consciousness, you finally found peace, your mind finally quieted down, the hands stopped touching your body. You thought you managed a weakened smile in your state.

;

Spencer, much like you, didn't keep much track of the time as it passed, for the things in his world happened too fast and burned too bright. As he approached his desk in the bullpen and he was reading through some emails, dread adorning his features and panic setting in the pit of his stomach as he read your brother's name on the screen — whose contact he had gotten after you were admitted in rehab — and the news he was sharing.

;

You didn't know how much time you had spent unconscious. You didn't have any dreams. You didn't have any thoughts. You were completely numb, as if you were surrounded by a bubble that protected you from anything that could possibly happen.

As you opened your eyes, you recognized a hospital room, wires and needles and the unmistakable smell of that place. Looking at your arms, you noticed the bandages that hid the scars that were certainly forming by now, if the dull ache was anything to go by. When you slowly felt reality creeping in, you didn't dare to look up, afraid to find a judgmental or angry look on someone's face. You focused solely on breathing, too frightened of your surroundings.

You gulped and your throat felt so dry that it almost scratched, which made you erupt in a fit of coughs. That drew the attention of a person sitting right next to you, which you hadn't noticed, too preoccupied with someone's reaction.

Slowly looking up, you found Dr. Reid’s face. You couldn't quite begin to read his expression, as his eyes were full of relief once he saw you were still alive. Hanging by a thread, but still alive. You didn't bother to speak after he silently held a bottle of water with a straw on it for you to drink. Neither did he. At least for some amount of time.

“I didn't know how bad this could get. I mean, I do know, but not because of the reason you probably think. It's not just because I have to study human behavior, but also because I was abducted and drugged,” he started, losing the bravery that it took to look you in the eye. “I know you have nothing to do with this. And that it makes me sound very selfish, because, um, I'm here talking about myself when you are so fragile and so broken, but it's just because I know what you're going through. I know what it's like to not recognize yourself. When we talked in that room, for the first time, I felt alive. I felt seen. I felt like I had finally found a little, small, fleeting piece of myself that had wandered too far once I was… addicted.”

You just took in his words. You already knew why he related to you so much, but hearing him talk so freely and unabashedly about his experience made you somewhat perk up. “I'm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?” You managed to mutter in a weak voice.

“It depends on what you think you're going to do now.” 

“It's a lot of work.”

“Not if it's you.”

“How could you possibly say that?”

“I know a little about your background. My friend looked you up. You looked promising.”

“Yes, past tense. Now I'm just this… vessel of a human. I don't think I have blood, let alone the guts to face the world after this.”

“I'm not calculating your worth on your accomplishments or on the person you used to be.” He sighed, softly.

“Do I even still have worth?”

“Of course you do.”

“Don't waste your breath on me. How could you be so sure?”

“I just do.”

Little did you know, Spencer Reid was not one to pry where it wasn't welcome, but he spent every day letting his mind run to you. He couldn't help but think about you and whether you were actually doing good after the decision you decided to share with him. That was how he found himself having some unsent letters that were soon ripped and thrown away. Telling you about him, wondering about you, wondering if you two could relate on different topics.

“Would it be weird to ask you to trust me on this one?”

“What's the worst that could happen?”

For the first time in years, you had a sincere smile on your face. 

—

The next day, you woke up to a letter addressed to you, which you knew who it was from. 

Your lifeline.

This pain wouldn’t be for evermore.

[maxdibert]

Having a shitty past is no excuse for being a horrible person, and Snape was a horrible person. Snape fans always try to turn him into a tragic hero, but there was nothing heroic about him when he was just an obsessive bigot who followed a group of genocidal maniacs

Well, I think I’ve said this a million times already and explained in exhausting detail why growing up in a particular environment—lacking social, emotional, economic, or essential support—and being subjected to violence during the most crucial years of cognitive development creates the perfect breeding ground for antisocial behavior. It also makes vulnerable or socially excluded youth prime targets for sectarian groups (whether religious, political, or otherwise) that prey on their situation, offering them promises of protection, safe spaces, surrogate parental figures, or social progress. These groups actively seek out kids with emotional voids caused by dysfunctional family dynamics, minimal to no financial resources, and a profound sense that the system has failed them at every turn. They offer these kids an alternative system—one that gives them a roof over their heads, a hot meal, a place to belong, and people who won’t marginalize them like the rest of society has—at the simple price of blindly following the group’s ideology. And they do it. Of course, they do. Because what other choice do they have? This group gave them life, a place in society, and restored their status as human beings.

But since I’ve spoken about this at length before and about how Severus’s life shaped his decisions, I feel like I’m starting to sound like a broken record. So, since I’m also reading a legal ruling I need to memorize by Friday, I’m going to indulge myself and dissertate as freely as I please—because hey, if you’re going to throw hate, I’m going to grant myself the privilege of replying however I want.

Here’s a question: why does it even matter? Seriously, what does it matter if he was a shitty person? Do you know that people go to space today thanks to the work of physicists and engineers who were literal SS members? That after WWII, all the top scientists, physicists, chemists, and engineers were granted amnesty and fast-tracked into citizenships so they could work on government projects? That people working within a stone’s throw of concentration camps are the pioneers behind some of the greatest technological advances of the 20th century? And you don’t care that the products you consume are derived from the work of collaborators with mass genocide, but you’re upset that people find a fictional character interesting? I don’t want to sound cynical, but honestly, it’s ridiculous to get so morally high and mighty about a character who doesn’t exist and who followed an extremist cult for, what? 3 or 4 years tops? and then canonically worked actively to take it down. If we put Severus in a real-world, wartime context, the guy would be a literal war hero with medals to his name. No exaggeration. If he survived, he’d be recruited with a fat paycheck to work in internal affairs for some major world power’s secret projects. That’s just how the world works.

And yeah, he was obsessive. But in an era where everyone suffers at least one anxiety episode a month, where the best-case scenario is that your panic attacks don’t spiral into chronic mental health issues—can we really judge him for that? Like, most of the people I see being ultra “snater” are folks who openly declare themselves neurodivergent, and one of the common denominators of all neurodivergence is obsessiveness. All of them. Whether it’s chronic anxiety, depression, OCD, ADHD, paranoid schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder or autism. Every single one has an obsessive component. So it’s kind of ironic—and even hypocritical—for people who are themselves pretty obsessive (because let’s face it, we’re all compulsively doomscrolling here to soothe our anxious compulsions with little dopamine hits) to judge this character’s obsessiveness as a negative trait. Maybe let’s take a good look in the mirror, too.

And let me just say, no court would convict Severus of collaborating with a terrorist group. Not a single one. Impossible. Especially since he literally collaborated against said group, so any judge would happily clear him—not after the war, but the moment he struck his deal with Dumbledore. Severus is what’s known as an informant. He worked from the inside, exposed himself to greater dangers than regular agents. Legally speaking, there have been cases where people guilty of heinous crimes—including crimes against humanity—were let off because they provided critical information. So imagine someone like Severus, who, as far as we know, didn’t even kill anyone during his time in the group, willingly spilling the beans and agreeing to work as a spy. He’d be celebrated as a hero of war. Hell, they’d probably buy him a mansion in Florida if he wanted one. That’s just how our system works, and honestly, this kind of moralist posturing is pretty cringy because you’re talking about a guy who literally saved half of magical society’s asses and without whom the kid destined to save the world would’ve died in his first year at school.

You can dislike him or think he’s a jerk, but he was damn good at his job. And compared to the people he’s often unfairly measured against (Sirius, James, Remus...), he actually did something. They didn’t. Absolutely nothing. Contribution: negative one.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: How to Choose POV

A Quick Guideline on Choosing POV

Refresher: Definitions

First-Person Singular: First-person singular narration uses the pronoun “I” and is the most commonly used form of first-person point of view. This style is perfect for character-driven novels and creates a close, immersive connection between the reader and the story. However, this type of narration limits the author and the reader to a single character’s experiences, feelings, and knowledge.

First-Person Plural: This first-person narration style utilizes the pronoun “we” and is less commonly used. It combines the intimacy associated with first-person with the flexibility of third-person omniscient. First-person plural can be effective when done well but can be tedious and is limited to the collective voice.

Second Person: Second person utilizes “you” for the narrator but is more commonly used in short stories. This style easily fosters close bonds between the readers and the characters as you start to feel as if they are you.

Third-Person Limited: Narration in third person limited relies on she/her, he/him, they/them, etc., pronouns as well as the character’s name. This point of view limits the author and reader to one character’s perspective allowing the writer to exercise the closeness of first-person singular through thoughts and feelings while also offering the broader perspective of third person.

Third-Person Omniscient: This type of narration also utilizes the character’s preferred personal pronouns and name and gives the narrator god-like storytelling abilities as they can reveal any character’s thoughts, go to any time or setting, know information the characters are unaware of, and comment on events in the past, present, and future. The degree to which these abilities are used is up to you. Third-person omniscient is popular among novelists with large casts and complex plots. However, this style can lead to too many shifts in perspective.

Tips for Choosing POV

You may find that you have a preferred point of view and then realize it’s not a good fit once you start writing your story. Many writers worry about finding their voice, but sometimes the story finds it for you. If you’re unsure which point of view to choose, consider these tips to help you pick.

Explore your options. You won’t know which POV to use unless you try them all. Try writing or rewriting a scene from your story in each POV to see which style fits your novel best.

Establish your POV. Once you’ve picked a style, stick to it and let your audience know which character they’re experiencing the story through.

Note limitations. POV will decide what information your character is privy to and thus determine their actions and opinions. Take time to review your work with your character’s limitations in mind to keep your writing accurate.

Don’t be afraid to change. If you find yourself drifting into another POV as your novel progresses, don’t shy away from revising your work into the best perspective for your story. It’s also important to note that some books shift from first to third to second, and it may benefit you to find examples of novels with varied narration to help you learn to master this style.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ POV

[clownzaf]

Bruce can’t bench the kids because he knows that if he does they’ll find a way to make it everyone’s problem.

Tim has 8 vigilante names all around the world that are not related to the bats, so Bruce can’t bench those. And if worse if he tries because Tim will just take a plane to Argentina to work there in the more hidden town he can find. The people love him there and when Batman tries to take Tim away he has 8 teenagers fighting like beasts. How can those scrawny kids hit so hard?

Jason just don’t give a fuck. He’s an adult and will do what he wants, and he will kill a couple of thugs in the progress.

Dick hears it and goes back to Bludhaven. Like hell is he going to let Bruce control him! He has his own city to protect! He should be glad he’s even helping in Gotham every now and then.

Damian is the only one who actually gets benched. He is Robin so Batman does control what Robin does, but he WILL make a fuzz about it.

He tried to bench Barbara once and she just laughed and locked him out the Batcomputer.

He did bench Duke once, and Duke just raised an eyebrow and said “fine” and then Batman discovered how much work Duke did in the day shift and decided to not bench him anymore (How would he know that now that the day shift has a vigilante of its own it also would have villains of its own??? Duke never actually filled his reports ! And WHY ARE THEY SO HARD TO BEAT.”

Steph just laughed on his face and kept doing what she was doing. “You’re not my dad nor my mentor, Bruce. You don’t have a say on anything I do. If someone can bench me it’ll be Barbara.”

He fears what Cassandra would do if he benches her

[burningcheese-merchant]

PLEASE FEED US MORE JUST AS DOWN BAD GOLDEN CHEESE. PLEASE MORE YANDERE CHEESE

Did you send two asks in a row screaming for more Accidental Yandere Golden Cheese lol. Calm down brotato, Merchant is here. Merchant sees you (and everyone else in my inbox I swear to God Almighty I will address you all eventually). Let me see what I've got in my noodle for you

Under the cut because this is fucked and gets a little extra graphic at one particular point lol

Golden Cheese actually has tried to gather the identities of those Burning Spice has murdered. What she wasn't able to glean on her own, from her own personal knowledge of other lands and peoples (i.e. noticing certain traits she knows to be endemic to certain cultures, like a hair accessory or something), she found in books and scrolls in her kingdom's library that gave her a better idea. Whatever she couldn't find in those, she found via sending cheesebirds to travel far and wide in search of any kingdoms, cities, villages, families and friend groups with confirmed missing persons. They would report back to her and, with all the knowledge she's gathered, she's able to find a name, which she then wrote onto a label and placed under the person it belonged to. She's managed to eventually give all the heads their identities/personhood back, at least to some degree. And now, knowing who these people are/were, she can get them back to their loved ones easier. Right? ...Right? (She tries not to progress beyond being proud of herself for going that extra mile, because it just leads back to "ok so why are the heads still here, why haven't you returned them". In trying to do the right thing, she ultimately just does the WRONG thing again and reinforces her preexisting guilt and shame, because... she knows exactly why she hasn't returned them...)

Golden has started... experimenting with Spice, for lack of a better term. After she was proven correct about him paying attention when she mentions someone she doesn't like and later killing that specific person for her, she starts testing him in other ways. She makes subtle suggestions about how he ought to kill people, to see how he responds in the moment and if he actually ends up doing it later. She tries to coax him into going into detail about how the killing went, just to see if and how he does so (turns out he really does like to brag about his crimes, especially to her). She tries to hint at him giving her other things besides body parts, like certain trinkets (it... sort of works. If she asks for a watch, he... brings her a severed arm with a watch attached to it still, for example). She's observing how far he'll go and in which direction he's willing to travel in at her suggestion. (...And she revels in how much power it turns out she has over him. She really does have him at her beck and call. It's lovely.)

When her friends ask her how she's been managing her Beast (they are aware that hers is still actively targeting her, but that's it), she acts as nonchalant as possible. Burning Spice is nothing. He's just a fly buzzing around her head. She handles him just fine. When they ask her how they can help, she tells them she doesn't need it, because she doesn't want them anywhere near him she really is fine. It's fine. She's fine. When they suggest going after him themselves... thank goodness she's a good actress and a quick thinker, because her very first REAL reaction was seething fury that she had to keep under control until she was alone again - but then, when she finally is, she just has another crisis of conscience, because now she has to confront the fact that she can no longer tolerate the notion of him being harmed by anyone besides herself. She used to want him dead or imprisoned by any means necessary, but now... now, she lies about his whereabouts to everyone who asks (and she always knows where he is, she snuck a tracking device onto him), because she doesn't want anyone coming near him for any reason anymore, least of all to harm him. Because only SHE can harm him now. He still comes to fight her, not just to give her things. And she obliges him, albeit begrudgingly (never mind the sick satisfaction she feels when she hurts him or takes him down. She wonders if this feeling is what he's referring to in those letters about him reveling in their battles and how he enjoys her suffering). She... she won't let that end. She won't let anyone get in the way. In his way. In THEIR way. She can handle him by herself. Everyone else can stay home. They won't take him away from her. She cannot guarantee their safety if they try.

She once idly wondered about his past. About the people he likely once had in his life. About... if he'd ever been fond of any other women. She could hardly fathom the hatred that utterly overwhelmed her senses when the thought entered her mind. So angry was she that she broke the glass of water in her hand in said anger and injured herself. So haunted by this notion did she end up, that she tried to ask him about it the next time they met (as subtly as possible; she understands the implications of asking such a thing). He just shrugged and said he didn't recall; the only woman that mattered to him was her. She hated how relieved she felt when he told her that...

...but after that day, and for a good while, he only targeted women. He kept killing adult women and bringing their heads to her, and no one else's. She quickly surmised that he might have noticed her jealousy (or at least imagined she was jealous) and immediately set out to prove his devotion to her further than before by destroying those she feels threatened by - even if the threat does not exist, for she is all he ever wanted. He never told her directly, but she figured that's what it was. And she allowed herself to believe it. Because it made her happy.

(When the women-only killing spree eventually ended, she was struck with morbid curiosity and asked him about the men he killed. Was there anything behind the ones he chose? He revealed to her that, though his targets were mostly random, he would go out of his way to kill any man that he thought she might find attractive. He was capable of feeling threatened, just like she was. It was quite the surprise... a surprise she welcomed, a surprise she found deeply amusing. Because really, what was left for her to find attractive in anyone anymore, when no one went as far as he did to earn her favor?)

She actually does find him handsome. She always has, from the beginning. It was something she considered to be a great shame; such good looks squandered on such a horrible man. But now... with her greed slowly spiraling out of control thanks to him constantly overfeeding it the way he does with his violent extremism... she's starting to dare to find that extremism handsome, too. She's slowly but surely ceasing to find any shame in the circumstance. She's starting to think he's handsome... and that's it, that's the end of the thought. He's handsome, with all of that blood coating his face and body. He's handsome, puffing his chest out and beaming with such sick pride at the handiwork he performed for her. He's handsome, in his maddened, unwavering dedication to her. He's handsome... no asterisk, no addendum, no ifs ands or buts. He's handsome. Burning Spice is handsome. It weighs on her like a stone. And it only gets heavier each time he sees him and his handsome face again.

Sometimes... just sometimes... she'll reread those letters that are particularly... steamy. There's something rather fascinating about them, in a different way than the others. They're so... uniquely visceral. She believes him when he tells her he's starving; his hunger practically lunges at her from the page, claws at her, sinks its teeth into her, sets her body alight. Pure, unashamed, blistering hot lust and sexuality, with some of that same addiction to violence mixed in (he's a sadomasochist, go figure). People have flirted with Golden before... but not like this. No one on earth has ever dared to speak to her so brazenly, not even after several pints of liquid courage. He talks about wanting to break her bed as well as she herself. He tells her how often he touches himself to the thought of her. He details exactly where he wants to put his hands. Where he wants to put his mouth. What he intends to say straight into her ears as they go, and what he wants her to say back to him. How he doesn't want to stop until they both collapse with exhaustion. Just neverending feverish rants about he wishes to destroy her in more ways than one, and how he expects her to scream and beg either way. She won't admit it, not even to herself, the thought tried to make itself known inside of her head once and she shoved it down and tried to bury it under concrete instantly, but... she's almost... intrigued. She's flattered, of course. She relishes this aspect of his insatiable appetite for her alongside all the others. (She likes being told she's pretty. He does that and then some.) But... some small part of her is... curious. Curious about... if he really would follow through on what he says he wants to do, if he really had the chance. How it would feel. How HE would feel. What the difference would really be between him overpowering her to win a fight and him overpowering her to... to...

...there are nights where she lays awake, drilling holes into the ceiling with her bloodshot eyes, wondering where it all went wrong. There are nights where all that succeeds in putting her to sleep are the warm, bitter tears that stream down her face when the guilt and shame grow too powerful. There are nights where she just gets up and leaves, throws herself out of her own window and flies off somewhere, anywhere, it doesn't matter - it just had to be somewhere she couldn't feel dozens of empty, lifeless eyes watching her through the walls. Judging her. Condemning her. Damning her to Hell, where she and the monster who ended their lives belonged.

...and then, there are nights where she feels... strange. Where she notices how... big her bed really is, and how small she feels laying in it. She wonders how it would feel if he was there. If she could nest in his thick, strong arms instead of thin bedsheets. How much more comfortable his chest would feel, compared to her pillow. If his hair was as soft as it looked. How he'd react if she started tracing his tattoos with her fingertips. If sharing a tender moment like that would awaken something in him. If it would somehow help him realize how wrong all of this is.

...Or maybe it would just make it worse.

Maybe she doesn't care anymore.

[tobiasdrake]

The thing about meritocracy is that people think it's a good way to hierarchically categorize people. Those who contribute the most to society rise to the top of the ladder and those who contribute the least sink to the bottom. Hard workers guide society, while those of low merit... Well, we don't have to talk about what happens to them.

Wink, wink.

The problems with this ideology are two-fold. The obvious problem is that it's heartless. Any ideology that exists to identify which people are fundamentally a higher class of human, to define a class of wheat that we can separate from the chaff of humanity, is one that is naturally inclined to arrogance and cruelty.

I'm sorry, but there is no way to try and define the Superior Human without getting into some Nazi shit. That's just how it goes. It doesn't matter if your definition is "chosen by God" or "the correct ethnicity" or "did really good at the capitalism market". You're already walking stepping in fascism's footprints from the moment you start down that road.

You cannot separate wheat from chaff without deriding a large swath of humanity as chaff.

But the other problem is that it doesn't even work as advertised.

On paper, the idea of meritocracy is that the people who work hardest will reap the most reward. This is what Americans think our culture is. If he pulls himself up by his bootstraps, even a lowly shoe-shiner may one day be CEO of a Fortune 500 company. It all depends on how much elbow grease he's willing to put in.

But what it amounts to in practice is a new form of mythmaking. Meritocracy is simply the modern justification for preserving power structures. Elon Musk did not become rich and powerful by working harder than everyone else. He spends all day at work playing Elden Ring.

But he is rich, and he is powerful. And we're a meritocracy, right? So then he must, therefore be the hardest working American.

"Merit" is not a quantifiable metric. There is no measurement you can take to show who the hardest working Americans are. The system of measurement that meritocrats use... is wealth.

Those with the most merit deserve the most wealth. And who has the most merit? How do you quantify and identify that? Well, it must be the people with the most wealth. They wouldn't have that wealth if they didn't have the most merit, would they?

Those with the most wealth prove, by having that wealth, that they deserve to have wealth. It's circular logic. It exists for the sole purpose of sounding good and reinforcing the existing power structures.

Meritocracy on paper says "Those with the most merit will earn more." But meritocracy in practice says "Those who earn most must therefore be considered to have the most merit."

Meritocracy is the modern version of the Divine Right of Kings. The King should govern because God has blessed his bloodline so. And how do you know that God has blessed his bloodline so? Because that is why he governs. He wouldn't govern if God had not blessed him so.

We, as a culture, have invented a secular version of the Divine Right and named it meritocracy.

But even if it worked.

Even if there was a real, firm quantifiable metric we could use to measure out who the truly hardest working is and reward them accordingly.

Meritocracy would still suck. Because it is a system fundamentally built on the Protestant Work Ethic. On the idea that work is, in and of itself, a demonstration of personal virtue regardless of whether that work is necessary or valuable.

It's built on the idea that we should all be spending our lives doing jobs, without interrogating the question of whether those jobs are even needed. The goal of progress and civilization is to allow increased production from decreased workers, and this is a goal that is at odds with the belief that all people should always be working all of the time.

We need new systems of belief. Not repackaged feudalism that rebrands the peasant class as "workforce" and tries to tell you that the local noble family must have been very smart and clever to be born into so much luxury. If we're ever going to move forward into the sci-fi future that so many techbros are salivating for, we have to start by letting go of the delusion of merit.

[closets-closet]

Dancer + StripClub Owner! Konig

Tell me this man wouldn’t love a good strip club.. Now what if he owned one.

I told yall I would be back, this is very half done and I’ll be honest it sat in my drafts for weeks! I might progress this more, it honestly depends how much yall like it.

Anyways, it’s good to be back, I love you all so very much.

You are the highlight of the shitty rundown club you danced for. You moved to gracefully, hypnotically as you danced around the cool metal pole. The music thrumming through the stage, money covering the area where you dance. Pushing and pulling yourself on the pole in the center stage. You reach your hand out, brushing the faces and hands of a few of the men that are closest to the stage, causing them to throw more money. When your song finishes, you drop to your knees to slowly and sensually scoop up the money, 10’s and 20’s that you stuff in your lace bra. All eyes are trained on you, the way your top pushes your breasts together, or how your stockings and panties cup your plush thighs. You raise back to your feet blowing a quick kiss in the crowd thanking them.

Konig had arrived just as your set started, walking in past the security guards who quickly move out of the way. He seats himself among the crowd, blending in as best he can. Most of the people know of him, they recognize that tell-tale mask that obscures his facial features, making him unreadable. They fear him, so they give him room. He’s got his eyes trained on to your form as you dance across the stage, reaching out, fingers brushing against some of the patrons who eagerly throw their money at you. When your song finishes and you’ve finished collecting your money, the kiss you send out to the crowd sparks something with in him. You’ve piqued his interest, dangerously so.

You’re in the dressing room fixing up your makeup in the cracked mirror. Other girls rushing to make an appearance on stage, queuing their songs with the DJ, hushed whispers being shared between them about the boss being in. You delicately swipe the red lipstick across your lips pursing them as you examine yourself, paying the hushed rumors no mind.

He’s searching for you, stalking about the club, shaking off the other woman that try to cling to his arms. He whispers a few words to the DJ, inquiring about you. Wondering when you started, how often you preform, and what your name is. The DJ gives him a stern look before coughing up your information for a quiet 20$. A sinister grin spreads across his face, he’s got you.

You’re making rounds around the club, feeling your way around customers. Feeling how they stuff money in your top and under your stockings. You were such a sight to behold. He approaches you quietly, a large gloved hand resting on your shoulder.

“Aren’t you such a pretty thing” He leans and whispers against your ear sickly warm breath spreading across your face“Stuck working in a run down strip club leaving with a few hundred dollars a night?” A shiver quickly runs up your spine, his voice chills you to the bone. “I could treat you better” His voice hums, eyes blown wide as you take a step back every, hairs standing on end.

“I’m sorry?” You whisper, a hand coming to rest across the front of your chest, trying to hide the cleavage his eyes seem glued too. “If you keep talking to me this way I’ll go get the bouncer” You threatened voice meak, and quiet against the loud thrumming bass of the music

Konig lets out a sick laugh, his hand reaching out catching the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly close. “Get the bouncer sweetheart, see what they do.” He hums quietly as he pushes you to walk next to him, leading you down a hall of private rooms “You clearly don’t know who I am” he continues breath hot against your neck. Konig suddenly pushes you into a room and you quickly try to find your barrings, never seeing this room before your confused and lost.

The man reaches up, pulling his mask above his lips, the jagged scar that runs across them making you gasp.

“I’m so sorry” You whisper immediately “I wasn’t aware it was you.” You drop to your knees, head hung low as you plead forgiveness of not knowing the boss.

He laughs again, the sound of his belt buckle clinking together, then the sound of fabrics hitting the floor. As his boots thump against the floor infront of you “It’s okay Doll” He whispers a large hand pulling your chin making your eyes meet “You can forgive me how I see fit, and then you’ll come home with me. You’ll never have to work here again, live as my personal pet.”

How do we feel after this, it’s been awhile since I sat down to write and today felt good. I’m also working on a Thanksgiving Johnny post, I feel like he deserves it.

[space-1z-cool]

spoilers ahead for s1 and 2 of arcane

jinx centered Arcane rambleeee :3

i feel that jinx is the embodiment of getting so close to happiness but having it constantly torn away from her. Usually somewhat by her own doing, but Vi also had a lot to do with her losses when u think abt it.

Ekko Jinx Vi Claggor and. the guy i forget his name. Were all starting to be happy and live a life with Vander and the chill guy who was like ekkos dad. Yea sure they did get involved with shady shit, and crime and all of that. But They didnt have much of a choice while living in Zaun. But then they go on a mission, which the outcome of has a chain reaction to the rest of the series.

(as clearly shown in the AU where vi is dead and everyone else is thriving and hextech doesnt exist bc jayce probably succeeded in his attempt on his life after the explosion killed Vi. And Theres a buncha stuff that could have happened w viktor. maybe his disease progressed too far, or he didnt gain interest because of the outcome of its accidental use killing a young girl frkm the undercity. which could give him moral cause to not support jayce. but anyways back to the main topic)

That mission led to powder/jinx really really needing to feel helpful. So what happens? She gets her bombs to work. But she accidentally "kills" vander in the process. As well as actually killing claggor and the other guy. Therefore getting si close to feeling happy and useful. But it being taken away by her own actions and Vi's influence (imo vi's reaction is what leads her to be taken in by silco. bc silco feels safer now than Vi, who just hit her in the face and called her a jinx after previously reassuring her she wasnt.)

Later on when Jinx is with silco. Silco loves jinx. He's a decent father figure, horrible person (product of environment and never finding the letter) but an ok father. He loves Jinx and wouldn't give her to Piltover even though thats what the council wanted to 'allow' zaun to be its own sovereign state. He trusts her to an extent. She has her fun with her gadgets and explosives and Silco scolds her when needed. etc. I'd argue that Even though it wasn't perfect, and jinx was struggling with untreated mental illness, She was starting to get kinda happy and comfortable.

But what happens next? She kidnaps Vi and Caitlyn, Vi accidentally triggers her into an episode, and jinx accidentally kills silco while she's disoriented and hallucinating. And even after that?? Silco didnt get upset because he Knew that she didnt mean to. ( which EUGH.. their fucked up father daughter duo makes me so emotional) Happiness ripped away p2.

Okay! Maybe third time is the charm. She has Isha! And She's done with the Jinx persona but knows she isnt really powder either. She does her best to be a good older sister and shows isha the ropes of zaun-living kinda. They genuinely have a nice bond and Jinx stops getting involved with as much violence. Also if you notice, most of her hallucinations have stopped (at least on screen).

And Then they meet up w Vi and find Warwick/Vander. They make it to Viktor's Cult and happiness looks so fucking close. They could be a real Family.

And WHAT HAPPENS????? Ambitcha and her army barge in, wanting Warwick for a weapon, Jayce drops in to try to kill his boyfriend who isnt himself fully anymore, and it all goes ti shit! Jinx loses Isha and Vander (again) And its all fucked. That was her last fucking straw. After losing all of that she goes tk prison.

And after EVERYTHING she's endured. All of that kind of finalizes in her brain that she is a Jinx.

In the end, If you look at jinx's facial expressions as she saves Vi and (probably) dooms herself, she's content. She's content dying this way. After losing Everything. After feeling like she was the cause of everything bad. She could do One thing to give her remaining family member happiness. And doing that one thing seemed to give her relief or possibly even her own happiness. And if she died, that final emotion, finally reaching a semblance of being content, couldnt be taken away.

and i dont blame her for choosing to go out like that. was i happy? FUCK NO i was sobbing. but it made sense. ik there's a theory she's probably alive. esp cus she's like a main character in league. but from what ive seen/heard? arcane is based on lol lore but not quite. And Jinx is a far more nuanced character in arcane.

i think thats all for now. prepare for more long ass posts bc this show is pure art. and i loved it.

[aroyaltailor]

Grammarly rant

I struggle with perfectionism.

Those of you who have been following this blog will not be surprised by this admission, and I certainly know I'm not the only one in our particular slice of the Internet affected with this issue. It's like an oil in your fingers, sticking to everything, and so very difficult to wash out. Sometimes it spreads to matters other than writing, and hampers your progress with those as well! But for me – for the most part – perfectionism is an issue that impacts my writing above all.

But I've made a bit of a discovery.

See, I use Grammarly a lot. It's a website that does what the name implies, highlighting and correcting any grammar mistakes. Purely out of curiosity, I copy and pasted an excerpt from one of my ebooks (of which I have way too many) and ran it through. The result? It rated an excerpt from one of my favorite authors of all time as "average." 83/100. So you know what?

I'm done with it. I know I've used it to feel better about my writing at times, but I think I've made a realization. It's evil! Creative writing cannot be measured and scored like a math assignment! As a friend told me, the inevitable imperfections and mistakes we make with our writing only gives it flavor. It marks what we create as being unique to us alone, and I don't want to be rid of that.

So in summary: I'll not be using Grammarly anymore. Not for the kind of writing I'm doing at least :3

Now to get to work on writing stuff as promised

[runes-menagerie]

"That would be easy enough to do although I'd prefer to go with you if possible. Not because I don't trust you, I just want to know the results. My hearing is also a lot better than most people's so I'd be able to hear anyone approaching long before they get close." Sky replied earnestly, her passion showing through. This was the closest she'd gotten to getting some answers in years and she wasn't about to just sit back and let him do all the work.

When he noticed what she was doing, she blushed and let him go. She hadn't been planning to draw attention to what she was doing. She had just wanted to gauge his state of health.

"No. I just... I was checking the progression. I know you probably have lots of skilled doctors looking after you but.... but you're my friend Viktor and I worry." She said softly, struggling to get the words out through her shyness.

"I think I'm closer to being a vampire than you are Viktor." She said as she reached to lay a hand on his shoulder. She made a note to say his name more often. "We both know they aren't just nicknames Viktor. Not to us fissure folk. I have some tea that should help with your circulation a bit if you want it."

 He listened to her theory closely, nodding his head. “Vastayan blood is hard to trace without the proper testing. I can get access to the wet labs to run these tests, if you can get me a sample of your blood.” He was willing to do whatever he could to help her, and if that meant bending a few rules and using some restricted equipment, he would in a heartbeat. “I know this place inside and out, by now. And despite the cane, I can be quiet. I can sneak in without anyone seeing me.”

 He hadn’t quite noticed she was taking his pulse up until then, too distracted by the prospect of planning a secret lab visit to be aware of how he was being touched. It reminded him of his mother, constantly fretting and making sure he wasn’t going to fall over at any time. He had problems, many of them, but he wasn’t about to let them hold him back.

 Easily, she’d be able to tell that his blood pressure was lower than normal, and his pulse not as strong as the average person. It explained his pale and cold skin. “Making sure I’m still alive?” he said in a dry, joking tone before his face fell slightly. “I’ve been called plenty of names for my cold skin. ‘Frosty’, ‘Ice Chip’, ‘Vampire’.”

 He pouted and furrowed is brow. “I’ve been told by Heimrdinger that they’re just ‘playful nicknames’, and that I shouldn’t be upset by them. Well, I hate nicknames.” He spat, drawing his hand away from her gentle hold to pull into a tight crossing of his arms. “It only makes it more easy to forget my actual name in the first place.”

[scumtumbl]

finally made my own sleet & dingo server. join heeeere

[chiropteracupola]

"Are you finished with my portrait yet? Show me!" "Cipacton, I can't draw you if you keep moving!"

[ghostieblr]

Untitled | Part 2 ->

It feels like an entity of his own, the way his blood rushes inside his body, the way his bones and flesh too small to hold what he's feeling. It feels like he's one of those poor people the alien's egg is going to incubate in, tear through him to become the deeply terrifying, shapeless, haunting monster.

This feeling is overwhelming, something he can't really name. But it's not unwelcomed. It is, in some fucked up way, like a call to him — he feels that rush of power, of trust, too. The call to his magic. The way his breaths come out calmer.

He can't really name it, not really, but he knows this feeling is the most important thing he possesses.

So it's not really a shock when the demon looks at him and only him, one arm out like he's going to snatch it without permission, a sharp grin on its borrowed face. "You," the demon beckons, and Derek snarls, protective. Derek moves in front of him, like it's going to stop the demon. Like there's anything they can do except take this deal. The demon laughs, reedy and evil, and he's sure the person doesn't sound like this; this demon has taken over completely, and Stiles doubts they can save the man who is being possessed at the moment.

"What do you want?" Derek's fang slur his question, but he's understandable, and Stiles puts his hand on Derek's shoulder, pulls him by his soft henley. They were on a walk around the preserve, a routine perimeter check, but here they stand now, in the middle of this clearing where kids had definitely messed around in and found the fuck out.

The camping bags are still warm, but the trail to the kids has gone cold. Unless they take this deal.

"I told you, wolf," the demon sing-songs, and Stiles wonders where he got this body from. The man is clearly in his 30's, light brown hair, hazelnut skin, brown eyes. He cannot be one of the people who summoned the demon, here. "I want what's most precious to your pet."

Derek's been growling all this time, but now he roars, all restraint broken under the clearly verbalized threat.

Only Stiles' hand on Derek's shoulder stops him from leaping at the demon.

"Derek," he says, concerned. They have no idea how to deal with demons that aren't evil fox spirits. "Maybe this is the only way."

And he wants out. He knows what are his most precious things — his feelings. Especially for him. He wants to get rid of it, because there's rarely anything as painful as feeling like your world tilts on its axis when you know theirs stays the same. They're friends, and pack, and that is all they can be.

It would be okay to lose these feelings.

"Listen to him, listen to him!"

"Stiles, don't you dare move!"

Stiles moves around Derek and is again in front of the demon. "Will you leave, then? Never to come back?"

"I'd do you one better — I shall forbid any other of my kind to come back here."

Derek doesn't grab him back, but he does verbally accuse Stiles of being stupid. Stiles is grateful for their relationship to have come to a point where Derek knows better than to stop him when he's set his mind, and he's really fucking gonna miss his bubbling mess of a heart later.

"Deal," he says, and there the lips come, cold and cruel; a quick, dirty kiss that leaves Stiles gasping for breath.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, it's to Derek hovering over him worriedly. It makes Stiles feel packed, so he pushes Derek backwards, and stomps his way back towards the Loft.

Derek follows suit.

[jullbnt]

I found the dragons' heads a bit weird as well when I first saw them up close but I got used to it and now I find them rather endearing ^^

It's not weird to fixate on their eye placement, it makes sense! But to me they are giant guardian spirits that are neither prey nor predator and watch over Hyrule from the skies, so it makes sense that they would need to see in a wide circle around them?

You are perfectly allowed to prefer the ones from SS haha! I actually didn't mind their bodies and robes (I thought they were a nice touch too), but I've always been bothered by their faces and voices.

I think the sea drying up could actually be in favor of Lanayru (or Lanello if you prefer!) being the Water Dragon, because it would make sense for the Goddesses to choose a guardian with the power to protect the province from desertification. Then the dragon would get sick and die the way Lanayru does in SS, which would cause the climate change, and by reviving him/her Link could later allow the region to flourish again. I don’t know I think it would make sense!

I’ve also been thinking that this could explain the swap in BotW. The Water Dragon could move to Lanayru after SS in order to make the land greener and bring back the sea (becoming known as Naydra by the time of BotW), while the Thunder Dragon would replace her in Faron and turn the forest into a jungle (and later be known as Farosh). That would explain why Lake Floria looks the same as the one from SS with a different climate. But maybe I’m trying too hard to make this work, I don’t know.

(Also I tend to believe that Hylia is the Goddess of Time, but that's another debate!)

Even if Rauru only believed Hyrule was a legend he could have said so ^^ "I named my kingdom Hyrule because of the old legends that speak of a land blessed by the Goddesses… ", something like that!

A continent might be an exaggeration, in fact I usually think Hyrule would be as big as a few European countries put together. I just like to imagine that Link would travel for months during his quest ^^

It was never clear to me why exactly Zelda was struggling in BotW, but whatever its intention was I think the game showed that she was wrong to prioritize technology over religion. People always blame Rhoam but he was right in the end, the only thing that could save the kingdom was Zelda’s sacred power coupled with Link’s abilities. The guardians even caused more destruction than Ganon himself! It's almost like there could be a message there about technology/modernity vs. religion/tradition, but maybe I'm going too far or this wasn't intended.

Yes I think they should not be called Sages! It wouldn't change the fact that you can beat Ganondorf without them but then I wouln't care about it as much as I do!

I agree with you on the lack of magic, and the technology in TotK sometimes doesn’t even look like it belongs in a fantasy universe (the fans, wheels and rockets look so ugly/modern and out of place to me).

You're so right about freedom in games! I miss discovering new items or powers along the way and the sense of progression it brought. It also allowed for more puzzle variety instead of using the same four powers all the time, and could open new areas on the map that weren’t accessible from the start (for example it was so satisfying and exciting to finally be able to enter Gerudo Valley in OoT after being stuck at the bridge for most of the game).

Stories also need some sort of linearity in my opinion. TotK's story would be better if Link wasn’t able to learn about the Light Dragon before doing anything else or didn’t withhold that information from other characters for the sake of the silly "fake Zelda" plot.

Yes being able to defeat Ganon and Ganondorf from the start definitely cheapens things, especially in BotW where Link wasn't able to do it 100 years before with the Master Sword in hand. If he can do it barefoot with a stick after being awake for only a few hours, it kind of makes his old self look bad!

Not only did Nintendo create a precedence about the Master Sword being needed to fight Ganon/Ganondorf, but they also showed it on the taspestry in BotW and Link was chosen by the Sword for the purpose of defeating the Calamity, so it feels really wrong that you can beat the game without it.

I agree that the Triforce of Power's abilities haven't been clearly defined (same for Wisdom and Courage), but I think we can assume it would be the biggest source of power in this universe (after all it's a fragment of Din's power). It also seems to make its bearer nearly impossible to kill, since in OoT Ganondorf has to be sealed in the Sacred Realm and in TP he survives his execution thanks to the Triforce. Then it's unclear what exactly happens but he doesn't die until the symbol fades from his hand.

Yes that's just my take on Minish Cap, maybe I need to think a bit more about how it can fit. But even the map is unique, it really feels like it's own thing.

Glad you like Promenade! It's a nice word indeed ^^

Hi, sorry if this is a bit rude. 😅 I guess that I was just wondering. How would Jabul Waters, Zora Cove, & Crossflows Plaza be named in French?

I'm trying to give Jabul Waters an interesting name that works to go with my hc & I came up with "Jabuleaux." And Google Translate tells me that Crossflows Plaza would be Place des Flux Croisés. And, I'm seeing that Anse is the term to refer to a cove &, if that's true, then would Zora Cove be Zoranse? At the same time, somewhere else, it said that Anse actually means beach.

And, I believe that a town by a swamp would have cher, quier, bren, brin, or Hor- in it?

I'm sorry if this is weird... 😅

Hi! Don't worry it's not rude or weird at all! I offered to help and I'm happy to do so :D

Did you check the official French translations? I had a surprisingly hard time finding the French version of the map online so here's a screenshot I took myself:

Jabul Waters = Eaux de Jabule (this one only appears when I zoom out)

Zora Cove = Baie Zora

Crossflows Plaza = Place de l'Estuaire

In case you didn't know the Zelda Wiki often lists names for places or characters in various languages in the "Nomenclature" section of its pages. It's very helpful especially if you're searching for the original Japanese names. If we look at at the different names for Crossflows Plaza we can see that a literal translation from Japanese would be something like "Exchanging Place". I checked the Jisho dictionary and it seems to be an accurate translation, though "Place for Cultural Exchanges" would be more meaningful.

It's not exactly a good name in English so it makes sense that the localization team would come up with something like Crossflows Plaza instead, which in my opinion does a very good job of stating that this is both the place where the river meets the sea and where the two Zora tribes traditionally meet each other.

Other European languages all settled for variations of "Estuary Plaza" ("Place de l'Estuaire" in French), which is fine but looses the "cultural exchanges" aspect of both the original name and the English translation.

I've been trying to come up with a French translation of "Crossflows Plaza" but it's not that easy. To me "Place des Flots Croisés" or "Place Flots-Croisés" would sound better than "Place des Flux Croisés", but I still find it a bit weird ("flot" meaning flow, tide or stream). "La Croisée des Flots" is another option if you agree to get rid of Plaza/Place (it means "the intersection/junction of streams"), but I don't think it works very well as a name.

You could also mix words to create a name the same way it was done in English, something like "Place Croiseaux" (croiser/cross + eau/waters). If any of my French speaking followers is feeling inspired, please share your ideas! :)

(I just thought of "Place Cruciflot" and found it too funny not to mention 😆 maybe it sounds too much like crucifix)

In French we also have the word "confluence" that has the exact same meaning as it does in English: either the meeting of two rivers or a gathering of some kind. So to me the most obvious translation would be something like "Place des Confluences" or maybe "Place Confluence", as it would preserve the dual meaning, but it's not very fancy or creative. Maybe we could simply change the spelling to something like Place Konfluans, the same way "Village Côtier" (Seaside Village) is spelled "Village Kothié" (Seesyde Village). But it doesn't look like a French word anymore so I'm not sure that's something you'd like.

As for Jabuleaux, it can work but I prefer the official translation "Eaux de Jabule". Same thing for Zoranse, we would say "Anse Zora" or "Anse des Zora". The official French translation is "Baie Zora" (Zora Bay), which I think is more appropriate given the size of the sea inlet (in my understanding an anse/cove is a small baie/bay and isn't very deep). I think maybe it should have been bay in English as well instead of cove, but I might be wrong! Also I believe "anse" isn't used as often as "baie" and might be confusing for most people, so I would go with "Baie Zora".

I'm not sure where you found this information about swamps and town names? I didn't find anything to confirm it but I might not have looked in the right places.

French towns are often ancient and their names can derive from other languages such as Celtic, Occitan, Flemish, or regional dialects, so that's a very difficult question and I'm not sure I can give you a satisfying answer ^^

I still did a little search and found an Old French word for swamp, "palud" or "palu", that still appears in some town names such as La Palud-sur-Verdon, Saint-Pierre-la-Palud, Lapalud, etc. (today we say "marais" or "marécage"). You might be right about "bren", it could be something like muddy in Gallic.

There's also "vign" or "mign" (from Celtic), as in Mignéville or Lévignac, or l'Île de Migneaux on the Seine river (this one's in my city!).

Near where I grew up is a town named Hazebrouck, it literally means "hare swamp" (brouck/broek = swamp in Flemish). For a bit more French flavor you could maybe use -broucq or -breucq instead of -brouck.

I think the vast majority of French people have no clue about all of that (I didn't except for the last one and it's more Flemish than French), so I'd say don't oversweat it ;)

And that's all! I hope you'll find this helpful ^^

[improbable-implosions]

This one's kinda funny, I went into affixing that patch SO sure that the design of that sword of mine, Arma, would be plenty for that patch, but the longer I stared at it doing other mends for these pants, the longer I felt it needed _something_ else, you know?

First up, we've got to stitch on the patch itself! I did some nice even straight stitches, because initially, I was planning on a little area of sashiko mending.

But, in looking at the size of the chunk of dissolvable backing I had cut, there wasn't really any patterns immediately springing to mind that'd work at a scale that small, or, so I thought after seeing how that basketweave pattern came together on an earlier piece. For context, the whole patch is roughly the size of the palm of my hand, at 3.5 inches square.

So, instead, I decided to try something a bit more complex to render than I'd really tried out before, this art of Arma! (Despite the sword's design being my work, the art in question is by @razzmatazic, who I did ask if I tried to trace, and she had no problems!) And so trace I did, tracing the outlines of the major features of the piece, namely, the outer lines, and the shapes of the gemstones.

Unfortunately, in my haste (and, admittedly, my focus, since this was much higher detail than I normally tackle around here), I didn't grab any in-progress shots of this. Still, I actually really enjoy how this came out looking, even if it doesn't perfectly evoke the design or detail of the original piece, it certainly emulates the look of Arma well enough I recognize it, and very visibly reads Cool Sword, y'know?

Next up were a few colorful rims around the edges of the front pockets! They were fraying pretty significantly, so not only does this add a fun splash of color, but it keeps me from picking the edges of these seams apart while I'm not thinking about my hands. Initially, I was going to pick a different set of colors than that turquoise and purple, based on a fun fact about my hometown, but that color scheme was just calling out to me! I decided to lean into the somewhat royal vibes and went for a different, lighter purple, with two little bits of yellow thread, which, fun fact, I actually dyed with some yellow flowers I foraged back in the boston area!

As for these two little spot-mends, they were really more an exercise in frustration. Really, I'm mostly miffed the thread broke on the original patch in the one place the hole kept trying to expand through, but hopefully that little bit of randa stitching (which looks MUCH more like randa stitching should than my previous efforts, namely on my wallet and that previous pair of pants that we detailed, the ones with the segaihana sashiko) alongside some additional reinforcement along the edge of that original yellow patch, made from some thread I scavenged from a fraying bit of denim, should keep this particular pair of shorts from getting any more fixes right on the edge of the patch that has misbehaved TWICE now!

Last but not least, while I was wrangling those pocket rims and the spot mends, I really just had the feeling that Arma would look kinda... lonely, I suppose? Centered in the framing straight stitches like that, so I improvised a little open book next to her! (She's not a sword-girl, promise, it's she/her like you'd she/her a boat) There's actually some really nice dimensionality to the book, too, with some looser stitches to emulate ruffle-able pages, and those two knots along the spine make for a pleasant, crinkled texture to the cover lines! Can you tell I'm pleased with myself for getting that just so, without any guides?

All that said, hopefully that's all the mends my poor poor jean shorts need, I swear, just as I get one set fixed, the other winds up with another hole! Don't get me wrong, I'm starting to enjoy the whole almost boro-like vibe they're developing, with all these overlapping mends, but I'd like them to develop it slower, thanks! (And yes, I do plan to wear these at LEAST until they look like I've quilted them back together, they're comfy!)