#there's something to be said about the intersection of this kind of talk and the way we view disability btw

[nothorses]

That one white tears transphobic post.. When I’ve been recommended a book literally titled “White Tears/Brown Scars: How White Feminism Betrays Women of Color” by Ruby Hamad. Like talking about this.

How Imane Khelif’s situation during the Olympics was made worst/partially caused just because her opponent cried (she didn’t fake tears but this effect still showed it’s consequences). Like that was this year.

Man. And a transphobe. And. Other things mentioned.

yeahhh. it's not the first time a TERF (or radfem in general) has said that kind of bullshit to me, even. the toxic masculinity/femininity post from forever ago got a fuckton of replies/reblogs that were just from radfems making the exact same argument that Women Never Cry On Purpose You Misogynistic Pig while either conveniently ignoring the specifically racialized part of the phenomena, or explicitly arguing that white women can't have power over black men.

like this is not new information, "radical feminism" is another name for "second wave feminism", and one of the things that differentiates second from third wave is that third wave feminism includes intersectionality. radfeminism isn't compatible with intersectionality, and radfems can't acknowledge racism as it intersects with gender.

but damn, it's really something to watch them say the quiet part out loud.

[artbyblastweave]

Assuming it means the same thing as words such as "steampunk", "cyberpunk", "atompunk", etc. What would a "capepunk" setting look like?

So I think that there's two kindsa settings that are being broadly gestured at when people append "punk" to something all willy-nilly. In the standard one, they're gesturing at a sci-fi universe with tech that's hooked into the aesthetics of a specific decade, or, alternatively, the actual tech-base of a decade super-charged and made capable of the impossible. Art Deco mecha, atomic rocketships, steam-powered prosthetics. Steampunk, Deiselpunk, Atompunk, Clockpunk. Cyberpunk itself is also starting to get hit with this a little bit as we become distant enough from 1980s technology for it to be similarly exaggerated and romanticized.

The other kind of setting is one that's entirely hooked into a line of technological development that doesn't have as much of real-life analogue and therefore has no visual referent to fall back on. These often end up paired with one of the decade-based punks in order for a look to cohere. Biopunk is an example of a common punk subspecies that gets hit with this. Twig and Leviathan are both alternate histories set in the 1910s and 20s, Bioshock is set in the 60s, John Dies at the End is set in the 2010s and the works of Giger could be set anywhen. All of these are clearly visually biopunk under the pornography logic of "I know it when I see it," all of them are wildly different in terms of their final output, all of them are similar in what they're saying or implying about hegemony and how weird technology intersects with power structures.

Under this logic, I think that "Cape Punk" would probably fall more cleanly into the second mold- like bioengineering, Superheroes aren't meaningfully a (social) technology that actually exists, there's no real-life moment to seize on and exaggerate. So we'd be talking about a setting that assumes the existence of, and the sociopolitical impact of, superheroes, with the visual language of those superheroes being a secondary concern, probably outsourced to whenever the story is actually set. Worm is a good example of this- it's the cape punk work to end all cape-punk works but for obvious reasons has no cohesive visual identity. The Venture Brothers, by contrast, is also capepunk but it's capepunk with an extremely specific visual identity informed by the tail end of the raygun gothic era ("atompunk") into Cassette Futurism (this is what they're starting to call the one for the 70s and 80s.) The Silver Age tapering into the Bronze, forever. Heroes, Misfits, and a couple others are awash in the visuals of the early 2000s, when costumes were largely both uncool and impractical from a costuming technology perspective, lack-of-aesthetic as aesthetic. By the nature of its project Astro City is hopscotching all over the timeline- they've got steampunks like Iron Horse, they've got cyberpunks like The Box, they got every kinda punk in there. All of this is very plug-and-play.

And, of course, circling back around to what I said last time- you gotta be careful not to let "Cape Punk" just become synonymous with "Superhero Fiction That's Doesn't Suck." Batman Beyond is interesting to look at here, because aesthetically, is the setting cyberpunk? Yeah, with shades of biopunk along for the ride. Is it thematically cyberpunk, interested in how that technology impacts society and intersects with power structures? Actually yeah, quite a lot of the time it is, at least superficially. But is the show meaningfully coloring outside the lines of a conventional-but-competently done superhero narrative? Well, no. Almost never. Maybe a little bit towards the end, centering the fucked up stuff that happened to Tim. But for the most part it's good, but it's also what it is. And that's fine.

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

having a lot of inarticulate thoughts about pericles' genderousness this evening, in particular how i imagine/interpret his expression of it having changed over time, but they will not coalesce. when will my one brain cell for queer readings return from the war

[boreal-sea]

Transfeminism & Transandrophobia/Transmisandry

You know what, I'm angry about "transemasculation" too.

First, no, outside parties do not get to create terms for marginalized groups they are not part of. That's a HUGE red flag. It's an even bigger red flag when you remember that one of the major problems transmascs deal with is erasure! So not only did an outsider - a trans woman - try to create words for us, she erased the words we came up with for ourselves. It is incredibly patronizing and, frankly, infantilizing - which, surprise surprise, is one of the many prejudices transmascs have to deal with.

Secondly, as many others have said, it enormously flattens and minimizes the true extent of the multiple kinds of oppression transmascs face. It makes the focus "emasculation", as if the primary concern of trans men is other people minimizing our manhood.

I wish.

As any transmasculine person will tell you if you actually talked to one, transmascs face a multitude of intersecting forms of oppression, including but not limited to:

Sexism

Misogyny

Misandry

Racism

Transphobia

Homophobia

Infantilization

Erasure

And more!

And yes, misandry is on that list. Misandry means a hatred of men and masculinity and things associated with men. It does not mean "systemic oppression of men". Misandry becomes a form of oppression when manhood/masculinity intersects with other identities. Feminists of color such as bell hooks and Kimberlé Crenshaw have spoken about this extensively.

It should be common sense for modern feminists to acknowledge that when manhood intersects with transness, it forms a new axis of oppression. This is something any transfeminist should know... if they are speaking in good faith. Unfortunately, that was not what the trans woman who coined the term "transemasculation" was doing. She was not speaking in good faith. She did not want to listen to transmasculine voices, she wanted to silence us.

When a trans man is refused gynecological care because he has an M on his driver's license, that's not emasculation. That's medical transphobia. When a nonbinary transmasculine person is refused a hysterectomy because they might "change their mind" about wanting children, that is not emasculation, that is medical misogyny.

As for misandry: when transmascs are told that testosterone will make us angry and violent, that it will make us ugly, that it will turn us into sexual predators, that is definitely not emasculation. It is misandry. When trans gay men who date cis gay men are described as "predatory cis women trying to force conversion therapy on gay men", that's multiple forms of bigotry including homophobia, transphobia, transmisandry and more. Trans men of color also face misandry in unique forms, and you should go listen to their voices about it.

To reduce all of this to "trans men are mainly concerned with being emasculated" is, honestly, insulting. It is beyond insulting - it is, in fact, transandrophobia.

[mesetacadre]

So, like, have any of you actually ever had a conversation with a fascist offline about what they believe? I have.

To be clear, this wasn't a sit-down-let's-talk conversation. He (the only one) tried to start shit, and we (me + 2 comrades) confronted him in the act and regrettably got into a 30-minute "conversation".

Fascists, individually, are very mentally feeble. They are cowards who always seek to start conflict while trying to make themselves out to be the victims. This is, of course, until they gain enough popularity and canon fodder to throw 20 unstable fascists at anyone they don't like. But until this exaltation occurs¹ and their organizations enter a relatively stable cycle (in contemporary liberal democracies, they last between 2 and 7 years before disintegrating), there remains a contradiction between their aggressive desire to seek confrontation and their individual and collective insecurities. Fascist ideology is mostly not rooted in reality (more on this later), and it also has an important component of self-hate. They are an inferior specimen, unable to achieve what the fascist martyrs before them achieved (in Spain, Jose Antonio Primo de Rivera usually occupies this position), and to add injury to insult, it's those who they perceive as weak and undeserving who rule over them. They ignore this perceived inferiority by joking about being chads, the superior race, or non-degenerates. But behind their rhetoric and "humor" there is usually a tinge of insecurity and hate against anyone who doesn't fit their increasingly narrow standard, including themselves.

This fascist we talked with kept referring to Jewish conspiracies, to the freemasons in every position of power, to old Falangists, to fascist "theorists", to some kind of esoteric spiritualism within the bounds of Christianity, somehow, and hyperborea. He talked about communists, how they were already in the government (referring to the social-democratic PSOE), how we were degenerates, how the day will come, etc. He attempted to scare us by saying that he was an ex-member of this more notorious fascist party and that they were looking for him to beat him up, which isn't something you admit to people you're trying to start conflicts with. After a while of his ramblings, one of my comrades couldn't help but laugh at him. It was all very ridiculous; I don't remember exactly what he said that made my comrade laugh. He got slightly more agitated, and the conversation ended in ~5 minutes.

Individually, fascists are also not the brightest people you'll encounter. For somebody to internalize fascist beliefs, they have to be unconsciously willing to never dig deeper about their beliefs, to contrast them with one another, or to contrast them with other fascists. They'll read a text (they may be stupid, but a lot of them do read more than you'd expect) about, say, the concept of race, and never really address the fact that it contradicts their own beliefs, or a fellow fascist's beliefs about the nation or about Europe.

And a really interesting thing is that fascism is far from a monolith. It's more akin to an entelechy². The specific contradictions of fascism manifest themselves much more between individual fascists than within a single individual. Like I mentioned before, there are contradictions when it comes to race (racialists like the nazis vs anti-racists like Falange Auténtica), to Europe (the idea of a Great Europe vs every idea of Nationality/Empire, which generally coexist poorly), to the nation (its intersection with race and/or Europe and how it interacts with these), to the reaction against progress (a conception of fascism as progressive, reactionary, or neither³), to science (a realist position based on scientificism such as race science and Kameradschaftrecht (nazi feminism) vs metaphysical conceptions, such as esotericism or the Thule society, reliant on aesthetics and mysticism), or to the economic policy (bourgeois positions, corporatism, vs workerist positions such as Strasser or Bombacci).

These contradictions aren't unique to the contemporary fascist situation of fragmentation and the peculiarities of social media either. Back in the 30s and 40s, there was a lot of disagreement on who counted as fascists. On one end, during the rise of the NSDAP, there was a small cadre of orthodox fascists who narrowed fascism "a la Italiana", and did not consider nazi-fascism to be fascism because of its differences on the scientificist conceptions of race. The Nazi party repressed this small wing. On the other end, it was a prevailing position in the USSR to not consider fascism to start with Italy's fascii di combatimento, but rather in Russia's Black Hundreds, having a broader conception of fascism.

This fascist we talked with considers himself a Carlist⁴, while another member of his groupuscule considers himself a national-socialist, while being Moroccan, and a third is a run-of-the-mill reactionary concerned with the 2030 agenda, globalism, immigrant invasions, the great replacement, that sort of thing. When fascist groups are relatively small and lack any form of inertia and/or formalized structure, their activity is extremely sporadic. There is no discipline to be found, no real planning or broad strategy, they are, rather, a group of similarly-enough-minded friends who sometimes like to do some vandalism or threaten/agitate leftists of any stripe. Their only method of growth is to generate controversies, fights, have a provocative tweet go semi-viral, to generate noise. When it comes to agitation for the fascist, concrete ideology is not relevant. They appeal to both rage and the satisfaction of, for example, seeing x annoying leftist org get their posters ripped off. Discussions of fascist theory rarely, if ever, influence their pragmatic activity, sometimes it's more similar to a circlejerk to see who has the most esoteric, exaggerated and offensive positions.

This is not to say fascist infighting is irrelevant, far from it. Fascists have their own petty disputes between groups, periods of extreme fractionarism, inter-fascist and intra-fascist violence. But when it comes to the philosophy of action, to how they apply all these beliefs, you'll be pressed to find meaningful, material differences. Some might be more or less aggressive, more or less esoteric, more or less contrarian, more or less effective. But they all rely on building that momentum, that controversy -> confrontation -> growth -> controversy cycle. The moment fascist groups lose that momentum, or one too many campaigns fall flat and fail to garner attention, they'll start to turn against themselves, to deteriorate their own structures in the permanent search for conflict that their beliefs demand. There is no way to hold the belief that, for example, race is a scientific category that makes the white/national/aryan/european/whatever race constantly threatened to disappear without exhorting you to seek conflict, whether it's against immigrants or other fascists who don't place as much importance on race.

If you find yourself in the context of a few small fascist groups festering and seeking conflict, it is a strategic error to confront them outright. Unless you're willing to downright kill them or injure them severely enough (with the bigger threat of legal repercussions that entails), fascists will be able to turn your explicit opposition against them into ammunition to attract more reactionaries to their own ranks. The best you, as an organized communist, can do in the period before exaltation, is to quietly collect information about them, study their patterns, and exert as much opposition as is possible without letting them turn it into a visible confrontation. If you're going to cover up their symbols and posters, do it when they can't film you or try to start a fight. If they're threatening someone to provoke them to then cry and hue about the rabid leftists, use the fact that they have low numbers, record them, and intimidate them without physical violence. Even if you can leave them writhing on the floor in a fight, they can use that as ammunition, but they can't use a video of them putting their tails between their legs and running off. You can't debate with fascists, this much is clear. You also can't just use violence to scare them away, because they'll use that violence to gain momentum, and then you can end up with an actually decently-sized and consistent fascist organization.

This is how we have been opposing these small groups of fascists attempting to grow through controversy. We opposed them non-visibly, effectively and professionally. When this group of about 15 fascists total (they never appear with more than 4 at a time because of their inconsistency) encountered this, they were at one point scared enough to stop all activity for about 2 months, and after that have yet to appear again. Meanwhile, other, more infantile orgs, overreacted by opposing them with full force and very publicly, which only encouraged the fascists to keep going and wasted energy in a futile back-and-forth, as well as putting their members in unnecessary risk by engaging in unplanned situations.

¹ Throughout this entire post, all analysis of the behavior of fascists offline assumes this exaltation has not occured

² Entelechy here means an impossible ideal, built entirely in the imagination, or with an unstable and shoddy manifestation.

³ Fascism often positions itself as a revolutionary movement, while other times it places more importance on the opposition against progress.

⁴ Carlism is a Spanish political current originating in the rejection of Isabel II as a legitimate heir to Fernando VII, it became very intertwined with Franco's dictatorship and the Falange during the Civil War

[xxcalicofemmexx]

can you imagine if someone said something like "i believe white women experience a specific, targeted form of misogyny that intersects with anti-white sentiment"?

even if "anti-masculine sentiment" was a thing that mattered, it wouldn't be a specific kind of bigotry, and its intersection with transphobia doesn't demand new language in the same way transmisogyny does. it's just a tactic to redirect attention away from trans women getting removed from every online and offline support network. it's "all lives matter"ing transphobia

HELLO???? HELLO?????? IS ANYONE HEARING THIS????? IS THIS THING ON???????

THE ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF TRANSMASCULINE SUFFERING IS NOT THE SAME AS WHITE SUPREMACY

jesus fucking christ i can't believe that needs to be said.

do us all a favor and try LISTENING to the transmascs talking about this instead of playing the fucking oppression olympics. you're not helping anyone. you're not being an ally. all you're doing is proving to every transmasc around you that you're not a safe person.

you should be embarrassed to have sent me this. and on anon as well, bc you're too much of a coward to even take responsibility for your own actions.

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

girl i love your stories that i reread them A LOT. idk if your request is open but if it's not then you can do it whenever I WILL WAIT MY WHOLE LIFE FOR IT

some angst (but end with fluff) about y/n being bad at directions (me tbh) so she keeps clinging to minho and his friends (during idk maybe their tour in japan or other vacations)so when minho snaps at her she left the restaurant immediately and thought about going back to hotel but get lost and her phone died then when minho find out she's not back till late at night he starts going crazy looking for her around

i'll let you get creative from here! tq!!!!

I hope you enjoy!!!

The trip to Japan had been an exhilarating whirlwind of sights and sounds. But for you, it also became a constant struggle to keep up with the group. Your terrible sense of direction was something you’d always laughed off, but here, in the bustling chaos of unfamiliar streets, it felt like a glaring flaw. You clung to Minho more than you intended to, relying on him to guide you when you inevitably got turned around.

By the third day, his patience began to wear thin.

It started with small sighs, then curt remarks. But tonight, as you hesitated once again at an intersection, unsure which way to go, Minho snapped. His voice cut through the group’s chatter, sharp and biting.

“For God’s sake, Y/N, can you stop acting helpless for five minutes? It’s not that hard to figure out where we’re going.”

The words stung like a slap, and the embarrassment that followed was suffocating. The others fell silent, their eyes darting between the two of you. Chan stepped forward, his voice firm and reprimanding.

“Minho, that’s enough! You don’t ever talk to her like that. You hear me?”

Minho opened his mouth to retort but quickly shut it, guilt flashing across his face under Chan's firm glare. Still, the damage was done. You felt small and out of place, like an unwelcome burden. Chan gave you a shoulder squeeze before going to scold Minho a bit more. The group resumed walking, the atmosphere tense as all the boy looked over in your direction with awkward and pitiful glances. Felix and Jeongin tried to lighten your mood by talking casually with you, but the lump in your throat wouldn't shake.

When you reached the restaurant, you quietly excused yourself, claiming you needed some air. No one stopped you. Outside, the cool night air hit your face as tears blurred your vision. You decided to head back to the hotel, thinking it was better to remove yourself from the group altogether.

But as you wandered through the maze of streets, panic began to set in. Every turn seemed to lead to another unfamiliar alley, and your phone’s battery was dwindling fast. When it finally died, leaving you stranded without maps or a way to contact anyone, fear took hold.

Back at the restaurant, the group noticed your prolonged absence. Jisung was the first to speak up, glancing around nervously.

“Uh, has anyone seen Noona? She’s been gone for a while.”

Minho, who had been unusually quiet since his outburst, froze. Chan frowned, his protective instincts kicking in.

“I’ll check outside,” Jisung offered, already heading for the door. He returned a few minutes later, his expression grim.

“She’s not out there,” he said, his voice edged with worry. “I think she’s gone.”

Minho shot to his feet, his heart hammering in his chest. “What do you mean, gone?”

“I don’t know!” Jisung replied, his voice rising. “I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not answering her phone either.”

The weight of the situation hit Minho like a freight train. His earlier anger dissolved into a nauseating mix of fear and guilt. Without another word, he bolted out of the restaurant, desperate to find you.

You’d been wandering for what felt like hours when a man approached you. He looked to be in his fifties, his kind eyes and warm smile a stark contrast to the bustling city around you.

“Are you lost?” he asked in Japanese. You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you tried to explain your situation.

“Come,” he said gently, switching to broken English. “My daughter recognized you. Said you are with boyfriend, Minho? Safe at our house. You charge phone.”

Too exhausted and desperate to refuse, you followed him to a modest house nearby. His daughter, a young woman about your age, greeted you with tea and a charger. The warmth of their home was comforting, but your heart ached with the weight of the evening’s events.

Minho was spiraling. He darted from street to street, asking anyone he came across if they’d seen you. When he entered a small cafe, the owner paused, recognizing your description.

“Yes,” she said. “She left with an older man. He seemed…kind. Not dangerous.”

Her words did little to calm Minho’s fraying nerves. The thought of you- vulnerable and alone- with a stranger nearly pushed him to the brink of a breakdown. His hands trembled as he tried to focus.

“Where? Which way did they go?” he demanded.

She pointed him in the right direction, and he took off without a second thought. When he finally reached the house and saw you through the window, sitting safely with the older man and his daughter, the relief was overwhelming. He knocked and burst through the door, his chest heaving.

“Y/N,” he choked out, rushing to your side. “Are you okay? I was…I was so scared.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. Minho pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if to make sure you were really there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I…I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I didn’t mean it. I…I can’t lose you.”

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could respond, the daughter handed you a photo card she’d been holding. It was of Minho, from a recent album. She giggled nervously, gesturing to the collection spread out across the table.

“I'm a big fan,” she said in English, and you couldn’t help but smile. "So, I recognized her from your posts."

“Thank you for helping her,” Minho said to her and the father in Japanese, his voice hoarse. Then, in a move that stunned everyone, he sank to his knees. Lowering himself further until his forehead almost touched the ground, he bowed deeply, the ultimate gesture of gratitude and humility, as he cried out words you couldn't understand, but the small family did.

“Thank you,” he said again in English, his voice trembling. “Thank you for keeping her safe. Thank you.”

The father’s eyes widened in surprise before he helped Minho up, patting his shoulder reassuringly before he looked at you. “She…good girl. You take care of her, yes?”

Minho nodded fervently, his gaze flickering to you. “Always.”

As the family waved you off, Minho kept a protective arm around you the entire walk back to the hotel. Neither of you spoke much, but his grip on you never loosened, his actions speaking louder than words ever could.

By the time you reached the entrance you took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry-"

Minho pulled you into his chest before you could say anything else. "You scared me." He whispered. "I was so scared- people...they can be dangerous."

You didn't say anything, just sunk further into his embrace, your lips turning into a pout as Minho held you.

"You found her?" Chan's accent cut through the sound of Minho's rapid heartbeat as him and Han rushed over. "I'll call the rest of the guys and tell them to come back."

Another wave of guilt hit you and you tried to sputter out another apology but Han spoke.

"It's not your fault Y/N. It's Minho's for acting that way."

You looked up at Minho, whose eyes were blank. "I'm tired. Let's head to bed." He said quietly, pulling you along. He walked into your hotel room and kicked off his shoes, pulling you under the covers with him.

He pulled you flush against his chest and rested his chin on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry." He said again. "I'm a horrible boyfriend." You turned in the bed towards him, and your heart tugged at seeing his eyes. He had been silently crying, and when he felt he didn't want you to see him cry any longer he buried his face in your chest, hugging you closer.

"I forgive you. You don't have to say sorry."

"I do. I put you in a dangerous position because of my frustrations. That's ignorant of me. If anything had happened-" His voice was muffled but you heard the slight crack in it.

'Well, nothing happened so I'm okay. I'm safe. And the father and daughter were such a cute little family and kind. You were her bias as well so if anything I was probably the most safe there." You teased. Minho didn't say anything instead pulled the blanket tighter around you.

You sighed and closed your eyes, deciding to just let Minho wallow. When he thought you were asleep he moved the strands of hair stuck to your cheek and laid a gentle kiss there.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight for the rest of this trip." You stayed still as he placed another kiss on the corner of your lips, then forehead.

"I love you, jagiya." He murmured, before resting his forehead against yours, a drifting off into a dreamless sleep with you.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha

@iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric

@panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee

@shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin

@whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun

@ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael

@skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads

@jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld

@kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9

@minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg

@leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon

@night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz

@rockstarkkami

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[websterss]

THE DEVIL WEARS CONVERSE — LUKE PATTERSON

SUMMARY: If there's one thing Caleb is scared of it's the color red and the devil.

WARNING(S): angst, some fluff, implications of smut, some making out

WORD COUNT: 3,604

PAIRING: Luke Patterson x fem!Reader

A/N: I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed! This was one fic I lost when I made a new blog and was reposting my works.

MASTERLIST

You had caught Luke's eye as soon as he stepped out onto the floor. Many people flaunting and going amidst their night caught his attention. He felt that he and the guys were a little underdressed for the fancy club, but it had been your appearance alone that had you catching their eyes like flies. They were drawn to you in particular. Luke most of all, couldn't sway where his sights were directed towards.

"Hey boys, I'll be right back." He made to move past Reggie, his hand on his chest in passing but was stopped when Willie intersected him. Luke looked down at the hand that Willie pressed against his chest. He scoffed in amusement. "Where's the fire?"

"N-Nowhere, but there could be. I wouldn't recommend it. Not her. Y/n isn't someone you just go up and talk to." Willie's face fell with fear.

"Oh yeah, why's that? Is she important or something?" Luke laughed, but Willie wasn't finding Luke's advances towards you hilarious. "She off-bounds?"

"Yea- Yeah, she is in fact," Willie said nervously. After taking notice of Willie's shift in tone when he spoke of you, Luke's eyebrows furrowed with curiosity.

"What are you getting at, Willie? You seem protective." Luke questioned as he put two and two together. He was almost certain that Alex was Willie's crush, he didn't take him to swing both ways or had he simply misread him, that and the way he reacted just now…it seemed unprecedented. "I thought you liked Alex?" Luke crossed his arms.

"I do- It's not like that. Just- Just promise me you won't approach her. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you guys." Willie pleads.

Luke couldn't help but raise a brow, Willie was acting like she was some sort of monster. "A heartbreaker then, that's okay Willie. I've had my fair share of girls like her." He smiled boyishly. He reached up to slap Willie on his upper arm in reassurance. "Nothing's going to happen." Luke shrugged off Willie. Willie was being dramatic. The interest of doing something irrational intrigued him like a child who was told to not play with fire.

"Luke, I mean it. She's not even a regular. You won't see her that much. She's only ever here on business."

"Only ever here for business, huh?" Luke repeated curiously with an eyebrow up. "Then why can't I talk to her? What's gonna happen, Willie?" Luke wasn't one for following orders, that was not in his nature. He couldn't stand being told what not to do, it only made him crave what he wasn't meant to have or do even more. So, it was no mistake that Willie had made one just now. This little curiosity of Luke's was going to get the best of him. The way Willie made it sound like you did some kind of illicit activity intrigued him even more. "What, does she work for the mob or something?" He said half-jokingly with a brow lift. It was only natural to be enticed by a beautiful woman whom people were being tight-lipped about, it only made you seem more interesting and willing to know more about in his books.

"N-Nothing good." He muttered softly. "Why don't I show you guys to your table?"

"Yes, please!" Alex raised a finger, eager to move past Willie's sudden fear-stricken face.

"You guys go ahead. I'll be right back." Luke finally did move past Reggie and began making his way over to you.

"Luke, I wouldn't!" Willie exclaimed.

"I'm just gonna say hi." He turned to walk backwards as he faced him with a cheeky smile. Then turned as he approached the empty bar, beside you and the bartender giving you your drinks with shaky hands. That had him raising his brows with interest.

-

"Hi Marcus, long time no see." You flashed the man with a sweet smirk. Marcus's smile fell upon the realization you were sitting before the bar. He stopped cleaning the glass in his hands letting it fall to the ground with a smash. He winced at the sound of it breaking. He remained composed as your smile didn't let up. You were the mere image of innocence, you conjured up the identity of a teenage girl this time around. Last year you looked older, dressed up as a woman in a black dress, but this by far was his least favorite one on you, your childlike nature and appearance was scaring him shitless. Your soul was pure rotten, you by no means represented youth and innocence.

"Y/n." He dipped his head in greetings.

"I see Caleb still keeps you around." You tilted your head.

Because he knows I can keep you tranquil. He wanted to say but opted not to. "I'm the only one who can make a dirty cocktail." He lets out nervously.

"That you can, sweetie. Though I'm more in the mood for something sweet tonight, like you." You poke his sternum. Your sweet angelic laughter unsettles him, but he laughs along with you. Knowing Caleb would have his soul again if he made you angry.

"Perhaps a living soul?" He offered with a timid smile.

"Hell no, Lucifer knows I deal with too many of them back home as it is. Why on earth would I waste my time on one tonight? Though you do have a fair amount of them tonight..." You hum surveying the floor. You turned back to the bar. "How about a slushy, make it strong, and fruity." You order.

"So you're not here to collect a soul?"

"I have other matters to tend to Marcus. I've been getting screwed over you see. My bargain with your showman has not been followed down to the last letter, and I am not happy Marcus." You sigh. "I mean how stupid does Caleb peg me? Stealing souls from me." Your laughter darkens with every word that escapes you. "I am a woman of business, and I don't see my need to be tethered to one so insidious. You understand, Marcus?"

Marcus nods furiously. "Where's Willie? As of now, he's my new eyes and ears. Caleb still has his soul right? Of course, he does that's how he controls you all. If this gets out to Caleb sweetie, I'll be the one to devour that pure soul of yours." You raise a brow in question gesturing to his chest. Marcus nods and snaps his fingers. Your requested drink appearing before you. You raised the glass to your lips and let your shoulders drop. "This is why I love you, Marcus."

"Am I no longer your eyes and ears?"

"No." You could see Marcus's disappointment flash in his eyes. "You've been upgraded to my personal assistant."

Marcus felt honored. "Oh wow. Does this mean I don't have to be behind the bar anymore?"

"Only when we come to the club, but other than that..." You snap your fingers nonchalantly. Caleb's stupid stamp floated off of Marcus's wrist. The poor man looked as though he'd cry.

He did.

"Consider it a gift, sweetie. That's all you're gonna get...really." You shrug. You didn't like getting too sentimental with others. Marcus palmed his mouth. Covering it to muffle his cries. You looked around hopefully no one was watching the scene unfold before you. You shrink in your stool and take another sip of your drink. You took another gulp of your drink, enjoying the flavor it had, it was indeed what you had asked for.

"Marcus." You called his name softly when the tears finally stopped flowing. "Look at me." Marcus's head raised and eyes widened with fear once again. "Stop, please."

"S-Sorry. I'm good, I'm good." You nodded with him, your eyes widened with concern. "Thank you..." He muttered softly.

"Sure." You laughed out nervously wanting his hands off you. “Marcus.” You spoke sternly this time which brought him to pay attention and made him stop touching you. “How about another drink, yeah.” You shifted the mood, hoping to reassure him by taking his mind off of being freed by you. "Surprise me this time."

"Yes- Yes, right away." He composed himself as best he could and began to make your new drink.

Luke's gaze was fixated on the bartender's shaky hands, having caught the last of your conversation with him before he grew close. It was something that caught his attention to no end. A burning hole in his brain as he wondered why you had such an effect on people, good and bad. He wanted to know more about you. So he sat on the stool right beside you.

He turned towards you; his hands were resting on the counter, as he tapped along to the melody playing throughout the club. Luke's gaze met yours, raising a brow as he took notice that you were eyeing him. It made him a little self-conscious, but he hid that fact with an amused smirk.

"Nice shoes." His grin brightened. "I'm more of a vans guy myself but I think it's time I make a drastic brand change." Luke turned in the stool, next to the very pretty girl, who looked completely out of place. Your leather jacket and dark blue denim, not to mention your incredibly red shoes, didn't fit the club's dress code.

You peered over the glass in your hand. Your eyes narrowed curiously at the curly-haired stranger who unashamedly sat in the vacant seat next to yours. Surely he had to be pulling your hair. When you saw no falter in his charming smile, you played along. Hoping to amuse the poor lad unaware of the person you were, of your identity. Most would cower at the sight of you but his lack of knowledge told you all you needed to. He was clueless...and a pretty sight. You set your drink down and smirk, turning your full self towards him.

"Thanks. I had them dyed with the blood of the damned." You stuck your leg out, tilting your head in admiration of your shoes.

Your brows pinched closer together upon his laugh. You were confused by his reaction, what had been so funny? You were being your most sincere.

He snickered again, trying hard not to laugh, in fear of offending you. He let out another brief laugh, trying his best not to lose it. It was the way your words so casually rolled off your tongue that got him. He smirked. "Damned you say. Does that mean that you had to damn them yourself or were they already damned and you just decided to take advantage of the opportunity." He joked around, though curiosity filled his mind as he wondered what your answer would be. He sure wasn't expecting your sweet angelic tune that escaped you as a response. Your head fell back. Marcus stilled, looking at the new stranger who caused such a reaction from you and then at you. Was this a stroke you were having and he was completely unaware? He opted to join in, his fake laughs weren't noticed by you luckily.

He eyed Luke as though he put the moon in the sky. He got you to laugh. Completely unheard of.

Luke felt satisfied. His grin widened as he softly joined in on your bubbled display of joy. "I mean they do make killer shoes. I kind of want some now." He shrugged with half interest.

Marcus finally released a stifled laugh. The poor man was holding it in, not knowing where you two would take the conversation. "I can't say I've ever had the urge to wear shoes made of human blood," He spoke in an attempt to keep the energy at bay.

"Well," Luke started, "they're rather fashionable, right? I mean, I know leather clothing is still in style, you're perfectly on top of that trend already." He joked back casually. You felt something strange in your chest as he raked his eyes up and down your entirety. "All I'd be missing is the shoes..." He bit his lip.

"Yeah?" You looked back at him amused. "You want a pair?"

"Why not?" He entertained the idea.

"What is happening?" Marcus mouthed in shock.

What was happening indeed? Didn't he know who you were? His lack of fear was the most shocking part of this whole interaction. Surely he wasn't one of Caleb's newest edition of collected ghosts. Another soul he had taken, or made Willie lure him in to take it while he's blindsighted by the pretty picture Caleb paints for him. For once you wanted to lay your claim on a soul. To rub it in Caleb's face for stealing your portion of the bargain. You extended your hand out to him and asked him what any wise girl would do. You asked for his name.

"I'm Luke." He took your hand gently. Unaware of the marking you placed under his skin. Your bargains, your markings, were more subtle than Caleb's, where he wanted to show them off, you kept yours hidden behind a mere handshake. Along with the idea of never actually telling them you had done so.

"Pleasure." Your grip on his hand remained firm and tight as your eyes searched his own. You could already envision Caleb brewing with envy once he sees you and Luke engaging in a friendly, and dare you say romantic conversation. Luke didn't appear to know the full truth of what was going on. He appeared to be so blindly curious and unaware. So you went ahead and lit a spark to that curiosity as you pressed a finger to the back of his hand, caressing the length of it.

"Luke," you said slowly, testing it out. The name sounded nice; it rolled off your tongue perfectly. Luke, Luke, Luke. He would be your plaything for tonight, perhaps another time as well should you choose to extend that privilege. You felt a tinge of regret for marking a soul as pure as his, you could feel his warmth the second he sat down, but that was soon washed away with his charming grin; it made you want to make him break his moral barriers all the more. He seemed so different from the others, he was your next perfect leverage on Caleb. "I'm Y/n." You leaned forward, Luke's eyes falling in a daze at your sultry voice and doe eyes.

"Y/n..." He breathed out, mesmerized.

"Marcus I want a private space." You turned to the poor lad who was still stunned that this one guy alone was able to sweeten you down like honey. Get on your good side in the blink of an eye. "Now!"

-

Willie had paced back and forth, going over what he would say to Caleb as he waited for him at the bottom steps of his dressing room. When the man of the hour finally descended the steps Willied perked up.

"Oh hey um, Caleb." He smiled. "I brought those ghosts I met, um it's still cool they're here right?"

"Of course William! I even reserved a special table for them." Caleb shrugged him off nonchalantly.

"Woah! Uh alright, um thank you!" Willie reeled back, not expecting him to do something so nice.

"No, no, thank you!" Caleb sipped at his tea and watched as Willie made his way to leave but turned the wrong way.

"That way!" Willie laughed as he turned to go in the right direction this time.

"Hey William, while I have you here. Make sure to let me know when Y/n has arrived. I need at least half an hour to ready myself before her arrival."

"Oh, Y/n? She's already here." Willie shook his head confused, hadn't he known?

Certainly not, it appeared.

"What!" Caleb screeched, making Willie to flinch. The cup in his hands clattered onto the steps. Willie shrunk in on himself as Caleb berated him. "You useless monkey, why do I even keep you around? Oh my god, I'm not even dressed. Quick go make sure she gets everything she wants. Hopefully not my soul...Whatever she wants give it to her. A lifer's soul, it's hers. I don't care. I need to go look presentable. Go!" Willie straightened out as he walked away from Caleb's dressing room with haste. Caleb ordered staff to make sure you remained in a good mood. He was late, you had been earlier than expected and he was about to lose his shit.

-

When Caleb dispersed from the dancers and band, you had rolled your eyes as he made his entrance past the golden curtain.

He gulped nervously when his eyes danced back and forth between you sitting back on the sofa, and Luke kissing down your neck like a lovesick puppy. You hadn't stopped his attack on your skin. Caleb straightened out, clearly his throat to make his presence known.

"I don't like being kept waiting, Caleb, I have better things to do." Your voice broke in soft breaths as Luke found your sweet spot.

"Y/n, nice to have you back my sweet. We've missed your presence at the club and I-"

"Don't patronize me, ghost." You rolled your head back against the cushion.

"Ah, I see you've found our special guest of the night." He laughed nervously. "Have we bored you already, the night has only just begun." Caleb was thankful he didn't have to find you in a much more compromising situation. As he watched your hand run through Luke’s hair, a pang of emotion rose in him, jealousy? Anger? Regret? He felt his emotions bubble over as he watched Luke's lips meet your collarbones, his hands running down your back to your waist. Caleb bit his lip to keep an audible curse from escaping his lips.

You smirked, he was lucky that Luke wasn't getting too ahead of himself, but seeing how things were playing out at the moment it wouldn't take much for Luke to slip. Your attention turned back to him once Luke's lips had moved elsewhere on your body.

"Caleb, how stupid do you think I am?" Your question had caught him off guard.

He was speechless for a few moments before he regained his composure. He laughed a bit in your face. "Y/n, it's obvious," He took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. "He's a soul I promise to you in our deal. I got two more waiting on you out on the floor."

Luke's head dropped lower to your chest, his kisses stooping lower down your blouse. Caleb's eyes narrowed at the sight.

"Luke's already mine." You sigh in contentment. "I meant about the souls you’re taking for yourself, Caleb."

"What of them?" Caleb's face remained emotionless. He kept his arms crossed while your head was nuzzled into Luke's neck, you were barely holding on to the conversation while your chest had been preoccupied with Luke's hot breaths. His hands slide up and down your body.

"You can't even deny you've broken our bargain." You reminded him, your mind clouded with the sensation of his kisses. "You know what happens when people cross me, Caleb." You giggled as your breath hitched with every word spoken. You placed a hand over Luke's curls to stop him from continuing his kisses down your torso, his lips rested on your chest instead.

"Surely, we can work something out." He begins softly.

"I don't think so." You spoke plainly, your eyes finally focusing on Caleb. Your hands placed on the back of the sofa, you were feeling a bit confident and sassy, something Caleb hadn't seen for a good while, not with him at least. You sit up causing Luke to fall off you. You grip his chin gently and turn his face towards Caleb. You watch as the ghost shrinks back into the shell of the man that he is as Luke's gorgeous brown eyes flash red at him.

You staked your claim on him. "You touch the other two, and this all goes away." You gesture to the room, to the entirety of the club. "I’m going to need Willie's soul by the strike of midnight. Poor thing needs a break from you seeing as you can't do your job properly. He's mine until I say so. You understand, Caleb." You recline back into the cushion.

"Yes ma'am." He nods, feeling like a child being scolded.

"You can see yourself out now. It's like you said; the night is only getting started." Your angelic laugh is one for his nightmares. Not to mention your red eyes. You hold his gaze as you push down on Luke's curls, his body sinking to the carpet before you. "You might not want to stay around for this next part Caleb. Wouldn't want to traumatize you as it is." Caleb gasps and turns in place of the sound of your zipper being pulled.

Caleb's jaw went slack. His head tilted to the side. He tried hard to hide his surprise, but he wasn't sure what he should have said in this occurrence. "Right… I will be leaving. Enjoy yourselves." He uttered stiffly. Caleb retreated out of the room.

Luke's warm hands gripped your thighs, squeezing them slightly. His lips moved back up to your neck. His fingertips trailed lightly along your collarbone, his breath hot, you could feel his blood rushing. Once you were sure Caleb was out of earshot you pulled Luke up by the collar of his shirt.

"What's wrong?" Luke's dazed-out look had you feeling a smidge of guilt. "I thought we were having fun?" He breathed out a laugh as he tried to lean in to kiss you.

"It's not that kind of business, baby. Another time." You gripped his chin and sweetly placed a kiss on his lips. 

[pocketsizedquasar-3]

i mean, we knew this. but the fact that i’ve seen dozens and dozens of post focusing on queer ppl and telling queer ppl to take care of themselves and queer ppl that it’ll be ok and queer ppl to not kill themselves (which, not saying not to make those posts or that those posts are bad), and not a single, single post* checking in on or showing compassion to Black people, undocumented people and other immigrants, brown people, Muslims, Jews, or other religious minorities — basically, any and all POC in general** — is truly, truly emblematic of what we have known all along: white people fundamentally do not see oppression if it is not happening to them.

*the one or two exceptions were posts i saw before the elections, reminding Black&brown folks to stay safe (bc regardless of outcome, racist hate crimes spike around elections!), and the OPs of those were, predictably, themselves Black or brown.

**QTPOC of course exist. we exist especially at the most dangerous intersections of this violence & horrid effects to our health, mental and physical. but it is frequently clear when ppl make posts like this and consider none of the harm which we are subject to, only that which also affects them.

it does not occur to you to show compassion to us. it does not occur to you to show solidarity with us. it does not occur to you that we are in danger, and have been in far more danger than you, regardless of which color they slap on the white house. it does not occur to you that when you talk about violence against queer people, the vast majority of that violence will fall upon queer and trans POC, especially Black queer people. it does not occur to you that QTPOC exist at all, except when we can be used as a hypothetical argument.

white queer people are white before they are queer. white trans people are white before they are trans. white women are white before they are women. they are disappointed in the status quo only when it stops supporting them. they are aghast and appalled when they are treated like those people. they are shocked and disappointed when suddenly their whiteness no longer insulates them from being treated the way the rest of us are treated. baldwin of course said it first and best:

I think white gay people feel cheated because they were born, in principle, into a society in which they were supposed to be safe. The anomaly of their sexuality puts them in danger, unexpectedly. Their reaction seems to me in direct proportion to the sense of feeling cheated of the advantages which accrue to white people in a white society. There's an element, it has always seemed to me, of bewilderment and complaint.

white queer people, white people in the imperial core, are experiencing a fraction of the dread and violence that everyone else has been subjected to for years. you are afraid, rightfully so. but in your fear and your rage and whatever else, you do not look to those of us who have been fighting this violence for years. you do not offer us compassion and care the way you do with white ppl. you, of course, fall back on your whiteness.

again, none of this is new. we know this. we’ve known this. but it is frustrating nonetheless.

it does not occur to you that we are in danger. that we are dying. that we are being killed. it does not occur to you to to offer us the same hotlines and resources and reassurances and kindness and compassion.

keeping rbs on for now but if people start being weird i’m turning them off. don’t put words in my mouth. don’t say i said something i didn’t. i meant what i said and nothing else.

[neversetyoufree]

The way Noé Archiviste is written is so good. I'm so obsessed with him.

He's such a protagonist—endlessly hopeful against adversity and filled with kindness and attempted understanding toward everyone he meets. He's a good person! He wants to save everyone! He is genuinely and utterly without any sort of cruelty or unfair bias.

Yet, the more the series goes on, the more he's written as a very obvious parallel to our antagonists.

The most blatant example of this is the Ruthven parallel. Ruthven once happily said that he liked vampires, and in the same way, he liked humans. Noé repeats this exact same line when he has tea with Ruthven.

This parallel doesn't reflect too poorly on Noé, since it's pretty clear that something Happened to Ruthven to change him between his speaking that line and him becoming our antagonist, but it is an interesting way to tie the two of them together. It raises certain questions in readers' minds. In what other ways are Noé and Ruthven still similar, and how might Noé change to become more like him?

Then there's Noé's toxic optimism. The "you should be a little bothered, actually" aspect of him. Noé is the mirror to Vanitas's toxic pessimism. He latches onto the good in the world to a fault, and in this way he detaches from reality and endures an endless series of abuses to his person without even understanding they're abuses.

That is also one of the defining traits of Mikhail. Misha is unsettling in part because he is completely detached from any understanding of severity. Misha happily recounts being abused and watching his mother die not because he's cruel or hateful, but because he doesn't understand what's happened to him or why those things are bad. Misha wants to bring Luna back to life because he's in denial of the reality of their death. He believes he can just resurrect them and everything will be fine, and he'll get to play happy family again.

If Noé went just a little bit more extreme with the over-optimism, he could disconnect from reality just as badly as Misha has.

Finally there's my favorite parallel—the tie between Noé and his Teacher. Noé Archiviste has a tendency to watch others in fascination, trying to figure them out from the sidelines while he fails to understand his own impact on them, and he absolutely loves the Blue Moon. He thinks the Blue Moon is beautiful. Teacher spends his time collecting interestingly damaged children in putting them in awful situations, apparently just for the fun of watching what they'll do next, and he calls The Vampire of the Blue Moon "the most beautiful creature in the world."

Noé's curiosity-driven fascination with Vanitas's trauma and his love of the blue moon—neither of these are necessarily a problem on their own, but when written in direct parallel with The Count of Saint Germain, they become somewhat alarming.

In the same way that Misha is "worse" than Noé because his obliviousness to his trauma leads him to harm others, Noé's teacher is surely a worse person than him because he lets himself harm others in pursuit of his interests. Noé doesn't do that. But what would it take for that to change? He's pushed boundaries before. He learned to hurt Astolfo and Misha in the name of protecting those he cares about. What other strange places could his headstrong nature lead?

What might Noé do when his fascination and his obliviousness intersect? When the parts of him that are Teacher and the parts of him that are Misha overlap? What would he do to see Vanitas again? What might he do without letting himself realize how terrible it was?

Noé is a good person. He's one of the best people. But in his attentiveness and his optimism and his love, there's the seeds of something that could lead him down a very dark road. Each of the above antagonists is a little bit a part of who he is.

Misha wants to bring Luna back to life. Ruthven is working toward some mysterious aim with the dead or dying Faustina. And given how he talks in mémoire 55, I wouldn't be surprised if Teacher also had an interest in bringing back The Vampire of the Blue moon in one form or another.

In all his fascination and love and hope, would/will Noé be able to let Vanitas die when death is preferable to the alternative? This is a story about the inevitability of death, and the denial of that inevitability creates nothing but horror and perversion. Noé is growing and learning to understand both Vanitas and the moral complexities of the world, and we can only hope that he learns enough. We can see through his many reflections in other characters what he might become if he can't accept painful reality.

[alexanderwales]

The spell showed you how another person saw you.

It was expensive, but not so expensive that it didn't find its use. If you were in the burgher class it was expected that you would experience it a few times in your life. One of those was before marriage.

Cordelia went in with great trepidation. She was sure that Aldwin was right for her, but less sure that she was right for him.

And then, two hours later, once it was all over, they had to talk about it, in a way that Aldwin loved to talk about everything.

"There was a sweetness to him," said Aldwin. "But now I worry, only lightly, that you think I make more concessions than I really do. There was more romance to him, I suppose. Very lovey, which I suppose is good."

"Well, that's good," said Cordelia.

"Is something the matter?" asked Aldwin.

"No," said Cordelia. "You can go on."

"I need some time to stew," said Aldwin. "We talked a lot, but I do fear that we got tangled in tangents. I think we could have been good friends, actually, if he were real, though ..."

"Yes?" asked Cordelia.

"He was intelligent, but I knew more than him, which I suppose is an artifact of the spell. He didn't know all the things that I knew, he knew all the things that you knew, except you don't expect me to know much about textiles, so some of those things that you knew were barred from him, and that meant that he sat at the intersection of our domains of knowledge." Aldwin looked at the ceiling for a moment. "I do wonder if there's a way around that."

"Perhaps," said Cordelia.

Aldwin looked back down at her. "Is something the matter? You haven't said what your experience was like. Was she pleasant?" He grinned at her, a winning grin that had made her fall in love. It was heartbreaking.

"Aldwin, I'm ... not sure that I can do this," said Cordelia.

His grin turned to a frown. "Why not?" he asked. "I love you, you should have seen that."

"Aldwin, she was perfect," said Cordelia.

"You're perfect," said Aldwin. He laid his hand on hers.

"No, Aldwin, I'm not," said Cordelia. "And when I've heard you say that before, I've always thought that it was you being poetic, but I met her now, the me that lives in your mind, and she is perfect, she has none of my blemishes, none of my flaws, she's kind and gracious and intelligent and funny."

"My dear, you're all those things," said Aldwin. "That's why I'm marrying you."

"But I'm not those things," said Cordelia. "My version of you, did you think that he was handsome?"

"I suppose it didn't occur to me," said Aldwin. He looked to the ceiling again and considered that. "His hair was a bit curlier, and his nose somewhat broader, but no, I think he looked like me."

"The woman I saw was a goddess," said Cordelia. "I can't compare to her."

"You are her," said Aldwin.

"Won't you believe me when I tell you that I'm not?" asked Cordelia. "And if we follow through on the engagement, and you marry me, how can I help but worry that you'll figure that out one day and leave me?"

Aldwin frowned at her. "Is that what this is about?" he asked. "You think my love is fickle? It hadn't even occurred to me to ask my other whether he was wavering."

"I think you're brilliant and handsome," said Cordelia. "But I looked at her, spoke with her, and kept thinking to myself that I couldn't live up to her. I yelled at her and she calmly defused my anger. When I cried, she comforted me."

"It was really so bad?" asked Aldwin, raising his eyebrows. He had very expressive eyebrows, it was something that Cordelia had always found herself appreciating.

"I fear that you don't actually know me," said Cordelia. "You don't see the ugly, twisted, miserable creature that I am."

"Come now," said Aldwin. He seemed befuddled. "Perhaps I think more highly of you than you think of yourself, but I won't have you talking so poorly of my bride-to-be."

"It's how I felt, next to her," said Cordelia, looking down. She had tears in her eyes. It was undignified. Her other would have never.

Aldwin moved closer to her and tilted her chin up. She looked at him, blinking away her tears, which rolled down her face and made her lip salty. His eyes, that saw her so.

"My sweet, we have our entire lives to get to know each other better," said Aldwin. "I will love you no less if you falter, if you yell, if you cry, if you flop around and fail. If we do this again, ten years from now, I expect that I'll have the same rosy view of you, overly rosy, in your estimation. That's love. That's what it is."

But of course for her, that wasn't true at all. He'd said as much, he'd spoken to his other, he'd seen a more or less accurate portrayal of himself. Didn't he see that? Or would he realize it only later? She wasn't sure. Did she not love him? Is that what it meant? She thought that she loved him.

"I do love you," said Cordelia.

"Good, because we're getting married soon," said Aldwin. He patted her on the hand. "Come, let's dry those tears and find someplace to eat."

She let herself be led for the rest of the day, and returned to herself within half an hour, letting the shadow cast by the spell slide off her, joking with him, engaging him in his interests, putting on a smile that she didn't entirely feel.

But that night, as she lay in bed, the image of the goddess, the woman she was not and could not become, would not leave her mind.

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Hi! I really appreciate your nuanced and informed thoughts. Apologies if you've already answered something like this somewhere, but I'm only occasionally on Tumblr these days.

My question is what do you think about calls for academic boycotts as a means of protest? (Against Russia and Israel, most recently - curiously, I've never seen any suggestions for an academic boycott against, say, China, due to persecution of Uygurs and Tibetans. Cynically, I'm guessing this is because Chinese academia is simply too big and too financially integrated into global academic publishing profits for anyone to imagine a boycott, whereas Russian and Israeli academics are much less visible and much less profitable.)

I often sympathize with the feelings of those calling for boycotts, but it feels like it's useless at best and counterproductive at worst to cut off potential regime critics from international support, making them more dependent on keeping the regime happy for funding. I've seen some of what happens in an academic community (Hungary) that is poorly integrated with the international academic community when a repressive government start going after insufficiently nationalist research, and it's not great - entire fields of study the government doesn't like pressured out of existence, or only hanging on because of external EU funding. I have trouble seeing how essentially helping a regime stamp out dissenting voices is a good way to protest that regime. I also fear that if dissenters feel that the international community rejects them and views them as no different from the regime that they will be more likely to embrace apathy for survival.

I'm not sure how to respond to calls for academic boycott in a way that opens dialogue about these concerns, and I also recognize that I may be missing something. I'd love your thoughts on this issue if you have any!

imo academic boycotts are the political equivalent of punching parallel/down.

especially, since, as you pointed out, many academics in the boycotted nations are already dissenters. that said, i do think it's bullshit that these calls for boycotts aren't extended to china.

there's another aspect here, though, which i think was best presented in The Good Place: in a globalized economy, such simple measures as not buying that tomato or using that app or talking to that one israeli medical researcher don't have the impact we'd like to think they do. everything is soo layered and interwoven and codependent and opaque, that we can't truly know what decision we're making and what kind of impact it will truly have without expertise in international finance and tax law and supply chain ethical management.

in our world, as it exists, money and hard power are the only things which will effect change. they're the only things that matter. shitting on some russian grad student who just accessed the closed soviet archive of Khanate-era mongolian literature, or the israeli social scientist researching the intersection of public health and addiction won't do anything, except keep the West in the dark about Mongolian literature, and blocking findings valuable for public management of those struggling with addiction.

if universities and 18-22 year olds want to effect change, go for the wallet. research which defense contractors give money to which university labs/departments, target the administration of those departments, and make as big and loud of a stink as possible. i don't think the individuals calling for these boycotts want to do that though. it's dangerous and scary and requires them to actually put themselves at genuine risk. it's easier for them to just attack academics living under shitty governments, harass jewish students, and call it praxis.

but that's just my (cynical, lowkey depressed) take.

[accio-victuuri]

XZ Album 《我们 WE》 early cpns.

you know we just need a few things to see and it’s a whole bunch of cpns we can produce after 😂😂😂 that’s the magic of being a turtle. lol. we may be interpreting this whole thing wrong but that’s usual when it comes to speculations we make and i think that’s the joy of it.

i’ll start of with this one that made me want to scream and cry:

i mean… shut up…. noooooo… wdym 😭😭😭

why you gotta pull the wei wuxian imagery like that. i’m very very weak for this. the writing mimics that of a red ribbon. of all things. tho the WM here as how fans interpret it and how i think xz intended it to is WM: WǒMen (我们) as in We/Us or WM: We and Me (我和“我们”) (Wǒ hé “Wǒmen”). not to mention that the color scheme of this red is 911005. his bday. everything is intentional.

but still. red ribbon. come on. who can blame us for clowning like this when he makes it so easy. it’s not a secret that the untamed and the role of wwx is important to him career wise and well *ehem* personally *ehem* because of a certain someone. if you don’t wanna look that far then just go with the W as in WANG. lol. and if it’s WM, M flipped is still W. so that’s how transfixed he is with the letter W. i wonder why. 👀

now we move on to the snippets of what the song means & how it’s making us think of wyb’s previous single everything is lovely ( which has a separate cpn too between them )

QQ music said this line connected to the album/song:

“About me, about you, about TA (him/her), or the relationship between people in this big city.”

this is pretty similar to the message of everything is lovely — it’s about appreciating everyone and looking at life and your surroundings as interconnected. they both have that sense in them. what we do and say, it has an effect and we are all related even if it’s a big city we live in. plus the use of TA which does not specify the gender. we love that! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

we get more of an expanded idea too via xzs post of the activity for the release. it mentioned a description. you can substitute the we to us if that reads better to you:

“Some people say that WE are close friends, cats and dogs waiting for us to come home every night are concrete in life.

Some people say that WE make friends with all kinds of emotions... are virtualization hidden inside the heart.

These characters of “ME”, and emotions form different "WE".

We are placed in a prism named "life", where light breaks it down into multi-faceted spaces. We travel through different spaces as lights flow and capture our own colors.

Starting from "Me", feel the intersection related to "Me", and then return to understand "self". What is the "we" behind "Me"?

A trace of emotion, a thing, a friend... The bits and pieces around "Me" all make up "We".

i think if you are someone who have been watching them for a while and the messaging they are sending out then you will see the common theme/connection here. the cats and dogs waiting for us to come home every night. that reminds me of the cpn that they have a cat and dog at home, at some point. and it’s what they want too. the interconnection of you/other people and appreciating everything around you, that’s the vibe i’m getting right now. of course we will know more one we have the song/s and the full lyrics and possibly some backstory from xz.

a coincidence too that the “me and we” is giving the same energy as “ u and i” which is in wyb’s weibo bio. which i know is something UNIQ related but there you go.

what’s more chilling i guess is the “we” was emphasized and used as a caption between them by hui-ge ( cpn about this fansite here which is a primer of sorts but there are other instances aside from what’s there ) which was i have a we / i have us. i mean. come on. too bad they haven’t posted in so long especially because fans were looking too much into them ( cpn about this photo/ post here )

the use of “we” which they have mistakenly said back in 2019 when talking about themselves:

other minor similarities:

* the concept of multiple xz and wyb through something prism/mirror like.

* both xz and ybo using similar captions which is not new but most importantly, starting an activity for fans to participate in. which i’m not sure but possibly other artists do too. but whatever, let’s add that 😂

* and the PINK! because pink is the color of love! what are the chances they will use the same color?

lastly, one of the release dates is 11/19. and as cpfs we have a whole story about that and it’s nice that we get to continue that timeline. cpfs think it’s a confirmation of the importance of this date too ^^

-END.

i surely missed some things on here and that’s fine. if something important comes up i will make a separate post! i’m so excited for this month! xz really blessed us 🥹🥹🥹😅

[fermented-writers-block]

Not gonna lie, with the Spot’s upcoming time mucking shenanigans as suggested by the flashes of the future in Miles’ vision, I would not be surprised if the dimensional collapsing theorized by Miguel to come from averting too many “Canon Events” will turn out to be a side effect of something the Spot will either do himself or set up to screw with Miles.

Particularly, with how much his origin monologue to Miles and Jeff centered around the idea that he made Spider-Man and vice versa, note how incredibly well that mentality would dovetail with Miguel and the Spider Society’s belief that the “Canon Events” are what made them Spider-Man.

@kindaorangey has a good post pointing out how the Spot’s mindset of “filling the hole with more holes” is a pretty apt metaphor for the way Miles, Gwen, and likely the other spider people diving into the identity of Spider-Man as a crutch for dealing with the isolation caused by said identity, but suffice to say, OP and @sir-adamus had these tags which I'd like to use as a jumping pad:

For this, we can analyze Miguel and Spot as two sides of the same coin, where Miguel’s side is about allowing canon events to play out through inaction, and Spot's side could potentially lead up to (as a side effect of his grudge against Miles) actively ensuring that only those canon events happen, with any deviations that don't fit into their views being cast aside.

The former position projects personal traumas as absolutely necessary and destined to happen onto others, the latter position rejects any possibility that things could go differently in a quite literal manner. But in the end, both ultimately are about "filling in the hole with more holes" and dictating what Miles "should" be like.

Miguel doesn’t think Miles is a real Spider-Man and that him becoming Spider-Man was a mistake that never should have happened, all from his obsessive mentality surrounding Canon Events. He and by extension the other Spider-Men stuck in their hole of guilt and fatalism, surrounding themselves with other Spider-Men stuck in their holes of trauma and grief to where they have formed an echo chamber that tells them Miles cannot save his father's life and that they cannot do anything to save people anymore.

And in the Spot's case, the metaphor already came from him, but it's all about obsessively centering his new, lonely existence around being not just A, but THE nemesis to Miles' Spider-Man. He lost everything and has nothing except his connection to Spider-Man. To fill that hole, he's not only only making himself a villain that Miles will actually respect. He's going to try his damnedest to make sure that Miles reaches his full potential as Spider-Man just like he talked about in Mumbattan, and fill the hole with more holes in Miles' life until Miles is devoid of everything except the Spot.

Given the flashes of future events in Miles’ vision, if and when the Spot inevitably hears about Miguel's theory of Canon Events, it would only be fitting if the Spot retroactively becomes responsible for all the previous dimensional destruction the Spider-Society dealt with. And thus, Miguel's theory obsession would be its own recursive creator.

A vicious cycle of telling themselves that things have to happen a certain way, of blaming uncontrollable circumstances on something they think they can and should control, and of refusing to let go of the spiral they've fallen into.

After all, Miles already had an Uncle Ben-type event and the Spot is trying to set up a Captain Stacy-type event. Since the logical conclusion to the themes of Miles choosing what kind of Spider-Man he wants to be and not allowing preventable tragedies to happen would be that Jeff lives, well…

It would only be narratively fitting for the Spot to try to set up a Gwen Stacy event later down the line.

Because if Miles being bit and the Spot getting caught up in the collider wasn't destiny, if the intersection of their lives was simply due to circumstances they had no control over, if the dimensional collapses weren't because preventing Canon Events is inherently destabilizing to reality in of itself, then Miguel and the Spot would have to look inwards and actually try to figure out how to fill the holes in their lives.

So Miguel tells himself that what he does has to be done, that only he is strong enough to do it, and that everyone should follow his lead and stop caring.

As for the Spot?

If he fails to kill Jeff and Gwen, and when it's proven to everyone else that Canon Events are not required lynchpins of reality like Gwen found, he might just decide to try to make them actual lynchpins across time and space.

Or at least, making it so that the only realities that can exist are ones where those events happen.

Aka trying to forcibly changing the multiverse so suffering huge tragedy becomes an inherently integral part of Spider-Man the concept, rather than a mere possibility. So many Spider-Men and their dimensions getting hurt in the crossfire, and all in the process of targeting Miles Morales specifically.

Truly, it would be quite resonant if and when the Spider-Society let and help Miles get to save his Captain and Gwen Stacy. Beating the Spot would no longer be about the concept of stopping a threat to the multiverse and their canon events, but about metaphorically ending the cycle of suffering and finding a way to move forwards beyond the guilt. They probably can’t actually change the past, but with this, they can fight to prevent it from happening to others.

[xviiperr]

The Boyfriends:

Some self indulgence— again. School's getting a lil' trickier so I decided to write something to help out with my anxiety. Lemme know if you guys like it! There are two characters of mine here, just wrote them up. If you guys want to submit fanart or ask in character questions about them, feel free to! (P.S. I would love fanart! It's always so cool to see what people think of your writing and then play around with the description and make something outta it)!

Reader is referred to as you/your pronouns, as well as they/them.

TW: Yandere behavior; stalking, possessiveness, obsessiveness, killing, animal killing/abuse, degradation, threatening, killing family members. Murder is said blatantly but, not described in detail.

Short drabble:

Here in the big city, you had found yourself a comfortable place to live. It had all the necessary amenities; bed, bathroom, kitchen (that also served as your dining room) and since you had an extra room, you decided to let that become your office. You managed to strike a good bargain for your home, being able to pay the bills by yourself and without straining yourself over many jobs. Here in the big city, you were comfortable.

You weren't alone in your place. You had neighbors. You lived in an apartment complex at a busy intersection, so many people came and went. Moved in, moved out. More and more neighbors moved into the apartment complex you chose to live in because of the good costs and many moved out because of the quality of neighbors. Some of them were elderly and other middle aged. And a new pack of young neighbors disrupted and caused a major move. Besides that, all, for the most part, were kind, welcoming, even bringing you baked goods, as well as inviting you over to just learn about who you were.

You told them what you felt mattered and were comfortable with talking about. It would seem you left a good impression, since you were invited out a lot more. Your life was comfortable. Until you had new neighbors. Not just any new neighbors. A youthful couple that had moved in next door had caused quite a ruckus in the stark hours of the night. You didn't want to imply their actions but, it was getting to a point where you struggled to sleep. They were too loud. You felt very aggravated and just...wanted it to stop.

And so, the next morning, you knocked on their door. The day you knocked was the day you didn't have work, giving you time to take care of personal matters such as self expenses and maybe bills and perhaps, something that was fun. The door opened after a five minute wait, two heads poking out and what looked to be paint on their face. You narrowed your eyes to get a closer look.

No, it actually looked like blood. Oh God. Were your new neighbors actually serial killers? Had they moved in and decided to start their own horror film? Come to think of it, Meemaw Stacie, an elderly woman who baked you oatmeal raisin cookies every Saturday, had been missing for the past two weeks. She mentioned that she was going to go on vacation. But, that was only for three days. You felt your stomach knot and heart drop all the way down your chest and it must have shown on your face because that door slammed shut.

You stared at it for a good long while, thinking. Just what happened? Were you that scared? What about that thought of Meemaw Stacie? You didn't want to believe or assume but, now you were noticing a fowl smell coming from just under that door. You were about to turn around, leave and rush to your apartment. To trust your gut. To run and call the police, shout out for help or anything— then the door opened, again. You yelped when your hand was snagged out of nowhere, pulling you back.

I don't want to die! I don't want to go next! Please, just let me go! You weren't sure what you said exactly but it all meant the same thing: freedom. And just when you were about to sound the alarm, a hand softly sealed your lips and you got a better look at the new couple. There were no more red stains, there wasn't an odor anymore and everything seemed fine. Aside from...the shorter one, who appeared to be a thin male, having smeared ash on his face.

"It's not what you think!"

Sure looked like it. Now, who said that? It wasn't the shorter man. No, it was the taller man, who was by appearance's definition; a jock. The little man was ducked low, keeping your mouth shut with his hand and the taller man was holding your hand, keeping you in place. This was an uncomfortable situation, you could not stop breathing so quickly.

"Please, we were just preparing some beef tender."

You barely relaxed, easing up just a little bit when your mouth was free. The little man had shrunk his hand away but, his wide, crystal blue eyes didn't break their gaze. The taller man did not let go, he kept his grip. Why would you have blood all over your face if you're just cooking meat? Why did it smell so bad? You frowned, managing to tear yourself free from the strong man's grip and jump away for just some space. Something wasn't adding up; that couple's story just didn't make sense. It looked like they washed their faces and changed in a hurry.

"You don't believe us, do you?"

The little man walked out, his boyfriend trying to step in but, quickly, he was ushered aside. You looked down at the little kan. His pants were white. You were expecting them to be covered in blood. All you saw was a small man with icy blue eyes, white pants and a comfortable sweater. That sweater was a periwinkle pink, words embroidered, "Cute AF." Interesting choice of style, you thought. But that did not make you feel anymore comfortable around these peculiar neighbors. Their actions were obtuse.

"Damien, couldn't you have waited," the tall man who had a vice-like grip on your hand, asked, chiding his lover. Damien was the man in the periwinkle pink sweater. "You're being rude. For God's sake, you slammed your hand over their mouth!"

"I don't see anything we can't fix here. They (you) just have a problem with us, right? Were we being too loud?" Damien brushed off all the allegations, treating them as if it were only child's play. His voice was sickly sweet, too sweet. Damien's face looked...fake. Not genuine. You couldn't quite place it.

Slowly, though, you nodded. Yes, they were being too loud. You nodded, again. Yes, you wanted them to be quieter. They stared at you, oddly. Like they were communicating something through a secret language of movement. Damien, the only name you knew him by as of right now, tilted his head left and right, studying you like a painting. His boyfriend rested his chin in his hand, temple creasing as he thought over these silent and nonverbal meanings. The air suddenly felt colder. You didn't want to be here anymore.

You backed away, slowly. Your eyes didn't leave them, unsure of what could happen. You knew they were covering up something nasty. The taller moved forward, his frazzled and contemplating attitude replaced with a joyful and open behavior. His arms opened wide and he grinned a bright beautiful smile that anyone would fall for. That anyone would feel oh so comforted by. But not you. You didn't like the way it curled into a Devil's smirk just at the edges. He radiated bad energy.

"Why don't you come back for dinner in two hours? We'd love to have you over, " he said as he took your hands and held them to his chest. Damien squeezed in, planting his hands on your wrists and gripping tightly. You got to study them even more. Damien, he had those same icy blue eyes but freckles over tanned skin that stretched tightly across his face. He looked emaciated. And his boyfriend. He had blonde hair, sunglasses and overall, a muscular build. He looked like if a golden retriever became a man. "I'm Chris by the way, this is Damien, my boyfriend."

As charming as they were trying to come off, they could not erase the events that just happened. You quickly broke off the contact, just wanting to be out of that horrible situation. You didn't catch their looks as you ran down the hall and into your apartment dorm, locking it and deciding to take the fire escape down. Chris and Damien gave each other a shared look. Both smiled in a strange way. You were going to face trouble.

Blurb/headcanons:

Chris and Damien are a couple that recently moved into your same apartment complex. They bounced from their small town to a big city to take on more victims to satisfy their dry feelings of emptiness. Killing seemed to be the only way that brightened up those dull feelings but, with the amount of murders they were committing in that small town, it didn't feel exhilarating anymore— it started to feel like a routine. Plus, they were catching heat. Something had to be done and moving seemed to be the correct way to go about it.

Chris and Damien are madly in love with each other— they make sure to let everyone know that hat, especially when they're on the hunt. Very much yandere x yandere. The boyfriends work well together, killing as many people as they can, with no discernable pattern. The new city gave them new prey to play around with— starting in the lower levels, to mid suburbs and to tackling classic highschool clicks to get a rile out of the police force. But, even that got boring.

That is, until they meet you. That hallway encounter gave them a whole new purpose. Chris and Damien were going to provide for a new friend. A best friend, actually. In their own twisted way. You are the one person that they'll invite over almost daily so they can chat your ears off. You fit the description of the third wheel they wanted, someone that they could help by chasing away any romantic involvement. Chris and Damien decided that right there and then in that hallway, you were going to be a part of their little family. No one was going to get close to their best friend. Not ever.

Chris and Damien protect you and your interests, (well, for what they deem is good in your life). They are stupidly sneaky and manipulative in the way that they stay in your life. Chris is definitely the muscle in the couple, (aka— jelly jar opener) and Damien, the thinker. If you are going to rat them out, complain to your tenant or call the cops, the Lovers are going to track your existing family down and threaten them. Don't play around. Let's say you have a pet; Chris doesn't care how much it hurts you, he will kill it if you complain about himself and his boyfriend.

Damien even celebrates Chris's animal abuse, paying for the remains of that critter to be taxidermied and set on display in THEIR apartment. If YOU want to go see YOUR pet, you will have to knock on The Lovers' door. And if you go over and knock on that door, asking about your pet, they'll let you in and taunt you. "Oh your sweet cat's dead! Don't worry, we put some of the blood in this bottle. They don't call ketchup cat's blood for nothing!" Depending on your reaction, they will laugh at you if you express genuine hurt/sadness. It's just an animal. You've got your friends to comfort you now.

On another note, Chris and Damien are so cynical about their way of keeping you. They lay in bed, plotting out their next kills, (mind you, they have work the next morning as well!) and how to make the perfect targets that'll keep you shut up and compliant. Pets are easy to kill, people as well. Why don't they target an entire friend group that you had in highschool? Damien is howling in laughter and Chris is sneering at the sheer absurdity they'd go through to make a clear point. Those losers weren't actually your friends. You have Chris and Damien, the only friends that you will EVER need.

Chris and Damien aren't kind to you. They are very cruel. Meemaw Stacie had an unfortunate end, not because of you, (well, actually yes because the boyfriends just liked how you looked) but, because she would be their official first kill in this complex. And many more to come. The tenant died after you spoke with him, Chris and Damien made sure to make it a point that they were the ones who did it. But when the heat came on them by the media, their practiced theatrics threw the blame outside the complex and got Chris and Damien off Scott-free.

Less and less people come to live in your complex, the world putting shade on the place and claiming it to be haunted. Now, it was an attraction to gain money. You would wait for the next crew or group of people to come in, ask for help and pray that they would listen. And that Chris and Damien weren't around to keep you from fleeing.

Thank you guys so much for reading! I really hope you guys liked it. I don't see much for platonic yanderes so I figured, “Hey! Why don't I add some more content?” As always, have a good day, drink water, eat food and rest. And the most important thing: write/read fanfiction <3!

(p.s. I didn't know what the <3 meant at first! I thought it was a little alien with its eye closed and doing a cat smile 😭 I thought: :3 = <3 I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS A HEART)!?

[prettygirl-gabi]

The Heartbeat of the Island

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Rating: Teen And Up

Warning: reader being called out of name: "cunt" (ONCE), reader calls rafe a cunt, Angst, !soft rafe (whattt), slight fluff, happy ending, lmk if I missed any

Category:F/M

Fandom: Outerbanks (obx), Netflix TV series

Relationships: S1 beginning of S2 rafe x !Pogue f plus-size reader

Summary: Rafe and a plus-size Pogue reader clash as enemies from opposite sides of the island, but simmering tensions ignite unexpected passion, leading them from rivalry to a slow-burn romance.

Thinking about making a pt2... lmk

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"Rafe Cameron". Even his name felt like a punch to the gut. Every time I heard it, every time I saw him, my insides twisted. He was everything I wasn’t. Tall, lean, golden-haired, and rich—the epitome of a Kook. And me? I was a Pogue. Curvy, hip dips, no thigh gaps,dark-haired, a little rough around the edges. I worked at a local surf shop, spent my evenings with my friends by the beach bonfires, and wore my outsider status with pride. But there was no denying the fact that the Kooks ruled this island. And Rafe Cameron? He was their king.

I first ran into him—literally—during the off-season. Tourists had gone home, leaving the island to the locals. It was a brisk morning, and I was jogging down to the pier. My mind was lost in the rhythm of my steps, the ocean breeze tugging at my hair, when out of nowhere, someone barreled into me.

“Oof!” I stumbled back, landing on the rough wooden boards of the pier. Pain shot through my elbow where it had struck the ground.

“Watch where you’re going,” a deep, irritated voice barked.

I looked up, and there he was. Rafe Cameron in all his infuriating glory, standing over me with a scowl on his perfect face.

“You ran into me,” I shot back, scrambling to my feet. I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me, even if he was towering over me like some kind of Greek god.

He sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy daydreaming, you wouldn’t have been in the way.”

I opened my mouth to retort, but before I could, he was already walking away, his long strides carrying him down the pier as if nothing had happened.

“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

***

A few weeks passed, and I did my best to avoid Rafe Cameron. It wasn’t hard. Our worlds rarely intersected, and that was fine by me. But the island wasn’t that big, and fate—or whatever twisted force controlled this place—had other plans.

It was late afternoon when I found myself back on the pier, sitting on the edge with my legs dangling over the water. The surf shop had closed early, and I’d needed some time to think. The sky was a watercolor of pinks and oranges, the sun slowly sinking into the horizon. The peace of the moment was shattered by the sound of footsteps behind me.

“You’re in my spot,” a familiar voice drawled.

I turned, my heart sinking when I saw Rafe standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at me with that same annoyed expression.

“Last time I checked, this pier didn’t have assigned seating,” I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady.

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he walked closer, stopping just a few feet away from me. His eyes were locked on the ocean, not me, and for a moment, I wondered if he was going to ignore me and sit down anyway. But then he surprised me.

“You always hang out here?” he asked, his tone oddly neutral.

I blinked. Was this Rafe Cameron actually making small talk? I shrugged, not sure where this was going. “Sometimes. It’s quiet, and the view’s nice.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “I come here to think,” he said, almost to himself.

I studied him for a moment. His usual arrogant air was missing, replaced by something almost...human. It threw me off, and before I knew it, I was asking, “What do you have to think about, Rafe?”

He let out a harsh laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’d be surprised.”

Silence fell between us, the only sound the gentle lapping of the waves against the pier. It was strange, being here with him, not fighting. I didn’t know what to make of it, but I found myself speaking before I could stop myself.

“You know, you don’t always have to be an asshole.”

His gaze snapped to mine, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite place crossing his features. But then it was gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk. “And you don’t always have to be so sensitive.”

I rolled my eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. “I’m not sensitive, Rafe. I just call it like I see it.”

“Is that right?” He stepped closer, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “And what do you see?”

I swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close he was. His blue eyes were locked on mine, and for a moment, I couldn’t find my voice. This was not how I’d expected this encounter to go.

“I see a guy who thinks he owns the world because he’s a Cameron,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “But I also see someone who’s more than just a Kook.”

His smirk faltered, just for a second, and I wondered if I’d said too much. But then he surprised me again.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said quietly.

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But I’m willing to bet there’s more to you than you let on.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at me, his eyes searching mine as if trying to figure something out. Before i could open my mouth again he says "Go fuck yourself, cunt." And then, without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving me more confused, pissed than ever.

***

Our interactions didn’t stop there. Over the next few weeks, we kept running into each other—at the pier, in town, at the beach. And every time, there was a little less animosity, a little more...something else. We argued, sure, but it was different now. There was a tension between us, one that neither of us seemed willing to acknowledge but couldn’t quite ignore.

It all came to a head one night at a party on the beach. The bonfire was roaring, music blaring, people dancing and laughing. I was sitting on a log, nursing a drink, when I felt someone sit down next to me. I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“You’re not exactly the life of the party,” Rafe commented, nudging my shoulder with his.

“Neither are you, cunt” I shot back, but there was a smile tugging at my lips.

He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Why do you hate me?”

The question caught me off guard, and I turned to face him, searching his eyes. There was no trace of his usual arrogance, just genuine curiosity.

“I don’t hate you,” I said slowly. “You just...you make it really hard to like you sometimes. You know like when you called me a cunt for example.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down my spine. “I guess I deserve that. I do genuinely apologize for calling tou a cunt, you were right and it hurt to have a pouge tell me something ona deeper level.”

I bit my lip, debating whether or not to say what was on my mind. But in the end, I figured I had nothing to lose.

“You know, Rafe...you don’t have to be the person everyone expects you to be. You can be...more.”

He looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a vulnerability in his eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. “And who do you think I can be?”

I hesitated, then reached out, taking his hand in mine. His fingers were warm, strong, and for a moment, I just held on, feeling the connection between us. “Someone who’s not afraid to be himself. Someone who doesn’t have to put on a front.”

He stared at our hands, then back at me, something softening in his gaze. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” I admitted. “But it’s worth it.”

For a moment, we just sat there, the firelight flickering around us, the sound of the ocean in the background. And then, slowly, he leaned in, his eyes never leaving mine. My heart was pounding in my chest, but I didn’t pull away. When his lips finally brushed against mine, it was soft, tentative, as if he was testing the waters.

And then, just like that, the kiss deepened. His hand came up to cup my cheek, and I melted into him, all the tension, all the animosity between us dissolving in that moment. When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing hard, our foreheads resting against each other.

“Maybe I’ve been wrong about you,” Rafe murmured, his thumb brushing against my cheek.

“Maybe we’ve both been wrong,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled then, a real, genuine smile, and I felt something warm bloom in my chest. Maybe this was the beginning of something new. Something real.

And for the first time in a long time, I found myself looking forward to what came next.

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‐Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-Gabi✨️🎀