#routine visage simple

[best-anti-aging-skincare]

🌿 Moins c’est mieux – surtout pour votre peau en 2025 ✨ Découvrez notre Routine Beauté Minimaliste : une approche simple, anti-âge, et respectueuse de votre peau et de la planète 💚 🎁 BONUS : Recevez un Booster GRATUIT (valeur 25 $) en vous inscrivant ici : 👉 https://www.belleviecosmetic.com/pages/welcome Minimalisme, éclat et efficacité – tout ce dont votre peau a besoin. #routinebeauté #minimalisme #cleanbeauty2025 #antiridesnaturel #belleviecosmetic

[hummingjay]

Remember Nova and Cicada? Well, here's the team!

Featuring Nova, Cicada, and newer addition Leiden!

Hey look, a cut! There'd BETTER NOT be a wall of text under that thing.

Nova- LSTR

Before working as a Handler, Nova served as demolitions specialist in the Eusan Infantry, doubling as reconnaissance specialist; making for a devastating combination of effectively analyzing enemy encampments before blowing it right to hell. Her skills were viewed as apt and her commanding officers had her transferred to a strike team. She uses a variety of shrapnel, high-explosive, and incendiary grenades during combat, strategically obliterating assets. 

As a SKUA strike team handler, Nova is privileged with the best equipment of the army. Despite this, she only uses this advantage to choose grenades amongst other explosives- using an old bolt-action rifle loaded with simple but effective armor-piercing rounds. She carries a hatchet on her person for survivalist purposes as well as combat. Her armor is unorthodox as well- crafted from recycled steel plates with the help of befriended ARAR units.

Nova has a mischievous, teasing, and nonchalant personality, mixed with a penchant for taking the single most unorthodox method of completing a task. Her methods are officially cataloged as “Odd, concerning, entirely terrifying”. Such methods include driving a captured truck loaded with explosives directly into an enemy convoy, using landmines strapped to the grille to detonate upon impact while using duct tape to hold the accelerator down, as well as dousing a downed tree in gasoline before having cicada throw it an the enemy.

Nova seldom wears her gasmask, only donning it when in the vicinity of hazards or in irradiated areas. She also smokes quite a lot.

Cicada- SKUR

Cicada is the powerhouse of the team. Before now, she worked with two other handlers at differing times, both deceased. Cicada carries a powerful machine gun meant for overwhelming suppressing fire; However, she’s a crack shot and instead uses it to accurately and utterly annihilate the enemy with high-caliber rounds. To complement her HMG, she uses an automatic shotgun for closer ranges. 

She has memorized every weak spot of tanks, IFVs, and other combat vehicles and uses this knowledge to disable them with only a few rounds. Not that it matters at close range, as she can tear open almost any vehicle. She’s also able to stop vehicles in their tracks at high speeds and throw smaller ones, as discovered by imperial soldiers who attempted to crash her. Cicada, despite her terrifying visage and combat skills, is a gentle and caring unit, most fascinated by local fauna and likes watching large herds travel. If she can get close, she’ll try to pet the deer and horses. She’s especially upset that she cannot ride them- but is content with them resting on her instead. Oddly, if she names the fauna, she will give them designations instead of names, such as "D4" for the fourth deer found, stating "It is better they choose their names. "She also has a special interest in flowers, liking to adorn herself with them.

Nova has an affectionate nickname for her: Cica. Leiden calls her Cicada at all times.

Cicada is fond of Ara units especially, as they generally have assortments of flowers and can guide her to where they grow. Whenever they are actually at a camp, Cicada will sometimes gently try to approach them, although the Aras are usually terrified of her- so she will simply hang to the side and leave them on their own most times. She will also sit just outside where the Eules work, so she can listen to them sing. Reportedly, she attempted to sing with them once, and never again, likely due to their reaction.

Leiden- KLBR

Since Nova and Cicada operate well away from Eusan forces for long periods of time; often missing the routine check-ins for Cicadas mental state, ÆON has stationed a kolibri unit with the two for constant monitoring, by the name of Leiden; Thus allowing the team to stay away even longer.

While small, do not underestimate Leiden. Before her restationing as a handler, she served as a brutal interrogator, torturer, and executioner, and is horrifically known for brutal methods and high-efficiency, mixed with a ruthless streak that borders on sadism. Originally stationed at a facility with a distinct lack of Storches, she fulfilled their brutal roles in their stead, discovering a talent for the crafts. What info Nova cannot recover via surveillance, espionage, or stolen documents, Leiden recovers from remaining imperial soldiers. There is only one way to survive Leiden’s interrogations, and that’s to give her what she wants; the truth. She can smell a lie a planet away. Lies only make the torturous onslaught worse- and refusal to divulge only makes it longer.

Unlike Nova, Leiden uses her privileges as a handler to use a high-power Submachine gun loaded with powerful hollow-point long-range fragmenting rounds. She's adept at long ranges and aims for the neck. When needed, she disables targets by aiming for and severing tendons and muscle at the legs and arms, thus leaving them unable to run away or fight but alive for interrogation at a later time. Unlike Nova, Leiden almost constantly wears her gasmask, only adding to her terrifying visage. Leiden is older than she looks, and even before the infantry, served for years as a blockwart officer- though she does not talk of her time there. It is speculated that she had a lover during that time who was lost- most likely a kolibri who was decommissioned or disappeared- she never said- and elected transfer to the infantry of her own volition to escape the memories.

Leiden has numerous scars on the left side of her jaw- allegedly scratch marks from an animal- though this is still more info she does not divulge, and the marks look strangely similar to that from a replika’s hand.

The only soft spots one can find are those for Cicada and Nova. She respects both Cicada and Nova’s prowess in combat. She finds Nova’s good-natured and humorous tendencies to be amusing, and finds Cicada oddly cute for a a 7.5 foot tall behemoth of death, especially when she earnestly asks if she can be excused to pet the deer. Nova likes to call her Lei, and she’s the only one who can do this other than Cicada, who usually just calls her Leiden or Protektor Leiden.

[zapreportsblog]

You know the “opposites attract” relationships?

How about do one with Brahms?

Brahms - clingy, protective, stiff

Reader - calm, trusting, soft

Brahms X calm! Reader

Thank youuuuu :)

❝clingy❞

✭ pairing : brahms heelshire x reader

✭ fandom : slashers

✭ summary : brahms is one hell of a touch starved man and when (y/n) came into his life he expected her to be just like all the others, but she isn’t. In fact she embraces him with welcome arms so does that mean all those people who left him are because it’s his fault?

✭ slashers masterlist

The wind whispered through the ancient trees that surrounded Heelshire Manor, casting eerie shadows on its aged façade. (Y/N) had applied for a simple job months ago, never imagining how peculiar her new role would become. The advertisement had called for a caretaker, someone to oversee the estate's unique collection of antiques and curiosities. Little did she know, her main charge would be a doll of all things.

The first time she laid eyes on the doll, she was taken aback. It was an exquisitely crafted replica of a man, dressed in aristocratic attire from a bygone era. The porcelain face bore an uncanny resemblance to the owner of the manor, Brahms Heelshire, whose family had owned the estate for generations. The locals whispered tales of the Hellshire curse, and their peculiar fascination only fueled the sense of mystery that hung over the manor.

As (Y/N) settled into her role, her days were filled with dusting ancient furniture, polishing silverware, and, most importantly, attending to the doll. The instructions were simple: ensure the doll's clothing remained impeccable, the porcelain visage remained pristine, and its position on the mantel stayed undisturbed. The task was mundane, yet it carried an air of reverence, as if the doll held some deeper significance that transcended its appearance.

Days turned into weeks, and (Y/N) gradually grew accustomed to her routine. The mansion's interior was an amalgamation of faded opulence and eerie silence. The walls seemed to whisper secrets, and the portraits of long-departed Heelshire ancestors stared down with solemn gazes. Every creak and rustle echoed through the hallways, keeping her senses on high alert.

One evening, as she carefully adjusted the doll's coat collar, she felt an inexplicable shiver run down her spine. A feeling of being watched settled over her, but she brushed it off as her imagination running wild. That night, though, as she lay in bed, she could have sworn she heard faint whispers carried on the breeze.

The following days brought a series of odd occurrences: a book left open to a specific page she hadn't touched, a teacup shifted slightly on its saucer. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was playing tricks on her, but each time she looked around, the empty rooms offered no answers.

It was on the night of a thunderstorm that everything changed. Lightning illuminated the mansion's darkened interior, casting eerie shadows that danced along the walls. (Y/N) found herself drawn to the doll, her fingers tracing its delicate features in the dim light.

And then, as the thunder roared and rain beat against the windows, she heard a whisper so faint it might have been her own imagination. "(Y/N)…" The voice seemed to emanate from within the doll itself.

Startled, she stumbled back, her heart racing. But then, as if responding to an unseen presence, the doll's eyes blinked. A shock of realization coursed through her: the doll was no mere doll; it was a conduit to something more.

"(Y/N)…" The voice was clearer this time, resonating through the room. She watched in awe as the doll's porcelain skin began to soften, its limbs shifting, as if a dormant life was awakening.

And then, from the doll's heart, a figure emerged. A man, dressed in period clothing, stood before her, his eyes fixed upon her with a mix of curiosity and caution. It was Brahms Heelshire himself, or a spectral semblance of him.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as they stared at each other in silence. (Y/N) was taken aback by the unexpected turn of events, her heart pounding in her chest. But amidst the shock and fear, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

The man, or whatever he was, spoke softly, his voice tinged with both melancholy and yearning. "You did not flee, as others before you have. Why?"

With a steady breath, (Y/N) met his gaze. "I believe that even the most peculiar of situations deserve a chance to be understood. And, in all honesty, I've grown fond of the company, even if it's a doll or a spectral form."

A ghostly smile touched his lips, and for the first time, she saw a glimmer of warmth in his eyes. "You’re courageous , (Y/N)."

And so, an unusual connection was forged within the walls of Heelshire Manor — a connection that transcended the boundaries between the living and the spectral. As (Y/N) continued her role as caretaker, the enigmatic Brahms Heelshire ventured forth from his hidden existence within the doll, revealing himself to her in a way no one else had dared to witness.

Over the course of the next few months and then two years, an unexpected bond blossomed between (Y/N) and Brahms. As the seasons changed, so did their relationship, evolving into something far beyond what (Y/N) could have ever anticipated. She had become accustomed to Brahms' spectral presence, his masked face a constant companion. Despite his initial mysterious aura, she found comfort in his company and the intriguing conversations they shared.

Brahms, for his part, reveled in the connection he had forged with (Y/N). No longer confined to the doll's form, he wandered the mansion's halls and rooms, always keeping a respectful distance from her. Yet, he was undeniably clingy, often hovering nearby, his presence an unspoken reassurance. His touch starvation, accumulated over years of isolation, drove him to seek her proximity. Whether it was watching her read in the library or tending to the mansion's gardens, he was there, his masked face silently observing.

Their bond deepened, and with time, their relationship took an unexpected turn. The unspoken attraction that had simmered between them evolved into a romantic connection. Their feelings grew steadily, and one evening, as the sun set over the mansion's sprawling gardens, Brahms removed his mask, revealing his disfigured face to (Y/N). She met his gaze without flinching, accepting him just as he was.

They became a couple, their connection forged in the quiet moments they shared, the lingering glances, and the touch of their hands. (Y/N) found herself drawn to his vulnerability and complexity, and he was captivated by her acceptance and compassion.

However, even as their relationship thrived, an undercurrent of unease began to surface. Brahms, though no longer confined to the doll, remained deeply afraid of losing (Y/N). His history of people fleeing from his presence had left scars that ran deep. His clinginess intensified, a silent plea for her to stay by his side.

As the months turned into years, Brahms' fear only grew. He watched as (Y/N) went about her daily routines, her calm demeanor seemingly unfazed by his constant presence. Yet, he couldn't shake the thought that his clinginess might drive her away. The fear of rejection gnawed at him, an invisible specter that haunted his every interaction with her.

One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, the crackling flames casting shadows on the walls, Brahms hesitated before speaking. "I fear that my need for your presence might become unbearable," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

(Y/N) turned to him, her eyes soft and understanding. "Brahms, you're not driving me away. I'm here because I choose to be. Your presence doesn't suffocate me; it's become a comfort."

He looked at her with a mix of hope and trepidation, struggling to believe her words. "But I'm constantly clinging to you, fearing that you might vanish like the others."

Gently, she reached out and took his hand. "Brahms, you're not alone anymore. I'm not going anywhere. We'll face your fears together."

A fragile smile graced his lips as he intertwined his fingers with hers, the weight of his vulnerability lessening, if only by a fraction. With her steady presence by his side, he dared to hope that he could overcome his past and embrace the happiness that had entered his life.

Their journey was far from easy, but with time, patience, and unwavering support, (Y/N) and Brahms forged a love that transcended the boundaries of the living and the spectral. And through it all, they learned that sometimes, the most profound connections are born from the places where fear and acceptance collide.

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Can I request 22. nap for Dammon with gn Tav please?

I've got 2 versions if that's okay?

- Roommate with Dammon

When you moved to Baldur's gate you arrived with nothing but the clothes on your back and hope that you could make something of yourself, a dream that was not realised as soon as you had imagined. Instead you took a simple job in a tavern and lived in a shared house.

Your roommates were fine at first but you felt too claustrophobic after a while, looking for somewhere else to stay by yourself or at least with less people. It took weeks but eventually you found something, another person was looking for peace and quiet but could not afford a place on their own, you accepted as soon as you heard about it, looking forward to living with someone whom valued their own privacy as much as you did your own.

Moving in day was easy, your new roommate seemed to work long hours and that gave to you time to shift what little things you had with you into your new dwelling. A small terraced home but it felt large after your previous placement, you would again have to share a kitchen and bathroom but sharing with one person rather than multiple was a significant improvement.

It was days until you finally came face to face with your new house mate, you worked nights and he worked days so it wasn't a surprise it took this long for you to meet. Both of you were surprised at the visage of each other, you weren't expecting to see a Tieflings and he wasn't expecting to see a Drow. Your races did not matter other than the slight momentary shock that you both had, you were just both happy to have a face to equip to the name of your roommate.

Polite smiles and greetings were given between the two of you when you met in the house, at first it was awkward, neither of you knew how to interact with each other, making odd small talk about the city and the weather to break the ice as much as you could. Then came the night that you both went to the local tavern together.

The night you spent together at the tavern let you both open up, each explaining why you were here in Baldur's Gate and what you dreamed of achieving. You both walked home arm in arm that night, merry from a night of drinking and your friendship blossomed ever since.

When Dammon rose early for work he would cook breakfast, making sure to leave extra for you before you attended your shifts at the tavern. In return you would come home with an array of uneaten pies and pastries from the kitchen of your tavern, leaving them out on the kitchen table so Dammon could take what he wanted to work with him.

This routine served you both well, you even began to frequent the local tavern on a weekend when you did not work, just to enjoy each others company. The both of you wanted more than just friendship though, yet neither would take the first step, just soft glances and the ghost of a touch against each others skin was all you both could manage.

Tonight had been a rowdy one at the tavern, each year in Baldur's Gate there was a celebration of light. It happened on the night of the longest day, it was to appreciate the daylight and mourn the upcoming shorter days.

Exhausted is what you were when you returned home, you slumped on the sofa and did not even bother to remove your uniform, that is how tired you were. You leaned your head back against the sofa closing your eyes and taking a deep breath to relieve the stress.

Dammon walked into the room and stopped in his tracks, normally on a Friday night you would come home, change and you would both head to the tavern, tonight you did not seem up to any such activities. In this case Dammon sat beside you in silence, offering his shoulder for you to cry on or whatever other emotions you needed to let out, he could see you did not feel well.

You could feel Dammon's body slump onto the sofa next to you, his presence and scent made you feel comfortable, he felt like home. You leant your head onto his shoulder in an effort to ask for comfort, a request you weren't sure was fulfilled as you fell straight to sleep, feeling safe in his company sent you straight into a slumber.

This slumber was deep and much needed, dreamless though it was you were thankful for it. You awoke in the middle of the night, finding yourself now entwined within Dammon's limbs, you made no noise and laid back to sleep, you would address the awkwardness with him in the morning but for now, you wanted to enjoy his warm and closeness, a thing you wanted to previously deny but now you knew was what you needed.

- tavern friend Dammon

Baldur's Gate was nothing like you had been led to believe, you were often told tales that all were welcome within her embrace, that all walks of life would be able to start fresh and build something of themselves here. A lie that you so naively believed before you moved here, wide eyed with wonder at the buildings that seemed so tall they would scrape the sky.

Now you were jaded and regretting your choice, there was nothing here for you to build upon, this city was nothing like you had been promised all those years ago. Yet now you could not leave, burdened by the weight of your payments on the small house you purchased, your wages as a store clerk were barely enough to cover what it cost you per month, meaning you had no way of saving any gold to escape the city.

Whilst you had become disillusioned to the idea of opportunity, the city was not without its small perks for you, having made some connections and a routine of visiting the local Tavern every Friday afternoon as soon as work released you. It was a small comfort you looked forward to and eagerly anticipated every week, to talk and be merry and forget your troubles if only for a few hours and after a few drinks.

The first few times you went to the tavern you were unsure of yourself, the locals stared at you, the outsider, one they were sceptical about. Over time you won them over, creating friendships and with the most unlikely of people, even the most curmudgeonly old locals warmed to you in the end, yet the friendship you held in the highest regard was that of the local smith.

At first you gravitated towards him due to a similarity in age, wanting someone whom could understand your current position in life. It took weeks but slowly feeling for this man crept up on you, in time you felt yourself more excited to see him than to just drink in the tavern, it was something that you were reluctant to address, feelings that you did not understand yourself.

Tonight was no different, as soon as work had released you from your duties, you made your way to the familiar building you frequented every Friday, ready to drink away the stress of the day you had just had. And what a day you had just experienced, as a store clerk you were well acquainted with an array of angry and upset folk, yet something must have been something in the water today as you experienced the worst sort of vitriol of your career.

The speed in which you were enjoying your drinks was faster than usual, so fast that you never noticed the creeping feeling of spacy lightheadedness fall upon you. Hell you were so entrenched in replaying your day, analysing every interaction you had had that you never noticed when the smith walked in to meet you.

Dammon entered into the tavern after a long day himself, not in the same sense that you had experienced however, his was full of toil and even though he washed before he came here, there was still the remnants of forge dust lingering upon his skin. Dammon had been looking forward to seeing you all week, to talk and laugh with you, something he had not experienced much on his journey to Baldur's Gate, the way you made him feel was safe, like he was back at home before the war broke out.

His ashen eyes fell upon you as he crossed the threshold into the tavern, a sight that made him smile before he realised what was happening. You had become drunk and swaying slightly in your seat, though a small smile was upon your slips he knew it was a side effect of the beer you had been downing in anticipation of his arrival.

As you stared deep into your drink you never noticed Dammon's figure appears beside you, only noticing him when you felt his shoulder gently judge your own. Upon noticing whom had interrupted your thoughts you smiled widely, the only thing holding you back from throwing your arms around him was the small lingering feeling that he would not appreciate it.

You attempted to speak but your words were slurred as you tried to get them out, you don't know what it is you wanted to tell him but the words kept spilling forth. Dammon sat patiently and listened to every word you said and nodded politely, not understanding a word but he was just happy to be with you, plus he knew you were safe with him in this state.

After a while your eyes started to close, like weights were held on your eyelids, it was hard to resist the weight. Eventually you leant towards Dammon and you were lost to the world, asleep and comfy against his shoulder.

Dammon chuckled to himself and held you close, he had always been fond of you and hoped for this moment, yet wanted it in a sober way. He gently tried to rouse you with no joy, deciding then that it was just better for him to take you home.

Dammon picked you up and you slept in his arms, unconsciously snuggling further into his hold, a fact that made him blush and go warm. Upon entering your house he placed you on your sofa, feeling it far too intrusive and intimate to place you in bed, not wanting to violate the sanctity of your private bedroom.

Laid on the sofa asleep Dammon watched you nap for a short while, your beauty still incandescent as you slept. He knew that you would be embarrassed about this come the morn but he would pretend it never happened for your sake. Your arrival in this city was the one light he looked forward to each time he saw you, he did not want to jeopardise it in any way.

[theswarmsarchives]

and love can last a pretty good long while.

(more stuff of me n my husbands sonas. its hurt/comfort, VERY heavy on the comfort.)

Tired. He was so very, very tired.

But he had things to do, he kept reminding himself, fingers wrapped tight around the fresh bouquet he had purchased mere moments ago.

He didn’t have to do this. Not really. It was just routine for him and following that routine was incredibly important to him.

This was incredibly important to him.

And his feet knew their destination, falling in tune with the well-worn path of over a thousand visits of over ten years.

It was second nature by now, the short trek to the graveyard where his loved ones lay at rest. He found himself gravitating towards it more nowadays, stressed from work and college.

He’d spend hours talking to their graves, telling them anything and everything.

A recent project of his with Jon, something he was writing with Martin, a stupid joke he managed to tell with Tim, a recent outfit he had worn with Sasha, and—

And then hushed apologies with Randal. Repeating sorry over and over and over until he broke down into sobs. Telling him how much he loved and missed him. Routine by now.

He’d been getting better about that as of late, lightening the mood during his visits with Randal’s tomb. He finally held actual conversations, filling his deceased partner in on everything he had going on at the moment.

He had proposed to that headstone.

Not all that long ago, maybe a month at most, but he’d gone all out. He’d worn a tux and everything. He’d gotten down on one knee and popped the big question right then and there to that still grave.

He’d left the ring. A pretty thing, all silver and pure. Something simple, not so flashy. He knows Randal would’ve appreciated it. A contrast to his very eye-catching nature.

Tiny stars carved into the outside, twinkling brilliantly as if plucked from the sky itself. His own matched, near perfectly, the only difference being the names on the inside.

He carefully slid the band off his finger, admiring the glint of his own name looking back at him from the interior.

Sure, it was a little stupid, but he had gotten two identical rings. He did need a way to discern them somehow.

If it worked, it worked. Not that he had seen much of Randal’s band outside of his visits. Which mostly entailed him sneaking it under his bouquets to keep it out of the elements.

He paused, noting that the cemetery gate was most definitely open.

That wouldn’t be odd in most circumstances, fellow mourners, but this one in specific was where he had requested the graves for his loved ones go. The ones people didn’t particularly care for.

Most tended to avoid it entirely, worried that maybe, just maybe, the Archivist will spring up and bring the world to hell again. And he didn’t need a connection to the Eye to know that.

The gate creaked as he pushed it, allowing himself more space to fit through than whomever had walked in previously.

He just hoped they didn’t mind him talking to himself. Or to his partner, technically.

Autopilot it is, handing the controls over to his brain for a second, leaning back and getting tangled in his thoughts.

Until he hears sobbing, guttural and loud.

Until the grave he’s here for comes into view and he sees someone.

Someone. No, not just someone. That’s—

It’s him. Randal. There, sat in the dirt of his own tomb, crying into his open palms and cradling a ring Will is all too familiar with, is Randal.

It’s not possible. Is this a trick? He was far away from any of the zones where the Fears still lingered. Were they leaking somehow?

Had the Stranger come back to mock him? Replacing someone else he knew with this visage of his lost love just to torment him?

But that didn’t make sense. The Stranger could only do that if they had a target. And with no body to steal, no identity to twist, that was out of the question.

The Spiral, maybe?

Finally trying to convince him he’s gone mad or that he’s seeing things but no. That doesn’t work either. This is—

This is comprehensible. He knows what he’s looking at and it’s not lying to him.

Randal’s tears collect in his hands, seeping into the soil when they overflow, his chest shudders as he tries to slow his breathing, and his hair moves faintly in the breeze. All of it’s too real.

“Randal?” He’s quiet, voice bordering on breathy and teetering more towards cracking. It’s deeper, too, result of testosterone.

The other turns to look at him, and, oh— Oh, if that doesn’t hurt then what else will?

He looks the exact same.

Young and tired. As if he hasn’t aged in over a decade. And he probably hasn’t if Will’s being honest with himself.

He’s about to feel self conscious about his own appearance, all weight and acne and sweat, so much fucking sweat, before Randal reaches for him, opening his mouth.

“Will? Is that you?” And he drops to his knees because it’s him. That’s his Randal. His voice, his hands, him.

“Yeah,” He manages to stutter out, reaching to hold the other’s face with a reverance like no other. “It’s me. Are you—”

He has to gulp and try again, brushing Randal’s hair out of his face, thumbs rubbing his cheeks slowly. He’s still so small.

“Are you actually here? I haven’t lost it, have I?” And they both share that somber chuckle, filled with tears and snot.

“I’m here. God, it was— I’m sorry.” No, no, he won’t let those words be the first thing Randal says to him after all this time.

He hushes him, gentle but commanding and notes how the other chokes up at that. He— He also looks a bit different than he did before?

He’s aging now, rapidly. His hair growing longer as he stretches slightly taller. And it’s insane and shouldn’t be happening, but he’s— He’s changing. They’re coming to match.

Then Will’s left looking up at him again, just like he used to all those years ago, and his heart sings. Or burns, maybe, hard to tell.

So many, many emotions bubble up.

“There you are,” Is what comes out instead, getting him another laugh from Randal.

“It’s— God, it’s really you. Look at you.”

“Look at you.” Randal echoes back to him.

“You look—”

“Different.” The other chimes.

“—Amazing.” Is what he breathes out in reply, and, really, neither of them are wrong.

“I’m guessing different in a good way and not different in a bad way?” Ah. Right. Sudden spike of doubt. In himself, mostly.

“Different in a good way. A very good way. You look— You look beautiful,” He did pause in the middle of saying that, resulting in more worry from Will, waiting for some kind of comment.

“You look a lot like Martin did. The stubble looks nice on you. Your voice suits you—” And it’s suddenly too much.

Too many compliments, too many things he needs to say, too many thoughts racing around in his head, and he tries to capture them all in one action.

Randal’s lips were warm against his own, soft and pliant and there. And he knew he was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks, but he didn’t care.

He decides to indulge. After all this time, they’ve both earned that much. They’ve both earned to be sitting here, kissing until they’re out of breath, holding each other close.

It takes them what feels like a century to finally part, drawing in air through chattering teeth.

And he feels like he could stay here forever, trapped in this moment, basking in the light and warmth he’d nearly forgotten. He’d die happy if that was the case.

Instead, he collapses Randal into a hug, pulling him into his chest. His heartbeat rings, loud and proud, in his ears, audible even over his shuddering pants and sighs.

“I love you.” It felt so natural, it came so easily.

He faintly remembered how he used to choke on those words when he paid his visits. How used to struggle to even say anything.

Not anymore. He didn’t have to worry about that anymore, here, with Randal folded in his arms. He didn’t have to worry.

“I— I love you too.” And try as Randal might to keep his voice level, to chase the equal parts longing and reverance from his tone, he sounds wrecked.

He keeps talking before Will can think to hush him again, to get him to calm down and just live in this moment for even a second.

“The ring is beautiful.” It takes him a moment to process that the other is still holding it, grip so tight you’d think he was trying to crush it.

And Will just draws him closer, his own grasp like a vice, daring anyone to take Randal from him. Daring them to try.

“You like it?”

“I love it. It’s— It’s from you.”

Goddamnit, he’d just stopped crying.

“Can I have it back for a second?” He had an idea. A rather obvious idea, that was probably predictable with what he was asking for, but it was an idea he planned to put into action.

They pulled away from each other, or from the hug at least, still refusing to be more than a foot apart, and soon that cool, metal ring was caught up in Will’s hand.

And he was taking a knee, brandishing it with no flair in sight, all of the energy drained from him in his exhaustion. But it was real this time.

This was real. This raw, unfiltered moment, fueled by his love and adoration for this man who had very likely just been through hell and back. All for him.

“Randal Magnus,” He still cringed a bit on that last name, unhealed trauma and all, but Randal didn’t seem to mind.

“Will you make me the happiest man in this fucked-up world and marry me?”

The small joke he had slipped in there got the desired effect of a laugh. God, that laugh.

Then there were arms being thrown around his neck, lips pressing chastely to his own, and rather enthusiastic nods with their foreheads joined together.

They were finally each others. After everything, they finally had each other.

And like this he could almost forget everything. He could almost ignore the fact that Randal was supposed to be dead.

He did for the time being. He just—

He had missed him so much. Day after day, night after night, he had never stopped missing him. Not for a moment.

They sat there for a while. Occasionally slipping out an I’m sorry or an I love you.

“M’ so sorry—” It was Will this go around, sobbing into Randal’s chest as fingers stroked through his hair. Gentle as ever.

“I killed you. I put you down like you were a fuckin’ dog. God, how—”

“I let you. You— You saved me, Will.”

“You’ve been somewhere else for over 20 years. I wouldn’t call that saving.” Randal scoffed in reply, but that’s okay, they can argue, it means they’re still real.

“I’m not dead, am I?”

Will shook his head hesitantly.

“And we found each other again. We have each other again. See? Saved.”

And he couldn’t help a small chuckle at that.

“God, you’re an idiot.” His tone was dripping with affection, a dopey smile accenting it perfectly.

“Your idiot. Forever.”

“Did you just quote a meme during our reunion?” He knew the answer. Didn’t even need the Eye for it.

“I’m lightening the mood. You— You look like you need it.”

“No, it’s— It was nice. Thank you.”

And as Randal’s next breath ruffled a few strands of his hair, he knew he was safe.

He knew he was finally himself again.

Even if Randal wasn’t.

Even if they both needed help to be human again. To be normal again.

They had all the time in the world now. All the time they needed to relearn everything.

Together.

[askganon]

You said you like to tell the story of how you killed the king of hyrule and I am now morbidly curious of what exactly happened, specifically what way did you use to cancel his subscription for life (I have a bit of a morbid fascination with Death, ways it can happen and how it changes our bodies, so I am very curious here)

Very well, I have teased you all enough. It is only fair that I regale you on one of my most proud achievements.

I first entered the courts of Hyrule castle in strength and stoicism, hiding no sense of anger. My visage alone terrified the local lords and ladies of the court, and put all the guards on edge.

However, I knelt before the King, and pledged myself and my Gerudo to the service of the crown of Hyrule. The King, seeing me as little more than a tribal chieftain, accepted my pledge.

I then spent several months in the castle of Hyrule, speaking with the King, aiding him in simple tasks throughout Hyrule in an effort to gain his trust. My actions, as well as a constant flow of alcohol, drew the King's trust ever closer to me.

It became a regular occurrence that I would find myself in private quarters with the King, sharing philosophies and stories, exchanging the wisdoms of rulers. It was in these reclusive moments, free from advisors and even guards, where I learned much of the true nature of the King and of Hyrule as a whole.

Through word and deed, I rose from tribal chieftain to a close ally of the King. That was where I truly desired to be, for anyone who doubted me assumed due to my "barbaric" heritage that were I to attempt a takeover, it would be through brute force.

It was inconceivable that such a desert brute could possibly outwit such heights of society, after all. It was because of this that my chance finally came.

One night, when all my plans to weaken the other races had been implanted, I found myself in the King's chambers. We drank wine and played a game of strategy, as was our routine. Outside his window, a storm grew dark and cold.

The King stood, staring outside, and spoke in a moment of drunken weakness of his flaws as a leader.

Hmm, I recall a moment, then, that he apologized for the treatment of my people over the centuries, and because of our meeting he was determined to change everything for the better.

I told him he indeed would. That was when, as he saw my reflection standing behind him, that the dagger bound to my boot found its way between the lout's ribcage through the back.

I kept my gaze on his reflection, smirking, as I told him everything was indeed about to change, and that the Gerudo would become a power greater than anything ever witnessed in Hyrule.

The King gasped from the blade's puncture and was held still by my free hand as I repeatedly thrust the dagger into him over, and over, and over.

It was not a swift death. I made sure he felt every inch of my blade as it moved back and forth through his fatty flesh.

There were tears in his eyes, and a silent question formed from his lips, before I let go, allowing him to die on the floor of his own chambers, drunk and pathetic.

Once he died, I sheathed my dagger, refusing to ever clean the blood of Hyrule from its Gerudo Steel.

[kodzucloud]

“Bad Habits i guess.” S. Todoroki || Habits by Tove Lo

The son of Endeavour, Todoroki Shouto, sat in the ivory tub, eating the takeout he ordered. He couldn’t really call it a “dinner” but he wasn't hungry anyway, so it didn't matter. He got up, and stared at the mirror, His tired, dual coloured eyes stared back at him. It was an off putting look he had about himself but it, in a way, grew on him, just like how the Isolation he grew up with grew on him. It was familiar and he enjoyed it now…well, not all that much. He tossed the box into the trash-can, and freshened up for his outing. Todoroki wasn’t the type to go out, but just like everything else, the routine of it grew on him, and it was just something that he did and after a while, no one questioned him, just gave him looks that looked too concerned to be simple glances. He swished water in his mouth, dispelling the free roaming bits that stayed in his teeth, and ran his hands through his hair, once again gazing at himself through the silver hung lake that reflected his visage.

Normally, his hair was perfectly split down the middle but more recently, it had become more of a chore to keep up with that image, so he stopped. This caught his friends' attention, though to Todoroki, it wasn't a big deal, but they kept looking at him with the same eyes his sister would give him each time they talked about the past, and asking him if he was ok. It was a hard one to answer.

Each time he was asked, Todoroki’s answer would stay the same, surface level answer, “I’m fine.” He was the type to mean exactly what fell from his mouth. He couldn’t say he was doing great, because that would be a lie. He wasn’t doing great and hadn’t been for as far back as his memory could take him. But he wasn’t doing “terrible” either. Terrible was an adjective that suited his adolescent years spent in his house “training” to be a hero which he, just last year, learned wasn't training and was in fact abuse. Part of him probably knew that his dynamic with his father was wrong, but, for whatever reason, he never paid it much attention. The red and white haired boy sighed, and left the bathroom.

The location he was heading to tonight was some club. Of course, he wasn’t legally supposed to be there— but it was just a normal club. “Going by yourself again?” A deep, raspy voice asked. Todoroki knew the voice of the fiery blonde. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed by now? It’s past 8.” He scoffed with an empty smirk plastered on his face. Bakugou Katsuki would have yelled at him for trying to sneak out, but he didn’t, “Just answer my fucking question.”

“Yes…I am.”

“Where are you going?” He asked. Todoroki didn’t want to answer that question. For Christ sake he was going to a club, not some late night concert, which would be a much more excusable answer than what the truth was. “Why do you want to know?” He bit his tongue. He just sounded more suspicious now. He knew that Bakugou was just looking out for him but he didn't want him— or anyone else— to look out for him. He was quite capable of making sure he was fine, besides he’s done this a plethora of times before. He sighed, hoping that the anxious heat rising on the back of his neck would die down but it didnt. “Why do you insist on being so FUCKING difficult? Just answer the damn question, Icy-hot!” Bakugou raised his voice. He was mad now. He was always mad but this anger felt different to Todoroki and he didnt like it. It brought the same cold sweats he would get from nightmares he had of the past, or when he knew he was on the brink of experiencing pain from the hands of his father. Todoroki’s tongue felt too heavy to move, yet he still fought to answer, “A club,” he finally said, his voice low. He heard a heavy sigh, followed by the creaking of the couch releasing weight and Bakugou’s footsteps began to fade into the background. Todoroki turned his head in confusion. He was expecting backlash for his out-of-character behavior but it never came. “Just…be back at an..okay time.”

It had been an hour since he had left Yuuei and only 30 minutes since he'd been in the club dancing with strangers. He remembered the first time he had gone clubbing, the disorienting feel of the music drowning out even the feeling of his heart beating, the dark, yet well lit room he was in, the humidity from many bodies in one vicinity and poor air conditioning. He wasn’t nervous then, and he wasnt now, but it definitely was a feeling he still wasnt used to. Todoroki’s eyes wandered around to the people around him, taking it in as if he would never do this again. He knew he would be back here sooner or later but he wanted the memory. Some he's seen— once or twice before— making out and getting way too heated, some were drinking their hearts out, absorbing the coolness from their drink they knew they wouldn’t get externally. The original whimsy he got from this experience had worn off. His aching feet begged him to stop dancing to which he complied. He snaked through the small crowd gathered before the DJ and made his way to the bar where he usually made the worst decisions of the night.

“What can I get ya?”

“Surprise me.”

He never cared what he got, he just wanted the thrill of actually enjoying himself again, and the quickest way he got that was by intoxicating himself. Of course that would be a horrible look for the son of Endeavor to be caught drinking while underaged. He didn't forget who he was. His usual protocol was to walk to the nearest restroom while hiding his identity, spray colour his hair a basic colour and cover his scar with makeup— a skill he learned from his sister when he was at the peak of his insecurities— and putting in basic coloured contacts. He almost wanted to rest his head on the table and close his eyes to escape to the place he escaped to, but he didn't get that chance. The loud music and chattering of the whole experience cheated him out of that luxury but he knew that would happen so he couldn’t complain. He still complained about it though.

His drink slid across the counter to him. Todoroki handed a card to the bartender, had the card returned to him, and sipped the drink in his hand. The cooling burn he had anticipated didn't let him down and the frisson he’d been wanting was actually happening now. It felt right. It felt good.

He kept drinking. Talk. Sip. Dance. Sip— till his cup and head were empty. Whatever suffocating feeling he had that clouded his life and followed him up to this point was clear and felt damn near like summer. He felt so good, but he also felt risky. Todoroki knew he shouldn’t have drank anything, but he didnt care. He also didn’t care that he couldn’t handle his liquor but that was a problem for him 6 hours in the future to deal with. He didnt feel the crushing pain of numbness and he cherished that

Todoroki Shouto found himself on the small couch in the corner of the club, people jostling him each time they leaned back too far. He was mentally in another dimension though, so he— again— couldn't care less. What he did care about, however, was that the high he was on was becoming marred. Some memories flickered in his mind, and that was enough to ruin his night out. Todoroki pushed off the couch, and aimlessly walked around the club till he found the restrooms.

Being intoxicated always messed with his memory. One second he was standing in a line to use the bathroom, and the next he was in a separate bathroom, throwing up in a tub, his head resting on the side.

It was rare that he would puke— this was only the second time it happened, but in all honesty he was already feeling miserable, so that probably had something to do with it. His mind drifted to when he would have his head in his mother’s lap just like this, her hand threading through his dual-chromatic hair.

Oh how he missed his mother

Tears stealthily escaped his tear ducts, and by the time he noticed, his head was laying in a small pool of it that spilled on either side of the plastic ledge of the tub. This was Usually when he decided to head back. It was about 11 pm now? Time was irrelevant to him at this point of the night, not that he was trying to keep track of it. He turned the faucet to the shower-tub fusion to clear the vomit down the drain. The reject of a pro hero’s son stumbled out of the bathroom and out of the blaring building, where everything was muffled and strangely quiet.

He was lonely

Todoroki knew that he was, but he truly believed that he wasn’t all that lonely or that empty feeling he’d felt for years didn’t bothered him, but just then…it did.

A flurry of emotions swarmed him, and the feeling of a gaping hole in his chest consumed him. Todoroki wanted to curl up on the floor and cry. He was lonely and slowly killing himself with habits his body physically couldn’t properly handle yet. Bad habits were ruining him and he convinced himself that he didn’t care, but he did. He cared the first time he snuck out just to sneak out and he cared when he had his first taste of booze. It was all intentional, yes, but he didn’t want this to be his life and a nagging voice in the back of his mind that always came back around this time, told him that if his mother was here to witness him like this, she would’ve hated him more.

Todoroki wouldn’t blame her though. Ever since she left, and he gained some semblance of confidence to start rebelling against his father, he’d act recklessly to feel something. Of course all things start small, and the first thing he could remember doing was taking one more candy than he was allowed. Aging only caused this to snowball and suddenly he was falling into needing the aid of drinks to feel something, only for that “something” to wear off just about as quickly as it introduced itself. In the end, he found himself feeling arguably worse. If he wasn't indulging his “habits”, he was thinking, thinking meant remembering his mother, and that meant he’d spiral further into the mental hell he was in, and he couldn’t stand that.

Todoroki took an uber back to the Yuuei campus.

The ride back was silent and dreadful. He hadn't thought of it before, but if luck truly wasn't on his side— which it seemed it never was— Aizawa sensei would be waiting for him on the other side of the door with a heap of questions and disapproving glances to throw at him. He was stupid enough to answer Bakugou truthfully, and only the gods knew what kind of hole he had dug himself into. Normally he’d swear silently that he was numb, but tonight was entirely different, because he was, once again, crying.

“I want my mom…”

Shouto watched life zip past him behind the window of the moving vehicle, chin in hand. He was tired, dazed and drunk. A combination he regretted mixing.

Before he realized it, Shouto made it back to Yuuei. He got out of the car, thanked the driver, and walked down the long walk-way to the dorms till he saw the familiar, goliathan building. He assumed the door was locked (which it was), and to avoid setting off an alarm and getting into worse trouble he was probably in for, he texted Bakugou.

“Can you open the front door for me?”

Read at 11:46pm

“Of course.” He sighed.

Todoroki sat down at the doorsteps of the dorm building, waiting for Bakugou— or anyone else if Bakugou was just ignoring him— to open the door for him. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the pillar, letting out another sigh. Every emotion he had bottled and shoved down since the morning was all released in one breathe, and for the 3rd time, he cried. He was usually good at keeping it together, but he couldn’t tonight, and he didn’t have the energy to try and act like he was okay.

Just as he was accepting that he wasn’t as okay as he made himself out to be, the door opened. Todoroki’s tear-filled eyes met another pair of eyes.

It was Katsuki.

“You're crying…”

The top hero’s son crying would be a sight to see, and it was something a red- eyed, blond opened up to on a seemingly normal Thursday night.

“I miss my mom,” Shouto sniffed, “That’s why I went out…— that’s why I'm always out. But all the shit I do won’t bring her back…so I don't know what I'm doing anymore.”

That very well could’ve been the first time Shouto let someone in that close, and if he played his cards the way he usually did, it would be the last. He stared out into the midnight horizon before wiping his tears, and some of the concealer that hid his scar. Sure changing now would be hard, but anything would be better than what he had at the moment. He played himself into an isolating hell because he didn’t know what else to do, and that tactic proved to be well overdue for an update. He had people that obviously cared, so why didn't he let them in?

“Well one thing you could do is get your ass inside,” Bakugou huffed, “We can deal with whatever you got going on in your head after you fucking rest.”

“…yeah…”

[heyheydidjaknow]

wake up babe heyheydidja let their creative brain juices flow and posted a fic

And on that note here’s another fic— longer this time— about another character I have written for exactly once. This time for the otome game! It’s been sitting in my drive for 2+ months and now it’s going to see the light of day. We’re breaking down fanfiction author stereotypes this week.

Existential Horror

Luciel had been introduced to horror as a genre fairly early on all things considered. He had never been partial to classic literature— he was not really partial to literature in general once he fell into the rhythm of his new life and allowed himself to enjoy the World Wide Web and all its associated horrors— but in those early days spent waiting on bated breath for instruction from above, he had spent his time— rather, the time that was not spent worrying about his brother— reading whatever books his handler happened to have picked up and tossed aside. Vanderwood’s tastes rubbed off on him to an extent; by the time he had enough regular work to keep himself too busy to sit down and read a book, Seven had a thorough appreciation for the genre. But they did not enjoy their novels in the same way; when Vanderwood would ask Seven about them to break the suffocating silence that hung around him like a heavy fog back then, he was completely unable to engage in meaningful conversation with him about books they had both read. Luciel attributed this to Vanderwood’s lack of connection to the text. Vanderwood enjoyed the books, as far as he could tell, because he got a kick out of interacting with stories about people losing their minds to things beyond their control. Luciel was too close to it, the words too intimate and personal for him to see as anything but a perfectly rational articulation of a feeling he had always felt, would always feel. It was comforting, knowing that someone else— fictional as they may be— understood him.

It was still a challenge, years later, to articulate how he had been informed of his position. He imagined it would be a bit like a child trying to explain gravity; the mechanics were beyond him, but the truth of the matter was indubitable. He supposed it was in his programming to understand only in this most basic sense. He supposed it would be problematic if he understood more than he did. He doubted knowing beyond what he did would do him much good.

Your arrival— your avatar’s arrival— made things make sense. He knew as soon as he saw her face what her role was, and understood intrinsically who she was to him, to the world. A remarkably unremarkable yet decidedly beautiful woman so naive as to follow the words of a stranger on the internet to Rika’s apartment: she played her role as a stand-in beautifully and shined in all her hazy glory. Her words were perfectly intelligible yet decidedly lacked character, her visage was without distinguishable quality and was yet undeniably appealing, her voice stuck in the mind only in the same way the characters in books’ voices did and she did very little outside of sit, answer emails and make simple conversation. As she was destined to do, she caught the attention of every single member of the RFA— himself included. She would shower the members in praise and affection for the eleven days they had together, enter a relationship with them, enjoy domestic bliss for a nebulous period of time— he had given up trying to nail down numbers a long time ago— before the memories they had formed together gently disintegrated. All traces of her would be scrubbed from their lives and she would be reintroduced as a fresh face for the group to fawn over once again. When she was with Seven there would occasionally be a longer grace period in which he was allowed to reunite with his brother for a time before the cycle repeated itself but the ending stayed the same regardless of who she attached herself to.

Oddly enough, he did not mind the routine itself. It was hard to hate something so inherently sweet, something that felt— despite the objective reality of the situation— so simple and innocent. You— the nebulous you he knew to exist— were not acting maliciously. You were playing a game that he and everyone else happened to be a part of, and you had not, in your play, acted maliciously. You had made mistakes and encouraged behaviors that he and the other members of the RFA should not have engaged in, but you were never cruel. It was hard to hate you not only because of his position but also because you were genuinely hard to dislike, and while that was sometimes more frustrating than just hating you outright he could not help but continue to be drawn to you and your replacement by proxy.

He had memories of you. They were distant, but he swore had them. They were near indistinguishable from his memories of your proxy– which, themselves, were hardly concrete– but if he stayed up until his eyes could barely take it he could swear to know the echo of your smile, your voice, your fingers.

He tried not to think of you much. He liked to think he had more important things to worry about.

The night it started was normal enough. Everyone was in the RFA chat room late at night— odd in general but standard for the beginning of a route— and a stranger entered the chat room. There was general distress around the stranger’s arrival, Seven pretended to do a background check on the stranger— he had stopped bothering the third time through— and everyone else introduced themselves. The beats played themselves out, words flying by at the same pace they always did as the stranger explained their position and what they were doing in an allegedly dead woman’s apartment. Jokes were made, hits replayed, and everyone went to bed or back to whatever it was they had been doing before the stranger appeared. He had seen every single combination of words that she could send in response to the various threats and propositions you received; he barely bothered to read the wall of text that flew by. Nothing happened on the first day; no need to reread events already decidedly set in stone.

His first tip that something was up was when he went to text her. After her admission into the RFA, she was always a bit nervous– understandable, given the circumstances– so he always made the move to message her, to make her feel more comfortable even though it did not matter much in practice.

He introduced himself. He asked for any updates regarding the hacker. He welcomed her.

Her response was new.

‘It’s a pleasure, Seven. Sorry for freaking everyone out; hope I haven’t given you too much work lol’

He took his glasses off, wiping them on his shirt. He took a deep breath, put them back on, and reread the text.

It was the same as it had been a second ago. He reread it again.

Again.

The text did not change.

“You planning on staring at your phone all night?”

He sat straight up as though shaken awake, head snapping back to look at an otherwise undisturbed Vanderwood.

He did not bother to look up from the file on his lap. “If you’ve got time to dick around on your phone you have time to work. You know the deadline you were given wasn’t a suggestion, right?”

The laugh that came from Seven sounded forced even to him. “What, seriously?” He set his phone down on his desk face down, wiping his shaky hands off on his jeans. “I could have sworn I read somewhere time is relative.”

“For as high as you seem to be half the time you’re not orbiting the Earth yet.” He crossed one of his legs over the other. “Your tone isn't inspiring confidence either. Something happen?”

His heart was pounding in his throat. “Nothing,” he smiled brightly. “RFA got hacked is all.”

Vanderwood whistled.

“Right?” He swallowed. “I guess it serves me right not checking my work; guess that’s what I get for not having a good work-life balance!” He shrugged. “But it’s nothing serious; I’ll find who did it after I’m done with this.”

He reached down to grab his coffee. “You’re awfully chipper.”

Seven looked back at his computer. “You sound surprised.”

“For as much as you freak out about that server, I am.” He took a sip, setting it back down by his feet. “You lose your mind over the emotes not working but a security breach is no big deal?”

“Security breach, shemcurity breach.” He waved it off, fingers typing away at the keyboard. “If you stress everything that goes wrong you’ll never have time to live.”

“Those would be wise words coming from someone else’s mouth.”

Seven leaned back in his chair, beaming at his handler. “I have my moments.” He sat back up straight, grabbing his phone from the desk and shoving it into his pocket. “I’m going on a soda run. Want anything?”

“Bought some earlier.”

He stood up, kicking his chair back into place. “Then I’m grabbing dinner. Do you want anything?”

“You don’t eat dinner.”

He grabbed his keys. “Then I’m going to an undisclosed location for an undisclosed amount of time where snacks and food will be available, my true intentions known only to me. Do you want anything?”

Vanderwood looked up at him, giving him the same once-over he supposed most parents gave their older children. It had been a while since he had that look on his face, mild concern mixed with justified suspicion; the last time had been when he was still a kid.

Seven broke eye contact first. “I won’t be long,” he promised begrudgingly. “Three hours, tops. Just been inside too long is all.”

There was a long pause.

He sighed, looking back down at his file. “Bring back cream; I forgot some while I was out.”

Luciel was on the main road. The nearest gas station was an hour out. Luciel was not going to the nearest gas station. Luciel was going to the little grocery store an hour or so out from where she was. Luciel was also taking the long way and following all posted and implied traffic laws. Luciel wanted this to be a long trip. Luciel wanted it to be light out by the time he got back.

Twenty minutes in, he pulled over. Alone on a dark road in his silent cat, he pulled out his phone again and reread the message.

It had not changed. It was real.

Saeyoung knew she knew her position. He did not know if she knew the same way that he did what her role was, but he knew that she knew at least what she was meant to do. She acted the way she was meant to every time like clockwork, had said the same two things every time he had sent that first message. It had felt right every time. He knew in his bones that she had said exactly what she had been meant to every time from the very first reset. He knew how she texted. That was not her.

The original chatroom had been deleted. For whatever reason the first one always was. The profile of the new member was the same as it always was. A quick review of the CCTV footage— the same brief, unbothered look he always gave the footage at the beginning— showed that she was at Rika’s apartment. The person on the other end of the line, in theory, was her. All the same, he knew she was not.

He was meant to call now, at this time. He always did after she was done talking with Yoosung about LOLOL and his barely disguised predator-prey kink. He was never nervous to make the call— it was a stupid call, a joke call that did not and should not matter— but the thought of it going to you— not the woman sitting in his apartment but you, the real you— made him lightheaded. He barely knew how to process the idea that you might have access to the messenger. He could not even begin to comprehend how you could access the messenger directly considering your position; the idea was so far-fetched it bordered on unbelievable. But if you had…

He let his head fall against the steering wheel. The issue had gone from an abstract, quiet horror to a pressing matter of real consequence. You were not God, but you were closer to it than he was; you may not have created the universe, but your proxy and her presence did have a profound impact on their world. It was hard not to be taken aback by the prospect of interacting with a higher power. He barely knew how to process the confirmation of your existence— if this was a confirmation— let alone wrap his head around the mechanics of someone like you interacting with someone like him. You operated on a completely different plane than him. None of this should have been possible in the first place. How could he possibly—

Your profile picture showed up on his phone. You were calling him.

His thumb hovered over the accept button, fingers tingling. It was late. You should have been asleep. He should have been able to call you and not have you pick up. He should have been able to think this through further, to come up with a game plan.

He sank in his seat, pulling his headphones over his ears. He held his breath. He answered the call.

“Hello?”

Saeyoung had received his first pair of glasses eight years before. For most of his life, he had been largely unable to see anything further than his hand stretched out in front of him. He had been reluctant to see an optometrist when V had suggested it, had barely even noticed that he was unable to see because he had no other frame of reference. His brother, he had insisted, just had exceptionally good eyes; he could function perfectly fine without going through the trouble. V had insisted and had offered to pay for a sturdy pair out of pocket, and after much resistance, Saeyoung had agreed to it. Getting medical confirmation that he could not see was something of a shock, but not totally surprising. To see the world the way it was in pictures, on the other hand, to really know— to know in the basic sense as opposed to the intrinsic one— that trees were composed of intertwining limbs and leaves you could count as opposed to big masses of color had been revelatory. He had known what things looked like. He could point at a tree before he got glasses and identify it as such. But that was nothing compared to what he had when he could finally see.

It was about the same with you. He had known intrinsically what your voice was in the same way he knew that trees had leaves and branches: common sense mixed with grounded assumptions. He assumed— correctly— that your voice vaguely sounded like hers, that there was some element of you in her that attracted him. Your voice was not hers, though. It was similar in the way that all sweets taste sweet; her voice was so indistinct that your voice was similar by default. Your voice, to him, was what he had liked about her voice in a concentrated form, distinctly you and decided in its identity, and this concentrated dose of you— not the watered-down shit he got through her, but you, the person he was born to be in love with— was almost more than he could take.

You were talking. You were speaking English, mumbling obscenities about a button not working and how he must not be able to understand you because of the linguistic difference. “Maybe if I hang up—“

The words were out of his mouth before he could think what he was saying. “I speak English.”

Your laugh— nervous as it was— was yours and it was perfect. He had never really heard her laugh so he had little to compare it to, but the sound seemed to soothe an ache he had not known existed. “Holy— wow, that is good.” You cleared your throat. “You know, I wasn’t sure what you’d sound like, but you sound almost the same as you did before. It’s totally cool.”

A grin spread across his face. You liked his voice. You had told him that you liked his voice. “Thank you,” he said lamely. “I’m glad you like it.”

“That’s good. That you like that I like it, I mean.” You were cute. “I would be a bit bummed if you— well, not bummed, but I don’t know how I’d react if you disliked that I like your voice.”

At least you were nervous too. He had no idea why you of all people were nervous, but it made him feel less pathetic for being so on edge. “I don't know that I’ve ever been complimented on my voice before,” he admitted, trying to fall back into his usual rhythm. “But I don’t think many people would mind someone saying they like their voice.”

“I hope not.” There’s a cracking sound on your end. “It would be totally awkward if I called you something out of left field.”

He relaxed in his seat. As the shock of the situation wore off his brain kicked back into gear, the gaps in his mind beginning to fill themselves with this new information. He had never really considered the idea of meeting you, but he was unsurprised to find himself more comfortable like this– talking to you– than he had been speaking with the woman he had asked to be his wife in some distant memory. “Don’t worry; Vanderwood’s given me a thick skin over the years.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, not pointing out his slip up to his relief. “How long have you known her?”

He considered it. “Five, six years?”

“That’s a while.”

“Sort of.” He shrugged. “That’s twenty-five-point-two percent of my life give or take; in the grand scheme of things, that isn’t all that long.”

“In all fairness,” you point out, “it’s a bit unfair to count a few of those years; nobody remembers the first couple.”

He tutted. “Gotta disagree with you there. Just because I don’t have very many memories from when I was little doesn’t mean they shouldn’t count in the total.”

“Why not?”

“Why wouldn’t you?” He fiddled with the string of his hoodie. “I mean, just because someone gets blackout drunk doesn’t mean the time they spent blackout drunk didn't happen, right? And even if I don’t remember some stuff that’s happened,” he continued, a lump forming in his throat, “or I don’t have a good grasp of when things happened, they still happened, didn’t they? My memory can’t be the only thing that determines whether something’s happened, right?”

“Sure it is.” You did not seem to catch onto his mood switch; he was thankful for that. “I mean, photos can be doctored and videos can be faked and records altered; not to get philosophical on you, but what else can we trust besides our memories?” You sighed. “But then again, memories aren’t tangible and the human brain is famously unreliable, so maybe we’re all fucked and doomed to try to hold onto false memories and will them into being.”

He took a slow, deep breath. “Fair point.” He laughed, scratching the back of his neck. “I wish I took more photos; I should ask V to show me how.” His eyes softened as he tried to swallow the bad taste in his mouth. “At least if I have physical photos they’d be harder to alter, right? It’d be nice to have confirmation that my memories are trustworthy.”

“I guess if you have a place to keep them safe.”

He had tried taking pictures a few reboots in on a polaroid camera he ordered online. He had taken a photo of her and Jaehee and kept it in his phone case. It had disappeared when she reintroduced herself a while later.

You cleared your throat. “What do I call you? Seven? Luciel? Or would you rather something else?”

‘Do you remember?’ That was the question you meant to ask, whether you and he held the same bond as he did with her. In truth, the memories he had of his time with her were only a bit more tangible than you had been. They were recollections of dreams he knew to be true, fantasies played out by another version of himself. He had little idea of what their relationship– the one between him and her and her and you– meant to you, but he felt as strange about her calling him Saeyoung as he did about you doing the same.

“Seven’s fine.” He forced himself to relax, smiling into the receiver. “Or Seven O’ Seven. Or Supreme Defender of Justice Seven Zero Seven if you want to show your reverence.”

Your smile sounded more natural than his. “How humble of you.”

“One of my many virtues.” He twisted his headphone cord around his finger, stopped. “What should I call you?”

You told him your name.

He tried to compare it to her name in his head. He did not know if he had forgotten it or if he had never known it in the first place. He repeated it back to you, committing it to memory.

You moved your mouth closer to the receiver, signing heavily into it. “How’d you come up with your name? Seven Zero Seven, I mean; what’s its significance?”

“Oh, loads of things.” He looked out the windshield into the night sky. “It’s an area code, an error code, an angel number, a pop culture reference– it’s got layers.”

It sounded like you were on a bed. “Walk me through them.”

He sat up a bit in his seat. “Seven Zero Seven is the area code for the northwesternmost part of California, which was where I stayed to learn English before I started school. Seven Zero Seven is also an uncommon error code that I struggled to get down, which I thought was funny because the code itself is an error code for partial data retrieval.” He swallowed. “Seven Zero Seven in numerology is supposed to be symbolic of spiritual awakening– you can guess why I liked that– and seeing it a lot means you’re supposed to take time to focus on yourself instead of your relationships with other people, which was…” He trailed off. “Well, you can guess.” He cleared his throat. “And Seven O’ Seven is a play on Double O Seven, aka James Bond, which is also pretty cool.”

Your voice was soft. “You thought of all that?”

“I had a very long car ride.”

You snorted.

“It’s true!” He crisscrossed his legs on the seat. “I was in a ‘93 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a broken air conditioner in late September; I was going nuts sitting in the car so long so I told myself to finally decide on a name before we got to San Mateo for something to do and all the pieces just sort of fell together.”

“I’m not doubting that it happened,” you insisted. “I’m just– it’s really in character, you know? Like, it’s such a you thing to do.”

“Is that an insult?”

“Not at all.” You sounded sincere. “I really like you; I like learning more about you.”

His cheeks warmed. “Don’t get too used to it,” he warned, half joking. “I’m a very secretive person.”

You were a dream. “It’s funny; I feel like I know you so well already.”

“Maybe you did in a past life.” He closed his eyes, trying and failing to picture you, to make you real in his head. “Maybe you do know me and I just don’t know you.”

“Do you want to know me?”

His heart ached. “More than anything.”

“You have my permission, if you’re looking for it.” You swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m worth knowing, but you’re more than welcome to if you want.”

“You are.” He hoped he did not sound as earnest as he was. “I promise, you are.”

“You sound very sure of yourself.”

“I am.”

Your answer was polite, if nervous. “That’s really sweet of you to say.”

His sighed. “You don’t believe me.”

“Not because I don’t trust you,” you insisted quickly. “I just don’t know how you’d make that call, you know?”

“I have good intuition,” he insisted.

You laughed. “Nobody’s intuition’s that good.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do. Besides–” You caught yourself, scrambled to recover. “Well, in any case, I don’t know how well your intuition can work if you can only talk to someone through a phone.”

“You’d be surprised.” He sat up straighter. “I bet I can tell loads about you from your online presence.”

You hummed in acknowledgment. “Lay it on me, then.”

He took a deep breath. “You’re… lonely,” he decided. “That’s why you showed up in our lives, why you haven’t left yet. Maybe not all the time, maybe not around people, but in some capacity, you feel alone or felt alone and you feel better being here than dealing with your own loneliness.” He swallowed. “But you’re kind. You care about things and people even when their problems don’t directly affect you. You have a good sense of right and wrong and try to make do with the choices you’re given, even if they aren’t great.”

A pause, then, “You make me sound like a better person than I am.”

He smiled. “I have a feeling you’ll have more options than you’re used to this time around,” he teased. “If I’m right– which, not to brag, but I usually am– that means you’ll have plenty of opportunity to prove me wrong if you want.”

“I guess so.” Your voice sounded softer now. “I hope I’m not too much of a disappointment.”

“You won’t. You aren’t.” He checked the time. “Are you falling asleep?”

“A little.” You yawned. “But I’ve got to pay every time I make a phone call so I want to keep this going as long as possible.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep,” he urged. “If it’s that much trouble, I’ll call you, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

“But then you need to pay for the call.”

“I could stop working today and never have to work a day in my life; I can afford to call you.”

It was hard to tell if the worry he heard was real or not. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart.” He fixed his glasses. “Before I leave, though, can you understand what we type alright? I think I might have installed a translator a while ago for Yoosung to use to study but I don’t remember if it actually worked all that well.”

You hummed contentedly. “Works like a dream,” you promised sleepily. “Google Translate can eat its heart out.”

He chuckled. “Good, good.” He picked his phone back up, thumb hovering over the call button. “Well,” he supposed, “this is where I leave you.”

“So it is.”

A pause. His finger stayed where it was.

You snorted. “You are so you.” There was a rustling of blankets on your end. “Goodnight, Seven.”

“You too. Oh,” he started, “and one last thing?”

“Yeah?”

His face flushed. “Thank you,” he said. “For showing up, I mean. It means a lot.”

He hoped he did not imagine the affection he heard in your voice. “It means more to me, I promise.”

You hung up.

It took him a second to get back on the road.

A while ago, Luciel had taken the time to sit down and really, objectively consider his situation. He had come to the conclusion that if he were to assign a genre to his life he would call it an existential horror. You were an entity greater than himself whose whims he was held victim and whose intentions were barely understood. His limited understanding nearly crippled him, leaving him alone and stuck in a constant haze of half-formed memories he had no way of grounding. In any other life, he would have hated you. In any other circumstance, with any other person, he probably would wished for your death so he could at least have the chance to hold onto something permanent.

But he was not alone anymore.

You remembered. He had you.

And if the price of having you in any capacity was for him to live the way he did, he would.

[halfbloodoblivion]

CONTEXTE

Depuis des jours, le Camp Half-Blood vit paisiblement. Les demi-dieux s’adonnant à l’entraînement sous l’œil attentif de Chiron et Tantale. Mais cette tranquillité n’est qu’un voile fragile… Une ombre s’étend sur l’Olympe. Dionysos, d’ordinaire insouciant, est le premier à ressentir le frémissement du destin. Un pressentiment grandit, une menace qui pourrait plonger aussi bien les dieux que les mortels dans l’oubli. Sur l’Olympe, un Conseil Divin d’urgence est convoqué. Zeus, Poséidon et l’ensemble des Olympiens, à l’exception d’Hadès, écoutent avec gravité la déclaration de Dionysos : la Mémoire de Mnémosyne est en péril. Son pouvoir, garant de l’histoire et des échos du passé, est convoité par des êtres malveillants dont l’identité demeure encore inconnue. Mémoire divine vacillante, conflit Greco-Romain, blagues de Dionysos. . . Face à ces menaces, serez-vous un héros de la mémoire, ou un acteur de l’oubli ?

Cliquez sur "Afficher davantage" pour lire le contexte complet !

Au cœur de la nuit du 22 au 23 février 2025, une lueur traversa soudain les yeux éteints d’un être figé depuis des années. Sa silhouette, mêlant étoffes et os, s’éveilla face à une divinité dont le visage, pour une fois, demeurait impassible.

L’Oracle de Delphes, recluse dans le grenier où sommeillent les souvenirs de tous les demi-dieux du camp Half-Blood, s’apprêtait à délivrer une prophétie. Une prophétie qui, pour la première fois, fit naître la crainte dans le regard de Dionysos, le dieu du vin.

Elle annonçait une menace d’une ampleur inédite dans le monde mythologique. Face à cette révélation, l’heure n’était plus à l’attente.

Depuis plusieurs jours déjà, Dionysos a quitté le camp dans l’urgence, laissant derrière lui une rumeur grandissante. Le Mont Olympe, après des décennies de silence, convoque un Conseil Divin pour débattre de cette menace imminente. Et dans l’ombre du Conseil, la prophétie se répand — murmurée, crainte, transmise à voix basse parmi les demi-dieux du camp. La prophétie, la voici :

Ὑπὸ τὴν σκιὰν τοῦ ἀρχαίου λαβυρίνθου, Ῥεῖθρον παρελθόντος ἀπειλεῖ ἀνοιχθῆναι. Ἓξ ψυχαὶ ἀκολουθήσουσιν ὁδὸν τεθραυσμένην, Καὶ ἡ ἕως ἀνατελεῖ ἄνευ τῶν ὀνομάτων αὐτῶν.

Depuis des semaines, le Camp Half-Blood baignait dans une paix trompeuse. Une routine douce, presque trop parfaite, rythmait le quotidien des demi-dieux, entre entraînements, rires partagés et perfection d’une colonie en plein essor. Mais derrière les sourcils froncés de Dionysos, le directeur du camp, couvait une inquiétude ancienne. Un frisson au creux de l’échine, un instinct divin que les siècles n’avaient jamais trompé. Une tempête approchait. Il en était certain.

Alors, du sommet de l’Olympe, Dionysos convoqua l’impossible : une assemblée d’urgence. Les plus grands dieux répondirent à l’appel, Zeus, Poséidon, Athéna… Tous, sauf Hadès. Dans le silence sacré de l’agora céleste, le dieu du vin, habituellement désinvolte, laissa tomber le masque. L’heure n’était plus à la comédie.

« Une force s’élève… Une force qui n’appartient ni au monde des mortels, ni à celui des dieux. Elle menace ce que nous avons de plus précieux : la mémoire. »

Ce n’était pas une simple prophétie. C’était une mise en garde. Mnémosyne, gardienne des souvenirs divins et mortels, était en péril. Son artefact, source d’un savoir ancestral et de la continuité des âges, avait été repéré. Et convoité. Les murmures s’élevèrent parmi les trônes d’or et de marbre. Même le regard de Zeus, d’ordinaire inébranlable, fut troublé. Mais la voix d’une déesse, que nul ne nomma, car son autorité ne nécessitait pas de nom, s’éleva, limpide et irréfutable : « Il dit la vérité. »

L’Olympe frémit. Le temps, ce fil que les immortels croyaient éternel, se tendait dangereusement. Une course contre l’oubli s’engageait. Le Camp Half-Blood serait bientôt appelé à jouer un rôle bien plus grand qu’il ne l’avait jamais imaginé. Car ce n’était pas seulement l’équilibre du monde qui vacillait. C’était la mémoire du monde lui-même.

Après plusieurs jours de débats intenses, le Conseil Divin a tranché. Sous la demande d’Hermès, plusieurs missives ont été envoyées à tous les demi-dieux du camp Half-Blood, les exhortant à se préparer et à choisir six d’entre eux pour cette première quête. Sur le panneau d’affichage de la Grande Maison, Chiron et Tantale annoncent rechercher des volontaires pour une délibération et une expédition vers l’île de Crète, où repose l'artefact de Mnémosyne. Ainsi, tous les demi-dieux sont désormais au courant des discussions du Conseil Divin, de la prophétie de l’Oracle et de l’envoi d’une équipe de six d’entre eux pour une quête de protection.

Ainsi, une équipe de traduction a réussi à déchiffrer la prophétie :

Sous l’ombre de l’antique labyrinthe, Le flot du passé menace de s’ouvrir. Six âmes suivront un chemin brisé, Et l’aurore se lèvera sans leurs noms.

Quelques jours plus tard, six demi-dieux ont été désignés pour partir sur l’île de Crète.

[admirableringmaker]

describe  your  character  in  as  embarrassing  detail  as  possible.

tagged by the lovely @putrefacerem, thank you, I am obsessed with this template.

crown  :  His hair is one of his most distinctive features, and after the manner of elves, he is most vain about it. As Mairon of Aulë, it is fire-red, kept bound and drawn away from his face in plain, utilitarian styles. When he finds freedom as Morgoth’s lieutenant, he changes his hair (and all of his appearance) as he pleases, indulging in many different styles before settling. His hair darkens to a deep, rich crimson, long and wavy like a river of blood. This is how he most prefers it; he keeps it loose and adorned with crowns and jewels, and yet there is never a hair out of place. He takes great pride in washing, combing and oiling it, though this is a routine of habit and usually he does not imbue his fana with the need for such things - only when it aids his disguises, or if bound by greater power. 

Annatar of Eregion has long straight hair of pale gold, almost white under certain light - a colour he chose for how he associated it with Eonwë. Annatar wears few adornments save for special occasions, and favours simple and elegant styles. As Zigûr, his hair begins bone-white, but slowly returns to his beloved-blood red as he corrupts the kingdom.

After the fall of Númenor, all beauty in his hair is lost. It is long still, but grey, limp, and lifeless. He hides it behind helms, hoods and veils, for any illusion of beauty he casts over himself fades in hours. visage  : His face is very beautiful, as are all of the maiar. His skin is perfectly unblemished, to the point of eerieness - even when in disguise, he chooses marks upon his skin artfully, and therefore something of the uncanny lingers. His features are sharp and pointed; high cheekbones, a sharp nose, full lips ready to curl in snarl. His teeth are perfect, white and neat - and fanged. His most striking feature is his eyes. All-seeing, they hold the threat of madness over any who gaze into them, pupils slit like a predator’s. Where a man’s eyes might be blue or brown, his are gold, glinting with pale flames and catching the light of the jewels he adorns himself in. 

Post-sinking, the effect is even more prominent - his eyes burn with cold fire, from within a dead man’s face. His skin has turned ashen and grey, mottled like a corpse, cracked like broken pottery. He hides it always behind a mask, veil or helm, only revealing himself in the most intimate company. 

frame  :  The form he prefers to take is almost delicate. Slender, sleek, like a panther lying in wait - inhuman strength is hidden behind a smooth physique. He is tall in most forms that he chooses; 8ft. in the First Age and as lord of Mordor, and 6’4ft. when disguised among elves or men.  His figure is a little androgynous by default, with narrow shoulders and slightly wider than average hips. When he takes a more womanly fana, he has C-cup breasts.

If he so chooses, he can take many other forms, but his size remains relatively consistent.

Hands: His hands at first seem at odds with the delicate, deceiving forms he prefers. He has fairly large hands, with long (almost creepily so!) fingers. The skin is smooth and unmarked. He always wears his nails quite long and neatly manicured  - when he has nails. More usually, his fingers taper into sharpened claws, smooth and black like a feline. Sometimes he caps them in gold or iron. 

After his defeat by Isildur, his right hand is missing the index finger. 

nethers:  He is perfectly, statistically, average sized, in elf-shape  -perhaps below average for taller men of Númenor and Elves. This is intentional on his part, as he considers genitals largely irrelevant in his day to day life (and frankly an impediment). Most sex he has is about seduction and binding others to him with their desire, and at all times he derives his chief pleasure from the battling of wills and powers. He removes his body hair - or rather does not go to the effort of adorning his fana with it unless he must for a disguise. On occasion he will alter the appearance of his genitals to the appeal of his partner, and this includes, though rarely, changing to have a vulva and vagina. 

cosmetics  :  Mairon in all his forms adores adornment and cosmetics are no exception. He lines his eyes with a charcoal based eyeliner, and paints his eyelids and upper face with elegant patterns - he varies the colours between deep gold, blood red, and black. He paints his lips in the same colours. For special occasions, he adds crushed jewels to his face like glitter. 

distinguishing  marks  and  other  facts  :  He is generally free from scars save for the bite wound of Huan at his throat. He conceals this with illusions, makeup, high collars and jewellery. It is only visible in the form of Gorthaur - Annatar lacks the scar, though it may show through in times of great emotion. He has a vast collection of extravagant jewellery; necklaces, earrings and nose rings and studs, rings and bracelets and circlets. All of them are made by his own hand. He is very rarely seen without at least one piece of jewellery. 

[cimhon]

C’est un travail étrange professeur, le mot lui-même l’est assez. Il avait adoré pouvoir écrire un mémoire de maîtrise, réfléchir, peut être caresser la création critique, et il avait choisi de passer le CAPES en candidat libre. Quelle histoire! Mais il était discipliné et passionné et il avait pu jouir auparavant de la formation forcenée d’une prépa-lettres qui l’avait entrainé aux exercices du commentaire et de la dissertation. A la fac, il s’était baladé. C’est sans flagornerie qu’il pouvait le dire. On lui avait répété pendant deux ans qu’il était ignare et que le seul moyen de remédier à cela était de lire et de travailler à outrance. Il avait toujours été résilient, et ignare, il savait qu’il l’était. Il avait pu s’adapter et choisir un rythme de travail qui lui convenait mais qui ne lui permettait pas de prétendre aux lauriers d’une classe de Khâgne. Peu importait, il avait tellement appris! 

Sans prétention il avait donc passé les concours quelques années plus tard. Il avait été admis. Il s’était promis de démissionner si l’expérience de ce travail si particulier s’avérait être un échec. Qui sait ce que c’est que d’être en face de 30 adolescents, dans un lieu fermé avec un objectif d’apprentissage tout théorique? Et cette histoire de « gestion de classe ». Tout ça à faire en même temps. 30 individus à qui il faudrait pouvoir parler individuellement pour être efficace. 55 minutes à leur consacrer. Divise copain: ça fait moins de deux minutes pour chacun. 

Première expérience dans le Médoc en stage. Premier jour, devant la grille, la gardienne refuse de lui ouvrir, ne croit pas qu’il est prof. Ben oui, tatoué, en jeans, encore un peu jeune, trop. Mais c’est compréhensible. Aucun problème pour La Mythe qui sait que si l’éducation enjoint à dépasser les à priori, ben on y est pas.

Premiers cours sans filet. Première présentation devant une classe de seconde. Je te jure que la voix s’éraille vite. T’as eu beau répéter chez toi toute la veille une phrase de présentation à la con, quand tu la formules face à trente paires d’yeux, les syllabes hoquettent et passent de l’aigu au râle comme si ta bouche était animée d’une vie propre, comme si elle devenait un animal élevé en captivité qui était ce jour précis réensauvagé et découvrait, peureuse et excitée en même temps, une milieu inquiétant qui avait du être naturel un jour.

Après, bienvenu au théâtre. Tout le monde joue son rôle. Un rôle c’est une armure. Quand tout est réussi, on le sait, chacun a au moins enlevé son casque pour montrer son visage, pas plus, pour ne pas s’exposer trop. C’est bien comme ça. Découvert et protégé, comme dans la vie vraie.

Ca lui a plu. D’être ensemble et séparés, d’essayer d’être moins con, d’être attentif aux autres, de déjouer les sèmes de l’autorité qui organisent un apprentissage parcellaire. 

Bref, il avait décidé d’être prof; prof de français. Il avait décidé d’essayer de l’être.  L’existence avait précédé l’essence.

Il avait choisi ensuite, pour diverses raisons, d’aller enseigner en Seine Saint Denis. On ne va pas développer ce sujet maintenant, mais il apprit en un an dans le 93 plus que dans  toute sa vie d’enseignant, et il se fit gratter la tête fort par ses élèves. Personne n’apprend aux autres à s’adapter. Comprenons-nous bien, l’adaptation ce n’est pas se changer, changer les autres, servir la soupe ou attendre qu’on nous obéisse. Non, une fois de plus, c’est comprendre comment on peut être tendus ensemble vers un avenir qu’on peut envisager commun. Apprendre. C’était dur. C’était bien. L’idée qu’il faisait bien son métier s’installa, et il continua. Le plaisir qu’il avait à retrouver les élèves était renouvelé. La routine n’existe pas ou moins que dans un autre travail. Tout se replace dans un contexte simple et dans cette tension: on va être ensemble, dans un contexte certes normé, mais dont les normes qu’on peut arriver à choisir entre nous vont nous protéger et nous permettre de passer une heure au moins agréable, durant laquelle le monde va peut-être s’ouvrir un peu plus que d’habitude parce qu’on va se donner le pouvoir et la force, ensemble, d’en peler l’écorce.

Oui Molière c’est bien, mais rien à foutre de Molière si ça signifie une heure de vocabulaire à chaque page de texte. Ah, tiens, vous ne trouvez pas ça drôle. Les mots du XVIIème siècle vous ne les connaissez pas? J’avais été élève moi-même, personne déjà n’y comprenait plus rien lorsqu’on nous balançait ça comme une lecture non accompagnée dont l’assimilation validait un niveau de lecture abscons. L’Avare c’est plus compréhensible quand tu vois De Funès hystériser Harpagon et quand tu comprends que tu peux réécrire le texte avec tes mots d’argot à toi. Quand tu peux écrire une langue parlée et la dire pour faire rire. Quand tu comprends que l’humour ben ça fonctionne aussi pour véhiculer des messages sociaux. Merde aux mariages forcés, à la bourgeoisie, aux faux-semblants. L’Avare c’est fait pour comprendre qu’on utilise les armes disponibles du monde pour se battre contre lui, les mêmes qui nous oppressent. On apprend qu’on peut parler avec nos mots et qu’il suffit qu’on soit assez à avoir les mêmes pour imposer notre description du réel contre un réel décrit par d’autres, régi par leurs mots. Cette communauté rêvée, cette idée manquée: Rimbaud, Baudelaire ne sont pas des outils de l’oppression bourgeoise. Cette réalité que Césaire, Fanon, ne sont pas enseignés. Cette évidence que de Sapho à Fatou Diomé, quand et si d’aventure on aborde des autrices, leurs textes sont vidés d’une quelconque pensée militante ou personnelle, comme si le style n’était que le produit d’une époque ou la manifestation d’une historicité qui ne vaudrait qu’une révérence. 

Non, le monde est à nous qui le choisissons et tous les mots sont les nôtres. Les mots de Camus, les mots de Duras, les mots de Charlotte Delbo, de Louise Labbé, d’Edouard Glissant, de Stendhal, d’Esope, de Marguerite de Navarre, de Pasolini… Il nous les faut pour dire les nôtres. Ceux qu’on va se choisir ensemble quand on aura compris le monde. On n’a pas besoin d’entendre qu’on ne comprend rien aux mots d’avant comme s’ils auraient du circuler naturellement sous notre peau et créer un réseau de sens commun.

T’as vu la parenthèse de bâtard!? 

Reprenons, sans plus de considération quand à la nature du projet éducatif, promis.

Donc, après 14 ans au service de l’éducation nationale, après avoir vécu le confinement durant lequel on nous a demandé de réinventer nos pratiques, l’après confinement où on nous a rappelé que nous n’étions que des fonctionnaires et que nous devions fonctionner en obéissant aux directives, a^près avoir entendu de la bouche d’inspecteurs convaincus qu’on allait couper les budgets qui finançaient les cours en effectif réduit et les remplacer par des cours « d’aide individualisée en classe entière » (va comprendre Charles) et que ça allait être aussi bien si nous, les profs ,étions efficaces etc etc… 

La Mythe héritait de ce texte  qui était une forme d’évaluation versée à son dossier consultable par toute la hiérarchie et  sous lequel figurait un tampon appliqué par les services du rectorat  qui en validait la conformité et le bien-fondé. 

La Mythe n’était pas sensible et savait d’où ça venait. Il tomba quand même de sa chaise en lisant cette suite de mensonges mélangée à des considérations personnelles infondées. 

D’où ça venait donc? Sans aborder trop techniquement la chose, d’un rattrapage de rapport « d’entretien de carrière » que la principale précédente n’avait pu honorer, donc d’une démarche déjà illégale ou au moins hors-cadre. De qui ça venait? Madame Lalouche, nouvelle principale à un an de la retraite mutée là pour diverses raisons sûrement. Ce que nous savions c’est que des associations de parents d’élèves l’avaient déjà poussée à quitter son poste. Lorsque le jour de la rentrée elle avait éructé « je vais vous obliger à faire votre travail », que tout le monde s’était tu et que La Mythe lui avait répondu que ça faisait bien longtemps qu’on travaillait plus que de coutume dans ce collège et que surtout il faudrait qu’on se parle bien, elle avait du entendre un truc fou comme « je vais te découper la gorge jusqu’aux joues pour t’en faire mandibules connasse. » ce qu’il n’avait pas dit. Depuis lors: collimateur. C’est la vie du travail, c’est comme ça apparemment. 

Un jour, il fallait encore porter les masques, elle vint le trouver dans le couloir et lui dit: « c’est bien! Vous portez le masque! Dites le bien à vos collègues: je suis assermentée et j’imposerai des amendes à quiconque ne le porterait pas ». Bon, la citation est adaptée: elle n’aurait jamais su employer le conditionnel.

Elle affirma que c’était elle qui décidait des heures allouées à tel ou tel projet ou matière et qu’elle avait la main sur la mise en paiement. 

Elle voulut obliger l’assistante sociale à demander  aux familles qui bénéficiaient des bourses de rentrée de lui fournir les tickets de caisses justifiant leurs achats, en citant cette circulaire : « j’ai élevé quatre gosses, quand on est pauvres on s’habille chez décathlon. ». Tout était fou. Et tout le monde s’en branlait comme si, dans ce moment: après le confinement, dans cet endroit, un collège REP PLUS perdu au milieu d’un grand ensemble, face à cette personne à qui il ne restait qu’un an de nuisance, tout était pardonnable. Merci.

Quoi qu’on ait fait, quelque soit la validation et elle est maigre dans ce métier dans lequel il faut se battre pour avoir des moyens pour réparer les fuites aux plafonds, pour avoir des chaises, pour avoir des budgets pour financer les projets pédagogiques, pour refuser qu’on continue de considérer nos élèves comme des incapables privilégiés (cette expression sera développée et expliquée plus tard), quoi qu’on ait fait, on sait qu’on est rien. On se remet en question. Quand on rentre chez nous le soir et qu’on ouvre le frigo, on voit les gosses. Ils sont là, ils nous rappellent nos échecs constants, nos mots trop hauts. Ils nous questionnent sur notre pédagogie, notre didactique. Rien ne cesse. Alors les fils de chien et les putes qui viennent pour les détruire, te détruire, détruire le travail qui a été fait ensemble… Tu veux que je te raconte quoi?

Un jour de réunion avec l’inspecteur du « réseau » qui a moins de dix établissements en charge, qu’on voit deux fois par ans et qui nous dit qu’on va travailler ensemble, le mec nous parle de sa spécialisation dans l’identité des lieux, pour nous expliquer que même si on outrepasse le nombre d’élèves pour la superficie du collège, qu’on n’a pas assez de matériel, de salles, de moyens, ben c’est pas grave, c’est presque notre faute: on pense mal. On lui rétorque qu’ici, les élèves sont accueillis en salle des profs pour travailler, que le mercredi, certains collègues restent pour accueillir des anciens élèves de seconde ou de première pour, sur leurs demandes, les aider. Bref que l’identité du lieu, elle est déjà pensée, mouvante, multiforme. On insiste: ce  dont on a besoin, c’est de plus d’espace à minima, de plus de moyens si on rêve. Sans jamais sourciller, cet homme, cadre de l’administration scolaire, nous dit qu’on devrait chercher dans la réserve, réparer nous-même des vieux meubles pour avoir plus de mobilier. Plus: il nous propose de participer à un appel d’offre privé, qui nous mettrait en concurrence avec d’autres collèges de pauvres pour obtenir un budget qui nous permettrait d’acheter de la peinture, par exemple, et de pouvoir repeindre nous-mêmes nos classes le dimanche ou après notre journée de travail! Quelle chance aurions-nous alors de pouvoir décider de l’habillage coloré de notre quotidien! Dans la salle des profs, tout le monde resta coi. La Mythe avoua à l’inspecteur qu’il se passionnait lui-même pour l’identité des lieux. Il lui demanda s’il avait visité le collège, entre autre la salle 207 qui ne pouvait contenir que 11 Tables de deux et dans laquelle on donnait cours à des classes de 24 élèves. Celui ci lui répondit qu’il n’avait pas encore pris le temps de découvrir la structure du collège. La Mythe lui demanda ensuite si au sein de l’éducation nationale c’était bien sérieux de participer à un concours pour gagner de l’argent privé qui mettait en concurrence différents collèges démunis, et enfin, il lui fit remarquer qu’il n’était ni peintre, non maître d’oeuvre, encore moins en dehors de son temps de travail qui n’était d’ailleurs pas circonscrit par un contrat puisqu’il accueillait souvent d’anciens élèves pour les aider. L’inspecteur lui répondit qu’il fallait bien qu’il se rappelle qu’« ils étaient des privilégiés ici».  

C’est là que La Mythe lui demanda qui était privilégié ici. Les familles de la cité? Les élèves scolarisés dans cette structure aux murs pourris? La « communauté éducative » qui s’efforçait de monter des projets dans le cadre de l’éducation nationale depuis des années sans faire appel à des capitaux privés? L’inspecteur bégaya un « ce n’est pas ce que je voulais dire ». Le même mec qui parlait si bien et qui voulait te niquer la gueule en parlant « d’identité des lieux ». Subitement, il s’était trompé de mots? Non. On est tout seul. Toujours. On fait nos trucs. 

[tacticalhimbo]

RUNNING UP THAT HILL: A VAMPIRE THE MASQUERADE BLOODLINES FICLET

WORDS: 1.9K FANDOM(S): Vampire The Masquerade WARNINGS: Mentions and descriptions of murder, transphobia, violence, and injury.

Another spur of the moment writing, because the scene with the taxi driver after LaCroix calls a hunt on the player character has such good dialog. This centers around my Toreador character, Brienne Isadora Eranthe, a transfem union lawyer who was Embraced into the Masquerade after, what was intended to be, a simple night out.

Please no spoilers about the end of the game, either! I'm newer to the game, and I've gotten to the part where you do find out Nines is alive, and you're sent to confront Ming Xiao. I just... had to write this ficlet out fjdaslkjfkslfjs. Character development and whatnot.

This isn't proofread or anything, either. Just vibes <3

Crimson blossoms bled through stained satin, sallow hands trembling briefly before stilling. Pearly eyes focused on the wound that lengthy fingers caressed, seemingly staring past the opening and through the well-coated flesh and muscle. Its owner, an older woman, was numbed to the sensation; numbed to the subtle vibrations of the taxi as its driver simply pulled away before the ravenous crowd could find themselves broken through. Concealed eyes scanned her visage in the rear-view mirror.

"Where to?"

She spared a glance. "Get me the hell out of Santa Monica… hell, just get me out of town. I just… I need to get out of town."

Surely enough, all of the chaos vanished as the pair found themselves upon the highways. The bleeding had stopped now, leaving behind a gnarly mess on a once gorgeous ensemble. Brienne finally exhaled as the towering skyscrapers became minuscule, now tired eyes scanning the horizon for any danger. There was none—none that was apparent, anyway. But that's how it was, wasn't it? None of this was apparent to her. Not being Embraced. Not facing execution. Not pushing herself to her body's extremes in hopes that someone—anyone—might take notice that she is a fish out of water and needs help. Not being captured by hunters and subjected to experimentation so pervasive in its nature that she told nobody of it. Nobody except the kindly Nosferatu man she'd helped break out; who'd experienced it with her. No… None of this was apparent that night she and her dearest friends had stepped into that club. The worst case scenario for someone like her was, usually, a one-time offense. Something she could either move on from, or never wake up from. But this?

This was a new sort of hell. One that didn't have statistics or conversations. One that, truly, had made her lose everything.

Shoulders slumped as she eased into the backseat of the taxi, lashes fluttering as she blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. Yet even still, she couldn't help the harsh laugh that'd escaped her.

"What a fucking night." Her tone was bitter. Cold and distant, just as the bustling Hollywood streets now felt all those miles away.

The driver kept his focus on the road. Spared only the briefest of glances before speaking.

"The night has not been kind to you?"

Unlike her voice, his held a warmth despite its distance. Like this was routine. Perhaps it was. And the thought was just humorous enough to steel the urge she'd felt to show her fangs and snarl with a venomous sarcasm. Instead, Brienne simply rolled her eyes and looked out the window. Watched the stars glimmer amidst the midnight sky.

"If it weren't for Jack…" She paused. Her breath hitched. A tear fell. Then another. She shook her head and harshly wiped at the falling stains, smearing what remained of her makeup onto the back of her bloodied hand. "Say, you know anything about Jack?"

A steady hum.

"I only recently made the acquaintance of Mister Jack. He intrigues me very much. There are so few like him these nights, I think. But then, I only know what I hear from others about the Kindred of this city. It sounds as if there are many who seek to sway the children of Caine to their side… many who believe they shape the destiny of the blood. You work for Prince LaCroix, don't you?"

A curious glance, which quickly returned to the road ahead as a large truck merged into the lane. The taxi driver slowed, allowing them access. Giving Brienne more time to think the question over, even if she didn't feel she needed it. She scoffed.

"I work for no one." Her voice wavered, then forced itself to steady as she scowled at the passing landscape. "I'm out of this city. Good riddance, LA."

"You could run…" Another glimpse. The subtle softening of his tone. "but do you really think you could escape your reputation? I know little about you except the rumors that you've killed the Anarch leader and betrayed your own kind."

Ire. A nasty look now directed to the driver's reflection in the mirror. The snarl of a caged animal.

"It's not true! I didn't kill Nines!" Even raised, the fledgling's voice was unsteady; strained, much like her form. She winced as she adjusted her posture.

"You have been accused." Punctually stated. "If you were to run, this reputation would travel with you until your final night. Your only recourse is to clear this charge… or to smite the conspirators working against your good name."

Another sigh, accompanied by the deflating of the woman's composure. Her head hung, eyes returning to the grisly sight sat upon her lap. In the subtle glow of the streetlights, she could see the fire. Feel the warmth of the ash and flames overtaking the mountain station as her heart raced. Muscles grew taut and she began to tremble again, her fist clenching in a weak attempt to push down the rising tension. It broke when she saw his face again—saw the fear in Nines' face as he was tackled down by a werewolf and flung over the cliff face. The almost apologetic glaze in his eyes as he'd realized he wouldn't be able to protect her now, like he had those months ago when her newly awakened form sat bound before all to see; as he'd realized he failed her. Crimson blossoms moistened as the tears finally fell.

"If the Anarchs knew what really happened…" She looked to the mirror again. "tak me to the Anarchs."

"The Anarchs… a curious experiment." Brienne winced at the usage of the word. "But they have lost many battles and more leaders—their rebellion has already failed in the eyes of many. Do you feel their notions of freedom have any real possibility?"

A genuine question. One that only brought about more twangs of guilt within the Toreador's conscience. It wasn't until too recently that she'd realized how scummy Prince LaCroix was. How he'd not cared whether she lived or died, long as he'd gotten his way. Yet even after all of the work she'd done for him… The Anarchs took her in. They were willing to look past her testimonies because a mere fledgling, all too unfamiliar with the intricate and oppressive politics of the world she now found herself in. Or perhaps, deep down, someone amongst their ranks had realized she had the potential to be the bearer of change. Whatever the reason, they believed in her, even if she struggled—even now—to believe in them.

But that was no more. It couldn't be…

"As long as a few believe, it'll remain a possibility." A lesson she'd learned all those years ago, as she came into herself. As she broke free from her own oppressive mindset, and allowed herself to flourish into the beautiful woman she was today.

A subtle nod.

"If the Anarchs manged to recapture this city, it would not be long before someone challenged them for it. Conflict is always an eventuality in their life. Could you spend an eternity this way?"

As if she hasn't already. 43 years of existence, with nearly 20 of those being as she was now. It was no easy thing to announce herself as a trans woman to the world. Not then, and certainly not now. She knew she could handle the fight for what was right; that wasn't the part that scared her. It was the unfamiliarity. The new territory of, quite literally, facing an eternity. Unless she were to find an unfortunately early demise at the hands of those she'd wronged thus far.

"It may not be the best choice, but it's the best choice I have."

"The Anarch spirit exists within the blood of many." He began, seeming to catch the lingering hesitation. "Few, though, are willing to listen to it. Perhaps, if a few more did, they would not have lost so much."

"I shouldn't abandon them." I never should have, is what she'd like to say. But now was not the time to linger on her mistakes. Lord knows she'd made enough of them. Even still… "But with Nines gone… I think it might be over."

A calloused hand briefly left the wheel, thicker fingers finding the volume control and allowing the music to fade. Smoothly as it'd left, it returned to its position. 2 o'clock.

"The Anarchs have lost less than is thought. I hear there is one left who may be able to revitalize the movement. Maybe, though, it is just a rumor." There was a hint of something; a subtle emphasis blanketing his disregard of the idea as rumor.

He didn't believe it, but he wasn't one to push the actions of another to his will. It was merely the carrot on the stick. The fuel needed for any potential flames to ignite. All he had to do was await her reaction; to drive the lengthy stretch of highway in hopes the loop they'd found themselves in was not obvious.

And it worked.

A flash of flame ignited in the fledgling's silver eyes, shoulders squaring as she'd finally brought herself to sit up proper. The pain was dulled now, enough to ignore as she made eye contact with the driver.

"Really? I'd really like to meet this person." Her voice was proper steady now. She'd found it again. The driver's lips twitched, the ghost of a smile threatening to fall upon his chapped lips.

"I know where you might find them. But," his eyes met hers, "you would have to be ready to commit to the Anarchs' fight for this city." They left, returning to the road. "I could just as easily take you downtown to see LaCroix."

It was a weighty responsibility. One that, frankly, Brienne felt unprepared to carry. After failing them so many times, and being tossed to the wolves by Prince LaCroix, the only thing that was clear to her was, "… I don't know what to do."

A sigh from him, this time. The careful consideration of the driver's words.

"Your sympathies seem to lie with the Anarchs." A calloused hand briefly left the wheel, thicker fingers finding the volume control and allowing the music to rise again. Smoothly as it'd left, it returned to its position. 2 o'clock. "The Anarchs' passion may be their greatest strength or their Achilles' heel, but imagine if they did hold on to the Free State. It could inspire others to come, and together, construct a new Enoch."

A slow nod from her, this time. The acknowledgment that, maybe, things could change. That she could do for them what they'd done for her. That she could finally repay the favor.

"Yeah. The Anarchs need me. Take me to Hollywood."

"If you share the Anarchs' passion and would share the burden of such a fire, we will go meet the last person capable of keeping them together."

A smile graced the fledgling's lips. "If they're anything like Nines, things will be free—truly free—by sun up. Let's go."

"If that is your decision."

Silence befell the duo once more, but it was no longer daunting. It was… liberating. A breath of fresh air from the hustle and bustle of the city below them. And, damned be the consequences, others would be able to feel such a relief by the time the sun rose and they settled into slumber. Brienne would make sure of that.

[eat3rs]

#𝐄𝐀𝐓𝟑𝐑𝐒     .     .     .        a   semi   selective   original   character   as   loved   by   𝐉𝐎   (   25   ,   she/they   ,   virgo   )   .   inspired   by   preacher's   daughter   (   ethel   cain   )   ,   bones   &   all   (   film   and   book   )   ,   and   love   as   consumption   .   triggering   topics   will   be   discussed   and   tagged   accordingly   . sideblog to @deathgrippeds .

heavily associated with @redemptioninterlude , @bu11seye , @depictedblue <3

#𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒       ,        standard   rules   apply   .   i   prefer   to   write   with   partners   18+   .   i   generally   prefer   to   write   darker   themes   and   plots   ,   and   if   that's   not   you're   thing   that's   totally   fine   .   i'm   not   picky   about   faceclaims   ,   though   i   will   not   write   with   those   who   use   faces   of   people   who   have   passed   away   .   i'm   relatively   slow   when   it   comes   to   replies   just   because   i   do   work   fairly   often   and   am   trying   my   best   to   adapt   to   a   better   writing   routine   .   i'm   not   particular   about   formatting   ,   though   i   do   prefer   to   use   regular   text   +   medium   sized   gifs   .   if   my   double   spacing   is   a   bother   to   you   ,   let   me   know   ,   and   i'll   use   regular   spacing   :~) 

#𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒       ,     open   starters   ,   wanted   opposites   ,   wanted   plots   ,   memes   ,   visage   ,   aesthetics   ,   musings   , headcannons , interest tracker .

#𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒       ,        dakota   vicente   cruz   ,   otherwise   known   as   dakota   ,   is   twenty-seven   years   old   and   born   on   october   31st,   1996   ,   in   new   orleans   ,   louisiana   .   his   current   residence   is   anywhere   ,   living   life   on   the   road   with   no   final   destination   in   particular   .   dakota's   a   professional   musician   ,   with   a   quiet   reputation   . 

#𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘       ,     it's   a   grueling   task   to   recall   the   beginning   stages   of   his   life   ,   as   all   he'd   known   was   to   repress   every   memory   .   dakota's   biological   parents   were   never   equipped   for   the   task   of   a   child   ,   considering   the   fact   that   his   mother   worked   three   jobs   after   she   left   home   at   seventeen   ,   and   his   father   ?   well   ,   speaking   of   his   father   was   never   something   that   left   a   sweeter   taste   in   his   mouth   .   he   was   there   ,   whether   he   wanted   to   be   or   not   ,   but   became   more   of   a   ghost   than   anything   else   . 

dakota   always   knew   that   he   was   different   ,   and   for   the   longest   time   he   always   chalked   it   up   to   the   fact   that   his   homelife   was   less   than   ideal   .   he'd   only   ever   known   violence   at   the   hands   of   his   father   .   a   drunken   idiot   who   could   never   seem   to   keep   his   hands   to   himself   .   dakota   never   quite   comprehended   why   his   mother   stuck   around   ,   and   why   she   even   went   on   to   carry   another   one   of   his   children   .   it   was   aggravating   to   bare   witness   to   ,   to   watch   the   way   that   she   loved   so   fervently   that   she   was   willing   to   risk   her   own   sanity   to   give   her   children   the   concept   of   a   perfect   family   .

but   there   was   more   ,   wasn't   there   ?   something   that   burned   in   his   veins   that   made   it   awfully   hard   to   keep   composed   .   he'd   learn   to   distract   himself   from   that   certain   hunger   .   learning   music   ,   immersing   himself   in   sports   .   for   the   longest   of   time   ,   he'd   held   out   .   he   never   bit   when   every   fiber   of   his   being   begged   for   just   a   simple   taste   .   a   good   boy   he   was   ,   and   how   his   mother   fawned   over   him   despite   her   own   inability   to   love   herself   .   all   that   love   was   saved   for   her   children   ,   and   dakota   had   grown   to   resent   her   for   it   . 

but   being   smart   and   being   talented   wasn't   enough   to   really   keep   him   tightly   wound   enough   to   bite   back   at   his   father   ,   who   had   grown   resentful   of   the   way   that   dakota   had   seemingly   begun   to   play   the   role   of   a   father   figure   in   his   younger   sister's   life   .   all   that   anger   and   all   that   rage   made   that   peculiar   craving   grow   stronger   the   older   he'd   grown   to   be   .   it   happens   all   without   much   warning   ,   without   much   thought   .

it's   a   normal   evening   ,   where   his   mother   comes   home   five   minutes   later   than   she   had   communicated   .   dakota   always   braces   himself   for   the   worst   whenever   things   like   that   would   happen   .   his   father   harbored   some   seething   insecurity   issues   ,   where   five   minutes   away   from   him   meant   five   minutes   in   someone   else's   bed   .   it   starts   as   a   quiet   argument   ,   hushed   and   in   the   kitchen   where   neither   dakota   nor   his   sister   could   really   distinguish   what   was   said   .   it   always   started   that   way   ,   and   dakota   would   be   the   one   to   send   her   off   to   her   room   and   sit   close   by   ,   waiting   for   the   moment   it   escalated   . 

and   to   be   expected   ,   it   escalated   .   it   never   mattered   how   many   times   that   his   mother   insisted   on   dakota   not   stepping   in   ,   he   would   always   find   himself   prying   his   father's   dirty   hands   from   off   of   her   .   dakota   had   grown   acquainted   to   the   thrown   punches   from   his   father   ,   and   it   was   never   anything   that   phased   him   .   though   there   was   a   split   moment   in   which   he   felt   far   too   consumed   by   his   anger   ;   how   his   father   could   preach   about   a   merciful   god   every   sunday   ,   but   come   home   and   show   no   mercy   to   the   family   that   he   had   created   .   the   anger   was   skin   deep   ,   seething   ,   begging   to   be   felt   . 

even   in   the   face   of   this   overwhelming   fear   to   protect   his   mother   from   the   monster   within   himself   ,   he   could   no   longer   hold   back   what   was   destined   to   become   of   him   .   he   sends   his   mother   out   ,  ��with   his   father   pinned   down   against   the   cold   tile   of   the   kitchen   floor   .   he   tells   her   to   leave   with   his   sister   ,   to   get   as   far   away   as   possible   from   the   home   that   they   shared   . 

it   was   the   first   time   dakota   remembers   eating   .   it   was   the   first   time   that   he   had   fully   come   to   the   realization   that   the   difference   that   he   felt   in   himself   was   something   bigger   than   he   expected   .   how   could   he   ever   explain   himself   to   his   mother   ?   his   sister   ?   the   two   people   in   his   life   that   really   adored   him   for   all   he   was   .   could   he   ever   trust   himself   to   be   around   them   ?   to   let   them   get   that   close   ?

he   thinks   on   his   feet   ,   cleaning   up   after   himself   and   driving   his   father's   truck   as   far   away   from   louisiana   as   he   can   .   he   calls   his   mom   from   a   payphone   outside   some   shitty   dive   bar   in   mississippi   ,   tells   her   that   she   can   come   back   home   and   tells   a   story   of   his   father   storming   out   the   door   .   he   explains   how   he's   leaving   town   ,   and   how   he   can't   stomach   the   thought   of   living   in   the   city   he'd   grown   up   in   any   longer   .   his   mother   cries   ,   begs   for   some   other   resolution   .   it's   the   first   time   he   remembers   the   pain   of   a   heartbreak   .   he   speeds   up   the   inevitable   ,   growing   older   and   growing   more   tired   of   having   to   provide   for   everybody   but   himself   .   it's   selfish   ,   and   he   hates   it   ,   but   not   once   has   he   ever   made   time   for   himself   .

he   takes   the   drive   to   chicago   ,   with   the   savings   he'd   acquired   and   whatever   he   pick   pockets   from   the   nameless   strangers   he   feasts   on   on   the   way   .   finds   himself   playing   small   open   mics   in   random   bars   across   the   drive   ,   and   he's   never   been   shy   and   has   always   been   overwhelmingly   charasmatic   .   it's   no   wonder   that   people   take   a   liking   to   him   ,   and   it's   no   wonder   he's   found   himself   a   quaint   little   fanbase   that   takes   a   liking   to   his   aimless   endeavors   through   tiny   towns   and   nameless   cities   .

in   chicago   with   nothing   but   a   shitty   old   truck   and   and   a   dream   .   it's   the   longest   he's   stayed   in   one   place   ,   trying   his   best   to   lay   down   some   roots   just   to   build   himself   up   enough   to   leave   .   he   bites   back   the   hunger   ,   making   sure   to   be   as   careful   as   possible   for   as   long   as   his   body   allows   .   somehow   it   works   ,   through   all   that   struggle   &   through   all   that   guilt   .

after   years   of   patience   and   dilligence   ,   he   makes   a   name   for   himself   .   an   artist   and   a   mystery   .   one   big   break   and   he's   the   next   big   thing   ,   and   he   takes   that   and   runs   with   it   .   quite   literally   .   sifting   through   the   states   and   making   temporary   homes   in   small   towns   ,   because   it's   easier   this   way   .   finds   the   time   to   visit   home   ,   and   makes   peace   with   his   mother   and   sister   despite   their   confusion   about   that   night   .   finds   himself   right   back   in   the   position   of   taking   care   of   them   ,   moving   them   from   out   of   louisiana   to   indiana   .   somewhere   quiet   .   somewhere   where   the   ghosts   of   their   pasts   don't   seem   to   haunt   them   .   he   keeps   them   away   from   the   light   .   the   attention   was   never   meant   for   them   ,   and   he's   always   been   fiercely   protective   of   his   own   blood   .

past   his   own   traumas   ,   he   remains   the   same   .   someone   with   a   lighthearted   sense   of   humor   and   a   heart   several   sizes   too   large   for   his   body   .   even   with   being   showered   with   poor   examples   of   love   ,   he   knows   the   difference   between   right   and   wrong   .   quietly   yearning   for   the   one   thing   he   never   really   got   to   see   .   nor   experience   .   evident   in   his   music   ,   simply   evident   in   the   way   that   he   carries   himself   . 

[bldmnrises]

@vigilantdesert !

sometimes, being a genderless enby brought an envy from others, especially the men who ventured so far into the desert to achieve the likes of gerudo town. ah, but they weren't the same, so easily encouraged by the women and others who inhabited the sandstone city of piety, strength, and power. by ways of their leader, a simple creature such as junkil could find meaning and home within their walls, and yet as nomadic as they lived, they often found themselves returning to a friend's home, leaning on her throne to sip drinks and rest upon satin pillows.

such beauty by golds, gemstones, even mosaic ornate decor, but junk found it far too busying for their focus. instead, practiced business was escorted to palace walls where they'd accompany chieftain in her daily routines, all while being a complete lap cat. their height, so small -- almost a head taller than their youth who ran rambunctious in the streets -- had them lounging across tan thighs and stretching out across urbosa's limbs like some chunk of feline companionship.

" you sure know how to pick 'em, 'bosa ! " comes plainly, as if the woman alone didn't already seem willing to push them clear from her visage at moment's notice, their testing of her waters sprawling out a wag of their tail that flicks along the side of her calf, catty behavior even letting a resemblance of a purr chitter free. " desert heat mixed with the cooling rush of water ? certainly no oasis paradise, but DEFINITELY, D̴E̷F̷I̶N̵I̶T̶E̷L̸Y̸ a place to call home. "

" wish i had the rupees to afford a house here. i'd ! just to have a slab t' lay my head on. "

[tokbooster]

TokBooster.com Révèle 5 Astuces pour un Contenu Plus Puissant

TokBooster vous aide à grandir sur les réseaux sociaux grâce à des guides simples et des stratégies concrètes. Avec TokBooster.com, vous apprenez à publier avec intention, à construire votre profil et à toucher votre audience avec du contenu qui fonctionne. Si vous voulez rendre vos publications plus efficaces et arrêter de deviner quoi faire ensuite, ces cinq astuces sont pour vous.

1. Commencez par un message clair

Chaque publication doit se concentrer sur une seule idée. Si votre message est confus, les gens passent à autre chose. Demandez-vous ce que vous voulez que votre audience comprenne, ressente ou fasse après avoir vu votre contenu. Restez concentré sur ce point. Gardez vos légendes courtes et directes. Si vous utilisez du texte dans une vidéo, limitez-vous à l’essentiel. Un message clair rend votre contenu plus percutant et renforce votre voix.

2. Choisissez le format qui correspond à votre objectif

Chaque contenu n’a pas besoin d’être une vidéo ou une longue légende. Réfléchissez au format qui correspond à votre but. Pour créer de la confiance, montrez votre visage et parlez directement. Pour expliquer quelque chose, essayez un carrousel avec des conseils courts. Pour des mises à jour rapides ou poser une question, une story est plus adaptée. Chaque format a sa fonction. En choisissant le bon, votre message passe mieux et votre audience réagit davantage.

3. Soignez les trois premières secondes

Les gens décident très vite s’ils vont continuer ou faire défiler. Le début de votre vidéo ou de votre légende est crucial. Commencez avec un élément fort. Posez une question, partagez un fait marquant ou allez droit au but. Évitez les introductions longues ou les salutations. En vidéo, votre expression et votre langage corporel comptent dès les premières secondes. En texte, la première ligne doit capter l’attention ou montrer une valeur. Si vous captez l’intérêt dès le début, les gens restent plus longtemps.

4. Publiez quand votre audience est active

Le moment de publication influence fortement les performances. Si vous publiez quand vos abonnés ne sont pas connectés, votre portée diminue. Consultez vos données pour savoir quand votre audience est en ligne. Essayez de publier juste avant ces périodes. Testez aussi différents jours. Vous n’avez pas besoin de publier tous les jours. Il suffit de publier aux bons moments. Une publication bien placée peut faire plus que trois aléatoires.

5. Créez un système que vous pouvez maintenir

Un contenu fort vient de la régularité, pas de la perfection. Vous n’avez pas besoin d’idées nouvelles chaque jour. Commencez par un plan simple. Choisissez quelques sujets que vous pouvez répéter chaque semaine. Prévoyez du temps une ou deux fois par semaine pour regrouper vos idées ou filmer plusieurs clips. En planifiant vos publications, vous évitez l’épuisement et restez régulier. Votre audience remarque cette constance, et cela renforce la confiance.

Créer un contenu plus fort ne veut pas dire travailler plus. Cela veut dire être clair, concentré et appliquer des stratégies qui correspondent à votre rythme. Ces cinq astuces vous aident à produire du contenu qui parle vraiment à votre audience et leur donne envie de revenir.

Conclusion

Concentrez-vous sur une astuce à la fois. Clarifiez votre message. Choisissez le bon format. Attirez l’attention dès le début. Publiez quand votre audience est là. Créez un système adapté à votre routine. Chaque élément soutient les autres. Vous avez besoin d’une direction.

Utilisez ces cinq astuces comme point de départ. Laissez-les guider vos prochaines publications. Avec de la pratique, votre contenu devient plus précis. Votre message gagne en force. Et votre audience commence à se développer pas seulement en nombre, mais aussi en lien.

Votre contenu a déjà de la valeur. Ces étapes vous aident à le partager de manière plus efficace. Restez simple. Restez authentique. Et restez régulier. C’est comme ça que vous transformez vos idées en contenu qui grandit.

[masterpost09-blog]

Cosmétiques capillaires et visage haut de gamme, désormais disponibles partout en France

Accédez à une société où la beauté est à la hauteur : Aiya Wonder Consideration est votre référence pour des produits de qualité supérieure, aussi bien pour les cheveux crépus que pour les soins lifting. Grâce à une gamme soigneusement sélectionnée pour les plus performants au monde, notre objectif est d'offrir un soin optimal aux personnes du monde entier. La beauté est une forme d'expression personnelle, et elle ne doit pas être compromise.

Notre gamme comprend une sélection tendance de marques haut de gamme telles que Braé, Hydropeptide, Lebel et ORising, des leaders reconnus mondialement pour leurs produits innovants et leurs résultats esthétiques. Que vous souffriez de calvitie, de sécheresse, d'un teint terne ou que vous vous posiez simplement des questions, vous trouverez des solutions parmi nos gammes sélectionnées.

Les soins capillaires crépus sont une priorité pour Aiya Wonder Consider. Les cheveux crépus, avec leurs mèches abîmées et leurs frisottis, sont souvent difficiles à traiter. Nous proposons des soins nourrissants et réparateurs. Nos gammes ORising et Balding sont particulièrement réputées, proposant des traitements curatifs qui améliorent la santé du cuir chevelu et stimulent la croissance des cheveux grâce à des formules naturelles et cliniquement reconnues.

Conçus pour le teint orising shampoo, certains de nos produits offrent une hydratation complète, des propriétés anti-âge et une correction statique du teint. Grâce à des soins de confort comme Rosy Lose, Atache, Instytutum et Hard to find Paris, certains de nos utilisateurs concevront des routines d'entraînement à la fois efficaces et agréables. Que vous ayez besoin d'un booster de collagène, d'un sérum vitaminé J ou simplement d'un masque lifting, nous avons tout ce qu'il vous faut.

Ce qui distingue Aiya ne fait pas partie de notre gamme de produits, mais de notre mission : vous aider à faire le bon choix. Nous proposons une consultation complète en ligne, garantissant des stratégies personnalisées adaptées à votre peau ou à vos cheveux crépus. Nos conseillers experts savent combien il est important de proposer des produits et services adaptés à vos besoins spécifiques.

Acheter avec Aiya Wonder Attention est simple et efficace. Notre service rapide parle français, vous pouvez donc espérer recevoir les meilleurs produits et services rapidement et en toute sécurité. Nous prenons soin de chaque détail avec soin, car nous comprenons l'importance de prendre soin de soi.

Avec Aiya Wonder Attention, vous n'achetez pas, vous recherchez des produits de qualité supérieure et garantissez un teint éclatant comme jamais auparavant.