#completed interaction

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[little-pup-pip]

Cosy day in!!

[userarmand]

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE — 2.03 "No Pain"

[proxythe]

sorry im really obsessed with this pair … 🧚 u guys must understand… i have a rare pair addiction …

[jonnywaistcoat]

If someone were to recognise you out in public, what is your preferred way of them interacting with you? Do you like it when fans say hi or would you rather be left completely alone? I would never want to make anyone uncomfortable but I think some people would love to tell you how much they appreciate your work in person! :)

I mean, it depends entirely on context tbh - if I look like I'm in a rush somewhere or doing something that requires attention, probably leave me be. If not, I'm usually happy to say hi. Honestly, like most humans, I rather like it when strangers say nice things to me but also find it a little bit awkward. Where the balance between those lies depends on the day, so its a roll of the dice whether I'll be slightly thrilled or slightly uncomfortable, but you're never going to actually upset me just by saying hello or that you like my work.

[venusml]

Friendly reminder:

You do not actually support paraphilias if you have to say "except zoos/maps." You support fully or not at all.

[turtlespancake]

i love seeing out of context posts about long-running stories with deep lore because it's always shit like "MAJOR SPOILER WARNING!! i can't believe that the metallic athenaeum's envoy actually used never-ending dance of the 57th universe on rionne as if she's not LITERALLY the incarnate of august?!?!" it's like buddy boy thank you for the spoiler tag but all of those words are incomprehensible without at least 5 years of foreshadowed knowledge, 7 different fan theories, and 21 wiki entries

[linolinoing]

★ lino linoing moments: 15/∞

[marvelousmawn]

getting my ass absolutely handed to me by network effect, a compilation (so far):

[kyurochurro]

"gentlemen i believe... we are lost."

(entering the new year with a stv drawing since im still on a st movie kick from the marathon my dad and i had HEHE >:D)

[kkbardd]

Reverse Nerd!AU in which Asuka is a fictional character and Rei is a diehard weeb who makes her their entire personality

[sipthegossip-if]

THE EYE-CANDY/FLUTTERING BUTTERFLY. Alexis Sinclair is the media's current favourite darling. From the bridge of their nose, to the curve of their smile— Alexis Sinclair is a sculpture of art. Every artist's most desired muse.

There are people who enter a room like a storm. Alexis isn't one of them. Alexis arrives like the breeze on your windchime— gentle, effortless and impossible not to notice once they are gone. Sweet, disarming and a little forgetful— and maybe beneath it all, a little lonely too. They insist on calling everyone, "babe", "love", "darling" and everything alike but somehow when they say it to you, it feels different. Or maybe that is just what Alexis Sinclair does : make everyone believe that they are an exception.

Alexis Sinclair is like a butterfly— easy to like, but impossible to hold. Just within your grasp before they slip right through your fingers like sand as if to say, look, but don't touch.

IDIOTS IN LOVE : You never expected to strike an unlikely frienship with Alexis, yet here you are. The universe speaks to you in mysterious ways. You never understood how someone could 'light up a room' before but now that you have begun spending your time with Alexis you're beginning to understand. You spend countless hours on the phone, listening to Alexis ramble— you have noticed Alexis has that habit of waving around their hands animatedly when they are excited about something. It's cute.

Alexis finds themself being as aware of you as you are of them. Like, how you walk in on set and Alexis is the first person you look for, only to find their eyes already on you and isn't that so, sweet? It's not easy to make friends who care in the industry. You are grateful for Alexis.

River teased Alexis about you once. You remember vividly the way Alexis' ears turned red, at that. You also remember the unpleasantly warm feeling at the pit of your stomach. You didn't like the comment. No, you didn't. You and Alexis are great friends. Who would want to kill something as beautiful as that?

FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS : "It doesn't mean anything." You tell Alexis between feverish kisses and really, Alexis understands.

It doesn't mean anything, they tell themself too. It never means anything. Not like Alexis cares. That's how it should be, at least.

Alexis knows the inside of your thighs more intimately than they know how you like your coffee. More than friends and less than lovers. They possess the liberty to kiss your spine while you're lying naked and sweaty beside them in bed but not wrap their fingers around yours when you're sober and awake.

And that is fine by them. It really, really, is. Or so they tell themself.

PERSONALITY : What is more to them other than their pretty face?

A huge chunk of the media thinks of Sinclair as your typical dumb blonde (except that they aren't blonde.) Though, Alexis has time and time again proven them wrong by being clever, witty and charming in their interviews. The public loves them, the media loves them, hell, even Victor/ia Alvarez is— an albeit begruding— fan. Tabloids call them the "relatable" celebrity. Always smooth and armed with a megawatt smile for the camera, and at least one dating scandal waiting to happen. Will you become just another number on their list?

APPEARANCE : Fair complexion. Blue-eyed redhead. Freckles on face, back, chest and shoulders. Build changes according to their roles. (Headcanon!) 5'9. f!curly hair reaching mid back. m!short curly hair. unbelievably gorgeous and one of the highest paid models. Smells like sandalwood and vanilla. Likes thin gold necklaces and bracelets. Their style is ever changing— they don't stick to trends, they create and break them.

[crazymecjc]

his hands are gentle.

[hey-hey-j]

a lighthearted jab

(★ my Kofi) | (★ commission info)

[greghatecrimes]

This had no business being as funny as it was

[seleneprince]

0 | PROLOGUE

m.list

??? POV

They say that when you’re about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes—like a fast movie. Or a TikTok reel, skipping through your childhood and toward the present.

Apparently, it's meant to show you the mistakes you made before that moment. The things you did—or worse, didn’t. So you can spend your last moments filled with regrets. Sweet, isn't it?

Personally, I don't think that's true. At least, not for everyone. When you're about to die, you spend the last minutes you have left retracing the steps and decisions that led you here, one by one. Then, the epiphany hits: this was always going to happen. You’ve been heading toward this direction all along.

I know because that's what's happening to me right now. I'm dying.

Well—not technically. A more accurate description would be: I’m falling to my death. I estimate five seconds, at maximum, until I hit the ground and my time is over. After all, how many people survive falling from a tenth-floor window? Not many. Unless you got superpowers or a parachute, which sadly, is not my case. I'm a just a regular human.

Well, scratch that. I’m stronger, smarter, and generally more capable than most humans. But I still have limits—unnerving, frustrating limits. The kind that come with... being just human. Like weakness against gravity. It's so annoying sometimes.

Now more than ever, of course. Oh well...not like it matters anymore, I guess.

It’s not my first time falling from a considerable height—or being pushed from one—but usually, I can grab unto something before the worst happens. Or, even better, push them off instead. But this time, as soon as I felt the window's glass shattering against my back, I knew there was no saving this time. No ledge to grab. No lucky balcony to break the fall. Just air. And gravity doing its job too well.

My body barely twists mid-air, still reeling from the blast that threw me out of the damn window in the first place. But because instincts are hard to turn off, my limbs flail on reflex, like it'll help, even when I'm plummeting to my death.

It's amazing, really—how the brain still tries its damn hardest to keep you alive, even when you’ve mentally accepted the end already. Muscles tighten. Hands flail uselessly. Eyes looking for miracles.

But I know there are no miracles for me today. Never again.

So instead, I use my last moments to think. Think about all the decisions that led up to this. The arguments. The ambitions. The mistakes. The betrayal. The familiar warmth of rage boiling in my blood when I lunged. The delicious rush of adrenaline as I made them bleed, as I took out all my frustrations on their bones until the end.

I think about how part of me knew this was how it would end. Not necessarily the fall, but what it led to it. That part had been a long time coming.

And weirdly... I’m not really scared. I’m pissed, that's for sure—and in a lot of pain. Mildly satisfied too. It's not like I wanted to die young, but I always figured that when it happened, I’d go out in a blaze of something cool. And a fragmentation-EMP hybrid bomb? Yeah, that's cool as fuck. Bond-movie level cool.

The fact that it was built from my own design just adds a special flavour of irony to it.

Shame I can't have this moment recorded in video. Make it slow-motion and it could be used as a sick-ass scene for an action movie's trailer. Or played for my funeral. That would be awesome.

After everything that's happened, it just feels right. The perfect goodbye.

And yet...there's something that bothers me. A lot.

As my body goes down faster and the icy realization of my uncoming demise crashes over me, I think of my mom. My little siblings. Alfred. Duke. Even my dad...not the biological one, but the first one I had. The only one I've had.

I think of my friends, my life, everything I built...and now I'm leaving behind. Unfinished.

I can see my mom crying when she finds out, sobbing in that way she hasn't allowed herself to since she got married. She’ll break. She’ll be told that her daughter—her firstborn, her pride—is dead. Torn from her. And no one will be there to hold her the way she needs. No one will be there to comfort her through her raw pain and grief.

Alfred will try, I know he will. But there are parts of her grief he won’t be able to reach. The twins—my baby siblings—they’re too young. They’ve never had to carry that kind of emotional weight. And my father…yeah, she'll be alone in this.

I can see my little brother and sister hearing the news. Alfred will have to tell them, because mom would've entered a state of shock. Or maybe she tells them herself, pulling through the sorrow to do what she must, as she's always done.

They'll be confused at first, would demand to know more. Marco will definitely ask to see the truth for himself, and my sister—god, my little angel. She will rage. Against who killed me, against the system, against the world, against everyone and anyone she thinks have played a role in my death. And then, she will break down. Marco will follow her as soon as the reality dawns on him. As soon as he realises that I'm really not coming back.

Dad might hear about it from Arkham. If the news makes it through. Maybe he’ll cry, too. Maybe he’ll kill someone for it. If things were different, he would be by mom's side when it happens, and she would someone to rely on, to share the burden.

Alfred will be sad too, in his own way. He doesn't show his emotions as openly, but I know he loves me. Loves us all. He's watched me grow, taught me so many useful things...shit, I'll miss him too.

And Duke...oh shit, Duke. My best friend in that house, my other brother. The only one of them that never made me feel like shit. The only one I have never wanted to kill at some point. We were supposed to go to the arcade today, after his patrol was over. He doesn't know I'm here—he planned to pick me up from my rehearsal after he was done. Now, he might be the one to find my body first when The Signal comes to assess the incident. Maybe he'll be the one to pass the news to my family.

Oh God.

And now—finally—I start to cry. Of course this is what makes me break down. Not the pain. Not the inevitability of death. But the sheer, overwhelming reality that I never got to say goodbye.

And it's not fucking fair.

I know that people rarely get to say goodbye in this line of work, because we never know when our time has come until it punches us in the face and breaks it. But still…I believed I’d get the chance. That maybe—just maybe—the universe would make an exception for me.

Guess Duke was right, after all. I can be a bit too arrogant sometimes.

He was right about a lot of things, actually.

My body finally crashes, and the pain—god, the pain—hits me like an earthquake ripping through every nerve ending I have. I feel my bones shattering and pressing against my insides. It steals the air from my lungs, leaves me speechless for solid minutes.

I can’t even scream.

It’s like my entire being is on fire, burning in pure, unfiltered agony. I’ve been through plenty of shit. I’ve endured enough pain to build a high tolerance to it. I’ve fought through injuries that would’ve taken others out for good. But this?

Fuck.

This is different. This is worse than anything I've ever had. It's torture. Every breath I take it's like stabbing my lungs. I already taste blood on my tongue. My own damn blood.

And all I can do now is hope it ends quickly.

As I lay there, motionless among the ruins and shards of the shattered window that came down with me, I realize I’ve landed in an alley. It’s quiet—eerily so. Not even rats scurry nearby.

Somehow, I muster just enough strength to turn my head and glimpse the sky. Still early, it seems. Weird. It feels like I’ve been stuck in that warehouse for days.

The twins' classes will be over soon. Will Mom pick them up today, or Alfred? And how long will it take the GCPD or paramedics to arrive?

I strain my ears, trying to catch the wail of sirens from afar, but even that miserable effort sends a wave of pain through me that makes me close my eyes.

It’s getting harder to breathe. My heartbeat’s slowing down. I know what this means.

I’m dying.

Minutes left—maybe less, if God decides to be merciful for once.

Somewhere far away, I think I hear children laughing in the street. And my mind—traitorous, gentle—drifts to the twins. My baby siblings. I wonder if they got into trouble today. I wonder how long will it take them to move on from this. I wonder what kind of people they'll grow up into.

I see Mom's face as well. Her beautiful smile, her eyes full of warmth just for us. The strongest, bravest woman I've known. My idol. The person I look up to the most. The one I strived to become.

I wonder how she'll receive the news. I wonder if she'll resent me from not listening to her and causing her this grief, after everything she's already lost. Or if she'll mourn me in silence just to keep her facade, for the twins' sake, because they still need her.

I wonder if she’ll decorate my grave the way she decorated my first room—lovingly, meticulously, pouring all her devotion into it like it is the only thing she can control.

I hope they're fine. I hope, if there's something else after this, that I get to watch them from afar. Make sure they're okay until we meet again.

But as darkness begins to cloak my vision, and my body grows heavier—sleepier—there’s a small part of me that wails. Crying out in desperation, because she doesn’t want to die yet.

She’s scared. Terrified. She’s not ready to leave this world behind. Not yet.

Not the people we love. Not the memories. Not the laughter, the warmth, the mess of it all.

She wants to live.

Even now, even here—she still wants to live.

I still want to live.

That's my last though before my eyes shut completely, with warm tears running down my cheeks, and the blood soaking my clothes.

...............

.......

What's that light at the end? Is it the sun, or the gates?