#female rage is so potent and powerful honestly

[venus-haze]

Got No Reason To Run (Homelander x Supervillain!Reader)

Summary: Homelander fantasizes about you, his supervillain arch-enemy, and getting the revenge he so desperately craves.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. This is based on some of the headcanons I wrote here. I’m definitely open to writing more of a supervillain!Reader with Homelander. This is short because it's PWP, honestly. Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content which includes masturbation. Non-con, violence, intentional scarring, mild bloodplay, and dacryphilia in the context of a fantasy. Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander’s eyes were glued to the television as soon as the story about you began to run. Rosethorn. More like a thorn in his fucking side. Ever since Vought decided to let you wreak havoc on the streets of New York because having an arch-enemy was good marketing, you were inescapable. Every interview inevitably derailed into questions about you, the Homelander Vs. Rosethorn comic series was almost out-selling his solo ones, and to make matters worse, half of the internet seemed to ship you, the marketing team bafflingly thrilled the first time #Roselander trended on Twitter.

All of those things he could reasonably deal with, but among the people who regarded you as an anti-hero rather than a supervillain, they’d developed a conspiracy theory of sorts that you were somehow as powerful as, if not more so than, him. He often seethed in rage over it. You were only alive because you were useful to Vought. At least, that’s what he told himself after the first time the two of you were face-to-face, and you spit your venom at him, burning through his costume and blistering his skin, to both of your shock. The faint scar on his arm became a point of sensitivity for him, few people had ever seen it. To him, it was a symbol of failure, but even worse, it fed into the paranoia that what your handful of supporters were saying was true.

He watched the news replay the security footage of you and your accomplices, a rotation of other, less powerful supes, robbing a bank. You could secrete incredibly potent, acidic poison through your saliva and breath at will, though most people were too scared to put up a fight and see what damage you could do to the human body. You practically skipped over to the vault, spitting on the metal door which quickly melted into twisted scrap. Your goons wasted no time in collecting the money and valuables that were then ripe for the taking.

Your gaze landed on the security camera that had caught the whole crime in action, and you grinned, staring directly at it—eyes crystal clear and haunting, as if you were looking into his soul as you stalked over like a tiger waiting to strike. 

“Homelander, you can come and get me,” you said with a playful wink at the camera before disappearing in a toxic haze.

Something stirred in him at that. He grabbed the remote, playing the clip back over and over until his cock was half-hard. If he were there, that bank robbery would have gone a hell of a lot differently. He licked his lips as he thought about how he would have made his appearance, crash through the ceiling or laser through the wall—no, he would’ve walked through the doors like he owned the damn place.

He had a firm grip on his cock as he pumped the length, imagining the bank was empty and dark, after hours with no hostages in sight. You grinned at him from inside the bank vault you’d just half-obliterated. It was all a game, as usual, playing cat and mouse until you’d make your escape. Not this time. 

Vought’s orders to avoid grievously harming you were endlessly frustrating, but in this instance, he was the one calling the shots. If he had his way, he’d make sure you faced the specific brand of justice a supervillain like you deserved after years of getting away with countless crimes with little more than bruises and scratches. You were too cocky, too smug. He’d be more than happy to knock you down a few notches and remind you who exactly your arch-enemy was and what he was capable of.

“Homelander, come and get me,” you repeated, voice light and airy, clueless as to what his true intentions were.

He strode across the threshold of the bank, his steps strong and purposeful as he closed the distance between you. The ensuing fight was laughably easy since he was actually trying to cause some damage, and from your place on the floor, disheveled with blood trickling from the corner of your mouth, you looked betrayed. 

You attempted to push yourself off the ground, only to be met with his boot on your chest, his gaze nothing short of mean.

“Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?”

Your confused silence infuriated him.

“Answer me!” he shouted, his eyes glowing red.

“You’re—you’re The Homelander.”

“That’s right. So I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, Rosethorn, but injuring me? Scarring me? I don’t bleed. I don’t break. I sure as hell don’t scar,” he raged, droplets of spit flying in your face. “I can’t let that stand.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered pathetically.

He scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

“Homelander, please, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scar you. Forgive me.”

His silence was accented with the sound of your racing heart, the blood rushing through your veins. You were terrified. Good. 

“We both know you’re not sorry. You loved every second of it, didn’t you?”

“No, Homelander I didn’t–”

“I think I should return the favor.” 

Your eyes widened, and you began shaking your head frantically upon realizing what he intended to do. He grabbed your arm, and his teeth broke the skin with ease, just a bit of pressure from his razor blade smile to cut you open. Your blood on his lips almost tasted sweet, at least, he imagined it would. 

"Scream all you want, there’s no one to hear you," he would snarl at your weeping figure. Now you had matching scars, now you couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror without being reminded of him too. In a disturbing display of dominance and possession, he licked your open wound. You wailed. He squeezed your arm tighter. You should have been grateful he didn’t try to cauterize it himself. Finally, he released you, but this temporary freedom wouldn’t last.

“You’re a monster,” you sobbed, clutching your injured arm.

“Me? No, I’m The Homelander. I might as well be god. You? You’re only around to make me look good.”

Then he heard it, the way only he can, the sound of your spit collecting in your mouth. He grabbed you by the throat, hauling you to your feet. “Try it, and I promise I’ll take all the time in the world to kill you.”

Teary-eyed, you nodded. When he released your throat, he heard you swallow. 

“Now, how to properly serve you justice for being caught red-handed robbing a bank," he mused.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not a bad idea at all.”

The fear that would glaze over those eyes that he couldn’t get out of his mind made him jerk his hips, and he slowed how quickly he was pumping his leaking cock. He didn’t want to cum, not yet. Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, he exhaled through his nostrils, trying to ground himself.

Where was he? Fear. You were afraid of him, of what he’d do to you, as you should be. You weren’t rivals, the implication that you were as powerful as him was outright offensive. His lip curled in disdain. 

He pushed you against the wall, tearing off your clothing with little effort, reveling in the way your body shook against his as it was suddenly exposed to the cool air in the vault. He reached from behind, his gloved hands feeling how wet you’d gotten. The squelch of leather squeezing into your wet pussy made him moan out loud, but in his fantasy he was in control, mocking you for being turned on and how easily he was able to fit two–no, now it was three fingers inside you.

Tears streamed down your face as you begged him to be gentle, to slow down. Your legs were shaking as you tried to stay standing despite the overstimulation from his strong fingers curling inside you and pumping in and out. He wouldn’t get exhausted, not from brutally fingering you until you were little more than a blubbering mess. You begged him to stop, to at least have some mercy and give you a break.

“What’s the matter? You told me to come and get you, and here I am,” he taunted. “Don’t think I’m even close to being done with you.”

You cried out in response, or maybe you’d just cum. It didn’t matter, this was about his pleasure. In that moment, watching you sob and struggle got his proverbial rocks off, and he turned your head to capture your lips in a messy kiss. Your mouth stayed open as your desperate protests disappeared down his throat. His tongue curled. He wanted to swallow the noise, digest it, let it sit in his stomach. A wave of pleasure rocked through him. He was close, dangerously so.

He pulled his hand from your cunt, soaked and stretched out for him. Your juices glistened on his gloves, and he broke the kiss to suck each of his fingers as you utilized the time to catch your breath, or at least try to while he gave you this short break. You’d taste perfect, and he’d lick his fingers clean, his mind almost wandering to what it’d be like to eat you out.

Instead, he unbuckled his belt, observing the way you clenched your thighs at the sound of the metal hitting the floor as he rid himself of his spandex bottoms. His hands gripped your hips tightly, and you gasped as he pulled your ass to press against his hard cock. You tried wiggling out of his grasp, and he almost laughed. Stupid girl.

“Beg me not to break you in half right now,” he ordered, his voice low and husky.

You choked out your plea through sobs. “Homelander—don’t do this—don’t—please don’t break me in half.”

“No promises.”

With that, he slammed his cock into your wet cunt, grinning to himself as your eyes squeezed shut and you clawed at the wall, a near-animalistic howl tearing from your throat. He kept a steady, unforgiving pace that made your legs finally give out on you, relying on him wrapping a strong arm around your middle to keep you up. He dipped his head down to press a kiss to your temple.

“C’mon baby, you’ve made it this far,” he purred. “Why not see this thing out to the end?”

He kissed down the side of your face, his lips lingering along your cheek and jaw, covering them in open-mouthed kisses as he moaned into your skin. Your pussy clenched around his cock, and when he glanced at the wound he’d inflicted on your arm, he gave a forceful thrust that had you reaching back to grab some part of him to hold onto. 

You were his. You wanted to be his. You wouldn’t have permanently marked his skin if you didn’t. You laid claim to him first. It was only a matter of time before he reciprocated, showing you what you were really in for. Part of him wanted so badly to just kill you, but the part of him that was winning out was buried deep inside your cunt with the intention of filling you with his cum.

Briefly, his mind wandered to keeping you in the tower, maybe in his own suite, tied up pretty like a present for him to come home to at the end of each day, or maybe isolated in one of the supe containment cells where through time and pressure you’d be begging for him to use you, just to get some physical contact.

As much as he could dream, the main event beckoned him back to that bank vault he’d conjured up, his thrusts into you still strong, but more erratic, and he felt your pussy milking his cock as you came, your voice strained as you cried out his name.

Homelander, you can come and get me.

He orgasmed, and you were gone. Back to reality, just him, his hand, and the remote control he’d accidentally crushed. Fuck. He ran his clean hand through his hair, taking another look at the paused frame of you smiling in the security footage. 

Maybe he would come and get you.

[evoedbd]

Sleeping Dragons

Summery -  After a very bad shift over University Break Runa is ready to kill someone... until she sees the most adorable sight the cafe has to offer.

Just a pure fluffy piece with some very minor cannon bending/alterations.  

**************************************** She was done. Finished. Over it. Every other variation of “fed up” that could be imagined. If she had to deal with ONE more giant slug lecturing her on the finer points of cabbage preparation, she was going to be arrested again. For murder, this time, not a simple misdemeanour.

She announced this in the most nonverbal way possible whilst retaining her job. She attempted to drive her flats through the floor with every short, choppy stride she took. Every breath was punctuated with a loud huff, her best imitation of a dragon, one might conclude. A nymph blanched, raising the menu to hide her face as the Waitress passed. A centaur’s hooves clicked nervously against the floor. Emeril was intelligent enough to swerve the guests she was seating out of the Waitress’ way. Nobody was foolish enough to risk her wrath on the best of days, and this was far from a good day for one Runa Amberthorn.

 The day had begun with accidentally waking an unusually moody Rong. That encounter started with outrage, ended with flame and singed pink hair. Then, there was the delay in pastries during the morning rush. Finally, it was that damned Slug. If his lecture wasn’t bad enough, he’d then tossed his soup AT her. Said soup was currently dripping from the tip of her nose. She was positive she’d be smelling the potent spices Roman had used for a week.

“Runa!” A female voice cut above the din of the cafe. Of course, there was always one person who didn’t get the hint. This time, that person was Nysa. An impossibly tall, lanky young woman who looked up (figuratively) to Runa as a big sister.

“Not now!” Runa barked, foot already resting on the first stair. All she needed to do was storm up them and she’d finally be away from the pesky customers. Away from talking Plants and walking Catfish. From prissy Lions with too much mane gel, and haughty Faeries.

“Its just that Amber didn’t want t-” Nysa’s voice faded off uncertainly. Runa’s glare had effectively silenced the other waitress. Without heed, the Charm Magician turned and continued up the stairs. Nysa’s hushed words and frantically waving hands were ignored. An irritation at the corner of Runa’s vision. Whatever it was could wait. Runa knew Amber, how the recently awoken Rong would take every opportunity to speak directly. The absence of a binding spell was staggering to them both. A rug pulled from beneath their feet. A missing sense. Despite the spell having been broken, their bodies refused to obey. They remained highly attuned to one another, enough that their hearts skipped a beat when entering one another’s presence. Consciously or not. Living side by side, it was a feeling Runa was familiar with. A skipped heartbeat stopped her dead in her tracks when she reached the top of the stairs. There was a thud. Nysa had bumped into Runa. She caught herself, letting her sentence trail off.

“-Be woken up...”

 Strewn across the aged wooden coffee table were several books. The wings of a dragon spanned the sprawled open pages. Red stood out against the whites of paper clouds. Blue flames sparked between teeth. Two white mugs, rims covered with dried coco trails, sat beside the books, both emptied. These were only briefly noted by Runa. Her attention was stolen by the sight on the couch.

 Amber was simply beautiful. All delicate curves and a notably feminine gentleness wherever Runa’s eyes wandered. A mass of golden brown spilled over the arm of the couch, golden brown waves cascading from above smooth, relaxed brows down to the middle of her back. A delicate nose perched on her face, with just enough hinting of a curve to give the finest touch of regality. It was a nose that was always active, with thin nostrils flaring at every new scent. Long lashes kissed the tops of Amber’s cherub cheeks, which invited the gentlest caress to trace along the curve to her refined jaw. Upon her petite lips lingered traces of a content smile; a smile so infectious it seemed to cause the air itself to pulse with a sense of peace with every breath.

One leg flopped off the couch, leaving her bare foot placed solidly on the ground. Amber’s lithe torso was sheltered by her uniform jacket, along with the slumbering form of a small Toddler. Amber had put her own arm through the wrong hole of the jacket, using it to form a net to protect the boy from falling off of her chest. Her other arm wrapped over the bundle, cradling the child close to her petite breasts. The Toddler, Cy, snored happily, burrowing his chubby face into the safety of Amber’s warm neck. Runa knew the appeal, after all, she had sought refuge there many times. Sought, and found. The scene almost reminded of a mother dragon, folding her wing over her egg in an effort to shield her babe from the harsh world.

 “She really is amazing with him.” Nysa’s soft whisper wasn’t enough to tear Runa’s gaze away.

“Yeah. She is.” Runa agreed in a sweet whisper. It was enough to cause Nysa’s attention to snap to Charm Magician. A soft smile was birthed upon Runa’s lips as she watched the softly snoring woman and toddler. She couldn’t fight how her cheeks began to ache, nor the intense burning through her veins. Patches of heat lingered everywhere, warming her until she felt she may actually glow like an ember before it erupted into flame.

“She really is a fighter for the underdog.” Nysa noted with an awed tone. She stepped closer to Runa, watching the amusement flare across the Charm Magician’s face.

 Runa remembered the scene when Cy had first arrived at Sweet Enchantments, and it was not a pretty one. An exhausted toddler had stumbled in wearing clothing several sizes too small, torn and cut to “fit”. His shirt not only restricted the movement of his arms but failed to cover his thin belly. Dirty wee toes poked out of holes in worn little shoes. His torn trousers dis nothing to conceal his bruised knees, which were crusty with dried blood. The poor boy dragged a bag used for disposal, which was entirely too large for him. In it were all his old belongings, no toys and clothes too small to be from even the same year. Nysa had broken. The young woman had sobbed violently, pleading for help from the adoption worker. The suited Lion had the decency to look apologetic, at least, but beyond that provided no help. No acceptable reason for Cy’s condition. All the Lion could state was that the family had chosen not to adopt him once his magic had shown. Dark magic. Exactly like his lowlife father. Amber had descended like a storm of holy wrath. In a few seconds, the child was in her reassuring arms, bag hanging from her hands and the darkest scowl anyone had ever seen plastered across her usually sweet face.

What followed was a tirade of outrage; words so cutting and criticising that the entire cafe had frozen in horror to listen. The Rong was utterly ruthless, decimating every procedure related to Cy with violent head bobs towards his condition when appropriate. She demanded explanations for why a blind eye was turned to the very evident neglect. She expressed how utterly inept the screening process of adopting families if such a discriminatory family could get their hands on a vulnerable child. How disgusting the utter lack of support was for the mother, who clearly had no better options for her baby. Next, she turned her focus on the Lion himself. How he could be so clueless as to the system that he couldn’t even offer her a direction to look. How he couldn’t even offer a moment of compassion to clean the dirty boy. It was believed that Lions rarely cowered, however Amber had the seven-foot creature shaking in his expensive shoes with the power of her rage. Amber had gone further, outright disapproving of the classist society that would punish an innocent boy for something beyond his control. Her conclusion: anybody who approved of this had better get the fuck out of the cafe before she lost it.

Nysa had stood there gaping. Emeril had actually taken shelter behind her hostess podium. Lucien and Roman had both watched from the entrance to the kitchens. Zane had walked into the room with the guests at the bar; his jaw dropped in utter awe. Liora herself had been halfway down the stairs, her calm demeanour concealing hesitation to intervene. Plates dropped from Runa’s hands, the smash the only sound in the cafe save the snarling breaths from Amber. Then, the break in tension everyone needed. Cy had begun to laugh.

 There had never been a discussion over whether Cy was staying.  Not with the Government, not with the Adoption Agency and certainly not with Liora. Silently, everyone involved had decided it best not to tempt fate when a maternal, hormonal human dragon was involved. Adapting to Cy had proven rather easy. He was Nysa’s son, but Amber was his protector, the dragon encircling the slumbering prince.  He adored Emeril and her younger sisters, who came by frequently on the weekends.   Liora and Lucien had earned the titles of Nana, much to Lucien’s abrasive disapproval. Apparently, his apron was a dress, and his objections entertained the toddler immensely.  Roman was often called Braba, which the Chef took graciously. Zain, remarkably, had almost cried when Cy had timidly called him daddy for the first time.   What perhaps had been the biggest shock, however, was how he addressed Runa.  The Charm Magician was never given a family title, nor a role in the boy’s life that could be noted.  Instead, she received something far more possessive than anyone had anticipated.   Runa, to Cy, had become ine.   It didn’t take a genius to figure out he intended the name to begin with an M.   Runa had simply shrugged it off, assuming he had picked it up from Dante, or from Amber… honestly, the Charm Magican couldn’t quite tell.

 “Trust me.” Runa began gently, her lips twitching into one of her rarest smiles as she watched the peaceful pair. Nysa had been privy to the later days. Days where Amber stepped up and helped the new staff learn whilst Runa was buried under legal documents. Nysa had watched Amber’s dedication to seeing Runa achieve college, to keep driving the Charm Magician forwards through everything. Yet, Nysa had never seen the early days. The days where, even timid as a mouse, Amber’s eyes blazed with determination. The girl who thrived off arguments with Runa, then burned the cafe with her redirected focus. That girl who would take no bullshit and give no excuse. The girl who had faced down giant wolves and driven herself to a magical blackout JUST for the slimmest of chances to save her friend. Nysa had seen that drive, but Runa would argue only she had experienced EVERY side of Amber’s stubbornness. Runa had started out as an obstacle, then a petulant child throwing a tantrum. She’d thrown her own will against Amber’s, locked horns, expected to win. When Amber flowed into another tactic, Runa had lost her footing. Even now, she continued to slip and slide deeper under the Rong’s spell. Runa wasn’t sure when she’d decided to enjoy the ride instead of fighting the force of nature, only that it had seemed like her idea. Thinking on it, that was probably Amber’s working. The gentle, disarming kindness getting under Runa’s plating. Rusting her defence from the inside out.

“You really have no idea.” She concluded. Well, she guessed she shouldn’t be so surprised. Afterall, she did have a knack for picking up dragons.

[salavante]

Grey Solidago!

(lol this one was from Jake but he forgot to turn anon off. I’m making ye way through these and will probably post the rest later today or tomorrow - I got Pat and Aesop to go and might just do one more headshot of my choice to make it an even number)

Full Name: Grey Solidago

Gender and Sexuality: Female & Bisexual

Pronouns: she/her

Ethnicity/Species: Grey is a half-Anubii (also known as a Zeke) and a hemilich. Her father, Jonquil, is a full blooded anubii, a race of odd, magically reanimated corpses of unknown origin, and her mother, Hare, is a human. Hare is also ethnically an Ashkenazi jew.  

Birthplace and Birthdate: Maybe sometime in September. Could have been born in either The Tidelands (ranging from coastal sage scrub to salt marshes and deltas/swamps) or The Green (temperate rainforest and boreal pines to taiga).

Guilty Pleasures: Definitely smoking, a bad habit she picked up from her dad. Not really a guilty pleasure, but I also think that her tastes in music are a lot more varied than people would expect, and she can probably find something she likes in any genre she investigates.

Phobias: Nothin really man! Grey is actually the most “normal” and well adjusted of the Solidago children, which still means she’s kind of creepy and peculiar by average standards. She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable or like things are out of her control, and she is good at compartmentalizing her doubts and anxieties. There is a certain, intense rage inside her that is kept under a cool exterior, and inflicting grievous harm on someone who she feels deserves it is not something that troubles her very much. I suppose she may fear taking things too far and doing something very cruel, because she knows she has the ability and emotional capacity to do it.

What They Would Be Famous For: Grey is a fine artist who does very big, lush oil paintings, and while not famous, is notable and has had gallery shows of her work. Grey’s usual job is accompanying adventuring parties to strange locals and then illustrating them in action and doing charcoal studies of ruins/landscapes/etc, as editorial material for the various publications on adventuring and dungeon diving. She’s become a handful of magazines’ go-to gal. Her work is mostly representational, and she seldom makes a piece without doing lots of studies first, but she leans heavy into chiaroscuro and has big, juicy brush strokes. Words often used to describe her work are “eerie”, “haunting” or “intense”.

What They Would Get Arrested For: Probably something really benign like trespassing or going somewhere without a proper permit, Grey is pretty lawful, both of her parents are in a law enforcement esque occupation. They run a very organized adventurer’s guild, effectively, that will cooperate with local law enforcement to catch run of the mill criminals in addition to tackling monsters or liches or what have you.

OC You Ship Them With: Wybjorn has a tiny baby crush on her because he gets crushes on anyone who’s moderately nice to him, but he’s a little too goofy for her, she’s not into it. Grey’s in an awkward bracket of characters because they are kind of our third gen group and there’s only so many of them in the 20-30 range (Grey is 23). She’s also kind of an intense lady, I keep using that word but it fits. Canonically, we’re going to see how Grey and Ozzy fare when we get around to Mindrunner II, the sequel to Ozzy’s original campaign. They weirdly hit it off during Godslaughter, I think they’re both very intellectual people and counterbalance one another very well. Ozzy has a partner already, their name is Rosemary, but Ozzy has two hands.

OC Most Likely To Murder Them: Jovix-Cailo, probably. He did kill Lysander and broke Grey’s leg. Otherwise she hasn’t really done anything to invoke someone’s ire. Jovix-Diocunigast might also kill her in the final fight, we shall see (I wrote this before the game was over, he didn’t!).

Favorite Movie/Book Genre: Grey likes slow burn ghost stories, psychological horror, true crime documentaries, mysteries and thrillers. She’d like “I Am The Pretty Thing That Lives In The House”, “Twin Peaks” and Agatha Christie. She probably reads short story anthologies and paperbacks when she’s on the road for her job.  Anything with well paced tension will hold her interest, but she may tolerate poor writing as long as the visuals in a movie or TV show are good.

Least Favorite Movie/Book Cliche: I honestly don’t think she’d treat something with disdain or vitriol like some other characters might, I think she’s pretty good at ignoring stuff that she doesn’t like in terms of media. Not a big fan of slashers or more fantastical horror, she has pretty well defined tastes, and dislikes your usual bouquet of mainstream film genres (romcoms, action, etc). I do think that one thing she truly does not like is any cartoon with singing in it, which is probably something she has to moderately tolerate because she has a young niece.

Talents and/or Powers: Grey has a mostly utility build with a focus on stacking debuffs and interrupting other people’s attacks. She doesn’t have any really big, damage dealing abilities, but she’s meant to support more potent DPS by wearing down bosses with status afflictions. In fiction this manifests as a handiness at weaving curses. As mentioned before, she is also a pretty skilled painter, with her preferred mediums as charcoal, ink wash and oils.

Why Someone Might Love Them: Strong willed, confident, intelligent and classy - Grey has perhaps had self confidence issues in the past, she was kind of a weird looking, gangly child/teenager, but she really owns herself now. She knows what she likes and dislikes and makes her preferences very obvious, and though she doesn’t make jokes very often, has a good sense of humor (which she got from her mom) though it can be kind of dry/morbid. She’s rather private and has an air of mystery about her and a slight eeriness that some may find enticing. She also refuses to stand idly by when there is injustice in her presence, for better or for worse. 

Why Someone Might Hate Them: She can come off as uncaring or cold, and definitely has a terminal case of Resting Bitch Face. Any hiccups in her success in the art world are caused by her being uncompromising with her integrity, and a reluctance to play nice peers and art directors just for the sake of networking or getting a job. Being disingenuous feels counterintuitive to her sense of ethics. And while that’s all well and good, it makes her difficult to work with, and has made her miss out on some opportunities she may have benefitted from. Her bluntness has made her unpalatable to many, and some may see her as being stuck up. She also does not react well to people approaching her with aggression or snideness, and will retaliate ferociously.

How They Change: Honestly, not a lot, she’s pretty stable. Grey has mostly functioned in an NPC capacity up until this point, so there haven’t really been any stories focused on her. Prior to her extra dimensional shenanigans with her half-brother, she had kind of a strained relationship with her mom, who’s she’s since gained a lot more respect and compassion for. They’re on much better terms now. She also started out not liking Ozzy very much and thought he was kind of a weiner, but, they’re very good friends now after having some pretty harrowing experiences together.

Why You Love Them: She’s my only character who’s actually an artist. I don’t tend to like making characters who, well, do what I do. I love illustrating but what I do is still a lot of hard work and I like to take breaks from it. Generally speaking, I prefer to insert my creativity and drive into characters that make things with their hands but don’t make visual art per say. It’s why a lot of my characters are scientists and engineers. So I think it’s a unique connection to have.

[dizexplainstheuniverse]

On violence and love.

Last night I got caught in the crossfire of a vicious assault on the 149 bus in Seven Sisters.

Horrifically, this isn’t the first incident of assault on public transport in the past few weeks that has come to my attention. With such a heightened state of anxiety and fear among the general public due to Covid-19, the increase in activity through the Black Lives Matter movement and a great deal of public shaming and peer-policing of our fellow citizens being encouraged through the governments snide tactics to “regulate the situation”, we’re truly living in hauntingly terrifying times, not just here in the UK, but across the globe.

As the conversation between a clearly intoxicated white male aggressor and an elderly black man continued to escalate at the front of the top deck of the bus, my heart began to ache. I sat there, hand on my chest as the chaos spiralled – I sensed the conflict wasn’t going to end well. Even when the white male’s girlfriend tried to calm him down, he began directing threats towards the elderly black male. Disgustingly, his threats were cheered at and fist bumped in admiration by a bunch of young white males at the back of the bus.

I could not believe what I was witnessing.

Whilst I cannot claim outright that what happened next was the result of racist attitudes, but given the circumstances, it’s a crucial factor in this story that I refuse to ignore.

The elderly black male stood up and demanded the white male go downstairs and join his girlfriend. The white male did not appear to take kindly to this suggestion, grabbed him by the throat and threw the first punch. In a desperate scramble to calm the white male down, his girlfriend tried to pull him down the stairs. There were a few flailing elbows and some t-shirts grabbed and then in an explosive rage, the white male launched himself onto the elderly black gentlemen and began repeated pounding his fist into his face.

To my absolute horror, no one did anything. I was the only female on the top deck - clearly I’m not strong enough to break up the fight  - but I panicked and in a knee-jerk reaction leapt towards to white male in a screaming rage, pulled him off the elderly black male by the back of his t-shirt and in the cross-fire, got hit in the face myself. In a state of shock, I fled quickly down the stairs and off the bus. My heart pounded with visions of the elderly black male defencelessly being beaten by the enraged the large, steaming drunk, white male.

I felt sick.

The brawl continued at the top of the bus and as the bus driver, a petite black female, called the police I considered standing in solidarity with her as the other passengers disembarked from the bus but honestly – I was a little too traumatised to function by this point.

Whilst I knew in my core that I was neither big enough nor strong enough to have any sort of impact on being able to diffuse the situation, I do not feel guilt, shame or fear the judgement of what others may think for my intervention in the situation. Yes, I could have come off a lot worse, but truthfully, I believe that taking a stand against violence and not just turning a blind eye sits far more comfortably in my heart.

This incredibly heinous confrontation is a potent reminder that we are living in an incredibly violent world. Not only is it deeply traumatic on a personal level for many of us, but our collective trauma is an enormous weight that sometimes makes daily life a truly painful experience.

This brings perhaps one of the most mighty dilemmas of existence into awareness:

What do you do when you can no longer carry the guilt of averting your gaze from the cruelty in the world, but equally, you cannot bare the pain to look?

It’s moments like this that really highlight for me the importance of the work that I’m currently doing and the duty of care and responsibility that we have as individuals to pay close attention to the part inside of us that respects ourself enough to do what’s necessary to free ourselves, and others, from suffering.

It’s not easy, and it’s certainly not always fun, but it’s the only thing that we can do.

Though I work hard at reminding myself, I am safe in this body, I am powerful, I am loving, I am free to express myself – the truth is, many of us aren’t always safe in our bodies. Most commonly, in female, trans, non-binary or BAME bodies, we are not always safe. We often suffer greatly by the inefficiency and bias of the systems in place that were built to ‘protect’ us.

It’s a cruel reality.

For me, this is where spirituality takes on an integral role. Whilst I have faith in our divinity and connection to the universe, this alone will not keep me safe. If I forget my humanity and live only in faith that we are one and that the universe does indeed have a plan for us all, that everything happens for a reason and therefore, who am I to intervene? Sure, I may live in blissful ignorance, but this would not be a loving way to exist. If I forget my divinity and live only in hyper-vigilance, always on the look out for the next attack, the next person who’s going to come along and take something from me, if I live in fear and resentment that I am always being ‘done to’ in the world, this neither is a very loving way to exist.

This really is a dilemma. If I show no trust, no compassion and no relation to those around me that I walk this earth with, my world is a very cold and empty place to be. But if I show complete trust, compassion and relation to all beings, do I risk pain at the hands of violence? If last night is anything to base my experience on, then yes, perhaps.

However, I believe in the power of transformation, I believe in the power of healing your own wounds, of deeply taking care of yourself, so that you can keep your heart open – even to those who hurt you – and relieve suffering. For if they hurt you when your heart is fully open to receive their pain. The depth of my heart will entirely absorb their suffering into my own. If all I have is love to give, nothing can be taken from me.

Today I realised something incredibly powerful about the depth of our human hearts. After spending time to process the trauma of yesterday’s events, and also processing the re-traumatisation from the triggering that occurred due to my past experience of violence at the hands of drunk men, all that I have in my heart right now is love.

Under the layers of pain and anger at the unfairness and violent state of the world lays grief and a deep sadness aching in my heart. As I penetrate the depths of my heart deeper still, I find a longing for acceptance, belonging and love. It is only love that I need, crave and desire. The same longing that exists in the hearts and souls of every single human being on this planet. Our social conditioning, our formative experiences, our earliest childhood memories, and maybe even continued traumatic experiences in adulthood encase our hearts in layers and layers of thick shame, guilt and judgement until we become nothing but callous and enraged.

I pray only for every single being on this earth to feel the love, acceptance, forgiveness and belonging that I feel. I have only love in my heart for the elderly black male who’s fate I do not yet know. I have only love in my heart for the hyenas at the back of the coaxing the perpetrator. I have only love in my heart for the enraged drunk white male attacker. Whatever their stories are that entangled them at that very moment, I grieve for.

From my soul to theirs, I send only love.

Namaste.

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