#i feel like no one listens to obituary??

[syoddeye]

something something possessed by a worm. you're soap's captive girlfriend who got the call that he was shot. i wrote this between the hours of 2-3 am, so let's be chill. ~1.3k words.

cw: italics, imprisonment/abduction, surveillance, medical inaccuracies we breeze right over, threats of violence, collaring, stalking, noncon blowjob.

on paper, it looks bad. it looks cruel. yet, you can’t bring yourself to care—johnny’s injury is a blessing.

it feels like you won the lottery, picking up the emergency phone. inbound calls only. you were so sure it was him, warning you of his imminent return.

playing the part of a devastated partner is easy. the englishman on the other end of the call sympathizes with your crocodile tears and helpfully tells you that someone will fetch you tomorrow morning. that you'll be brought, at no expense, to sit vigil at your boyfriend's side at the hospital. you hear the word ‘coma’, and launch out of bed. you only half listen to the rest of the conversation, hurriedly packing a bag as he drones. you can't end the call fast enough.

dismantling the flat comes first. you smash the cameras and flush the bugs. pry the tracker tag off your collar and bloody your fingers in the process. later, you’ll stick it on a bus.

you scour every nook and cranny, eventually finding the steel box you've seen john fiddling with. after trial and error, you pick the lock, and it’s a relief to see your id and passport again. it’s like a time capsule. past you offers a genuine, albeit shy smile, and you mutter an apology as you tuck her into a pocket. the last of the snacks he’d left go in with your clothes, as well as the few expensive-looking heirlooms he keeps around the flat. 

someone might call about the wide-eyed, crazed woman jumping off the balcony into the bushes. it’s a risk you take. the nearest pawnbroker, if you remember correctly, is only a ten-minute walk away. the cash you end up with isn’t much, but it's the first chunk of money that's yours in ages.

you hold your breath from glasgow to amsterdam and, by sheer luck, find your godmother’s place by memory alone. she’s surprised to find you on her doorstep, but she buys your story of an au pair job gone sour and lets you stay. truth and reality are too humiliating and too risky so long as you’re on european soil. you lay low, but nobody turns up. no one comes looking.

out of an abundance of caution, you cut and dye your hair anyway. you look up every variation of ‘john mactavish’ and scour obituaries and news articles. you don’t find a thing, but you know he’s special forces—they wouldn’t necessarily publish an announcement.

weeks pass. she doesn’t say a word, but guilt gnaws at you for living off your godmother’s kindness. after dodging their calls, you reach out to your parents and beg them to buy you a plane ticket home to chicago. although they welcome you stateside, they’re distressed and confused about your sudden departure and separation from ‘that nice scottish boy’ they’d met over facetime. they didn’t know about the knife just out of frame or the disturbing sketches he’d draw of your mother from memory. you lie through your teeth and blame his hectic work schedule because it’s easier to say that than admit your little journey of ‘self-discovery’ didn’t lead you into a ‘whirlwind romance’, but a fucking nightmare.

(it started as a dreamy evening of darts and drinks, where a cute soldier made you laugh all the way into his bed. a mirage that hid his true intentions. grand overtures designed to dazzle you until it was too late. until he got you fired and evicted. somehow arranged for your visa to be revoked. orchestrated your demoralization and subsequent breakdown. ushered you into his flat with open arms, cooing and rubbing your back as you hiccuped and sobbed. those days are a blur, a series of escalations. a slow boil you didn’t feel until it scalded, until he locked the collar around your neck. even then, you felt like a failure. that it was all your fault for believing the lies. he laid you out beneath him, whispering the things he’d do to your family if you ran. how the powers at be would let him, given his work. a slap on the wrist. that’s all i’d get, hen.)

months turn into a year. you still look up johnny's name on occasion. still stare when you see a mohawk. yet, little by little, you feel like yourself again. rejoin society. get a shit job. you refuse to touch the dating pool with a ten-foot pole, but you don't feel naked wearing short sleeves anymore. don't flinch at the sound of dog tags clinking together.

you pick up a night shift, determined to save extra money so you can find your own apartment and stop leeching off your parents. everything's fine and dandy. slightly creepy, given the hour, but nothing you can't handle. (after johnny, you handle anything.) you close, intending to take out the trash as you lock up. the alley smells like piss and beer.

tossing the bag into the dumpster, you freeze at the silhouette at the mouth of the passage. they face away, cigarette smoke wafting from their person. they probably don't see you, but just to be safe, you turn to head in the other direction to take the long way to the L—

at least, you would, if johnny wasn't looming over you, night terrors manifest. big, broad shoulders and a puffed-out chest. a grin as wide and sharp as you remember. and those bright blue eyes, the light in them flattening in real time as he drinks in your expression. he relishes the way your face drops. the instant terror. a horrific scar catches your eye, flaring in every direction on his temple like a furious sun.

did ye think i'd forgotten ye, bonnie? or hope the gunshot erased ye? did ye believe me dead?

when you start to cry, because why wouldn't you, he—

no, no. hush. this is a good thing. a happy day. we're reunited, and i'm meetin' my girl's parents. cap's gone ahead to break the ice.

and when you scream, because why wouldn't you, he clamps a hand over your mouth and pins you to the dumpster. doesn't care a whit when your head bounces off the metal. the light returns to his eyes as you squirm. his brows pitch, lips curling. he brandishes a knife and stammers through his reprimand, scolding you for all your struggling.

i see ye forgot the rules and your manners. forgot what'll happen if ye dinnae–din–fuckin' play nice.

johnny forces you into a car, muttering reminders of what happens when you run. assures you, even as he loads you bodily into the backseat, sandwiching you between him and some massive freak in a mask, that he is forgiving. when the car rejoins traffic, johnny works his fly open. it takes a minute, his hands a bit unsteady.

a near-death experience clarifies things. puts what's important into focus. john says he saw his future clear as crystal, then shoves your head down without warning. he barks at the man on your other side, and a hand comes to rest on your flank, causing you to whimper around his cock. he moans sinfully at that before violently fucking your throat.

by the time he comes, you're spent. the fight gone out of you. the mitt on your side migrates to your inner thigh, but you can't begin to care. you’re resigned to drooling on john's lap. you pray for a car crash.

johnny explains how, given his connections, it took only two months to find you. they let him do that because of his work, but he decided to wait and bide his time. he details all the therapy, rehab, and everything he did to get into shape, to get his head on straight, and to get to you himself. plus, there was the matter of tracking down his second quarry. naughty, how you pawned it for less than half its value.

his grandmother's ring fits you perfectly. fate, he calls it.

but you know another collar when you see one.

[wokelander]

L’AMOUR LOOKS SOMETHING LIKE YOU !

ft. leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

tags. dad-daughter incest, dad/daddy kink, groping, emotional incest i hope, dub-con

note. comm for @slovakbabe sorry this took so fucking long omg. I hope this is worth the wait 😭 writers block is hell so if anything is clunky.. omg. I changed the storyline like 7 times and landed on this so I hope it’s good!!! edited but ignore any mistakes or I’ll kms.. not fond of this so um 😓

Tonight is a big night.

Tonight you’re going to break a month-long dry spell.

Tonight you’re going to have a three-way, a four-way, a five-way and get fucked every which way.

Tonight you will not let dad’s stupid face weigh you down. Every time you look at him you feel guilty. Like you’re obligated to take on the task of towel-drying dishes while he washes them just like mom did, like you’re supposed to make his eggs how he likes them, like you’re supposed to massage his back and feet after work, suck his dick—

You book a table at a rooftop bar. You’re looking for guys with wallets fatter than their dicks, you’re looking to drain someone’s balls and their life savings, you are looking for someone a little older.

Older, like, old-as-your-dad older. You don’t have any problems with your dad, no issues or qualms, he takes care of you so well, and that’s exactly why you need someone in his age range.

You joined a hiking club in hopes of finding one, you were reading obituaries to find widowers, you started getting friendly with ugly men, you know how desperate they are—But it had to come to an end, you can’t price yourself that low.

Dad has always told you what you’re worth, and you’re deserving of someone who treats you right. No more splitting the bill, you don’t want to carry any shopping bags, and no fucking way are you paying for your own drinks tonight.

“Where are you going, young lady?” Leon hasn’t seen you all day, you grace him with your (always welcomed) presence at 9PM on the dot.

“Uh, out?” You place a hand on your hip, giving him a pointed look.

Huh. Okay. He has to go about this carefully; you’re like a powder keg. Maybe you told him about this but he wasn’t listening. Leon is only ever half-listening.

“What is that?” He lowers his reading glasses. “A headband?”

“It’s a miniskirt, dad?” You supply, raising your brow - you’re challenging him, that means, but Leon isn’t up for it.

“Yeah, no, I can see that.” He can see quite a few things a dad shouldn’t really ever be able to see on his daughter. “You got any, uh, regular skirts?”

“What counts as a regular skirt?” You take a step forward, the skirt shifts upwards, your everything is flashing everyone everywhere.

Okay, okay.

He can stand up for himself—Giving in the only option, he decides a mere second later.

“Listen, pumpkin, I’m not up for all that smart talk today.” Leon holds his hands up in surrender. You’re like your mom, deliberate and ballsy and everything that he isn’t. You could argue with your echo, Leon not so much. He lets you win when you’re right and when you’re wrong.

“Then stop, like, policing me, dad, I’m not a baby.” You’re his baby though, and that’s what really matters. It’s hard for Leon to see you like this. Since when did dolls turn into dildos? Barbie pink turned into what? Like, pussy pink? God, he doesn’t know—You’re just so big now and you’re getting away from him, out of reach.

One half of Leon wants to say ‘since when did you start shadowing a hooker’ and ‘I sent you to college, not the strip club’ but instead, he very patiently says, “I’m not trying to police you, baby, okay?”

All because he knows you haven’t been doing so hot lately—Also that’s just not a nice thing to say to a girl, and if Leon does say so himself he’s a pretty nice guy, he aims to be one at least. “You win, alright, sweetheart? It’s none of my business what you do, you go out and have a good time.”

“Thanks, daddy.” You beam and reward him with a kiss on the cheek. It’s the sort of kiss that reminds him to stay in his lane if he wants anymore.

You’re spoiled, but he’s made his bed so he’ll die in it.

He sees you out, trying his best to keep his eyes off your ass which as a father should be a very easy task, but it’s all in his fucking face.

“When are you coming home?” Leon asks, sounding more like an insecure housewife than he is a dad.

“Later, dad, don’t forget your meds,” you tell him simply, stepping over the threshold and into the dark, click-clacking in your gogo boots after blowing him a kiss.

“Later, sweetheart…” He says into the breeze.

It’s not fair. Whatever’s wrong with him is not fair. It might be that your mother, his wife, is faint in his head, nothing more than a poorly projected film.

And you’re right there.

So much older, tougher, prettier—You have an ass now, and god it’s a good ass. That’s not a bad thing to say about your daughter. Leon is appreciating what he gave you. You have a nice ass - it’s factual. Not wrong. Not sick. Not twisted or fucked up. Or any other thing, it’s just something he noticed. A change he picked up on as any good dad would, and Leon is a very good dad.

He attended every ballet rehearsal, he spent his days packing your lunch and learning how to style hair and he stepped away from the fucking President to be your father. He is a good dad, a great dad goddamnit.

Ass or no ass, Leon would love you no matter what—See, he’s a good fucking dad. He is.

God, if he really was a good dad he wouldn’t be spending his time with his back pressed to the front door, head bowed as he thinks about your ass.

You're more than your ass, you are, Leon’s proud of you—You’re the only thing he’s got to be proud of, he never went to college, but you do. And Leon’s never gotten through a novel, but you have. Truly, despite it all, you’re a good kid and you don’t deserve any of it - Leon’s moping ever since your mother passed.

He’s supposed to hold it together, but he's so tender he falls right off the bone, and you’re tough.

Didn’t cry when it happened, didn’t cry at her wake, you didn’t even cry when the two of you came home to silence. No dinner on the table, no sitcom playing on the TV, no black pumps kicked off by the door. You cried when you went to bed that night, and Leon heard it through the walls, and he is such a fucking pussy. He didn’t get up to hold you, he just sat there and listened and thought ‘I wish I could help.’

He brushes his teeth while mulling this all over - the possibility that he might be attracted to you. His wife. Those cheetah print panties on the floor, an inch away from the laundry basket.

(It wouldn’t be the first pair he's taken. Ever since your mother died her underwear drawer has become yours unbeknownst to you.)

Leon goes to bed early and he thinks about you—Not your ass this time, well, maybe just a little, that only takes up a fraction of his thoughts—More than a fraction ‘cause it’s a lot bigger than a fraction, and he wouldn’t insult you by insinuating your ass is only worth a fraction of his time, it’s worth a lot more than that—

He thinks about how you used to have gaps in your smile, and the dollhouse that’s gathering dust in the cellar, and your less-than-impressed face when he says anything ever. God, Leon could step on the wrong floorboard and you’d blow up at him, and he likes that part of you.

You’re so much like your mother and thank god you are, if you got anymore of Leon, he thinks he’d be a little less fond of you. When he looks in the mirror he only seems to like whatever he passed onto you. Whether it be your nose or your smile or something as little as a mole - Leon finds himself liking it more.

By the time you get home, Leon is sound asleep, your ass finds its home in your dreams among other things. The distant hum of an engine has him stirring, muscles relaxed but mind always alert, as if on a hair-trigger. Leon’s breath slows until it’s near silence, listening out for the slightest noise, anticipating a threat that hasn’t yet materialised.

The thump of your heels kicked off near the stairs for him to trip over, your heavy footsteps, your nails skittering over the wooden bannister as you try to get a hold on this inanimate and completely still object. He thinks you stumble halfway up the stairs, but you make it there safely, your bed creaks and Leon closes his eyes.

“Afternoon,” Leon greets when you press into him from behind, wrapping your arms around him and kissing his shoulder softly. It’s intimate, but he can’t really call it that.

“Please, it’s barely twelve, dad.” You kiss his shoulder again, it means nothing, but his heart feels light. “Did you take your meds?”

“Stop calling them that.” He shakes you off gently, gentle being the only manner he can handle you in. “Makes me sound insane.”

“Okay, well,” you start with patience that is far too mechanical to be human, “they’re important, and I don’t really want to pay for any hospital bills, daddy, we’ve had enough of those.”

Jesus. Daddy. Don’t call him that. That’s not fair.

When he’s not facing you, Leon’s resolve takes a little longer to crumble, it sort of cracks and wobbles and threatens its own stability, then he makes eye contact and it all comes crashing down.

He stays with his back to you, but you float around the dining table and pull out a chair. Bare-faced and older. Pretty, he finds you pretty. You’re not so cute anymore, not a harmless little girl or a sweaty-palmed teenager, you’re pretty the same way his wife was.

“I’ll take them, give me a minute.” He gives you a once over. “You look, uh, good.”

“What?”

“Like, for—You got home later, you don’t look tired.” Your complexion doesn’t look so bad either, no bloating, no puffy under eyes.

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t drink that much.” You smile down at the table absentmindedly, like you’re thinking about something, about someone—Leon doesn’t want to know.

He wants to die.

He gets up to take his medication. Anything to get him away from this conversation that wasn’t really happening, it wasn’t going anywhere, but he’s smart enough to pick up on implications—He did not like those implications, he doesn’t like where his thoughts are taking him.

“Hey, dad, by the way, are you free today?” You call from the kitchen over the whizzing of the blender.

“Yeah.” It’s not loud enough to be heard over the blender, he does that on purpose because he’s feeling especially petty.

“What?”

“Yes! I said yes, turn that thing off when I’m talking!”

“God, okay, sorry, I was just asking.” You’re pouting when he returns - medicated and very pissed off, but the pout softens him right up. He’d like to kiss it away, but Leon settles for patting your head.

“Why, you need to go somewhere?” Leon cups your face, it feels different from all the other times. This isn’t being fond—It’s something worse, something so sinister it makes his balls shrivel.

“Mhm, I wanna go shopping.” You nod, batting your lashes at him, it’s something he would’ve taken as cute before, but now that’s—That’s hot.

He drops his hands before they drift downwards, grab at something he's not supposed to grab. Leon is not normal, nothing about this is right, but he is who he is.

“Get ready then,” Leon says, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but your face, “I’ll be waiting here, okay?”

“‘Kay!”

Dad is looking a little pale these days. He hasn’t looked so worn out since mom died - that shirt does good things to his biceps though. You hope he catches some eligible widow’s eye, it’s what he deserves.

You feel a little guilty for forcing him to drive you around, to carry your shopping bags, but that’s what dads are for, and it’s not like he’s ever minded. Dad literally lives and breathes to spoil you.

“You can go get food or something, daddy, but can you give me your card?” You grasp at his arm, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes.

You wait for him to say yes like usual, but he doesn’t.

He shrugs and says, “I’ll come with you, sweetheart.”

Fuck. You should’ve just taken his card and got an Uber. “I need to buy, like, girl stuff dad.”

“Okay, sweetheart, I bought you your training bras, didn’t I?” Dad’s not backing down for once, and it’s the one time you desperately need him to back down.

“Yeah… Doesn't mean you need to come with me.” You don’t want him knowing what panties you buy, or what cup size you are - none of that concerns him.

“What, you just used me for a ride?” Leon’s good at making that face, the dejected face, the face the dogs at the shelter make when they know they’re going to be put down and you walk right past them to a cuter, fluffier pup.

“Pretty much.” You shrug, and he pinches your cheek softly. That’s as stern as he gets with you.

“It’s only a big deal if you make it one sweetheart,” he says, and then Leon does something he never does—Not in public at least. He takes your hand in his like he does when the two of you cross a street - it’s an instinct for him and embarrassing for you.

“Dad?” You say quietly, but he looks on ahead like this is normal between the two of you. Once upon a time it was, but not now. Not when you’re grown, you have a job, you don’t need your daddy to hold your hand. It does feel nice though, his hand is slightly bigger and it’s soft considering all those years of hard work. You give it a squeeze and the corners of his lips twitch.

What is up with him?

“Forty dollars for a pack of seven, what a joke.” Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth after that long, silent and slightly tortuous walk. “We could always go somewhere else, sweetheart.”

(Victoria’s Secret happens to be on the top floor and farthest from the entrance dad decided to park in. Did he want to hold your hand for longer?)

A girl lingers on that same pack of seven, her eyes are on your dad and she flushes a nice shade of pink when he looks her way as most girls are prone to doing. You wonder if you could find a bra in that colour.

While Leon frets over prices, you find a nice selection of bras and panties and head off into the dressing rooms. You’ve always hated the lighting in the fitting rooms, it makes everything seem so much darker, and you can never pick up on the undertones. Like, you’re looking for baby pink not rose gold or mauve.

“Your girlfriend went through here, sir.” You pay no mind to the voice of an employee.

Shoes scuff against the ground outside, the squeak of leather as someone takes a seat outside the fitting rooms. “Thanks,” says a man who sounds exactly like your father. It is your dad. That’s your fucking dad, and he just let someone call you his girlfriend without even correcting them.

What is going on? The handholding and now this?

Maybe he didn’t hear her, Leon never listens to you, so why would he listen to some random girl? You still feel weird. Like you’re coated in a layer of something sticky.

You hold your breath when you hear footsteps, and then the curtain is pulled open. Why do fitting rooms have curtains? What is so wrong with having a sturdy wooden door?

“Dad!” You gasp and cover your chest when he steps inside, backing you into the mirror when he closes the curtain behind you.

“Relax.”

“What? Dad—Get out, what are you doing? Do you want me to scream? I will scream, dad, I’m not joking.” The air is too thick to breathe in and your anger is spreading like a wildfire.

“I picked you some out,” Dad says so casually, like his eyes are not zeroed in on your tits. He holds up a selection of frilly bras and scanty panties and what is—Is this fucking real?

You’ve got to be having an awful, awful nightmare. Then he has the gall to touch you, and it’s really like dousing a hornets nest in gasoline—Oh, that’s real. This is real. He just touched you and you felt it.

“Sweetheart, don’t be angry.” Leon cups your face, his brows are pinched together in worry, the lines in his forehead are getting worse. Dad’s getting older by the second.

“They’re not… They're not even my size.” You’re paralysed by the absurdity of it all, you’re so upset you went numb, anger cauterised by that stupid fucking face of his. God, you’re whipped for dad the same way he is for you. He could give you a look and you’d just melt. You want to take care of him, you want to be there for him now that mom isn’t. Shit. What the fuck?

“Yeah, well, if you let me have a little feel, I bet I could guess.” Leon smiles his perfect white smile like there is nothing strange afoot—Like this is an everyday activity. A father-daughter pastime the two of you partake in often.

“Dad, what..?” Time itself seems to forget how to move as you stand there staring at him - with your tits out by the way.

“I… Sweetheart, don’t be mad at me.” Dad presses his forehead to yours, and his eyes are so gentle you find yourself trembling. How could you ever be mad at someone for giving you the world?

“I’m… Dad, I’m confused, I don’t understand where—You’re scaring me daddy.” And you know you sound like a little girl ‘cause his face changes and he takes you into his arms like you’re still the tiny pink bundle the midwife dropped on his chest so many years ago.

“Oh, baby,” Leon sighs into your neck, “I’m sorry, okay?”

“Yeah…” You tremble in his grasp, this is the smallest you’ve ever felt in your life. “…Dad?”

“Yeah, pumpkin?” His hands smooth up and down your back, it doesn’t feel like it usually does.

“It was you wasn’t it?” Bras don’t go missing that fucking easy—Socks, sure, but underwear? Jesus Christ, you thought there was a pervert in your walls—There's a pervert in your house, and it’s you father.

“What… What was?” Leon’s face says one thing, but his eyes carry a muted suggestion. The verdict is? Guilty as fucking—Guilty as a a dude who’s committed vehicular manslaughter.

“My stuff, I thought—I seriously thought I was going crazy, or the washing machine was eating everything, but it was you, wasn’t it?” You ask him quietly, voice void of the anger you initially held. God, you feel bad for him.

“…Yeah, pumpkin.” Is all Dad says. “I’m sorry… I think we need to have—To have a family meeting.”

“Dad that’s… It’s just the two of us? That’s just a conversation.” You can’t help but laugh, Jesus, what is going on right now?

“Yeah—I just, fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You can’t be mad at him, no matter how you behave, the tantrums you throw—You can’t be mad at him. You know dad could leave you behind in your annoyance, but he stays behind to placate you, and he always does that. Fuck. Holy fuck. Are you seriously forgiving a fucking panty thieving pervert ‘cause he’s your sad old dad?

“Yeah?” Dad asks, breathless and he’s looking at you so reverently—Can you look at someone like that? If you can, that’s how dad’s looking at you. Like you’re something to behold. Something pretty and worth it and he’s made you feel like this since you were little.

“Yeah.” You give a curt nod, and when he pulls back, Leon’s hands come to squeeze your hips, gliding up your sides to toy with the lace hem of a bra you’ve been wearing a beat too long—It’s all sweaty, you’ll have to buy it. Slowly, but surely, he takes your tits into his hands. “Happy?”

You can’t help but be amused by his pleased hum, and fuck—His dick is pressing into you, you didn’t need to know that your dad is hung like a fucking witch.

“You should buy this one, fits well.” Dad nods appreciatively, like he’s a bra expert and not a pervert.

“Oh, yeah?” You huff out a laugh, you can never help yourself around him. You’re just as weak as he is when it comes down to it.

You stop by the bathrooms after a trip to the food court where you treat dad to Shake Shack courtesy of his card, he waits for you outside, standing taller and brighter and happier. Was that all it took? God. This is weird. You wonder if by the time the two of you get home, Leon’s going to pretend this never happened and the two of you will have to live in knowing silence.

“Did you see him? The guy in Victoria’s Secret? The one near me?” You hear two girls conversing while you’re in the stall, staring down at the wet patch on your panties. “He was, like, fucking cute.”

“Didn’t he have a girlfriend?”

“So? She could’ve been his daughter, he was, like, old, but hot old.”

“They were way too close for that to be his daughter.”

You step out of the stall wondering if you’re going to be his girlfriend or his daughter, you weigh up the options as you wash your hands, you’re still thinking about it as you hold the door open for the two girls.

Your hands are still wet, but Leon doesn’t seem to mind as he takes them in his. Their eyes are on you, and this little, jealous nagging part of you says go for it. Do it. So you stand on your tip-toes and kiss him. It’s barely a kiss by your standards, more of a peck than anything, but dad is fucking lovestruck. “I’m ready to go now, dad.”

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Home. - Fluffy Ending (not canon) || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 2.8K Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: none. Tags: you/your pronouns, reconnecting with family, wedding guests, second chance romance, time skip. a/n: not proofread. I didn't like the way I wrote this ending but I figured I should share it either way. It's too fluffy/forced for my taste. The actual alt ending will be better. ALSO: Was listening to Chemical by Post Malone on repeat while writing this. Idk if you wanna do that too while reading...

[MASTERLIST]

You're twenty-eight, he's twenty-nine.

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t step a foot back in Manc, not even if cows flew!

You swore to yourself you wouldn’t keep in contact with anyone, not even if someone died!

(Which your father did. Thank fuck.)

You broke those promises so many times.

You were unable to keep away, though you tried…

It’s your own fault, really.

You stalk your old friends and family on Facebook sometimes.

Other times you check the local news.

Others you check the obituary and marriage sections on the news.

You beat yourself over it every time. Even though seeing the lack of changes through your cyberstalking and the news made you feel immense relief, you still ended up closing the pages on your browser with more aggression than you should and sulking in your bed.

And yet, you still go and do it again a few weeks later.

And then another few weeks later.

It’s pathetic, really, but maybe it provides you some comfort. Maybe helps you sleep at night.

You should’ve figured out that someone would have made you eventually. 

I mean, naming your blank Facebook profile after the one mean neighbor you had, who called the police on you and your mates once for being too loud while hanging out in the street, and died years ago? Yeah, they’d make you eventually.

Luckily for you, it was Olly who did.

All things considered, it could’ve gone much worse.

Maybe… Maybe you should follow his advice.

It’s been a decade.

Your mum deserves at least a letter to let her know you’re still alive, that you’re healthy, happy, and safe. She’s owed that much…

-

It was very strange to be inside your childhood home after almost eleven years.

Four days ago, your mum had openly sobbed as she threw her arms around you, and you had found yourself sobbed with her, both of you falling to your knees at the front door.

She held your face so gingerly and kissed your forehead so many times, her face severely more aged than the last time you had seen her.

The letter you had sent her 8 months before was 23 pages long, a bulk so large you sent them unfolded and stapled together inside a manila envelope rather than folded neatly into a standard one, and had detailed everything you figured she should learn about your life. 

Where you went.

What you did.

Who you did it with.

How you felt.

What you learned.

How you changed.

You apologized for running away, for worrying her.

You assured her you loved her and missed her.

You asked, tentatively, if she could find a way to let you be a bit more present.

You reiterated you wanted to remain living where you were in Scotland… but that you could allow yourself to be her daughter again if she so wanted it.

You know she cried reading it. Hell, you cried writing it…

You didn’t expect anything, you didn’t want to cause her any more grief by coming barrelling back into her life. She’s your mother, you didn’t want to manipulate her. You weren’t surprised when she didn’t answer for a few weeks…

But then her letter came. A simple half-a-page response that said, in no uncertain terms, that she missed you, that you were always welcome in her home and her heart, and she wanted to have her little girl back.

It all culminated in today.

Adjusting your red gown with one hand, you walk up the aisle, the other holding your 10-month-old daughter who’s clad in a pale yellow tulle dress. She’s kept flush to your chest, her chubby legs wrapped around your hip.

You and your mum find a spot near the middle and sit down, though you scoot yourself as far on the pew as you can, making sure that you can step off to the side just in case Evelyn starts fussing. Though you doubt she will. 

The ceremony is being held in the middle of the afternoon and she has been calm and sleepy this whole time, softly dozing off in your arms, her little face nuzzling to your neck, since it’s close to her nap time.

You sit Evie down on your lap and place a hand on the back of her head while you and your mum speak softly, still waiting for the wedding ceremony to start.

You still can’t believe that you’re here…

Wythenshawe still looks as crappy as ever, you still know the streets like the back of your hand, though a lot of it has changed, shops went out and into business, and people moved away.

You met up with your old mates at your local just a couple of nights ago, and after a lot of tears and some drinking, you gossiped all night about your lives and everyone else’s.

In a way, it feels like you never left…

You were so afraid that they would hold a grudge at you for leaving, for not staying in touch… But they never did. You were welcomed with open arms…

It’s… nice.

The ceremony doesn’t take long to start. 

You nearly cry at the sight of Emily in her wedding dress, having deemed her a close friend for the better time of your formative years. And Olly, as emotionally detached as he tries to pretend himself to be, cries at the sight of his bride.

The ceremony is long and a bit tedious, as most weddings tend to be, but you’re still happy to be there… Happy to be back.

It’s nearly 45 minutes into the ceremony when Evie starts fussing a bit. You’re quick to take the nappy bag onto your shoulder and rush out of the church while shooting some apologetic looks to the guests around.

Once outside, you find shade under a tree and begin to bounce Evie a bit, knowing she isn’t fussing because of her diaper or hunger, but rather from the fact she’s teething.

One hand balances the infant, the other sets down the nappy bag on a low wall and you begin rummaging for the teething ring toy amidst the pockets. When you find it, you give it to her, which she gladly takes, though it doesn’t do much for her pain, only quieting her down a bit by allowing her to bite all over it.

“Shhh… it’s alright, pet…” You whisper to her as you kiss her smooth forehead and nuzzle your nose against the crown of her head.

You keep softly swaying and bouncing with her in your hip, moving about, side to side, while she drools all over the toy, her hands, and your dress as she softly headbutts your chest while chewing.

You’re lucky your dress is a dark enough shade of red and made from a fabric as forgiving as chiffon, so that the wetness will dry quickly and discreetly.

It’s in the midst of your pacing and bouncing the infant on your hip that you spot him.

His pale jawline peppered with a well-trimmed stubble, his blonde hair cut short and hidden under the beige beret, his strong build wrapped in full military dress…

You almost didn’t recognize him…

You leave your bag right where it is and beeline for him before you can stop yourself. 

And he makes no motion to move from his resting spot, leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, and looking right at you like you’re sure he has been doing for the past 15 minutes or so (you wouldn’t put it past him).

“Fuckin’ hell…” You hear yourself saying as you come to stand in front of Simon.

He tosses his cigarette down on the floor and puts it out with his brown boot, blowing the smoke away from your daughter on your hip.

“That how you greet people now?” He retorts while looking down at you through his fluttering eyelashes. 

His voice is so much deeper, rough and strong than it used to be… You don’t know how to respond at first, your mouth has gone dry and your brain has blue-screened.

You’ve had dreams about this before… Nightmares too.

You’ve imagined that one day you’d cross paths with him on the street and you’d stumble all over yourself. That he’d ask you how you’ve been or what you’ve done with your life and you’d have nothing to show for it…

You thought you’ve healed from your past, but here comes Simon Riley to indirectly tell you “HA! Think again, dumbass!”.

“You surprised me is all.” You end up saying, your voice carrying a maturity and a strength you didn’t know it could. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Didn’t think I would either. Got lucky this coincided with my leave.” He remarks. “Could say the same to you, though.” He adds.

You can’t tell if he meant to offend with that comment. Olly had told you through Facebook that he told Simon about you vanishing off the face of the Earth and that Simon didn’t take it well. You knew he, rightfully so, expected you to stay gone.

“Got back in touch with Olly and the rest of my family.” You remark simply and shrug.

He keeps looking at you with those brown eyes of his, with a certain coldness behind you that forcefully reminds you that this is not the same person you used to know. The boy he was and the man he is are forcefully different people.

“Cute kid.” He adds after a beat of silence as his eyes flit to your daughter who’s still very much in her own world with her teething toy.

“Thanks.” You reply.

This feels awkward. You’re finally standing face to face (more like face-to-chest, goddamn is the man tall) after a whole ten years. Are you even friends? No. But are you acquaintances? Also no. And you have too much of a history to be strangers. 

So what are you?

“What’s her name?” He asks as he looks back at you.

“Evie.” You answer. “Evelyn.” You correct yourself before adding. “Evie for short.”

“Hm.” He remarks unemotionally. His eyes flit over you up and down, taking in… everything about you.

You are a confident person, you’d say. You feel good in your own skin. You like your reflection when you see yourself in the mirror. And you feel like a million bucks in this dress, which wraps around your body beautifully, the fabric making you look delicate and soft.

But under his scrutinizing gaze, you feel anything but confident.

So, you take a breath and return the same scrutinizing gaze, up and down, taking in every inch of him, your eyes just as strong and confident as his own. He notices, because of course he does, and he puffs out his chest and raises his chin, to allow you to keep looking at him, showing himself off a bit proudly.

He’s wearing a khaki formal uniform, or full dress as you remember it being called, and although it's been ten years, you still remember some things about all the stuff you investigated about the British Army, so you could keep up with him, impress him with your knowledge.

A brown waist belt with a sash across the right soldier means he’s an Officer… The buttons are gold and shaped like winged parachutes, and he wears a beret instead of a cap. A beige beret to be exact, which means he’s no longer in the Parachute Regiments, who wear maroon ones. There’s a cap badge on the beret and the Excalibur on it tells you one thing: he’s special forces. You don’t remember which one… but you know he’s something big, bad, and important.

“Special Forces.” You muse out loud, showing off what you noticed.

His eyebrows raise, impressed by you, and then he nods. “Somethin’ like that.” He adds.

“Done well for yourself, then.” You add and he nods again and blinks while smirking, as if trying to humbly pat himself on the back for it.

“She have a dad?” Simon asks while shooting Evelyn a look. The words escape his mouth quicker than he wanted and sound a lot more judgemental than he meant for them to.

The way your eyebrows raised at him, the same way they used to when he’d say something bloody stupid as a teen, told him you weren’t pleased and that he had put his foot in his mouth.

“Sorry.” He says though it’s clear he doesn’t mean it. “Came out wrong.” He tells you.

You might have gone ten years apart but you knew Simon like the back of your hand at one point… And you knew sometimes he’d say things aloud when he meant to keep them as thoughts. It’s clearly that’s a habit he still has.

“I know what you meant.” You reply bluntly as you fix your grip on the infant, swiveling her a bit to sit on your other side.

“What’s the answer then? She got a dad?” He probes as he dips his head a bit to the side, his arms hanging by his side as he looks you up and down.

“Aye.” You end up replying, the Scottish word slipping past your lips then you meant for it to. You still speak English with a Manc accent, just like him, but there are little quirks like this one that you’ve adopted after living in Dundee for ten years.

Simon’s eyebrows cock up as well at the sound of Scottish word, and you can tell he finds it odd, but he doesn’t comment. “Where’s he, then?” He retorts. “No ring on your finger.” He adds.

Your eyes drift down to your left hand which is wrapped around your daughter now, the splayed fingers showing a distinct lack of a wedding ring. He sounds just as judgemental. But you don’t let it ruffle your feathers.

“Separated.” You reply maturely. “No ring on yours.” You say and nod toward his own left hand which also lacks a ring.

“Married to the job.” He replies and you can’t help but let out a snort of a chuckle, which makes him chuckle dryly too.

“‘f course you are.” You add in reply.

“Could’ve been married to you.” He retorts with the same casualty of someone saying ‘Nice weather today’.

You scoff and shake your head. “Really?” You add.

“Ye.” He adds. “Had a ring and everythin’.” He quips. “Then Olly told me you ran off into the night.”

You scoff again, mostly out of disbelief, and look away from him, your eyes flittering over the courtyard in front of the church.

The ceremony should be finishing soon enough.

“Dodged a bullet then.” You remark dryly, smiling a bit in amusement.

“You or me?” He retorts and you find your eyes drifting upwards to him again.

For a moment you just both stare at each other in silence… 

Your eyes are locked in the same way they used to whenever the two of you were about to throw themselves at one another as teens… 

Then, he breaks into a grin, and so do you, the both of you looking away for a moment. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. You’re both amused at the cheekiness of your comment.

“How long are you stayin'?” He asks you once you both glance at each other again.

“Goin’ home on the 26th.” You tell him. “How long’ve you got leave for?” 

“‘Till the 27th.” He replies and dips his head to the side a bit.

This is definitely crazy.

You secretly wonder if you’ve gone mad.

A decade has gone by… But there’s no mistaking the electricity in the air.

That light buzzing of goosebumps that prickle at your skin, making the hair in the back of your neck stand… Like lightning is about to strike…

“Take me out to dinner.” You demand abruptly and narrow your eyes at him.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek again in amusement. “Are you askin’ me on a date?” He retorts.

“No. I’m tellin’ you.” You add, watching how his brown eyes swiftly light ablaze with a certain fire you never expected to see after so many years apart.

“Tomorrow?” He suggests.

“Tomorrow.” You add.

“I’ll pick you up at 9.” He adds.

You know damn well that 9 P.M. is too damn late for dinner… But you also know that in reality, your ‘dinner’ will be grabbing Nando’s and cheap beer, and eating in the backseat of his car in that one side road you always used to go to… talking into the night… and probably definitely fucking each other’s brains out.

“Like the good ol’ days.” You remark.

“Mhm.” He adds.

Then, the church doors open and the guests come pouring out, forcing the two of you to separate.

But you can still see the smirk on his lips from afar as you walk off to grab your nappy bag, find your mum, and get ready for the rice toss.

[MASTERLIST]

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving

[alienoresimagines]

Half Of Your Heart Beats In My Chest | Clegan Vampire AU | Part 2

Here's part 2 of the Vampire AU, focused on Gale and John's relationship before Gale is turned (yes, featuring smut (mostly thanks to @johnslittlespoon ngl) at the end so 18+ for this part please)❤️ Part 1 here My other Clegan fics

They start dating, Gale being at John’s place more than in his own dorm

He likes John’s apartment, filled with books and vinyls because John may hate modernity with a passion but he likes all the new different genres of music there is

John only buys vinyl though because listening to them crackle reminds him of when he could feel his heart swaying with the music 

It’s an Experience to slow dance with Buck pressed to his and feeling his heartbeat -one heartbeat for the two of them-

And since John can fly -he’s so glad he hasn’t lost the ability to explore the skies, and often goes for midnight flights- he takes the opportunity to woo Buck by carrying him bridal style through the sky at night, bringing him closer to the stars Gale loves so

Since vampires don’t need to sleep, John often lies awake watching over Gale (with his shift at the hospital in the vampire section, Gale usually sleeps from 5 a.m. to 12 p.m. which fits John just fine). And if Gale is too tired but overwhelmed with essays? “You go catch your beauty sleep, doll, I’ll take care of it” Gale doesn’t particularly like it but desperate times call for desperate measures, and John is more than happy to help

They both like history so it’s a common topic between them and never fails to leave Bucky with his sense of time a bit warped

Gale would be talking about something and Bucky would nod, pensive, and say “Yeah, I remember reading that in the newspaper”

He still buys a physical copy of it every morning btw

Gale takes up reading the obituaries every weekend in case someone John mentioned is there, knowing it’d be a hard time for Bucky who still hasn’t come to terms with his immortality

John goes to all of the men of the Hundredth’s funerals, though he stays hidden because he does not want them to know what happened to him

Dog-coded tendencies become worse now that Bucky can actually shapeshift into a dog. Gets extremely whiny and possessive when Buck comes back from his student job at the animal shelter smelling like other dogs. Will absolutely rub his face against the other’s neck before he goes to mark his territory, even if Buck complains afterward that the dogs were too scared to approach him

Whether in human or dog form, he loves cuddling with Gale and following him around when he can

Will shift to his dog form and flop on Gale to keep him in bed longer

Gale petting him is one of his favorite things, and Gale finds it really relaxing too so it's a win for the both of them

John always makes sure to feed a bit before going to see Gale because the smell of him is just so sweet and enticing, John loses control of his fangs a bit and it terrifies him 

Gale doesn’t ask John to turn him, not after John tells him his story but he does wonder

Gale used to play the piano until his father complained about it making too much noise when he was trying to watch his sports and sold the piano without Gale’s consent to have more money for his bets. Heartbroken, Gale throws himself into painting and drawing, the movements helping him relax and think less.

John hasn’t seen himself in years but the first time he does is when he’s stumbling upon Gale’s draft book and sees drawings of himself. The drawing reminds him of the black and white picture of his parents he still has and he’s feeling emotional about it all

Gale keeps a picture of Bucky in the Air Force in his pocket and John takes as many pictures of Gale as he can, photography being one of the few hobbies he’s managed to keep an interest in. It helps a bit for him to cope when he has to turn Gale into a vampire

Whenever they cuddle, John often puts his head on Gale’s chest to hear his heartbeat and delight in how human Gale is. It’s been decades since he felt his own heartbeat and he refuses to think of Gale’s ever stopping

He likes that Gale runs warmer than him and absolutely revels in that warmth, even if it makes his “vampire blood” uncomfortable”

He’s always refused to feed from Gale, getting a bit mad whenever Gale brings it up but one day, something happens, maybe he’s accidentally touched something made of silver and he’s just so weak with no blood bag near and Gale just brings John’s head to his neck, baring it for him and John is so stubborn about not taking from Gale but Gale is very much not having it, hating to see John so weak and in pain

"You're not taking, I'm offering. I'm asking. I want it."

They both discover that Gale gets turned on by it, both by the pain and because his neck is really sensitive

Gale just loves the intimacy that comes with John feeding from him, how much more intimate can you be than giving your own blood for your mate to survive

And since blood is 60% water, he’s literally giving pieces of his humanity back to Bucky because he’s giving him the ability to cry and John almost cries every time at the show of trust Gale baring his neck for him to sink his fangs in is

It ends up with Bucky worshipping Gale before every feeding, kissing his pulse point on his wrist/neck depending on where he’ll sink his fangs, John holding eye contact if he drinks from Gale’s wrist and then lapping at the bite marks after, in a mimicry of eating Gale out to watch Gale squirm

He will kiss Bucky, even if the other still has blood on his teeth and lips, proving to John he's not scared of him, he's not disgusted by what he has to do to live, he'll kiss him with the taste of blood still on his tongue

Still, they don’t do it too often, with Bucky being afraid it’d become a habit and an instinct to feed directly from people, even if Gale isn’t around

Gale starts to leave blood bags with his blood in Bucky’s fridge but he tries to be sneaky and not too pushy about it, knowing it’s a sensitive subject

Eventually, John grows into it and Gale starts leaving little notes with the blood bags and John keeps them all

The sex is mindblowing

One thing John is grateful for now that he’s a vampire is his stamina. He can and will rail Gale to hell and back without effort, going multiple rounds and making Gale come twice as much as he, like the good service top he is. He will go until Gale is writhing on the bed, crying from oversensitivity and overstimulation. Yes, Gale did pass out on him once because of that. Yes, he did freak out and nearly refused to take Gale to bed for an entire week after that

Even if he refuses to feed from Gale, he puts his fangs to good use, dragging them lightly down his chest to his hips, Gale's back arching all pretty into the touch,  th e both of them bathed in moonlight

Just because John can’t see himself in a mirror does not mean mirror sex is out of the picture. No, he’ll have Gale sitting on his lap, his back to John’s chest, John’s legs spreading out Gale’s as he fucks him and Gale only being able to see himself in the mirror. John is having the time of his life watching usually calm and composed Gale Cleven watching himself be fucked, his pretty flush as he tries not to stare. Gale tries to turn his head to look at John because the mirror only showing himself is making him Feel Things but John gently grabs his chin and turns him back to the mirror

“No, baby, want you to watch me ruin you”

Gale finds John’s medals and sheepskin in his apartment once and starts calling John “Major” as a joke but he takes note of the darkening of John’s eyes. Uses it in the bedroom once and John may not have gotten the supernatural speed but Gale has never been pinned to a bed so fast. Will taunt and call John “Major” because he’s very quickly learned it usually means one of the best night of his life. Also he finds it very funny how easy John is to rile up

Gale says he doesn’t like the sheepskin but John has found him more than once wearing it. The first time it happens, the jacket just looks really warm and Gale is cold and maybe wants to see John’s reaction 

"You don't mind if I steal your jacket, major, do you? It's awful cold" and John loses his mind a bit but he’s really appreciative. Despite his possessiveness over the jacket, his clothes really do look good on Gale

"I'll let it slide, only for a doll like you", and is very happy to see Gale blush

For one of their anniversary, he calls John to come to their bedroom and John finds him wearing nothing but his sheepskin and Gale rides him until he physically can’t, and though John hadn’t worn the jacket in decades, now that it smells like them he almost never takes it off

Gale goes lightheaded every time John manhandles him so effortlessly because of his superhuman strength. Holding him up for hours ? No problem. Carrying him away without faltering ? John’s on it

Despite having more than his fair share of experience, John unravels completely under Gale's touch. It just feels so different when it's someone you love and who loves you back that does it, Gale can make John come untouched in no time

They both have insane praise kink and they both feed into each other's kinks

If Gale calls John a "good boy"? Yup, John is a goner

No scientific evidence proving that this is caused by his ability to shapeshift into a dog exists to this day but. Gale has considered the theory

John, despite being so much more powerful than Gale, surrenders himself completely to Gale's voice and touch but will always get Gale back if the other teased him lmao

Just a lot of lovey dovey, kinky, mindblowing love-making to be honest. They trust each other completely and are so in love with each other, it's sickening to write

Let me know your thoughts about this 🤗❤️ And if you have any questions about this AU or HCs, please do share them, I'd love to talk about this AU with y'all 🥰❤️

[meownotgood]

When Aki dies, you find traces of him in your apartment. 

A single dark hair on your pillowcase. A brown ring that's been stained into the white wood of your nightstand from where he set his coffee cup. His book that will forever go half-read, a bright red bookmark sticking out of the center of the pages.

The sheets smell just like him, in a way that makes your heart ache and your stomach churn; they smell like his cigarettes, his laundry soap, the scent of his skin. Your home feels empty without him. Your mattress has a permanent divot from where his body once occupied the space right next to yours. You're starting to forget the sound of his voice, but you can't bring yourself to listen to the last voicemail he left for you.

His toothbrush is in the mug on the counter, it's right next to your own. You'd throw his away, but yours would look lonely without it. You taped a ticket stub from your first date onto the bathroom mirror. He left the iron out from the last time he ironed his suit; it was the last time he wore it, and it was the last time you saw him. If you take a shower, you're sure when you step out you'll be able to see the remnants of a heart he drew for you on the fogged up glass, right before he left for work. You'd have wanted him to write more if you knew he wouldn't be coming back.

There's notes he's left for you on the fridge, hung up with little magnets: reminders of his upcoming work schedule, a recipe he wanted to make for you, I love you, sweetheart arranged in black and white word magnets. For a few brief moments, you ponder whether or not you should throw out you and Aki's leftovers from dinner a few days before. 

Maybe you should toss his old ashtray, too. Or the letters he wrote to you, or the gifts he gave you. Or his spare house key, or his favorite CD, or his hair tie, or his lighter. Or the old Polaroids you took of him and yourself — including the one he always carried with him. In the picture, you're kissing his cheek, and he's giving the only genuine smile you've ever been able to capture. The police went through his wallet and figured you'd want it. 

You suppose you should at least cancel the newspaper subscription. It was his routine to read it. Besides, you'd rather not see Aki Hayakawa among the obituaries, you have no interest in reading the headline about the horrific Gun Devil attack. You could go without newspapers for the rest of your life. You never really liked reading them, anyways.

When you've finally gathered the energy, you'll head to the funeral home to pick up his ashes. You'll travel to Hokkaido, you'll leave them in a shiny urn right beside his family's tombstone, just as he always wanted. Just as you promised you would do for him when it was his time. You promised him a lot of things. You promised you would keep living, for his sake. You promised you'd love him even after he's gone.

Perhaps then, after you've turned around and left him there, after you've said your goodbyes and returned to step inside a cold, empty home, you'll finally have the courage to throw out his belongings.

[birdofmay]

do have metal recommendations? I'm new to it. really completely new

*typing up a storm* You just activated the autism in me! 😄

Alright, here's a brief overview. Followers, feel free to recommend songs in the comments, if you listen to metal.

What bands you should know, at least their names:

Black Sabbath, Sepultura, Kiss, Van Halen, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Metallica, Slayer, Megadeth, Pantera, Anthrax, Helloween.

No need to know and like their songs, just know that they exist. There are some more, but you'll encounter them eventually anyway, I'm sure. Note that certain old bands are controversial now, for example Pantera and Metallica.

Some recommendations:

Heavy Metal:

The "How it began" part. Just check out Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and Black Sabbath. You should know

Thrash Metal:

The earlier albums of Metallica, Testament, Exodus, and of course Slayer. "Raining Blood"

is well known, and I connect "Bloodline"

with long road trips as a child.

Doom Metal:

Some Black Sabbath is also considered doom metal. Apart from that I recommend Pentagram and Witchfinder General.

Black Metal:

Not mine, personally, except for certain derivatives, but they'll come later. I like very few black metal songs. They are:

Death Metal:

Many subgenres, I personally prefer Melodic Death Metal. Cannibal Corpse is well-known and also Obituary. Check out Debauchery, some In Flames, Dark Tranquillity, and Arch Enemy too. Recommendation:

But to be honest, most Children of Bodom songs sound alike 😂

Dark Metal/Gothic Metal:

Hard to sort the whole discography of one band into this subgenre. Some Cradle of Filth, some Sirenia, some Samsas Traum, Type O Negative. I also like

Power Metal:

Sabaton, Powerwolf, Manowar (not everything), HammerFall, Grave Digger (not everything), Sonata Arctica, some Blind Guardian. Power Metal often has characteristics of Symphonic Metal in some songs, so it's hard to put one band in one strict category.

Symphonic Metal:

Nightwish, Xandria, Within Temptation, Epica. Too many favourites to recommend a specific song.

Progressive Metal:

Dream Theater, Opeth, Tool, Symphony X. Specific song:

Folk Metal:

Some Ensiferum, Eluveitie, Týr, Finntroll, Svartsot, Korpiklaani. Also The HU for Mongolian representation 😎 Folk Metal is huge, I just focus on "northern" stuff because I'm "northern" too. Song recommendation:

Viking Metal:

This is actually a "Whatever, as long as it's about Norse stuff and the Viking age" genre. This is why many death metal, folk metal, and power metal bands ALSO are considered viking metal.

Amon Amarth are very well-known, I'd recommend

Pagan Metal:

Also a "Whatever, as long" category. Most folk metal bands are simultaneously pagan metal. Moonsorrow are more black metal but also pagan metal, which is why I'll briefly mention them here.

There also are Varg, but if I'm not mistaken they had some right wing stuff going on, so be careful there. I'm not sure what happened, but I think some of the band members openly supported a neonazi group. Could be that the members were kicked out after that, but even if everything is alright now, they still have a negative connotation.

Somewhere in between all this, there's Alestorm. They're also considered pirate metal, btw. But I'm not actively into that, which is why I put them somewhere in-between.

Industrial Metal:

This is your outsider, and I think every band considered "Industrial Metal" is at the same time considered 5 genres more. Rammstein, Nine Inch Nails, Eisbrecher (some would say it's Gothic), Ministry.

Nu Metal:

Some people would say "Nu Metal isn't metal!!!", but I like it anyway. Check out Slipknot, Limp Bizkit, Korn, Disturbed. "Duality" by Slipknot is the song of a common meme ("I push my fingers into my eyes") 😄

Also Machine Head, but it's hard to categorise them. I just checked, Wikipedia says they're sometimes considered "neo-thrash". Well I guess they're a bit of everything, but their newer albums definitely have nu metal character.

Metalcore:

If you say you're a metalhead but only listen to metalcore, metalheads will hate you for this. Just so you know. ☝🏼 It's a valid genre, but you're on thin ice if you don't listen to other metal genres. There are many overlapping genres here, which is why, again, it's difficult to label bands.

Parkway Drive (some would scream that they're post hardcore), Silverstein (some would scream that they're hardcore punk, others that they're emo), As I Lay Dying, Killswitch Engage, Bullet For My Valentine (some would scream that they're emo, others would say they're heavy metal), Bring Me The Horizon depending on the song, August Burns Red.

Lamb of God are considered metalcore too, but in my opinion they're more metal than metalcore. Anyway I'll mention them here for the sake of classification.

Yeah, that's about it, I guess. This post is already very long, so I guess I better stop at this point. I hope from here on you'll manage to navigate through the big metal genre yourself 😄

P.S.: I forgot Trivium! "Feast Of Fire" is currently stuck in my head

[gloomyteddybear]

the slang for journalist is vulture

oneshot

tw: emotional manipulation, guilt tripping, stalking;

U︶꒷ʊ`'꒦

roseville gazette may be bordering on yellow journalism but it was the only local press that actually went into detail of the ghostface murders, as short-staffed as it is (considering the fact that literally one guy photographed, wrote, interviewed, edited the whole beat--- maybe he used to be freelancer they managed to chain down), it was surprisingly informative on the subject matter, in other news? pun intended, it was comparatively bland in such a way that literally any other corporation would do the job.

but they don't cover the case, who the victims are, how horrific their deaths are, who are the main suspects, what are the patterns (they seemed random but oh-so meticulously planned), they only post obituaries and move on to cake recipes. to your average roseville citizen, who doesn't wish to buy another subscription, which press are they going to choose? entertainment value or a possible survival guide?

despite the short staff, they paid well and had a great newsroom, once upon a time each department had it's own working space and have little to no interruptions but due to the few people that are left--- both physically and metaphysically--- they now practically had their own private office to do as they please with the place.

though, you wished you had your own, too.

you were shadowing a guy named jed olsen, technically you were his fellow journalist. but with the few experience you had bossman decided that you two needed to 'share' an office (it felt more like jed's than anything), to "see a professional in action and get a feel for what you need to do." he said.

he's nice.

the only experience you got is as a lackey. sure, you helped, but it was minimal, he let you handle almost nothing unless under a lot of scrutiny (the guy is a perfectionist) or just flat out did everything himself, he's an over-achieving workaholic.

he was overbearing, but only in the literal by-the-letter sense, over bearing as in he puts too much on his plate.

he wasn't an asshole--- he was frustrating, sure, but he always made sure to let you sign your name in the proverbial group project, he brought coffee too (it was always a bit off from your actual taste, but you didn't want to be ungrateful) and was always nice. so, you simply did the 'seeing a professional in action' bit more than the 'get a feel for what you need to do', twiddling your thumbs as you watched him work.

were you any more lazier and/or more lacking in the empathy-good-for-lasting-healthy-relationships mindset, you'd be cheering and hollering at the opportunity.

you saw his eyebags from staying overnights, though. the faint swaying whenever he stood up, almost spilling or dropping whatever he held, rants growing more... well, affected by his lack of sleep, to put it nicely.

so, you did everything in your power to at least, somewhat share the burden, bring snacks or energy drinks, keep his desk organized just the way he liked it, stay out of his way, listen to his movie-nerd ramblings.

it was all fine and dandy--- you put a styrofoam cup on coffee on his table like clockwork--- until it wasn't.

you heard squeaky plastic get hit and fall "huh--- fuck! this?!... oh god, no... no no no! shit! shit..." he pleaded.

you leaned over to see... coffee spilled all over his photos and notes.

he blew up, face red and gritted teeth, "god, damn it. all... all those fucking sleepless nights--- the amount of crunching i did, gone! from a fucking shitty ass coffee! how the fuck am i supposed to meet the deadline! fuck!." he yanked on the longer strands of black hair in his scalp.

then he deflated, face in hands, "oh god... what am i going to do? what do i tell boss? how much is this going to affect..." he murmured

he pauses in his rant, eyes peeking through the gap of his fingers, glancing at your expression and immediately straightens up; he sighs, rubbing his arms and playing with the threads of his long sleeves, "it's fine nevermind, i should've told you that this table is wobbly. i'll- uh, i'll tell him that i... we couldn't meet the deadline, it wasn't your fault, i bit off more than i could work so... you ended up not having much to do---"

before he could continue putting fuel into another apology-fest you stopped that train of thought right in it's tracks, "wait wait--- no, you... how about you leave early today?"

"you want me to leave?!" he croaked, grip on the collar his shirt growing noose-like.

"no no! uh," you fumbled, "how about you... go get yourself a nice, deserved break huh? uh, i don't think boss would hold it against you, how about a walk? fresh air? get yourself something nice---" you crushed a bill into his loose hands, ignored his looks and pushed him out the door.

you put your hands at your hips, looked at the mess and sighed.

the wet pages were still on his desk, you carefully separate and spread them, the ones that were less likely to crumble were hanged in the developing-room. the ones that were too blurry you had to transcribe onto a neater page, the ones teared to bits were carefully jig-saw'd.

---jed didn't return, you did get some info on why during breakroom gossip, seems like he took your advice and clocked out early. funny how your schedules been reversed, the first to leave being the one to stay 'til nightfall for work they never contributed to---

pictures and notes neatly arranged all across the pages, many of those photos came varying and evolving in quality, not as in blurry or framed poorly but in what type of camera they were shot with. the drying marks and negative film pointed towards them being raw polaroids, though a few were made with instantfilm. at first, it seemed like nonsense, some type of art project in abstract figures but there was a clear pattern.

lanes fencing around a car, roads filled with a cluster of potholes, harsh angles and perspective shifts turning corners; a window peeking into someone's habitat, a spare key under varying hiding places, then a person hiding under their blanket in their sleep.

you rolled a thumb against the pad of your finger, it was weirdly slippery-- watery? that's weird... a bit stickier. is it still fresh out of the developing room?

you hear it before you no longer see it, just as you were about to investigate further, the telltale de-crescendo of all appliances losing their power and the following silence means only one thing--- the main switch is off. whoever it is, you know where they were.

don't go turn it on. trap. breathe in.

you stay put, crouching underneath a table. one minute, five, six, ten.

you round around a corner towards the fire escape--- stairs clanking with your descent, you skip a few steps, you run outside.

floodlights drenches your vision--- a voice yells your name and a wailing car horn and you instinctively scream, a door slams as a body moves to shield your eyes from the flickering headlights. a black car, in the night, of course you didn't see it in your panic, wouldn't even notice if it were parked right in front of you.

olsen comes out, he looked surprised and--- had the gall, to sound exasperated, "you were about to walk right into my car."

"wait, why are you here?" he answers with a fumbled "i can explain---"

"i told you to take a break and the first thing you do after curfew, is come back here?! i swear jed, do you want to get stabbed?!" you shriek.

'honest and easy-going my ass!'

he relaxes but still has the decency to fake a grimace, "maybe i could give you a ride home?" he offers.

"why would i need a ride? i have my own---" jed points towards the direction of your car, the excess flash of the headlights bouncing around the pavement show your slashed tires.

"i call shotgun."

"there's only one passenger aside from me and it's you."

"you don't know that, some guy tried to break in earlier--- what if they're a passenger princess with a shotgun?"

the rear-view mirror was angled oddly, reflecting only your person and not the road behind.

"good point." he agrees.

he didn't question you about the break-in.

[fleetingcalypso]

Greetings, oh beautifully talented Calypso.

Today I come forward to ask you a quite peculiar request for a fic, if you'd be comfortable writing about it.

If you'd like to humor me, I am definitely a sucker for Francis Abernathy, therefore I present to you a prompt for him, that takes place in the timeline after the end of college.

Since I tremendously like the way you portray the characters psychological traits, I believe you could write a masterpiece out of this.

Could you write about a reunion between Francis and the reader, who has received Francis' goodbye letter and rushed to his side, after they went no contact for years.

Maybe they were occasional lovers while in college, but Francis kept the reader as a side piece for when Charles didn't want him? All while the reader had genuine feelings for him and stayed by his side even though they knew it was extremely toxic?

How would this reunion end? Would it be with or without comfort? If it's okay for you to write this, I'll leave this decision up to you. Thank you for listening and have a good day!

≋ Quite heartbreaking, being used as a replacement for an impossible love.

≋ Francis Abernathy x AMAB!Reader ≋

≋ Word Count: 2259 words.

≋ TW: Mentions of sh, mentions of s*icide, depressive themes, mentions of d*ath, probable manipulation and toxic relationship, one-sided love, lavender marriage.

≋ CW: Angst with no happy ending. Hurt/No Comfort. Reader is AMAB, but it can be read as GN!Reader.

“Mon amant,”

These are the first words I receive from the one man I gifted my best moments to. Black ink on white paper laughs in my face and  mocks me, the swirls in his penmanship whirl me into an hallucinogenic land I hadn’t stepped foot in for what felt like ages. The last time I spoke to him was at a funeral in St. Louis, a wretched day, where he promised me, with his gaze fixed on a black casket, that he’d never drift too far from me. After that, I’d only meet him in my dreams, during those nights where I thought my time had come.

Just eight letters perfectly placed, that was all it took for dried flowers to be bathed in holy water and blossom into divine red roses. For years and years I had tried to contact him, but in vain; my efforts in hearing his voice again, feeling his skin, catching a glimpse of his eyes only succeeded in my heart shrivelling up into something unrecognisable, chewed, consumed by worms and larvae. Each letter I sent found its way back to my doorstep, each call was left unanswered, Richard was my only way of knowing Francis was even alive at all.

Casting my feelings aside for just a moment, me and my soul feel no shame in drinking up each and every word on the page, it’s like eating cherries. One word leaves me hungry for the other, a famine coming to an end; after so long with only my memories keeping his memory alive it is difficult to contain my craving for any scrap of him I can get my cursed hands on.

His letter reads like an obituary although written in haste. 

“Mon amant,

I will not bother you with worthless, dishonest chatter of the likes of ‘How are you, my friend? We haven’t talked in a while!’ because this is most likely the first and last time I will speak to you in more time than I want to admit.

Seeing Henry being lowered into the ground, with none of our friends present, cleared a lot of fog into my mind, honestly I think this was a long time coming. Don’t feel sorry for me. You of all people, I wholeheartedly feel, should be somewhat relieved.

As I’m writing this, I realise - or perhaps I knew it all along - that I have been anything but kind to you, in our youth. I do ask, beg even, that you forgive me for my sins.

Forgive me for the kisses we shared, forgive me for those gasps I breathed against your neck, forgive me for having moulded you into the silhouette of what I was looking for in a lover, without ever actually dipping more than my finger in your waters.

Forgive me for all the promises I didn’t even try to keep.

There are many things we did together that I can still remember: when my eyes are closed and I'm tip-toeing on the fine line between sleep and wakefulness, my mind brings me back to whispers in the dark, to my back being pressed against the wall and to your hand in mine.

I won’t reminisce any longer. It leaves an all too saccharine aftertaste in my mouth.

If it matters any, you are the one thing I can’t bring myself to regret.

If after I fall into eternal sleep I happen to run into Henry, I will not hesitate in speaking my mind and asking him why the hell he was so selfish as to leave us all behind and not cause a bloodbath in that hotel room. 

Again, please don’t feel too anguished over this. It was only a matter of time.

Yours, if only for a fleeting moment in time,

Francis”

I read it, again and again, until it is burned into my retinas. I could repeat it out loud like a litany, like a religious chant forwards and backwards, in my sleep even. I most likely did repeat it in my sleep, as while I was on a plane rushing to his side in Logan, I remember being gently stirred awake by a young girl who thought I was trapped in what she called a nightmare. I assured her I was alright, but my words would soon reveal themselves to be false.

It was indeed a night terror that I was going through, only I wasn’t asleep and this was the cruel reality that fate had written in the cards for me. And terror inhabited my heart when my eyes finally met his once again.

Who was this man? Where had my Francis gone? Had I gotten the wrong room? Of course I hadn’t, he was reserved a private one, his personal nurse guided me to it.

We stared at each other and not a single muscle was moved, not until he was the one to break the spell that had enchanted us into cold statues. He sighed and turned away. I felt it like a slap in my face, still I rushed to the chair next to his bed, almost tripping over my own feet.

“Francis.” I breathe, tasting his name on my tongue, invisible maraschino cherries grazing my taste buds turning sour when my vision focuses on the bandages around his wrists. It’s unreal. The first time I can breathe in the air he exhales after an everlasting apnea, and it’s because he attempted to take his own life.

I want to scream. I want to break something. Hell, I’d strike him, if he wasn’t injured. What right does he have to take away what I hold closest to my chest? I could have lived, knowing he was alive, living his best - or worst- life somewhere in a far away meander of the world. I could have lived without his presence next to me. I could have endured it for a million lifetime, not knowing if my gaze would catch a glimpse of his red curls ever again. 

What I could not live with, was knowing he was not on this Earth anymore. That my affection was being dispersed into the wind, melting into the roots of trees with no way of reaching its recipient.

Silence reigned, I had left my house in a hurry, not even bothering to wash my dishes, fold my laundry or clean the coffee that spilled on my kitchen table when I read the name inked on the back of the letter delivered to me. It dawns on me tragically. I was so eager to finally be able to count the freckles on his cheeks again, that not for one second had I prepared what to say in his presence.

Surprisingly -or maybe not- he is the one to speak first, his words send an ice dagger through me, “How are you? We haven’t talked in a while.” He says not looking at me, just like he did during Henry’s funeral. History repeats itself.

These are the first words I receive from the one man I gifted my best moments to, this time at the very least I can hear his voice as he mocks me with what he quotes as worthless, dishonest chatter.

“Francis.” There’s a masked harshness to my tone that grabs him by the jaw and forces him to look my way once again. “You tried to kill yourself.”

“Wow, I left you as sharp as an arrow and I find you as dull as an unsharpened knife.” It sounds more like a tease than an insult, the slight rising of his eyebrow confirms my doubt. 

Why the hell would you do that? I want to say, why the hell would you promise me to stick by my side and then disappear like a phantom? Why in the world would you eradicate your existence from my life? But the words never come, because they’re not the ones I should say right now and with the way his hollowed eyes gaze into mine, it’s obvious he understands my struggle in not blowing up.

“I’ve been selfish,” He admits, trying to sit up straighter, my hands fists the material of my trousers to hold back from helping him, “I did not expect to see you ever again. That day, when we said goodbye to Henry…” For a blink of an eye he’s back in time, standing at my side, three rows behind our friend’s weeping mother, “Some inconsiderate part of me truly wanted to be with you, I was looking at the future and there wasn’t much I could count as permanent. Not even life itself. But you… You were always there for me.”

“I was.” I’m not ashamed to admit it. Those times where Charles wanted nothing to do with Francis, I was, without fail, the one he seeked comfort in. My body did not hesitate when it was pulled in bathroom stalls, in bedrooms or in a secluded corner of the library back at Hampden. Maybe he liked having me as his paramour because of my gentle touch and the way I’d carefully set his glasses to the side before kissing him, maybe being on the receiving hand of love and care made him feel more alive than his hair being pulled and teeth digging into his neck.

“I was scared.” Unlike me, he is ashamed. “I was scared if I kept you in my life, I would forever be reminded of what we did.” 

“What we did?” I echo him and he nods solemnly. It’s when his teeth begin torturing his bottom lip, that I almost let myself be pulled back in the past. I almost feel like Orpheus and Eurydice together as one, one single look behind me and I will be forever lost in what could have been. His tongue peaks out to alleviate the damage his teeth are guilty of and it is done.

Invisible spirits wrap themselves around my limbs and guide my hand on top of his, I restrained myself as much as humanly possible. His letter sits in the chest pocket of my jacket, it weighs heavy, though it is not the reason my body leans towards him.

Mesmerised by the way his curls bounce when his head shakes it takes a while for me to realise he’s slipped his hand away from mine to reach for a cigarette on his nightstand, jealousy possesses me when such a small object fits perfectly between his lips, nonetheless I light it up for him. The nearby ashtray is already a residence to a dead cigarette, though it looks like it was put out as soon as it was lit.

After breathing out a cloud of smoke Francis decides it’s time to throw my world off its axis, “I’m getting married. I have to, or I can kiss my grandfather’s money goodbye.” If jealousy possessed me earlier, for a simple cigarette, now a pit sits in my stomach, my head tilts in confusion because it’s all I can do while my throat goes dry. “To an impossibly stupid girl, of all people.” He adds, and it doesn’t take long until he shoves in my hands a photo of someone I don’t recognize.

“She’s pretty.”

“Richard said the same. You just missed him, he left a moment before you arrived.” For some reason it irks me that Richard was here before me. He’d always been everywhere and nowhere at once yet somehow still in the way. Too often Francis had confessed to me how interesting it would be if he could have a chance with Richard.

The more I stared at the smiling woman in the picture the more daggers piercing me. While he may not ever truly love her like a man loves a woman, perhaps she could give him a good life. Something he clearly did not want with me. I’m quick to brush that thought away, the same way I set the photo back onto the nightstand. “Nonetheless congra-”

“I had found someone else.” He interrupts and at this point maybe it would have been better if I had just stayed at home, if I had forgotten Francis Abernathy existed and if I had tried to wash his taste out of my mouth with soap. Each and every word he says is a bullet aimed to kill, he probably doesn’t even realise or if he does then the years have made him much more cruel than I could have ever imagined. “His name is Kim, he’s a lawyer, he went to Harward, he was good. But no, instead I have to marry a stupid girl, whose presence sucks the fun out of every room she steps foot into.” 

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say? “I’m really sorry, Francis.”

“I’m sorry too.” 

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, no you shouldn’t have.”

I wonder if I could offer him to run away together. I wonder if he’d agree to let me be his saviour. I wonder if he opened up to Richard in one day more than he ever did with me. I wonder if he’s going to notice that I stole one of his cigarettes. I wonder how much time I’ve spent sitting in silence on a bench a couple streets away from Brigham and Women’s Hospital. I wonder how much time has passed since I last smoked a cigarette. I wonder why it doesn’t hurt as much as I imagined when the letter he wrote me burns at my feet. I wonder when the next flight back home is.

[chickenstrangers]

Time and Grief in Eternal Yesterday

Eternal Yesterday (Eien no Kinou) is an astonishing show. It is one of the most visceral explorations of grief, letting the audience sit with the feeling of it, that I have seen on screen for a long time. I especially loved how it explored the experience of time while grieving.

Grief alters time. It changes your internal sense of time. It takes you out of equilibrium with everyone who is not experiencing grief with you. The world moves on. People move on. People forget. The clocks don't stop despite our pleas. Grief bisects time; events become labeled Before and After. Everything reorients around it.

This disorientation of time is what Eternal Yesterday conveys so powerfully, both in its magical realism conceit and in its technical structure and pacing.

First, I would also like to talk about a poem. @bengiyo also shared a phenomenal poem by Shane Koyczan in this wonderful post about this show which I have been thinking about and listening to again and again (reading by the poet here, transcript here). While I was watching, I had another poem ringing in my head. I think there is something about grief that is often best captured in the sparseness of poetry for me personally, and in that way Eternal Yesterday feels a bit like a poem, and echoes these poems.

Recently, I have been reading Victoria Chang's poetry book Obit, which frames her grief over her mother's death and her father's illness as deconstructed obituaries.

The difference is called grieving. I think this is the space that Eternal Yesterday occupies. It uses magical realism to forcibly extend the period before reality and grief can fully set in. Mitsuru is desperately clinging to the moment of before, when Koichi hasn't actually died yet, because once he leaves that moment he can't go back.

In the moments before the truck driver comes and sees the body, Mitsuru is in a state of denial, an impossible version of events in which Koichi survived the impact and being thrown in the air for meters, even though all the evidence points to his death. He calls his name, expecting him to just wake up. The truck driver's reaction cements the truth of his death that Mitsuru could not even let himself imagine in those first few moments. There's a moment where we can see the flicker of horrific recognition on Mitsuru's face. But then Koichi starts moving again, and Mitsuru is once again in an impossible reality where Koichi can survive as the living dead, a miracle. Eternal Yesterday effectively resets the timeline to the moments before the death becomes real for Mitsuru.

The rest of the story takes place within that moment, but elongates the stage of denial. It takes place outside of time. Koichi's body has disregarded time, the doctor tells them. It is staving off all actual evidence of decay, but it doesn't erase the damage that has already been done and the bruises and cuts remain as a terrible reminder. This really effective element of body horror forces the audience and the characters to sit in a very specific moment in time; this is not a ghost who has cast earthly wounds aside, nor a zombie who continues to decay. Koichi and Mitsuru are trapped in the moment of death, the eternal yesterday. Mitsuru isn't ready to let go yet, and neither is Koichi.

The drawn out nature of this undeath contrasts with how suddenly Koichi dies. Instantaneous (I think again of Koyczan's poem). There is no way for the characters to anticipate this death. Compare this to Mitsuru's mother, who was chronically ill, dying in a hospital away from her son in an attempt to insulate him from grief. But despite her prolonged illness and her distance from Mitsuru, it doesn't seem like Mitsuru was really able to process his loss, just creating a wall around it to protect himself. With Koichi's undeath, they get that extra time together, and maybe that helps in some ways. As @waitmyturtles writes, they get to spend those final moments together, knowingly, intentionally, in a way that Mitsuru only got with his mom after her death when he saw her ghost. The magic gives them back these moments.

At the beginning, it seems as if time has stopped for everyone around them as well, but slowly people start to not be able to see Koichi. They begin to move on, and forget. Koichi seems to have reconciled with this fact: "If you die, you're slowly forgotten. It's normal. The living are busy thinking of other living people." Mitsuru is angry at the thought that anyone could forget about Koichi, and that the signs of their forgetfulness are proof that Koichi is getting closer and closer to disappearing.

This is such a beautiful metaphor for how it feels to grieve someone when the rest of the world keeps spinning. Time has stopped for Mitsuru, but not for all his classmates, even though they cared for Koichi too. It's a cruel truth. Time starts to speed up again as Koichi begins to disappear in front of others, but Mitsuru is still clinging to him.

Mitsuru holds onto Koichi with both fists. There's anger behind his denial of Koichi's death. He repeatedly tries to remind Koichi that he's still alive, gets angry when he's referred to as dead, and when people can't see Koichi any more.

But it is Mitsuru's love that sustains Koichi for this long, and his unwillingness to let go of his memory. It seems like love itself is what keeps Koichi here. Even when he disappears for most people, Mitsuru and Koichi's family still see him. Even after Koichi truly dies, when he stops being a living corpse, we see that his memory does live on in Mitsuru, and in the lives of the other people who loved him. The teacher who sent Mitsuru a photograph that shouldn't exist. Koichi's friends and family continuing to honor and remember him, and staying in contact with Mitsuru.

@gillianthecat writes beautifully about Japanese dramas and the use of place and space. There's a quietness and a stillness often. Eternal Yesterday echoes this, and in some ways turns time into a place, anchoring the drama to a liminal threshold, the pause that allows Mitsuru and Koichi to process what has happened.

Koichi and Mitsuru's story takes place outside of time. The editing and structure of the show also interrupts the linearity of time. Multiple times we are shown the end of a scene, and then shown its beginning scenes or even episodes later. The show revisits scenes, recontextualizes them, like when they get back from the hospital and Koichi admits he's scared that he's a corpse; the teachers in the stairwell we later learn were found in the aftermath of their breakup. Koichi is hit by the truck in the very opening of the show, but we don't see all of it until the end of the episode and the beginning of the next. Through this editing, the show destabilizes time, and calls into question our perception of events.

It also does this with the opening and closing credits. Each episode grounds the audience at the start in a joyful past that the characters can never return to, and at the end in an impossible future that they will never see ("If we were adults, would we be making a toast and drinking beer?"). The show oscillates between these two endpoints, and they put the viewer off balance for what to expect. But at the close of the show, we see the camping scene recontextualized. Mitsuru is alone, but he still has pieces of Koichi with him. The false insinuation of a happy ending is replaced with bittersweet reality.

How long does it take to grieve someone? Does it ever stop? Their teacher is still mourning his boyfriend's death 20 years later. Mitsuru is shown grieving 5 years after Koichi's death. He tells us his sadness never went away. The experience of grief is different with that distance, but it doesn't disappear. The show invites us to sit in a specific moment of that grief, but it shows us also how it continues afterwards.

Koichi's death is drawn out, the stage of denial extended, but eventually time catches up with both of them. Koichi knows it ("My time is almost up"). Mitsuru begins to understand it ("Isn't it just a matter of time?"). The day Mitsuru's home sick, "the time felt too long." The dissonance between this piece of time that they have carved out for themselves and the reality of time's continual passage becomes impossible to ignore.

Koichi lingering as a living corpse gives both him and Mitsuru a bit more time together. Even if it's just a few days, there's beauty in that. Because of that time, Koichi gets to hold his newborn sister. He gets to be a part of that moment with his family. Koichi and Mitsuru get to love each other for just a little longer. They get to say goodbye.

This is a sad show. But it's okay to be sad sometimes. It's okay to explore this sadness is art, in queer art. It can be healing to sit in these emotions for a little while, like Mitsuru and Koichi do in the show. To take the time to process it and connect with these stories.

Thank you to @bengiyo's post and the podcast for putting a new favorite show on my radar, and @lurkingshan and @waitmyturtles for sharing their thoughts and love for the show.

[eclipsedcrystalstar]

Fuck it. Gothic Whore incorrect quotes

Adam: Helpful grammar tip: “farther” is for physical distance, “further” is for metaphorical distance, and “father” is for emotional distance!

Carmilla: Don’t you guys read the papers? Hyde: Only the funnies. Dracula: Dracula: You mean the obituaries. Hyde: Oh, potato, pohtato...

Hyde: God has let me live another day and I'm going to make it everyone's problem.

The Narrator: We need a plan to beat them. Hawkins: Okay, listen up. First, we fill their shoes with wet cat food. The Narrator: Hawkins: Judge me all you want, I get results.

Dracula: Why am I the bad guy? Carmilla: I don't know, why am I the pretty one? We all have our thing.

Hawkins, handing a balloon to Winston: I have no soul. Have a good day! Winston, walking off: I don't have one either.

Dracula: Valentines Day? I'm ready. *Sprays an entire can of AXE body spray on themselves*

The Narrator: Where’s Hawkins? Jekyll: Around. The Narrator: Around? The Narrator: You don’t have any idea, do you? Hawkins, dropping down from above: Did you know there’s a space above the ceiling?

Adam: Sometimes I like to place my hands on someone’s cheeks, look into their eyes... Adam: ...And violently jerk their head until it snaps. Winston: ...That took an unexpected turn. Jekyll: So did their neck.

Dracula: So you're looking for information on this thing, huh? Well, I feel like it must be from far away. Hawkins: What makes you say that? Dracula: If it's something even I don't know about, then I'm sure nobody else must have a clue. So it's gotta be from some faraway place. Impeccable reasoning, isn't it? Hawkins: Dracula... You don't have a clue about this thing, do you? Dracula: *screams in anger*

Jekyll: The best part of an oreo is the cookie part, not the frosting. Deal with it. Winston: Darkness without light is an abyss. Light without darkness is blinding. You cannot have a coin with one side. Carmilla: YO SOCRATES! IT'S A FUCKING COOKIE!

[androgynousblackbox]

Welcome to Hazbin Vale. 5 [Appleradio, Radioapple]

"Good day to all our loyal listeners. You are all the very blood and vein of this beautiful community we have established here. Our one true home wouldn't be complete without each and everyone of you tuning in each day to share

As you all know, the community center has been closed for some time now for reason that aren't worth getting into right now. Despite the warning signs outside, the building has become a center of reunion for youngster looking to pass a good time. Normally that wouldn't be an issue at all, but in the next few days a renovation is going to take place there and all the space will be neccesary.

Especially the basement. Especially at night. And definitely, absolutely, at 3 AM. Do not come near it. Ignore any voices you could hear. Just go home and don't look back. Make sure all the windows are close tight, even the one on the library in the second floor.

If any of our younger listeners left anything there, this is the time to go pick it up.

Now.

Don't pay any attention to the workers that are doing their best to bring back this town it's former glory. They aren't interested in you, so don't give them a reason to. They are just tidying up the place. If you don't seem them moving anything out of the place or cleaning up, that's not for you to worry about.

If any of you want a potentially dangerous place of reunion, there is a lovely cave on the outkirts of the town that will serve just fine. I heard the risk of suffering a cave in is still very much present. That outght to cause some form of excitement, I imagine. I wouldn't know. My idea of fun is a little more involved than that.

But yes, the community center is officially off limits now. Technically the cave I just mentioned is too, but what is life if not breaking a few rules in a whim? I promise I won't tell a word if you don't.

Speaking of those who can't say a word! Unfortunately for today I have no deaths to report. I know, very dissapointing indeed, but sometimes it happens.

The only thing on the obituary is just an old woman who died in the hospital after battling neumonia for a week. Service is Saturday, yes, yes, very sad, very painful, so tragic, you all know the drill. A completely normal and unremarkable death that I feel sleepy just by thinking of it. Nobody wants to hear about that, do you? Be nice with the widow though. He makes a killer jambalaya.

No, that is not a pun, you cheeky little listeners. Just a sincere form of appreciation. I would give you more of those more often if I had a reason to.

As for those of us who are still breathing, ha, get it?, everyone else just spend a lovely night yesterday, safe and comfortable on their beds, contemplating nice memories of events passed merely hours ago. Sometimes even death just likes to take a break. Not everything fun and entertaining has to be so… final. New starts also have their own appeal.

For the oldest listeners, the Jazz club near the supermarket is still very much open and happy to receive new people in for when the night is still young.

My good friend Mimzy has especially requested for me to inform you that Friday nights are a two for one especial. She informed of such just yesterday when I was there with some company.

Who was that company, you ask? Since when are you so intrusive, dear listener? You all should know by now that a true gentleman would never just tell so quickly.

Although, I want to make it clear that they didn't tell me not to say. I even asked and they said they don't mind.

I just can't resist causing you a little bit of pain whenever I can, dear listener. I will only talk when and if I want to. Thank you for understanding.

Oh, but what I am saying? We were about the jazz club. Well, I will admit it had been a long while since the last time I entered that place. I could hear the music just fine from my own livingroom, so why I would spend the effort of dressing up, putting on cologne, shaving, brushing up and all that work just to be surrounded by the same people I already know and can talk about everyday? It doesn't seem worth it.

Oh, Mimzy, dear, I can feel you frowning from here. Please don't take any offense to that. You know I never had your same kind of flame to keep up that lifestyle every night without fault. I am just a boring old man at my thirties that can't compare with your youthful disposition. Maybe ten years ago I could come close to, but not now. I need to save up my energy for that.

Last night I just happened to find a new charge. Mimzy told me that she got a bunch of new music and there was even a live band there. I am afraid I can only trust on her word for that because I don't remember a single thing about that once I was on my table.

I knew there was music and it wasn't grating on my brain making me wish I was deaf, but I couldn't tell you from my experience more than that. I also know there was a stage but I have no idea if someone was there.

Something else must have kept me distracted. Wonder what could have been, mmm?

The food was amazing, that I can promise you. Mimzy hired a new cook a few days ago that knew exactly to give it that spice that turns out as such a nice surprise as soon you really bite into it. The wine, well, I didn't take that much but I thought it went rather well.

For some reason I do remember that one detail extraordinarly well. Down to the label on the bottle and the thick glass landing against the wood of the table. The way it swayed inside of the glass and went down behind lips lightly tinted red, as if flushed after receiving a good bite.

What a delicious meal that was.

I don't think I have tasted something as delicious in years.

My personal rating, that is completely unbiased and therefore objectively true: 10 out of 10. I would love to do it again.

For a certain someone that I know is working very hard right now, and keeping the radio right nex to their desk filled with papers, design plans and sketches, that is the answer to your question last night.

But!

Um, but you don't go to a place like that just to ignore whatever live band that may or may not being there in the first place just to eat. It's a club, not a restaurant, dear listener. So even though you may bring your own entertainment while enjoying the food, that is not supposed to be the only reason you are there.

After that wonderful dinner, I got to try again the renewed wood floors for a few pieces. Don't ever let anyone tell you that our dear Mimzy still doesn't have the energy of a girl on her 20s. She would keep up with whatever move I was making like she had read the manual front and back without missing a bit.

That is what being an old member of this community means, of course. You get to know each other. You know what to expect, most of the time at least. So when you dance with someone for the first time, it's only to be expected to be a little bit awkward at first and step on a few toes. There is no shame on that. No need to apologize so much.

It just means that we have to keep dancing until we manage to find the right rythm.

Once you figure that one out, it will be as easy as if we had danced a million of times before across multiple lifetimes. As if our feet were connected to the same brain and we didn't had to think at all. Thank goodness that it was a slow song. It's okay to get closer so we are sure of what we are doing. Your own cologne doesn't bother me at all.

It does make you wonder, though, how someone that does so many things with their hands can have them so soft. What secrets are hiding even as you look into each other eyes and sway together like the wine on that glass?

Would you want to find out? Or it would make you ran away?

The moon was shinning so bright last night. Maybe even death had to stop it's feeding and admire it for a bit.

A long walk at night is good for the soul, or so they say. You can't leave your dance partner to go on their own. There are raccoons out there, silly. And they get too creative if given a good enough excuse. But don't worry, I have a feeling they won't bother us for now.

Reaching a renewed building I have only seen in a picture and a doorframe that remained open for one last good night. Ignore the fact that we said goodnight at least three times before.

Good night.

Good night.

Good night.

Maybe just one more for good measure.

Someone that was waking up from their nap was demanding attention. Babysitters needed to be driven back home. That is why I couldn't stay. I understand.

I hope you all had sweet dreams last night.

And don't ask me where that music is coming from. I have no idea what to tell you.

Wait, what I was on about? I forgot.

Well, I am sure it will come back to me. Or I could go look for it again later. Maybe this afternoon? At the Chocolate Boutique? I will be there regardless if someone wanted to talk.

Tomorrow is going to be another day, dear listener. Let's embrace each day as they come.

Oh, and stay away from the community center if you want to do just that.

Now, the weather…"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BMv3a7Kx3eQ the song of the background]

[manheeiim]

chapter six: teaching & tension

-- a ghostly love masterlist

We’re all sat in our usual circle in the gymnasium. Mr. Martin was talking about something and I was… vaguely listening. Suddenly, he stopped talking about it and suddenly announced, “Lucia has finished her obituary already, guys.” He then asked, “Is there anything from the obituary that you’d like to share with everyone?”

“No, thank you.” I say rather bluntly.

“That’s okay. If you ever want to share then you can whenever you’re ready.” Mr. Martin tells me and I just nod. “So… in celebration of Lucia finishing her obituary…” He then starts and I notice Wally, who’s sat next to me like usual, starting to get excited. “So… what do you guys say? Who’s up for another field day?” Mr. Martin asks.

“Yes! Hell yes!” Wally exclaims. “Yes. Yes. Field day. Let’s go.”

“Please kill me.” Rhonda says.

“I love you Mr. M.” Wally says.

“And as you’ll come to learn, we ghosts occasionally need to “exorcize” a few demons too.” Mr. Martin tells me. “Am I right, guys?” He then asks the others who give no response.

“Um, what do you guys even do at the field days?” I ask.

Wally puts his hand on my lower thigh, “I have two words for you, American Gladiators.” He says and I furrow my eyebrows as I try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach at his hand on me. Wally takes it off as he moves his hands as he speaks, “Blaze. Turbo. Nitro. Are you- come on. Nobody’s heard of this show?” He asks, looking over at me.

“No..” I say.

“All I remember is… lots and lots of Spandex?” Charley says.

“Yes, there were because they were fricking heroes.” Wally tells him. “And they’re my personal inspiration for field day.” He tells everyone. 

“Leave Lucia alone you guys.” Rhonda says and I look over at her. “She doesn’t want to do all that.” She tells everyone. “She just wants to be a cute little cheerleader.” Rhonda then mockingly says.

I bite the inside of my cheek in annoyance.

“Rhonda, stop.” Wally defends me, actually being serious for once. “Besides, she is a cute cheerleader.” Wally adds cheekily and winks at me.

<3

I’m walking down the sidewalk, not knowing what to even do with myself. I was contemplating just going to the field day. It couldn’t be so bad, could it?

“Need a lift?” I hear and look over to see Wally driving down the parking lot in a golf cart.

“Not with your whole Turbo thing you got going on.” I say back as I keep walking and he keeps driving.

“Turbo’s not my handle, actually. It’s Kaboom.” He tells me. “And also, that reminds me, we need to come up with one for you.” He says before pulling into a parking spot and I stop walking.

“Wally, I don’t even know what American Gladiators is.” I told him, trying to hold back my smile.

“I can teach you, okay?” He tells me. “In fact, I can teach you a lot of things.” He says.

“Wally, oh my god.” I say.

“I just meant teaching you how to drive this golf cart.” Wally says, trying to act innocent even though he knew that he definitely didn’t mean it that way as he slid over to the passenger side of the golf cart. “But what you were thinking too.” He adds with a wink.

I sigh before walking over to the golf cart and getting in it.

“So does that mean you want me to?” Wally asks with a smirk.

“Stop!” I whine as I slap his arm gently. “Let me drive.” I say and he puts his hands up in the air.

“Go ahead.” He says and I smile before backing out and driving forward, through the parking lot. 

I’m not going that fast at first which I thought was fine but when Wally puts his hand on my thigh again to get my attention and says, “Go faster!” I realize that might be pretty fun.

We drive through the school and I feel the adrenaline in my body rising. “It feels pretty good, right?” Wally asks, his hand on a pole in the back and in the front.

“It does.” I admit with a smile. “I wish I’d done this before.” I say as I look over at him with a smile. Of course, I ended up getting distracted and I crashed into a little sign. Wally lets go of the poles and instinctually grabs onto me, holding me as I come to a stop, holding back the small embarrassed smile on my face. “I probably should’ve mentioned that although I did have my driver’s license.. I wasn’t the best driver.” I told him. 

“It’s good. I was here to protect you.” Wally winks. “And actually, you know what, I knew you’d be perfect for this.” He says. “Let’s try something bigger. Okay, go. Go.” He tells me. 

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yeah! Let’s go! Come on!” Wally tells me.

I drove to the back of the school where all of the fields were. He points to a bunch of barrel-shaped water coolers that were stacked up in a triangle. “Those.” Wally says and points to them.

“I don’t know..” I say, kind of hesitant.

He doesn’t say anything nor does he let me hesitate as he gently puts his foot over mine, making me step down on the gas pedal harder. He takes the wheel and steers us towards the coolers.

“Wally!” I yell with a smile as he drives us into them, the water in the coolers going everywhere.

“Yo! The crowd goes absolutely nuts!” He says as he gets out of the golf cart and takes his sweater off, along with his shirt, leaving him shirtless.

“You’re insane.” I say with a smile as I get out of the golf cart as well.

He comes over to me, “You’re a natural.” He tells me.

I look over and see a girl running with a fire hydrant through the field, setting it off as she runs. I also see Charley poking some of the football equipment with a stick. I can’t help but laugh, “This is field day?” I ask Wally, who’s starting to put his shirt on again. 

“Yeah,” Wally answers. “I mean, it’s more like destroy-the-field day.” He tells me. “But once a year, we come out here, we just kind of get our aggression out on the school, you know?” He says as he finishes putting his shirt on. “You still upset?” Wally asks.

“Yeah.” I lied.

Wally smiles as he looks down at me. I look up at him as well. The tension between us in the air was thick and it wasn’t the bad kind of tension. I’m feeling flustered all of the sudden. Looking at him, in the sunlight, up so close, I could see every detail on his face. I should’ve been mad that he crashed us into those coolers but I wasn’t. I was just happy. Oh, and really turned on. Oops.

[toki-is-the-king]

More Dethklok headcanons:

How I imagine each of their morning routines go.

•Nathan: Nathan likes his routine. He’s a a regular guy. If he’s not waking up screaming from a night long prophetic nightmare, he usually gets up around the same time every day, unless he’s hungover or feeling lazy. He strikes me as the type to go shower, then grabs the outfit he wore the previous day, sniff it, and then put it back on. He pretty much wears the same shit each day and choosing an outfit wastes time, in his opinion. If he doesn’t have to go anywhere then he just goes to the kitchen in his boxers and robe to drink from the milk carton. Then he likes to read the news paper, while wearing his glasses, and drinking his black coffee. He stares into the void for awhile, not talking, just clearing his throat or grunting while making a mental check list of what he needs to get done that day. I think Nathan tries his best out of everyone to be organized, the best he can at least. Nathan is one of those guys that would have a stupid mug that says ‘don’t fucking talk to me until I’ve had my coffee’ or ‘not a morning person’. Some dumb Spencer’s type of shitty mug.The guys got it for him as a joke but he uses it anyway.

•Pickles: Pickles wakes up hungover, surrounded by beer cans, probably passed out behind the couch or in some really weird position that hurts his neck. He sits and stares at the wall for a few minutes, gets up to go puke, then heads to the kitchen to search for more beer. Pickles never learns, or he just doesn’t care. Charles just stands there shaking his head. Pickles has a bed but he hardly wakes up in it. He falls asleep in bed a lot and then finds himself passed out somewhere random, usually on the floor in the living room or his bathroom. He never remembers too much of the previous night and that’s okay. He likes blacking out. He doesn’t usually eat breakfast when he has a hangover and just finds random snacks to munch on until he feels a little better.

•Murderface: The first and I mean very first thing Murderface does when his eyes open each morning is jack off (with his bass playing hand). Then after a round of that he turns on the tv. Sometime later he probably joins Pickles who’s sitting at the table in his underwear. Murderface likes to have breakfast even if no one else is, so he has Jean Pierre cook him something right away. Murderface usually sits at the table, stabbing away at the surface with his knife, and talks at whoever is up. Pickles, who’s too hungover to even comprehend what he’s saying, and Nathan, who’s sitting off to the side silently doing a cross word puzzle. Murderface doesn’t care if they aren’t listening, he just likes to talk and hates awkward silences. When Nathan is done with the newspaper Murderface asks for it so he can read the obituaries. “I jusht like to schee who’s died lately…you know, caush I’m up at the crack of dawn, living my life, and they’re jusht dead! Ha! Fuck em!”

•Toki: When Toki wakes up, he always checks his Dethphone to see if he has any missed calls or messages from Dr Rockso. Toki likes to take those dumb morning selfies and send them to the Dethklok group chat. He usually says the same thing every time like ‘just workes up! Good mornings!’ and only Charles or Nathan responds because it’s so early. Toki wakes up the earliest because his body is used to it. As a child he had to be up before the sun in order to begin the family chores, so I feel like he’s usually up and going long before everyone else. He also can’t fall back asleep unless he’s hungover. Toki likes to have some quiet time with just himself for awhile, working on his model airplanes or coloring. He loves the guys but sometimes he likes to be by himself where it’s quiet and no one’s arguing. I think he also talks to himself or to his stuffed animals while he’s building his models, telling them about his nightmares or what he wants to do that day. Sometimes he just goes on rants and feels better afterwards. “Man I reallys hopes Dr Rockso nots in the slammer again! I donts know what’s to tells that guy! He nevers listens to Toki! I just tries to helps him cause he ams my friend!” Toki also has to take his insulin, which he’s gotten the hang of now since Charles instructed him to do it. He hardly misses a shot, knowing he feels better if he takes them. Sometimes though he can’t resist those sugary kid’s cereals and he’ll eat a big bowl of cereal and then take his insulin right away. He knows it’s risky but he likes sugar too much. The guys all stand there staring at him, making sure he doesn’t go into a diabetic coma. Murderface will wait around just a little longer than everyone else, you know just in case ‘hambuger time’ happens.

•Skwisgaar also gets up early. When he’s waking up alone and not in the company of the women who sleep over, he likes to get out of bed right away so he doesn’t depress himself by lying there and staring at the ceiling, wasting precious time that could be spent practicing guitar. He goes and takes a piss, showers, then spends forever brushing his hair and doing some kind of skin routine, but he doesn’t let anyone else know. Dude literally hides his facial stuff and face masks so no one asks about them. If anyone does see them, he usually says something like one of the ladies he was seeing that night left it. “Oh ja, dis sluts from de nights before leaves alls her shit in my rooms…so I’s just keeps it for a reminders how goods dat ah sexual intimasky was that day. It’s likes a trophy.”After he finishes with his hair and stuff, Skwisgaar sits and practices guitar until his hands are sore. If he’s not hurting himself is he really playing to his full potential?! He has a weird obsession with outdoing himself from his last practice session, pressuring himself to be better and faster each time. If he can’t play the fastest he won’t be the best. He has to be the best. Once his hands are too sore it motivates him to leave his room so he doesn’t fall into a hole of self criticism over his guitar playing. When he’s around others he’s the biggest show off about how good he is at guitar and he knows it, but on occasion even he doubts himself. And being alone and second guessing himself can be too much first thing in the morning, so he joins the guys in the kitchen. He usually has black coffee like Nathan and probably toast or something.

[ms-m-astrologer]

Transiting Mercury enters Leo (pre-retrograde zone)

Tuesday, July 2 - Tuesday, July 16, 2024

Yep - those dreaded words, “Mercury retrograde,” loom over us again.

Mercury isn’t very comfortable in Leo. It is said to be in its “fall” here, ie, in a sign (Leo) opposite the sign it’s exalted in (Aquarius). Mercury likes pure icy cold facts - “just the facts ma’am” - whereas Leo is all about the drama and the ego.

Little kiddos with Leo Mercury often have to be reminded to tell the plain, unvarnished truth. If they develop the talent for “embellishment” and steer it into proper channels, that’s one thing. But as an example - my dad was a Leo, with a Leo Mercury, and he never let the facts get in the way of a good self-aggrandizing story. It got so bad and was so thorough that he was completely misrepresented in his own obituary - his parents were hurt and astonished, and everybody’s grief was compounded due to all the lies.

But, I think that’s more of a theme and issue for the upcoming retrograde. These next two weeks can be seen as a set-up time, and of course we want to take advantage of that! Looking at Mercury’s areas:

Learning - it goes better if we can have some fun with it and enjoy the process. Leo can be very interested in science, as well as the usual artsy Leo piece. We like to show off what we know.

Thinking and reasoning - stubborn! But can come up with some wonderful creative solutions to problems. We have to work on keeping our “egos” out of it.

Communication - can be very dramatic and creative. Can also be very loud. The instinct is to shout over people when they disagree. Work on (remembering) those listening skills.

These aspects are valid on the day they happen - especially the first ones, when Mercury is still streaking along.

Wednesday, July 3 - Mercury/Leo opposite Pluto Rx/Aquarius, 1°19’. The Leo-Aquarius polarity is “I’m a star!” versus “Everybody is a star!” This opposition probably points out a difficult truth (especially if it dings something in your birth chart) around that theme. Someone tells you something true, but harsh - or maybe you tell someone! Be careful not to let vanity, or need for approval, over-react.

Saturday, July 6 - Mercury/Leo conjunct Vesta/Leo, 7°32’. First of three, with the other two happening while Mercury is in its retrograde zone. These two combined usually ignite some new scholastic interest. Whatever amazing idea we get, though, we should hold that thought and not act on it, because it’ll be up for review during Mercury retrograde - and probably come out in a completely revised form, the third time, in Virgo.

Monday, July 8:

Mercury/Leo sextile Jupiter/Gemini, 9°50’

Mercury/Leo trine North Node/Aries, sextile South Node/Libra, 10°48’

This can give us some intellectual arrogance. I’m thinking of Peter Pan crowing “How clever I am!” On the less egotistic side, we have opportunities to expand our knowledge, in a way that makes us feel confident about ourselves and our ability to learn.

Monday, July 15 - Mercury/Leo square Pallas/Scorpio, 19°53’. First of three. Struggles to find our authentic voice - authenticity being a Very Big Deal for Leo and Scorpio. Perhaps we aren’t as eloquent as we want to be. Can also indicate learning difficulties. I’m also thinking that, given the nature of Leo and Scorpio, we aren’t listening - and that will get us into trouble soon enough.

[boygiwrites]

Living the Vida Loca   P.5

•  Jesse Pinkman & Reader. (Platonic)

(Here’s part one.)     (Here’s part two.) (Here’s part three.) (Here’s part four.) (Here’s the epilogue.)

• (Find this story on Ao3.)

Summary — A short story about how a young teenaged girl gets wrapped up in Jesse's life.

Notes — Buckle up, this is a monster of a chapter!! And also, it's the end!! 😭 I'll be writing an epilogue, though!  Thank you for everyone who has been here for this little journey!

.

The week before the betrayal.

The week before the betrayal, things are weird.

( In hindsight, maybe you should have pieced it together sooner. )

First of all;

Jimmy can't look you in the eye.

He laughs at the wrong times, stutters randomly, and picks at his cuff links when he talks to you.

He says he can't tell you what's wrong.

When you give him a look that must show your heart breaking in real time, he crumbles, and banishes you from his office to prevent himself from blurting out whatever it is he's hiding from you. Whenever you knock or ring, his receptionist always has an excuse prepared.

You bite down hurt every time.

Jimmy usually always makes time for you; especially after the attack.

One evening, you sit on the hood of his car, watching the inflatable statue of liberty teeter in the wind, and wait for him to leave the office.

When he sees you, he drops his briefcase.

You argue.

He calls you a brat.

You call him a coward.

Just tell me what it is, you beg, I can't take it anymore!

He looks, just for a fraction of a second, like he's going to say something.

He searches for the right words.

He meets your eyes.

Then he throws himself in the driver's seat and screeches out the parking lot.

The stars come out.

You take the bus home.

After that, you give up on trying to figure him out.

Secondly;

Walter talks way too much.

He baits you into dinner at his house and overstuffs the awkward silence while you pick at green beans.

His wife and son look like they want to disappear.

Walter talks way too much about your recent success on the mid-terms, and how he remembers that ugly backpack you used to wear in seventh grade, and how, one time, at the annual science fair, you spilt orange food dye all over yourself and he had to use his tie to wipe you down, and how he's lucky to have you as a student, and how, and how, and how-

With each unprompted story, he becomes more emotional.

It's like you're listening to your own obituary.

This is the first time you see Walter White cry, and it's onto buttered corn.

The dinner ends pretty abruptly.

Nothing feels right, after that.

He stops by the house way too often and smiles way too much.

He offers to carry your things, and opens doors for you, and tells fluffy, out-of-character jokes.

He always makes a point to ask if you're feeling alright, which strikes you as odd.

One day, Jesse straight up doesn't let Walter inside the house.

You squirm deeper into the sofa blankets while they cuss each other out at the door.

Look, man, she just doesn't wanna see you right now!

Well, why on Earth not?!

You start to skip chemistry just to get his voice out your head.

Every time you see him, he's got the same guilty look on his face.

One night, when you talk about it, Jesse admits he's noticed things are weird, too.

There's something very wrong.

You just don't know what.

He starts getting antsy, and he starts checking his phone all the time.

He corners Jimmy at a gas station one morning and tries shaking answers from him.

The next time Walt comes over, Jesse doesn't even answer the door.

If they weren't going to break, you'd just have to wait.

Between Jimmy's silence and Walter's chatter-mouth, it was only a matter of time before the truth came out.

The night of the betrayal.

The truth comes out at midnight on an empty overpass, while the city twinkles silently on a black horizon.

You watch Jesse and Walt from inside the car as they argue on mute.

You bite your nails.

The argument hits a climax.

When Jesse swings at Walt, you finally jump out.

The noise of the wind and the yelling hits you like a semi-truck.

What the Hell do you mean, huh? Huh?!

Jesse, I can explain!

You get there just in time to stop Jesse from throwing Walt over the railing.

A plane soars overhead as you all catch your breaths.

Jesse gets you behind him, exactly like the very first night Walt came into your lives, and points his gun at his face.

Numbly, you realise Jesse's crying.

Say it!

Jesse's voice echoes off the concrete ditch below.

Say it!

Say it, right now!

Say again what you just told me!

You feel sick, suddenly.

Whatever he's about to admit to, it's going to change everything.

You can just tell.

Walt shirks off his foggy glasses, wipes his brow, and looks you in the eye.

He's out of things to say.

I sent those men to beat you, is his simple confession.

Gus' associate, the one who sent those men after you; It was Walter?

All your thoughts condense into one word: Why?

Did Jimmy know?

The world tilts.

You remember falling to the ground.

You remember vomiting.

You remember a gunshot.

Then; two.

Three.

Walter's car shoots off into the night like a bat out of Hell, until his break lights are just little red fireflies in the distance.

You remember Jesse screaming and kicking and hitting himself in the head.

You remember wanting to go home.

You remember nothing.

Somewhere along the highway on the way home, the car dies out.

You sit on a cold patch of tarmac with Jesse and wait under the moon for Mike to come rescue you.

Suffice it to say;

Spirits are low.

It's quiet as a graveyard out here.

I spy with my little eye, Jesse sighs, and that's how you spend the next four hours.

You kick rocks, and play eye-spy, and take turns pacing the road, aimlessly searching for cell phone bars.

At some point while you're star-gazing with Jesse on the roof of his little red car, you re-construct Walter's plan in your head: Walt needs Jesse in check, Walt sends men to beat you, Walt stages innocence, Jesse blames Gus, business booms.

The bruise on your cheekbone starts to sting.

Is that all you're worth to him? A bag of blue meth and a pay-check?

You wriggle closer to Jesse.

He's the devil.

You glance at Jesse and whisper, What'd you say?

Despite the reflection of the stars in his eyes, you can tell Jesse isn't seeing any of it.

There's a glaze of something else; Anger? Defeat?

Mister White. He's the devil.

The night steals his words away like a tumbleweed.

You grab his hand.

You think you see a shooting star.

Mike shows up at 1AM with a toolbox, blankets, water, and a very deep frown.

None of you speak about it.

Working through the betrayal.

It takes one week for Jimmy to come crawling to your front door, begging forgiveness.

You balk when you see his raw, discolored face littered with little strips of medical tape and red scratches.

Around a busted lip, Jimmy swears to you on his life that he was telling Jesse the truth when he beat him for answers this morning.

Right hand to God, I did not know about Walter's plans until after Gus Fring died.

The silence lasts a life-time and eventually, your chin crumples and your eyes water.

Oh, Jimmy's features clench with sympathy.

He hugs you tight, and that's that.

You forgive him.

When he notices over your shoulder how messy the house is, the mush-fest is cancelled, and he calls you guys a pair of dirty pigs.

He scoffs, How the Hell have you been living like this?

You guess the place does sort of look like a well-oiled machine that just... stopped. It's disgusting, really.

You give Jimmy a re-cap of the past week.

You tell him how Jesse took a jerry can, a lighter, and a death wish to Walt's house, and tried burning it to the ground.

And how Jesse shakes when he sleeps, and how he's got that white-hot look in his eyes all the time; murder on his mind.

And how you both sort of just gave up on doing the dishes, or the laundry, or the floors once the hot water got shut off.

And how you spend all day in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Things sort of hit rock bottom for you and Jesse after that night on the overpass.

As he toes a pile of stinky clothes rotting in the corridor, Jimmy mumbles, I can tell.

He decides he's going to be there for you two.

He's going to help pick up the pieces Walt left behind.

While Jesse's out there flaming away like a bonfire, hunting Walter down, Jimmy appoints himself your stay-in house maid.

He actually cooks, this time.

He vacuums, and sweeps, and mops, and does the grocery shopping.

He googles how to navigate your TV so he can switch on your favorite shows.

He sits on your closed toilet lid like a stubborn mule and waits until you brush your teeth.

He forces you and Jesse to shower, and dedicates a whole day to mass-cleaning your wardrobes.

The only reason you and Jesse aren't living in total darkness anymore is because Jimmy remembers to pay the electric company.

He sets up temporary home-schooling arrangements.

He wears a stupid little apron when he makes lunches.

One day, he even mows the lawn.

Think of it like a non-refundable, pre-paid service, he tells you.

You think this is probably the most honest work he's done in his whole life.

He's a good person when he wants to be.

Thanks to him, you get by.

The end of everything.

One afternoon, you're in Hank Schrader's kitchen, watching him dump sticky sheep guts on the floor.

He's going to stage your torture, claim you revealed the money location, and trick Walter into leading them to the real stash.

At least get my good side, you grumble as you sidle up to the pink globs of meat.

Hank and Gomez coach you on how to pose like you're in pain.

They cheer.

That's the one!

Jesse takes the photo.

He helps you clean up in Hank's giant bathroom afterwards, with a warm wash-cloth and lavender hand soap.

It takes thirty seconds after the photo is sent for Walter to call back on speakerphone.

Jesse keeps him on the line by provoking him from every possible angle.

This is the knife he's been waiting to twist; to make Walter hurt.

You're not too sure Jesse's acting, after his veins start to protrude, and his fingers start to sweat.

He's spitting on the phone screen.

These are the cracking, broken words you hear Walter sputtering throughout the call;

What the Hell have you done?!

I swear! I swear on my son, my daughter, my wife! I never meant for this!

Oh, God, it's over, isn't it? Was it quick?

I'm sorry, Jesse!

You have got to believe me!

I didn't want any of this!

These are the cutting, burning words you hear Jesse seething throughout the call;

You're bringing kids into this, now? You lying, dogshit piece of trash?

I'm gonna burn ten G's for every time you've lied to my face!

I don't give a fucking fuck that you're sorry!

This is it. This is where you stop hurting people.

Like two planets on course to fatally collide, Walter and Hank barrel their cars through the New Mexico desert.

Orange dust swirls over the windows when you skid to a sudden stop.

It clears; slowly.

There's a small, beige speck of movement among the rocks.

This is it.

It's Walter.

The cancer chased him, Jesse chased him, the DEA chased him, and yet here he is in a corner of his own making.

As he shuffles toward your group, and then crawls, and then kneels, you feel something stretching like a rubber band inside you.

When you hear the clinking of hand cuffs, you realize it's a grin.

Hank lets you step in front of Walter, his thin gold frames and buttoned shirt askew.

You begin to laugh.

Your voice is a passing howl across the yellow sands.

You imagine every face that's ever hurt you, and you scream in the one in front of you until you can't anymore.

You slap him, you hit him, you kick him, you spit on him.

He keeps his head bowed the whole time.

Then, it's Jesse's turn.

The rustling of nearby shrubs sound like the whispers of dead men, calling for Walter.

Jesse's got no energy to waste on goodbyes.

Walter gets shoved in the back of Hank's car.

You wait for backup to arrive.

The air feels fresh, and alive. You're happy.

You and Jesse climb to the top of a craggy outcrop and hoot into the surrounding canyon.

We're free now, Jesse chuckles breathily as he holds your shoulders. We can do anything.

You're sharing a plastic bottle of water when you first hear them.

Engines, approaching.

Jesse straightens.

They're not police cars.

They file in through the gulley like little black ants.

Shouting.

Confusion.

The red rock you're standing on suddenly splits into hundreds of little pebbles.

Gunfire.

Jesse throws you both to the ground.

You're hard to hit from all the way up here, but they know where you are.

The sky becomes a bowl of echoing gunshots and screaming.

Jesse's chanting curses, holding your head down, and inching towards nowhere in particular.

The gunfire tapers.

Next thing you know, you're running full force through the desert.

Jesse's behind you, shoving you forward every couple seconds.

In the distance, so small it looks like a granule of pepper, you think you see a car cruising calmy along the freeway.

You know that it can't see you.

You wonder where they're going.

That's the last, strangely normal thought you have before your face hits the ground.

Jesse yells out for you.

You instinctively curl around your middle like a scared little bug.

Your hands are instantly wet, and warm.

It's blood.

There's a big, ugly, gushing ring of flesh on your stomach.

Through the disorientating lines of heat waves, you make out Jesse struggling against two men.

And a third man coming toward you.

He drags you by the ankle back to the cars, like a sinking anchor all the way back to the bottom of the sea.

The mid-day sky pans slowly above you. It's sort of peaceful.

You see birds.

At some point, you're dumped next to Hank.

There are flies exploring around his open eyeballs.

He's dead.

Next thing you catalogue is Jesse, pinned on his stomach, nearby; thrashing and screaming and no-no-no-ing.

You don't understand, but you do remember all the times you've ever told Jesse you loved him.

Wait, why would you remember that, of all things?

Why is Jesse covered in sand and snot and slobber and tears?

You try telling him you love him.

You think it's important that you try.

Again; why?

Your head pounds.

You hear a gun's safety switch off and feel the barrel against your head.

Oh.

That's why.

You expect your life to flash before your eyes, like one big, split-second movie, but it doesn't.

This is just some random Tuesday afternoon, at the wrong place and the wrong time, and you're going to die.

You remember hiding the house keys under the welcome mat this morning, because you thought you were going to come home today.

For some reason, that's the thing that makes you cry.

You're never going home again.

You think you can hear Walter begging, too.

Is this really it?

You start moaning sadly to Jesse about how you don't want to die.

God, everything hurts so bad.

No, wait. Here comes the flashing, now.

Your first bike.

The day you started first grade.

The skatepark.

The polaroids, strung up like pearls in your bedroom.

The broken coffee pot in the kitchen.

Your favorite song.

Your baby blanket.

The leak in the garage sink.

That one flowerpot in the yard that refuses to wilt.

Going to the corner store with Jesse.

The sales bin in Blockbuster.

The scar on Jesse's knee.

The papers in your bottom drawer; the ones that saved your life.

Movies, songs, books, laughing, crying, jumping, running, living.

Everything.

Gone;

On some random Tuesday afternoon.

With Jesse's pleading fading and your vision blackening, you decide to look at the sky again.

You see birds.

BANG.

Your vacation at the Welker's place.

I spy with my little eye...

It's the middle of September, now. Todd told you so this morning. You could guess as much, though, from the cold.

Jesse's voice lives in the hole next to yours, now. It's just how things are.

Every day, the tarp comes off, breakfast is lowered in by a tin bucket, and you play eye-spy with Jesse through the wall.

Usually, your only options are the shapes of clouds, or passing bugs and birds, or rain, or new weeds that grow from the concrete.

There's not much else to see.

I spy with my little eye, something white, he says.

You search the grate.

You guess, The tarp?

Jesse sounds like he's smiling when he tells you you're right.

You feel proud.

Your turn, now.

I spy with my little eye, something grey.

He guesses, The sky?

You smile when you tell him he's right.

It's moments like these you wish you were dying in the same hole, so you could give him a high five, but you're not.

Right on schedule, you ask, What do you look like today?

As always, he answers, Well, my beard's a little longer, I think.

Right on schedule, he asks, What do you look like today?

As always, you answer, My wrists are skinnier than yesterday, I think.

Sometime around lunch, you listen as Jesse is hauled out onto the surface and dragged into the cooking warehouse by his chains.

The only reason he goes without a fight is because last time, they cut off your pinkie toe for it, and he cried the whole night.

You spend the rest of the day alone.

These are the things you think about:

What's Jimmy up to, in this exact moment? Driving? Typing? Talking?

What's on the news?

Are people looking for you?

Do you remember anything about the roads it took to drive here?

What would happen if you tried climbing out?

Then, like clockwork, the moon slides across the highest point of the shed roof, and Jesse is tossed back in his cell.

You play eye-spy again and then wish each other goodnight.

This is your life for three months.

If you ever made an autobiography, this is what it would say.

You were born in a parking lot at a concert.

You spent your entire childhood in an old, spray-painted skatepark with a bunch of teenage boys.

You've been in lots of foster homes.

You were adopted at age fourteen.

All the adults in your life are either in prison, in jail, or on their way there.

Your chemistry teacher is a drug lord.

He tried to kill you at age sixteen.

You've seen three dead bodies.

You were shot in the middle of the desert on a Tuesday, and then shot again in the foot, and then captured by Nazis.

Now, you live in a hole.

If you were in a movie, it'd be called, The Worst Day Ever.

One night, Jesse's tossed back into his cell, but this time he doesn't want to play eye-spy.

He has a paperclip.

It's a miracle.

He describes the paperclip, and how he stole it, and what his plan is, in great, exceeding detail over ten long minutes.

You wait for the tell-tale thunking of closed doors and clicking lights, and then the Welkers are all asleep, and Jesse unshackles himself.

He folds up all his blankets and spare shirts and the mattress and his shoes, scales it all, and leaps for the grate.

The moon moves three fingers worth of space across the sky before he makes it.

He laughs.

You laugh.

You imagine him hanging there like a chimp, grinning.

You hold your breath for a long time.

The squeaking of metal.

Grunting.

Shuffling.

Then, for the first time in three months, you see Jesse's face hovering above you.

He wasn't kidding about the beard thing.

You laugh at him, with tears in your eyes, that he looks like Rapunzel.

He tells you to shut up, but he's cry-laughing, too.

For ten minutes, you charge at the wall, jump for his hand, miss, and fall back down again.

He's laying on his stomach, reaching down as far as he can into your cell, and trying everything he can to catch you.

Your legs are buckling and his elbows are bruised, but you don't give up.

The sun is coming up when you finally hear a solid clap, and you realize you're hanging from Jesse's hand.

You made it.

He pulls you out.

You actually feel the breeze on your skin.

Your wounds have all re-opened, so Jesse wraps his shirt around your midriff.

You sit in an old puddle of sludge and trash for a minute, not believing your eyes.

He holds your wrists.

You feel his beard.

He looks so much different; especially his eyes.

Then;

The thunking of doors and the clicking of lights.

The Welkers are awake.

Jesse hauls you to your feet, and the pain is excruciating, but you let him tug you along.

He's dragging one of the tarps behind him.

It's like that day in the desert.

Blindly fleeing.

Voices chasing.

You reach the fences.

He throws the tarp over the barbed wire, grabs your thighs, and lifts you up.

You climb.

You reach.

You twist.

You fall.

You're on the other side of the fence.

You're out.

Jesse lands after you, and then you're running again, into the maze of empty warehouses and alleyways.

Jesse finds a car.

You hold your head under the dashboard while he hotwires it.

The engine sputters like a dying heart undergoing CPR.

Bullets hit the trunk.

Come on, you piece of shit, Jesse cries.

The car starts.

He punches the horn in celebration.

A bullet pierces the rear-view mirror.

Then, he slams his foot into the accelerator, and like a bad, distant nightmare, the Welkers shrink and shrink and shrink away.

The sun is fully up by the time you reach the highway.

There are birds, and other cars.

There are gas stations, and payphones, and people, and light, and noise.

The windows are all rolled down.

You both scream out of them like it's the first time you've ever used your voices.

Maybe it is.

You don't know where it is you're going, but you're with Jesse.

He's all you've got, and he's all you need.

Is that a Burger King he's pulling into?

This might be the best day of your life.

On the TV near the menu boards, your face stares back at you, labelled missing.

You eat an army's worth of burgers and fries and milkshakes and nuggets.

He pays for it with the twenty bucks he found in the glovebox.

The door dings when you step out.

You're free.

Really, this time.

You can go anywhere.

Do anything.

Jesse asks you what the next move is.

You take in the world, anew.

Your eyes land on a bench near the road.

Jesse follows your gaze.

Better Call Saul, it says.

It's as good a plan as any.

New life, here you come.

.

End Notes - That was almost 5,000 words! Oh my god. Let me know what you think!! Ready for an epilogue that may or may not be set in a certain snowy country?

[coochiequeens]

I would rather be a TERF than be someone who ignores that this can happen just to be an ally. True friends and allies would want anyone especially minors to be informed of what they were getting into concerning any medical procedure.

The tragic story of Griffin Sivret, and why it matters for every MA family.

Massachusetts Informed Parents Aug 19, 2024

Over the weekend we learned of the tragic death of 24-year-old Griffin Sivret, a “trans man” and MA native. For the sake of clarity, we will refer to Griffin by her natal sex. According to multiple sources, at the time of her death Griffin lived in RI but grew up in Worcester and attended Worcester Public Schools. She then went on to Becker College in Leicester. You can read her obituary HERE.

Before we go any further, we would like to extend our condolences to Griffin’s friends and family, especially her parents. Our hearts go out to you in your time of profound and unfathomable loss.

As a parent, the first thing that often comes to your mind when you hear that a young person has died, is the question: “What happened?” The answer to that question is why we feel that Griffin’s story must be told.

While an official cause of death has not been released, it has been reported that Griffin’s death was related to the long-term complications of “gender-affirming” surgery. Specifically, in Griffin’s case, the surgery that degraded her health and may have led to her death is phalloplasty. Phalloplasty, for those of you who have not yet been baptized into the hellscape that is “gender-affirming” surgery, is when a surgeon creates a neophallus (essentially, a fake penis) out of a flap of skin taken from either the forearm or the thigh of a natal female and sews it onto her groin area. This might sound like something straight out of a horror movie, but it’s very real. Phalloplasty surgery carries a high rate of complications, and the neophallus never functions like an actual penis, and often causes a multitude of other physical problems. For a firsthand account of what it is like to go through this surgery and to live with the complications, see this article from “trans man” and activist Scott Newgent. Newgent underwent phalloplasty while in her 40’s, and now works to sound the alarm about how dangerous this procedure is, and how it has destroyed her life.

Or you could listen to Griffin herself. Because as it turns out, Griffin was quite an avid TikTok-er. Over the course of a few years, she posted regularly on the app, where she talked about her surgery. As time went on, her posts became more and more about the complications of her surgery. In her last post, she looked quite ill. Two months later, she was gone. Her TikTok profiles are still up, and they can be viewed HERE and HERE. Griffin chose to share these parts of her life publicly, so we encourage everyone who wants to understand her perspective to listen to her share her experiences in her own words.

Here is one from just a little over three years ago, where she highlights the surgeries and “gender affirming” medical interventions she has had. Notice she started testosterone in 2014, which would have been when she was around 14 years old.

In this video Griffin can be seen driving to the hospital for yet another phalloplasty revision surgery, just six months later:

And just two months later she shares her grand total of phalloplasty-related surgeries to date: 8. She had eight surgeries on her genitals, and her neophallus still didn’t work the way she wanted it to.

Her TikTok doesn’t give much additional information on her health after that, other than her last post, where she sadly looks rather ill.

Now, heartbreakingly, she is gone.

We don’t pretend to know Griffin, or to understand all of her motivations or everything she went through. For the perspective of someone who has followed Griffin much more closely and had engaged her online while she was alive, go over to Twitter/X and check out user Exulansic’s profile, @TTExulansic. But even with our limited perspective there are many important things that can be learned from this tragedy, and to prevent future suffering for other people like Griffin, they must be explored.

“Gender affirming care” harms. Sometimes, it kills. Based on the evidence we saw, Griffin’s medical issues all seem to be traceable back to the surgical and medical interventions provided by “gender affirming” doctors. She spoke openly about the physical suffering that came along with the surgeries. While she maintained a public facade of being glad that she had a “penis,” she warned other people about the devastating physical impacts of her surgeries (see below). For almost half her life, she was a medical patient, all in the name of affirming her trans identity. While we don’t know the exact cause of her death, it is fair to say that at the very least, her “gender affirming care” left her physically weak and fragile. At worst, it killed her. (And if it did, it wouldn’t be the first time this happened. Here’s an article about another young person who lost their life due to “gender affirming” surgery.)

Losing a child is every parent’s worst nightmare. But affirming your gender-confused child’s trans identity won’t keep them safe. Parents of children who express a trans identity are often told by professionals that they must go along with the child’s new identity because otherwise, their child will kill themselves. “Would you rather have a living son, or a dead daughter?” counselors, social workers, and pediatricians ask traumatized parents. Manipulated and distressed by this question, many parents affirm their child’s trans identity because they feel they have no other choice. From what we can tell, Griffin’s parents were supportive of her trans identity. They used her preferred pronouns. At the age that most kids are entering high school, Griffin was already allowed to take cross-sex hormones. Her parents seemingly did what counselors advise parents in their situation to do - they affirmed her self-professed male identity, and they allowed her to transition. But tragically, their daughter is gone. The “gender affirming” treatment didn’t ultimately save her.

Hurting people hurt people. We don’t know what led Griffin to adopt a trans identity at 13 years old. But we do know that it is not uncommon for young people to seek solace in a trans identity after some sort of sexual assault, or simply because they feel so uncomfortable in their own developing body that they think it would be easier if they were a man instead. Regardless of her reasons, it is clear from Griffin’s TikToks that she was hurting emotionally as well as physically. And yet, it’s also possible that she hurt other impressionable young people by using her platform to promote gender surgery. In the TikTok below, she is answering a question from a 14-year-old “trans guy” about the ins and outs of phalloplasty. In it, she says that phalloplasty “surgically creates a penis.” This is simply not true. A neophallus created by phalloplasty is not the same thing as a penis. But the young person asking the question views Griffin as an expert, and they are left with no reason to question her answer. It makes you wonder: were confused young people enticed into a dangerous medical pathway by watching Griffin’s videos? Is there unintentional collateral damage from Griffin’s influencer persona? We may never know the answer to this question, but we do know it’s one more reason why parents need to keep their kids off of social media.

“Gender affirming care” is big business - for surgeons. In the TikToks below, Griffin gives two different figures for how much her doctors billed insurance for her phalloplasty and related surgeries. In a third video you will see later in this post, she gives yet another figure. The amounts don’t add up, but they are all astronomical. If anyone was still wondering if a perverse incentive exists for surgeons to do these dangerous, radical surgeries… well, now you have your answer.

Griffin received her “gender affirming care” in MA, and the doctor who performed her phalloplasty is still performing this surgery on other young people. Griffin identifies her surgeon in the TikTok below. His name is Dr. Oren Ganor, and he is the co-director/co-founder of the Center for Gender Surgery at Boston Children’s Hospital. Gender surgery at Boston Children’s has a complicated and controversial history, and they have (unconvincingly) denied performing gender-affirming surgeries on minors. According to this article, Dr. Ganor has argued that the capacity for gender surgeries for minors needs to be increased. What does Dr. Ganor think about what happened to Griffin? Was Griffin’s surgery deemed a success? We hope a medical authority looks into this. Regardless, it’s important to know that Griffin didn’t get her surgery done by some hack in a back alley. She didn’t fly to a third-world country to get bargain-basement surgery. She went to the co-director of the most prominent gender surgery clinic in the state, and still faced this disastrous result.

In this post Griffin accuses Safe Homes of allowing adult predators access to vulnerable minors (in this case, under the guise of a drag show - ironically, the very thing we are always told doesn’t happen), of looking the other way when sexual assaults occurred, and of employing a “literal child groomer'“ who was continued to be allowed to work with minors even after they were reported.

Safe Homes encourages minors to join their Discord community. Discord is a website known for being infiltrated by predators. It allows for private chatrooms with little accountability, and most parents don’t know it exists.

Now, we can’t speak to Griffin’s accusations specifically. But common sense tells us that if an adult wanted to gain access to kids for nefarious sexual purposes, one of the best places to go would be an organization that attracts impressionable kids based on their perceived sexual identity and wraps its actions in the seemingly impenetrable rainbow-colored cloak of “Love is Love.” We imagine that it must have taken a LOT of courage for Griffin to publicly criticize an organization like Safe Homes, especially as a member of the “LGBTQ community.” While we have not yet been able to verify Griffin’s accusations against Safe Homes, we were able to verify her involvement there. In 2016, she was awarded an award at their annual gala. See her name in the photo below, which you can also view HERE.

Safe Homes is clearly a powerful and influential organization. What did Griffin see/hear/experience that pushed her away from the very organization that gave her an award? Do the politicians in these pictures know of her accusations against Safe Homes?

On her personal Facebook page, Griffin checked in to Safe Homes multiple times.

Griffin was also active on the Safe Homes Facebook page. In the post below, you can see that Safe Homes was very excited that “gender affirming” surgeries were coming to Boston. Chillingly, you can also see that Griffin “liked” that post. Is this how she first learned of the very surgery that would destroy her health, and possibly lead to her death?

It seems she was unsafe at “Safe Homes,” in more ways than one.

We checked out what Safe Homes has been up to lately, and we didn’t like what we saw. First of all, we saw multiple posts in memory of Nex Benedict, the “nonbinary” young woman from Oklahoma who tragically died of suicide but was falsely hailed in the media as a martyr after it was incorrectly reported that she was killed in a hate crime. Yet there was not a single post honoring Griffin, a past recipient of their “People of Courage” award, who was actually part of their organization and whose funeral was several weeks ago.

But their apparent ignoring of Griffin’s tragic death wasn’t the only terrible thing we saw. Safe Homes, which services kids as young as 14 (and focuses on ages 14-23), is leading more young people down the same path that harmed Griffin. They are ushering more confused, hurting young people into the gender medicalization pipeline by offering easy access to “short-term counseling for individuals seeking letters for HRT or gender-affirming surgeries” at their “Safe Homes Transgender Resource Center.”

They bring in special speakers, like this woman from Planned Parenthood, to talk to minors about hormone treatment:

They teach minors how to legally change their names:

And despite Griffin’s publicly expressed concern about how a Grindr-loving groomer drag queen had gained access to minors via Safe Homes in the past, they still seem to be bent on bringing drag queens around kids. Here is one recent example, where they were involved with/promoted a screening of the Barbie movie for “Youth Pride Night,” where a drag queen Diva D was set to perform:

And here’s drag queen Diva D, who you might remember from dancing on a table at Sutton’s Connections Conference. He’s not the only drag queen that Safe Homes has brought around minors, but he’s the most recent. (And for the record, we think it’s odd that he just can’t seem to get enough of performing for minors. You would think that the amount of negative feedback he received from his performance in Sutton would have inspired him to stick to performing for adults, but apparently it didn’t.)

A month before that event, Safe Homes hosted a drag show at The Rose Room Cafe in Webster. There was no minimum age noted to attend this event. One of the drag queens who performed, Lana Backwards (aka Rhys Stuller, née female), was a high school friend of Griffin. According to a tribute written on Rhys’s Facebook page, Rhys and Griffin attended Safe Homes together as teens - a fact that, given everything we now know about Griffin’s concerns about Safe Homes as well as the trajectory of these two girls’ lives, feels like it needs more investigation.

Safe Homes’ parent organization is Open Sky Community Services, a massive organization that provides community services to all of central MA. They openly support Safe Homes’ mission, including publicizing the Transgender Resource Center that provides easy access to hormones and surgeries for gender-confused youth.

Does Open Sky care about what happened to Griffin? Do they know that their support of “gender affirming care,” the combination of bad science and medical malpractice that has devastated the bodies and minds of so many impressionable young people, very well could have led to Griffin’s untimely demise? We think someone should ask them.

A quick google search provided evidence that Safe Homes has a foothold in many MA public schools. Fitchburg High School lists them on their guidance website as a mental health resource. Worcester Public Schools shared Safe Homes as a resource as well. Burncoat and Worcester Technical High School have invited Safe Homes to speak to their classes, as have Northboro Middle and High School. And we know that Safe Homes works with Pride Worcester and SWAGLY, both of which have been known to network with MA public schools.

To the Sivret family, we again extend our sincere condolences for the loss of Griffin. Our earnest prayers for comfort will be with you during this time of profound grief.

To parents everywhere, this sad loss brings to light many important things that we must all know in order to protect our own kids, and the kids in our communities. We can’t trust social media influencers to give our kids good advice, especially if they are in the middle of fighting their own battles. We can’t trust the medical establishment to keep our kids safe, not even highly regarded doctors who work for prestigious hospitals. We can’t trust our schools to protect them from outside organizations that, according to Griffin, allowed bad actors to prey on vulnerable minors. And we certainly can’t trust those same outside organizations to place our child’s health and well-being over their commitment to radical ideology - even if they have the glitter of prestige and host galas attended by high-ranking politicians. We must be aware that all of these systems, and all of these institutions, can fail our children. We have to know this story so that we can protect them. Because while what happened to Griffin is happening to kids and young adults all over the country, this time it happened in our own backyard.

May those who loved Griffin remember her fondly. And may the rest of us remember that no family is immune from this form of heartache. It is up to all of us to be eyes-wide-open, so that if it is our child who believes the lie of gender ideology, and they think gender surgeries will make them happy and whole, we can tell them the truth. And we can tell them this story. #equippingparents #protectingkids