#implied/mentioned racism

[moldy-flowers]

Sakura and her comically oversized axes

[mill3rd]

THERE’S A MAN IN THE WOODS

synopsis. you live on a farm with your father and two younger brothers on the outskirts of north carolina, just bordering the treeline. the days become rough as a wolf keeps returning to eat at your family’s livestock. not until you finally give chase to rid the farm of it’s nuisance do you realise the trees have eyes.

tags. mentions of religion and racism, you have a tragic backstory, brief talk of the klan…, remmick is a manipulative conniving dictator, implied to be woc reader but anyone can read, strangers to almost lovers, lovers if he wasn’t out to get you, open ending, vampire/human, slowburn, haunting, kinda spicy, definitely tension present, takes place a few months before the movie’s set, mindfuck cus i love psychological thriller

word count. 13k

© MILL3RD 2025 — all rights reserved. mature content. please do not steal my works

you wake with a start. your eyes are locked onto the morning sun’s intrusion through your bedroom window and your ears are chiming with the rooster’s wake up call. sitting up, you revert your stare to the pooling fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

for the last few months, you’ve been plagued with a recurring dream. at first, you barely remembered the events but as time went on you were able to put the broken pieces together.

it was not really a dream. more of a memory you’ve tried to block out and ignore despite it’s numerous hauntings during the nights. those piercing blue eyes that become veiled by scarlet once concealed in the shadows. you are consistently bedevilled by the way they glowed as if to taunt you, a reminder that he’ll come back.

during the depths of night, the same terrible memory of you being chased down the long, sandy road connecting daddy’s farm and the town is repeated the same way you’d rewind a filmstrip. white men on horseback hunting you down like a predator would their prey during the final hour of dusk.

your calves burned with every desperate step. breath tore through your throat in ragged bursts—panting wasn’t enough anymore. the adrenaline that had carried you this far had curdled into exhaustion, and the sight of the barn, distant and flickering on the horizon, loosened your limbs with false relief.

that’s when they got you.

the sun dipped behind the farmhouse like it was retreating, and the world went dim. shadows spilled across the ground, swallowing the path ahead. you didn’t hear the horse until it was already too close—hooves silent, like they rode on smoke. then a sharp jerk at your collar, and you were dragged backwards with unnatural speed.

you didn’t scream. just a yelp, strangled in your throat. the last thing you saw was white—horse, shirt, teeth—and then the ground. you hit it hard, skull cracking against a rock that jutted from the gravel like it had been waiting for you.

everything went dark.

when you came to, the sky was full of stars. too many, too bright—like they’d drawn closer in your absence. the air was thick, like it was holding its breath. you sat up slowly, head swimming, hands slick with grit and something warm.

no horse. no white riders. no sound.

just the road, and a trail.

thick red, glistening in the starlight, smeared back toward the treeline. not a splash. a drag. something had been taken, or something had crawled.

and then—you saw them.

it was thick. dark. a smear of red leading from where you lay into the woods, like something had been dragged. you followed it with your eyes until they met something else.

a pair of eyes. concealed in the trees. motionless.

they didn’t blink. they didn’t move. just watched. and you—broken, dazed, bleeding—you didn’t move either.

some things weren’t meant to be chased. some things you don’t call by name. and whatever it was waiting in those trees, it wasn’t finished with you yet.

even now as you get up from your bed, you still cannot remember your saviour’s exact features. just that pair of unsettlingly observant eyes. there’s more to the dream, to the memory but you cannot bring yourself to remember it no matter how hard you try.

as the day goes on, you eventually forget about the dream due to your duties on the farm. collect eggs from the chicken coops, let the cows out onto the field, shave the sheep for wool. your daddy took care of the more gruesome things like killing the livestock for meat. your brothers were still too young to have any real job on the farm so they played with and fed the horses.

recently, a wolf–that’s what your daddy suspected–had been sneaking in and out to pick at the lambs. it’s had you and your daddy on your toes for the last week. so far, it’s gotten ahold of two lambs and fatally injured a cow but you’ll be damned if you let it get ahold of another one.

you remember when it first started happening. you went into the barn to feed the animals just to find a lamb with it’s neck shredded and drained. it was seperated from the rest of the sheep, curled in the middle of the barn floor in a pile of hay. you could’ve mistaken it for escaping it’s pen and falling asleep if it hadn’t had a torn neck. you had called for your daddy and he advised you to be on the look out from now on. since then, it had outsmarted you twice more.

nighttime befell when you noticed a stir in the undergrowth. you were doing a final round of the coops and pens to make sure they were bolted tight when you caught the faint rustling of a stealth attempt just in your midst. the sunset cast sharp shadows on your back and onto the wooden door as you closed the large entrance to the barn. your eyes squinted, trying to decipher if it really was the so called wolf or just the evening breeze shifting the leaves.

there was a tense silence between you and mother nature. your body froze in wait as you stared at the base of the treeline. adrenaline flooded your veins while you began to call to whatever was hiding in the bushes.

as your teeth clicked, the beast emerged just like you suspected. it stalked forward, sniffing the fence. it was good luck that your brother was close by, walking a horse into the stables.

“leroy! go get daddy!” you shouted, voice sharp, eyes never leaving the wolf.

it stood just shy of the chicken coop, lit by the swinging lantern in your grip—eyes like coals, breath fogging in the thick heat of the night.

with slow, practiced fingers, you slipped the lantern onto your belt, the glow casting long, twitching shadows, and unhooked the shotgun from your shoulder. you leveled it. breathed in. fired.

the shot sang past its head, nicked its ear. the beast yelped, spun, and vanished—over the fence and into the snarled underbrush without a backward glance.

far behind you, the screen door slammed open hard enough to rattle its hinges. “what the hell you doin’?” daddy barked, storming down the porch. “chase after it, goddamnit!”

“it’s too dark!” you called, hoping that would be enough.

but he just waved a calloused hand, like darkness was a thing you could slap away. “you got a light, don’tcha? use it, girl!”

the lantern swayed against your hip like a pendulum, casting gold over the shotgun’s barrel. you stood there, breath caught in your throat, listening to the rustle of leaves where the wolf had gone. you didn’t want to follow—but you knew better than to let something like that slip away. not out here. not again.

so you broke into a sprint, hopping over the fence and chasing the beast that stole from your farm.

the lantern repeatedly swung between the air and your thigh as you ran between trees and over fallen logs. you could see the pathway ahead, the moon breaking through the trees and giving you a clear visage of what was ahead.

you’d chased the sound—rustling, footsteps that aren’t heavy enough to be a dead giveaway but just enough so that they could be heard. at first, it had seemed like an ordinary cat and mouse game, the kind of game you and your peers would play around the schoolhouse. but this animal was not playing an ordinary game of cat and mouse. you realize that now.

you’d gathered your skirt high with your free hand, breath sharp in your chest. the ground was uneven, soft in places, snagging your boots and your hem. once, you thought you saw it—a flash of dark fur between the underbrush. you pressed forward. but as you turned sharply around a stump half-hidden in dead grass, something yanked at your side with a sudden hiss of tearing fabric.

you staggered. when you looked down, a long strip of blue had been torn clean from the lower part of your skirt. it dangled for a second, caught on the bark behind you, before the wind—or something else—pulled it loose and carried it into the dark. you didn’t go after it. you only stood there, hand pressed to the frayed edge, chilled by how deliberate it had felt.

you’re not sure when the game turned into something else—something other, colder. but it had. and now, with every sound swallowed by the night, you understood you were no longer meant to be the cat.

animals have instincts. they play more survival ‘games’ than you ever had to. it’s part of their dna to survive.

it moved too fast. too clever. it had led you deeper than you intended, into a section of the woods you don’t remember walking through during the day, past groves of gnarled hawthorns and skeletal ash trees that creak as if whispering to one another.

you shouldn’t be out here.

the trees murmur it, their bare limbs tapping against one another like brittle fingers. the wind pulls at your shawl and hair, cold and sly, as though trying to tug you backward. as if to convince you to immediately turn back home. but you walk on, boots slick with mud, heart thudding like hooves in your chest.

your chest rose and fell when you stopped at a small, thin ravine. the drop itself was barely a few inches but the water was waist high. the nighttime chill wouldn’t mix well with damp clothing.

you glance down. the water is black—a reflection of the above. not wide, but fast. too fast that if you were to jump it would not guarantee your safety. especially in the dark. the stones gleam like teeth beneath the surface.

you sigh, clutching the shotgun in your palms and looking around. the trees happened to close in and block the shine of the moonlight except for one single ray, enclosing you in near darkness. you weren’t afraid of the dark, you figured you had other things to be wary of.

like what’s inside the woods itself. the woods aren’t meant to be this silent.

you sway with unease, surveying your surroundings. it was too dark.

at this time, you’d realised that the fire in the lantern had been knocked out during the sprint. you put your shotgun back over your shoulder before rustling in your pockets for a lighter.

“there we go..” you murmur, flicking it a few times infront of you until it stays alight.

“i’s a lil’ late for someone like you to be out here so late, don’cha think?” a voice says from the other side of the ravine. the suddenness startles you, making you almost drop the lighter. your fumble to catch it causes the flame to lick at your palm. hissing, you close the metal lid of the lighter and hold your hand in pain.

“dear lord,” you whisper, squeezing your hand and backing away from the revine ledge.

“sorry, i ain’t mean to frighten ya, ‘was genuine curiosity,” the owner of the voice stepped into the light, revealing a white man with a toothy grin. he stared at you like he was examining you. it gave you the creeps. he’s mainly standing in the shadows across the gap. perfectly still. taller than you, albeit not by very much. pale-skinned. dressed in suspenders and a loose shirt. his shoes are polished even in the dirt. his hair is dark, sticking onto his forehead. you can’t tell his age, but something about him feels ancient.

“you one of them?” you squint, your left hand holding the gun for a sick sense of comfort. the man tilts his head, “one of who?”

you swallow, “the klan.”

you are almost surprised by the expression of shock and almost offense that explodes onto the man’s features. his eyebrows raise with his hands, “ma’am, i can assure you that i believe in equal rights between all people.”

you scoff like you don’t believe it, but you freed the gun of your grip nonetheless, “okay.”

“i’m glad we have no problems,” the man smiles but your brows furrow. the river rushed, exchanged for the silence that followed. your eyes drifted over him. he wasn’t dressed in anything fancy and his appearance wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before but there was something about him that caught your eye.

“we met before?” you ask, eyes glinting with curiosity. the stranger laughs, “why don’cha answer my question first?”

your chest drops with a breath you didn’t know you were holding. you stammer, “sorry, what was the question?”

“what’re ya doing out here so late?” he asks once more. your boot toes the dirt beneath you, “huntin’ is all.”

he raises an eyebrow, amused more than skeptical. “at this time?”

you nod, though it feels flimsy now. “damned mutt keeps eating at the livestock n’ it caught my eye this evenin’. dark thing. fast. had me and my daddy on our toes a lot this week.”

he tilts his head, like he’s testing the truth of you. “and you figure it’ll lie at ya feet if you started chasing it?”

you swallow, “my daddy sent me after it, told me to track it down before it gets brave.”

“n’ how’s that workin’ out f’r ya?” the stranger mocks with a grin. you swallow. the woods press in close, too silent now. not a single cricket. not even wind. just the rushing water from the revine below.

“clearly outsmarted me,” you exhale, putting your hand on your hip and squeezing it out of nervous habit, “it’s a clever wolf.”

that gets a gleam in his eye,“clever’s dangerous.”

you nod, glancing behind you at the narrow path that wound you here. you’d barely seen it in the dark, half-choked with brambles and vines. “yeah. that’s why I brought this.” you lift your shotgun slightly—not in threat, just to show. a gesture.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even look at the gun.

“what about you?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light. “you got a reason to be out here, or you just like loiterin’ in places folks try to avoid?”

he smirks, not answering right away. “maybe i live out here. y’ever think of that?”

you chuckle. “in the trees?”

“could do.”

a silence passes between you, thin as frost and twice as cold. you watch each other in the gloom. he’s still half-shrouded by shadow, leaning against a tree like he belongs to it—like it grew around him and he just never left. his suspenders are dark and long, damp at the hem, and his boots don’t make a sound when he shifts his stance.

“what’s your name?” you ask, heart drumming a little harder now. you’re not sure if you’re curious or just stalling.

“people ‘round here don’t ask names when they meet strangers in the dark,” he says, voice smooth but taut, like a wire stretched too tight. “you learn things ya can’t forget.”

“maybe I wanna remember,” you say, trying to hold his gaze.

he leans his head slightly, amused. “do ya now?”

your jaw tightens. “depends.”

“on what?”

“on wha’cha are.”

that gets him. the smile fades, just a flicker, and he studies you like you just said something in a language he hasn’t heard in a long time.

“ya ask a lotta questions for someone with a gun in their hands,” he murmurs, stepping closer. you raise the shotgun just slightly—not to aim, just to make the distance clear. he doesn’t flinch.

“i ask when things don’t line up,” you say, “like how i’ve lived out here my whole life and never seen you ‘til now. or how there’s not a single sound in these woods since you showed up.”

he grins, wide again, but not kind. its cold and holds secrets, “maybe ya ain’t listenin’ right.”

you bite your lip. something scurries up your spine like vermin, something you don’t want to name. “maybe i don’t wanna hear what’s out there.”

he steps closer still. just one more pace before he’s out of the moonlight, but it steals your breath. his eyes are strange—too dark, like a dormant volcano that threatens to leak red for the first time in one hundred thousand years. you feel like if you look too long, you’ll erupt with it.

“then why’d ya come out here?” he asks, voice low, like the hush before a storm. you hesitate, eyes tracing the shifting shadows. “i already told ya why.”

he nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing your words against something heavier. “alright. i’ll believe ya… for now.”

you scoff, but it comes out softer than you intended. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he doesn’t answer. just pushes off the tree without a sound, as if the forest itself makes way for him. the air changes—cooler, stiller—as he lifts his face toward the canopy, the trees arching like they want to listen.

“ah, ah,” you call, pointing at him. “you said you’d answer my question.”

he glances at you over his shoulder, and there’s a flicker in his eyes—something unreadable, almost curious.

“we could be acquaintances,” he says carefully, “or maybe ya like talkin’ up strange men in the woods.”

your frown deepens. “that’s not an answer.”

“no,” he agrees, voice low as a secret. “but it’s true.”

something in his gaze catches the light, and for a second, you’re not sure if it’s a glint of mischief—or something else entirely.

he goes to walk off again, swaying merrily from side to side like the night belongs to him, like nothing in the world could ever touch him.

“and i don’t even get your name?” you call out, half-marveling, half-exasperated. for someone so wrapped in mystery, he still manages to come off rude.

he stops. turns one last time.

and somehow, you know—it’s the last time he’ll respond. the certainty hits you like static in the air, a charge that zips across your skin and settles deep in your bones.

“sweetheart,” he says, eyes trailing over you with a lazy kind of mischief. a smirk crawls onto his face like it’s always been there, waiting. “you know it.”

your brows pull tight. confusion blooms. before you can shape the question forming behind your teeth, he cuts in—like he’s pulled it straight from your head.

“take a dip into your mind tonight,” he says, voice low and distant, like it’s already drifting away. “you’ll remember it.”

and then—it’s there. right at the edge.

your lips part. they quiver. you bite down to stop the habit you’ve never managed to break.

“damn it,” you whisper.

it’s right there. you can feel it pressing against your tongue. but somehow, you still can’t speak it.

you watch him vanish, slipping between the trees like the forest opened just for him. like he expects you to follow.

he never says it—but the way he walks, the ease in his stride, the smirk half-thrown over his shoulder—it all says you will.

but you don’t.

you’re more than happy to deflate his ego. so you turn on your heel and make your way home, the night thick and humming around you.

when you reach the porch, your daddy’s already waiting, arms crossed, lantern glowing at his feet like a tame fire.

“you didn’t get it,” he says—not accusing, just certain. like he already knew.

you nod. no use pretending otherwise.

“i lost track of it,” you admit, quiet.

he studies you a moment, then sighs. it’s not disappointment you hear—just the tired kind of knowing that comes from a life lived close to danger.

“you were brave tonight,” he says finally, voice rough with something close to pride. “braver than most.”

then, with a nod, he picks up the lantern and waves you off.

“go on. get some sleep.”

and just like that, it’s over. no lecture. no second thought.

but as you climb the stairs to your room, you can’t shake the feeling that nothing’s really over. not yet.

sleep doesn’t come easy, but when it does, it swallows you whole.

you’re standing in the woods again, only this time it’s not foggy—it’s still. unnaturally so. no wind, no crickets, no sound at all. even your breath feels like it’s being swallowed by the trees.

ahead, something glows—a slow, golden flicker, like candlelight caught in water.

you move toward it, barefoot again, leaves slick under your feet. the light leads you, and somehow, you know it’s him. he’s waiting. he always is.

you find him by a half-dead oak, one hand resting on the trunk like he’s listening to something in the bark.

“you came,” he murmurs, not turning.

“i didn’t mean to,” you say, though you’re not sure if that’s true.

he smiles without looking, and then—finally—he turns to face you.

“y’know my name yet?”

his voice is soft, almost kind, but something behind it scratches at the edge of your mind, like claws against wood. you shake your head, “tell me.”

he steps closer. close enough that you see the stars in his eyes—but they aren’t reflections. they’re inside him. burning.

he leans in, mouth near your ear. and he says his name.

the sound of it splits something in you. not pain, not quite. more like a door opening in a place you didn’t know you had. it echoes. it settles.

you try to repeat it—but your lips won’t move. your throat won’t open. something inside you resists, like speaking it would let him inside for real.

“there it is,” he whispers, brushing a finger down your jaw, to your neckline. “just don’t forget it again.”

you jolt awake, cold sweat clinging to your skin.

his name pulses in your mind, louder than your heartbeat, as clear as if you’d just heard it again—and you replay it on your lips, it feels right. feels good. remmick..

you sit up. the farmhouse is quiet. too quiet. no wind through the rafters, no cluck of hens, no groan of the wood beneath your father’s boots. the silence feels stretched. unnatural.

the dream has left you dazed. his face, the stranger’s—remmick’s—is imprinted behind your eyes like a thumb pressed into soft earth. his voice had called to you—not with urgency, but with strange familiarity. like he’d known you longer than you’d known yourself. like you’d promised something.

you go to the window.

outside, the fields ripple under low morning mist, and the corn stalks stand tall but motionless. the barn’s doors are open. not wide, but just a sliver, like they were curious enough to peek. a jagged piece of blue cloth—the fabric that’d been torn last night—flutters from the fence post by the coop. it's knotted tight, as if someone had left it there for you.

you dress slow, careful. the house groans once, somewhere behind the walls, and then settles again. you don’t call out for your daddy. not yet. something about the air makes you feel like if you speak too loud, you’ll break it.

on the porch, the world smells damp and sweet, like rain that hasn’t fallen. a crow watches you from the clothesline, head tilted. you give it a nod like you’re greeting a neighbor, and it caws back, once, like it understands.

you go to the barn first. always best to check the odd things before the expected ones. the cloth flaps lazily when you pass it. the barn doors creak when you pull them open, revealing dust hanging thick in beams of light. nothing is out of place. not really. but the hay has been arranged into a spiral—wide and looping, like something moved through it, not walked. slid.

you step inside anyway. your boots crunch soft over the hay, and the spiral breaks under you. there’s no fear. just that deep feeling you get when you know you’re part of something, but you don’t know what yet. like a play you walked into halfway through, and everyone else already knows their lines.

in the corner of the barn is a chair you don’t remember putting there. an old rocker. you’ve never seen it before, but it doesn’t feel unfamiliar. when you reach out to touch it, there’s warmth still in the wood.

daddy’s voice finally calls from the field.

you leave the barn without looking back, and you don’t tell him about the hay spiral or the warm chair. you just listen as he complains about the cows not coming in for feed, and the fence posts shifting again overnight. the dirt smells too rich, he says. too sweet. like sugar rotting.

the whole day is like that. small things. a second plate set out at breakfast though you swore you didn’t do it. a mirror in the hallway catching someone behind you that isn’t there when you turn. the wind blowing your name once, low and fond, when no one else is near.

you walk the edge of the fields after supper, watching the sky go pink behind the trees. there’s movement between the rows—subtle, almost like someone walking beside you just out of sight. but you don’t look. not tonight. it doesn’t feel threatening. just… familiar.

that night, the dream comes back.

he is there again, just where you left him. standing in the woods, shirt open at the throat, lantern glow behind him. “you remembered,” he says. like he knows.

“that’s alright,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “there’s still time.”

when you wake, the blue cloth is fluttering outside your open bedroom window. the knot so neat it looks deliberate, like a ribbon on a gift. your hand trembles slightly when you hang out of the window to untie it. the fabric is soft, finer than anything you own. it smells faintly of smoke and cedar and something else, like remmick added his own scent to it.

you don’t tell your brothers or your daddy.

he’s already at the edge of the pasture, trying to coax the cattle back toward the barn. they’ve taken to lingering near the woods, eyes wide and wary. he curses under his breath as one bull shakes its head and turns away, refusing to come.

you stand at the back steps and watch the tree line.

you don’t know what you’re waiting for, but your heart seems to. it beats a little faster when a shadow shifts behind the branches. nothing emerges. nothing moves, really. but the stillness feels full, like the pause before someone speaks your name.

at dusk, the sky bruises violet and gold. you walk the perimeter of the fields again, pretending to look for signs of broken fence or paw prints. instead, your hand drifts to the red cloth in your pocket. your thumb brushes it like a worry stone.

when the night falls, you wait.

you leave your window open. just a crack.

the dream doesn’t come.

instead, it’s the tapping that wakes you. soft. rhythmic. like someone gently drumming their fingers on the glass. when you sit up, the room is silver with the moonlight that breaks through the thinness of your curtain. the tapping stops.

you move to the window, slipping your hand between the hanging fabric toward the latch. your heart sinks the moment you see it—a shadowed hand, reaching for yours from the other side of the glass. your breath catches. instinct yanks your hand back, but the shadow doesn’t move. it lingers there, pressed against the pane, too still to be real, too solid not to be.

you stand frozen, heart pounding so loud it muffles the quiet.

finally, once the panic settles into something like courage, you part the curtain.

the shadow is gone.

but just beyond the yard, near the edge of the barn, a figure stands—motionless, watching. not approaching. not retreating. just waiting in the dark, exactly where the lantern light can’t reach.

he doesn’t wave. doesn’t speak. but you know it’s him. remmick. same silhouette. same impossible stillness, like the air around him holds its breath. your own breath fogs the glass.

he waits. for you. he waits for you.

you pull your shawl around your shoulders and slip outside barefoot. the earth is cold, damp. you don’t call to him. you just walk.

as you get closer, you realize he’s not standing in shadow—he is the shadow. moonlight should strike his face, but it doesn’t. it bends around him like it’s shy. only his eyes catch the light, glinting like something not quite human.

“you came,” remmick says, like it surprises him, though something in his eyes suggests he expected nothing less. like he’s been waiting—patiently, deliberately—every night since the first, and would’ve kept waiting, too, just to prove that you would return eventually.

you nod, uncertain, and remmick smiles as if you’ve confirmed something important without realizing it.

“you remembered something,” he says, voice like low thunder, warm and unsettling. “even if you’d rather forget.”

“your name,” you whisper, but the word thickens in your throat. it doesn’t rise. it sinks—heavy and warm—curling behind your ribs like a secret you’re ashamed to know.

his smile deepens, indulgent, knowing. “it’ll come,” he says. “when it needs to. you ain’t need’ta force what already belongs to you.”

you flinch slightly as his gaze shifts, sharp and cold, to the trees behind you.

“the land’s wakin’ up,” he murmurs. “things buried never stay buried long. not here.”

“who are you?” you ask, though the question feels small now, almost childish.

he steps closer, slow, deliberate. the air turns cool—not biting, but intrusive. it slips under your skin like water seeping through cracks. you shiver, but he watches you with quiet satisfaction, as if your discomfort proves something to him.

“a memory,” he says softly, “a promise you made when you thought no one was listening. a consequence you invited.”

you shake your head, instinct tightening your chest. “you’re real.”

he studies you, tilting his head like a curious animal. “yes,” he says, “and no. i’m whatever plagues you.”

his hand lifts—gentle, too gentle—and he brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. his touch is cool, precise, and lingers just long enough to leave something behind: a tremor, a question, a pull.

“you believe in fate?” he asks, voice low, coaxing. like he already knows your answer and wants to hear you say it wrong.

you don’t speak.

his smile returns, quieter now. almost pitying. “you will.”

you step back. the stars seem brighter now, like they’re watching. the barn behind him groans once, the sound old and wet, like wood remembering water.

you don’t see him leave.

you turn around, heart thudding, and walk back to the house.

the morning comes quiet.

you wake with the feeling that something is watching you, but when you open your eyes, there’s only the ceiling above. no shadow at the window, no whisper in your ear. still, your chest is tight like it hasn’t stopped bracing.

you get up slower than usual. your limbs feel like they’ve been moving in your sleep. your feet are dusty, though you could swear you never left the bed.

in the mirror, your face looks the same. but your eyes… they look like you’ve seen something you shouldn’t have.

downstairs, the kitchen is hushed. even the old house seems uncertain how to greet the day. the stove clicks when you light it, and the kettle moans like something waking from a bad dream. you drink your tea standing, watching the trees through the window over the sink.

they move too much for a wind this mild.

the blue fabric is in your pocket. it hadn’t been there when you went to bed, but it’s here now—creased and stained with something that isn’t quite dirt. you smooth it out on the table, trace the threads with your finger. they look newer than they should, like they were stitched last night.

like someone left it for you.

you try the chores anyway. the chickens are uneasy. they don’t peck at your boots like they usually do. they cluster near the fence and watch the treeline, like they expect something to come crawling out.

the barn’s doors are closed now. they weren’t, last night.

you stand outside them for a long time, hand on the latch. you expect the air to be heavy again, or that strange chill to slide down your back like a breath. but it’s just quiet.

too quiet.

inside, everything’s in its place. the tools haven’t moved. the hay is dry. there’s no sign of the figure you saw near the fence. and yet—there’s a smell. faint. metallic. sweet in a way that doesn’t belong in a barn. like rust and roses.

you don’t linger.

back at the house, you find yourself staring at the window where the hand had touched the glass. it should be smudged, but the pane is spotless. cleaner than it’s been in months. you touch the same spot. the glass is cool, colder than the room around it.

dinner time is no different at first. the clatter of forks against chipped ceramic fills the silence. stew’s gone lukewarm in your bowl, but you’ve barely touched it. every now and then, the wood of the chair creaks beneath your shifting weight, and you can feel their eyes on you—watching too long between bites.

“you alright?” leroy asks first. his voice is casual, but his brow’s tight. you glance up, startled by the sound more than the question.

“i’m fine,” you lie, offering a short smile. it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“you been sleepwalkin’ again?” daniel mutters, not looking at you. his spoon scrapes the bowl. “saw the back door open this morning.”

you stiffen. the knot in your stomach pulls tighter.

“door was just unlatched,” you say, “must’ve been the wind.”

daddy lays his fork down slow. “girl, ain’t been wind strong enough to blow open that door since last spring. and your boots were wet this mornin’, tracked mud right through the back hall.”

you blink. you don’t remember putting boots on. you don’t remember walking, either—not really. just the barn. his voice. the candlelight stretching like fingers across the walls.

“you ain’t said a word all day,” leroy notes, “been starin’ at nothin’. mutterin’, too.”

“you’re all lookin’ at me like i’ve grown a second head,” you snap, sharper than you mean to. your heart’s racing, your chest too tight. “i just didn’t sleep well.

“that’s more than no sleep,” daniel analyses, voice low. “you been actin’ strange. and the animals been actin’ strange, too.”

“enough,” daddy demands, but his tone isn’t scolding. it’s quiet. concerned. like he’s been thinking the same thing.

you press your palms flat to the table, trying to steady yourself. the grain of the wood feels unfamiliar. everything does. even the way your family’s looking at you—too still, too measured.

“why’re y’all askin’ me like i did somethin’ wrong?” you ask, eyes glassy.

“we didn’t say that,” your daddy frowns. but something shifts in the room. daniel won’t meet your eyes. leroy’s stopped eating. daddy’s hand is still on his fork, but he hasn’t picked it back up. you can feel the sweat gathering at the back of your neck.

they’re watching you. not like family. not anymore.

they look at you like you’re a reflection in water—familiar in shape, but something’s gone warped beneath the surface. leroy’s jaw is tight. daniel won’t stop glancing your way, then glancing off again. daddy’s fork hangs in his hand like he’s forgotten what to do with it.

the candle flickers once, casting long shadows that stretch over their faces and make them look like someone else entirely.

outside the window, a figure slips past. silent. too smooth. just a smear of shadow. you go still, eyes locked on the glass. no one else reacts. like they didn’t see it. or like they did—and don’t want you to know.

your chair scrapes the floor as you stand. it sounds too loud in the quiet.

“i’m goin’ to bed,” you announce, no one stops you. just three nods.

that night, you light a candle before you go to bed. not the usual lamp, but a tall, white taper that you found tucked in the bottom of the drawer. you don’t remember putting it there.

as the flame flickers, you think about what he said.

a memory. a promise. a consequence.

you whisper the name again, just to try it. you repeat it until it’s all your tongue feels comfortable saying. like a comfort.

outside, a fox screams in the woods. or maybe it’s something else.

you don’t sleep. not really.

you lay with your eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the candle burns down, and the red fabric curls like it's trying to remember what it used to be.

just after midnight, the barn door creaks open again.

you hear it from your bed. and this time, you don’t move.

the sheets snap in the midday wind, pale ghosts dancing between the trees. you pin them to the line with fingers gone stiff from the morning chill, shoulders hunched against it. the scent of soap and woodsmoke clings to the fabric. behind you, boots crunch slow through the patchy grass.

“ain’t dryin’ proper if you bunch ’em up like that,” your daddy says gently.

you don’t look back, “they’ll catch the wind.”

he stops beside you, arms crossed. for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind hums low. a crow calls out once from the trees.

“i know you’re still grievin’,” he says after a stretch. “and i know that’s... partially my fault.”

you pause mid-pin, fingers caught in the act. his voice sounds older than it used to.

“she loved ya,” you say quietly, “and ya loved her.”

“yeah,” he breaths, “and it got her killed.”

the words fall heavy. you move to the next sheet without answering.

“life ain’t been easy for you. or your brothers. not since we came back here. i know that. know what folks say. what they whisper. ‘bout a white man an’ a coloured woman.”

you glance at him then. his jaw is set, weathered. the gray in his beard wasn’t always there.

“we hear it, too,” you say, “we always did.”

he nods. “you were just little when it all happened. but even then, you knew what people looked like when they hated quiet.”

the sheet in your hands slips, and you catch it by instinct. your throat feels tight.

“you think it changed me?” you ask. “mama’s death?”

his gaze doesn’t flinch. “it had to.”

a gust of wind lifts the edge of a shirt on the line. it flaps like a flag, the sleeve brushing your arm.

“you’re different now,” he says. “quiet. faraway. and lately... you’ve been lookin’ like her. when she was scared but wouldn’t say so.”

you swallow hard. “i’m not scared.”

he studies you a long moment. “then what are you?”

you don’t answer. you can’t. not with how your dreams feel like they’re bleeding into the day. not with how you wake up with dirt under your nails and your name whispering back at you in a voice that doesn’t belong to anyone you know—but feels like home.

“if there’s somethin’ you need to tell me,” he says low, “now’s the time. before it gets too deep to dig out.”

you turn your face toward the trees, where the edge of the woods lies waiting

“not yet,” you sigh.

and he doesn’t press you. he just helps hang the last of the laundry, quiet as the sky.

you wake before midnight, but not in the way waking should feel.

it’s that in-between space again—eyes half-lidded, body moving before your mind catches up. your feet know where they’re going. your nightdress brushes against your shins, it sticks to your body, damp with sweat. your fingers twitch open and closed like you’re still holding onto something you can’t see.

the air is thick, humming low like the world hasn’t quite started turning yet.

then you hear him.

not a voice, not clearly. but something rides the wind—soft, drawn out, curling around your ear like smoke. not words, but a shape your soul remembers. something that tugs at you like thread pulled taut.

you don’t stop to put on boots. don’t think to grab a lantern or a gun.

you pass the tree line, where the woods lean in close like old men with secrets. they remember you. they creak and hush, and still you move deeper.

the stream lies just ahead. you don’t need to see it—you feel its presence in your bones. that place where you first saw him, where he first looked at you like he’d known you across lifetimes.

your feet find the slick stones at the water’s edge without stumbling. the current murmurs softly, swollen from last night’s rain, but not fierce. it parts before you, like it knows to let you through.

you cross, the chill biting into your skin. your breath hitches, but you don’t turn back. can’t.

the ravine is shallow here, but the banks rise high and steep as you climb the other side. bramble and brush tug at your soaking nightdress. a loose thread catches on a branch, rips free—white cloth fluttering like a flag left behind. more fabric that this section of wood wants from you.

and still, you follow the sound.

he’s closer now. not behind you. not ahead. just... around. in the trees. in the mist coiling through the undergrowth. the sky above is a hard, dark blue, and you swear the moon lingers too long, watching.

when you reach the clearing, your breath leaves you at the same time that your eyes fall from their rolled back positions in your skull.

he stands beneath a split tree, backlit by silver light. unmoving. not waiting—expecting. your bare feet pause in the moss, but your body leans forward.

“you called me,” you murmur, though you don’t remember opening your mouth. his head tilts.

“ya heard me,” he replies, like it was never in question. his voice is different here—fuller, warmer, yet it chills every part of you it touches. he doesn’t come closer. he doesn’t need to.

“i ain’t mean to come,” you say, though the words sound hollow, like you already know they aren’t true.

“but ya did,” he says. “‘cause ya always do. even when you try not to.”

your fingers twitch at your sides. your heart beats faster now, like it knows it shouldn’t be here. like it remembers something your mind has buried too deep.

“d’ya know why?” remmick asks, like he was finally getting the answer he’s been waiting for…! but you shake your head. he smiles—sad, or amused, or both.

“you will,” he says. the wind stirs. the trees sigh. the sky twinkles as he offers his hand. you take it, shivering from the coldness of his palm.

none of you speak when he turns, just gives a glance over his shoulder, to make sure you’re really there in his hold.

barefoot, breath fogging in the chill before dawn, you trail behind him into the woods with your hand still gripping his. your nightdress clings damp around your legs, torn slightly at the hem where brambles caught you. the ground beneath your feet is soft, moss giving under each step like the earth itself is breathing. it cushions your bare feet.

remmick moves without sound.

no twigs snap under his boots. no rustle from his coat. he walks like he’s always belonged here, but not like he’s part of it. no. there’s something in the way he walks—like he could leave whenever he pleased. like he never intended to stay.

the path curves past a shallow river, down into the belly of the forest where the trees grow taller and closer together. it’s there you see the shack.

not run-down, not quite forgotten, but something older than it should be. wood silvered with time. windows small and round like eyes. smoke curls gently from the chimney, thin and pale.

he doesn’t knock. just opens the door and steps inside.

you linger on the threshold. you don’t know why your heart pounds the way it does—like the bones of this place remember something your body forgot. still, your hand finds the frame, and then you’re inside.

the scent of pine resin and ash wraps around you. herbs hang in bundles from the rafters, casting twisted shadows on the walls courtesy of the many candles. books are stacked in quiet towers. glass jars filled with dark things line the shelves. it smells like memory. like quiet.

you glance around the room—definitely a living room, though worn thin with time—and your eyes catch on a banjo hanging from two rusted hooks above an old rifle mounted on the wall.

you nod toward it, amusement tugging at your lips. “didn’t know you were the musical type.”

remmick follows your gaze. “oh, that? yeah. i like to play when the mood’s right.”

you tilt your head, smirking. “what about the rifle? you strum that too?”

he huffs a quiet laugh, one brow raised. “got jokes, huh?”

you grin, wide and unrepentant.

he shakes his head, chuckling as he steps aside to let you pass. “go on, then. before i show you what a real duet sounds like.”

his smile lingers, and for a brief moment, so does yours.

you take the chair remmick motions to—an old rocker with worn fabric. he moves slowly, not because he’s tired, but because he doesn’t need to rush. everything he does feels intentional. like time obeys him, not the other way around.

“you don’t look surprised to see me,” you chuckle softly.

remmick gives a faint shrug. “you always find me, one way or another.”

a gasp slips accidentally from your throat. your first conversation from a month ago flashes across your mind.

“we met before?”

“we could be acquaintances,” he says carefully, “or maybe ya like talkin’ up strange men in the woods.”

“we’ve met before.”

“in pieces,” he admits cryptically. “in dreams. in other places… but you know where we’ve met before.”

“how long have you been here?”

he glances toward the trees beyond the window. “not long.”

“before that?”

a small smile touches his lips. “everywhere else.”

you don’t know what that means. the kettle hisses over the fire, and he pours the tea without looking at it. hands you a chipped mug without asking if you want it.

“why me?” you ask.

“because you came,” he says, settling into the chair across from you. “that’s all it ever takes.”

you shake your head. “i don’t remember choosing to.”

“doesn’t mean you didn’t.” he leans forward. “some things in us reach out, even when we don’t know why.”

you sip the tea. it’s bitter and grounding, full of something you can’t name. it spreads warmth into your chest.

“you’re not like them,” you say, reffering to hunters and poachers, “not like the others in the woods.”

his eyes glint with something unreadable. “no. i’m not.”

“you’re not bound to this place.”

“nothing holds me,” he says quietly. “not the land. not death. not even time, if i don’t let it.”

you set your cup down. “then why stay?”

his gaze doesn’t waver. “because you’re here.”

a silence falls between you, long and soft.

you study the lines of his face. pale, like moonlight under skin. beautiful, but in a way that feels wrong if you look too long. a beauty sharpened by grief or hunger—something left unfinished.

“i’ve dreamed of you,” you whisper, like if admitting it too loud would offend him.

“you always do.”

“do you dream of me?”

remmick’s lips twitch, not quite a smile. “you’re harder to forget.”

outside, a crow cries. the sound stretches over the treetops and fades.

“you’ve always followed me,” he says, standing. “for a long time. y’don’t remember now, but ya will soon.”

he walks to the window, pushes it open. wind creeps in around the frame.

“they’re stirring again,” he warns, voice lower now. “them old things. nuisances beneath the roots.”

remmick speaks like he’s telling a story, like he’s reading to a child.

“who are they?”

“nothing you need to worry over. not now, or ever.”

he turns back to you, crossing the room with that quiet grace, like he could vanish at any moment.

“stay here, just until the sun’s high,” he pleads, “you’ll be safer here for now.”

you hesitate. “and if i stay longer?”

his smile is slow. “then you’ll start to remember more than jus’ my name.”

you swallow hard, the room suddenly warmer despite the fire having long died to embers. he steps closer, bending down to level with you, quiet as the hush between tree branches, and your breath catches before you even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

his hand lifts, careful, deliberate, fingers brushing along your jaw, cold at first—like creekwater in early spring—but gentling into warmth the longer he lingers. your skin hums beneath his touch, like it remembers him even if your mind won’t say how.

“y’still don’t know,” he murmurs, “but those bones do.”

he leans in slow enough for you to turn away. but you don’t.

his mouth finds yours, soft at first—testing—then deeper, like he’s waited years for you to let him back in. something stirs in your chest, blooming heat behind your ribs, like you’ve kissed him before beneath a hundred moons, in lifetimes neither of you ever got to finish.

when he pulls back, barely, your forehead rests against his.

“doesn’t feel like the first time,” you whisper.

“that’s because it ain’t,” he says, and you believe him.

his breath mingles with yours—cool and steady, unlike the wild rhythm hammering behind your ribs. for a moment, you say nothing. just let the silence cradle you both while your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in the solidity of him.

his other hand moves to the small of your back, not possessive, but certain. like he knows where you fit best. like he’s done this before, maybe many times, and every version of you always leaned into him just the same.

the air is thick with something unsaid. your pulse flutters like the wings of a moth brushing too close to flame, and you wonder—absurdly, truthfully—if he feels it too.

remmick presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth this time, softer than the last, like he’s memorizing the shape of you piece by piece. “you used to meet me at the edge of the trees,” he murmurs against your cheek. “you’d wear a red ribbon. always that same one.”

your heart stutters. you don’t remember a red ribbon. but the color flares bright in your mind, sudden and warm.

“how do you know that?” you whisper.

his smile is faint, almost sorrowful. “because you gave it to me.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, searching your face. “i could show you,” he says. “what you’ve forgotten.”

you nod before you can talk yourself out of it. your body answers for you. your memory might be shrouded in fog, but your soul has already started to clear the path.

his lips return to yours—firmer now, more familiar. this time, when his mouth parts yours, you open to him like you’ve done it before. like instinct. there’s no awkwardness, no hesitation. just the steady burn of something old being remembered.

the warmth of the kiss lingers as he leans back and smiles, “you want a song with that too?”

it sounds like hes joking, but you both know that if you asked, he’d do it.

you open your eyes, eyelashes fluttering as the effects of the kiss wears off. you smile, “i’d like that.”

the fire in remmick’s hearth is low, casting gold and amber against the rough-hewn walls of the cabin. you’ve curled yourself into one of the old wool blankets he keeps stacked near the door, still half-dressed from the day, hair mussed, skin kissed by sleep. he sits by the flames, banjo propped against his thigh, tuning it in that careful, distracted way of his—like the motion brings him comfort.

then, without warning, his thumb strikes the strings in a gentle rhythm. slow at first, almost hesitant. and then he begins to sing:

“oh, the summertime is coming,

and the trees are sweetly bloomin’,

and the wild mountain thyme

grows around the bloomin’ heather—

will ye go, lassie, go?”

his voice is rough in places, worn and lived-in. not polished, but real. it slips into the room like fog through the trees, curling around you, settling somewhere deep in your chest.

you shift in your seat, watching him more closely now. “i don’t think i’ve ever heard that one before,” you say, quiet. “what’s it called?”

his fingers don’t pause. “will ye go, lassie, go. old tune.”

you nod slowly. “sounds old.”

remmick smiles, but it’s faint. the kind of smile someone wears when their mind’s somewhere far from here. “it is. from the old country.”

you tilt your head. “england?”

“nah,” he says, shaking his head. “farther west. ireland.”

you blink. “ireland?”

he finally sets the banjo down gently on the floor, resting his hands on his knees. “me ma used to sing it when the wind howled through the slats of the shack we had. back before we came here. before the land was kind or the neighbors were quiet.”

you study him. “i didn’t know you were irish.”

“most folk don’t,” he says, brushing a hand through his hair. “folk like to forget where they came from once the road’s long enough. but i remember. and that song…” he trails off, looking into the fire, “...that song brings it all back.”

you feel something in your chest twist. maybe guilt for not knowing. maybe awe. maybe just the weight of the way he speaks—like the past lives right behind his eyes.

“what was it like?” you ask. “growing up that way?”

remmick breathes out slow. “hard. poor. different. some english patrol caught wind of what he was doin’—smugglin’ food to a rebel priest. that was enough. they made sure mama knew what happened to him. made her scared enough to leave.

he glances at you, the fire casting amber across his cheekbones. “ain’t nothin’ romantic about it. just runnin’ from one fear to another.”

you don’t say anything at first. just nod. and for a while, the cabin is quiet again.

then you whisper, “but the song... it’s beautiful.”

remmick hums in agreement. “aye. it is. even after everything.”

he picks the banjo back up, plucks at a few strings, then says with a half-smile, “want me to sing it again?”

you nod, and lean closer toward the fire.

and when he sings this time, you hear more than just a tune. you hear longing. resilience. a boy buried beneath centuries of struggle, still holding tight to the one thing that couldn't be taken: memory.

remmick is watching you with a stillness that feels ancient. reverent.

“you said you’d always find your way back,” he brings up softly through the quiet.

you don’t answer. not with words. instead, you lean forward again, this time of your own choosing, and kiss him like you’re trying to make up for all the years lost in silence.

and outside, the wind picks up—carrying the scent of pine and riverwater—and the woods seem to sigh, like they too remember.

you wake before the light fully breaks. the cabin is quiet, wrapped in that strange hush that comes just before dawn. not silence—no, it’s thicker than that. like the whole world is holding its breath.

your limbs are heavy, not with sleep, but with something else. warmth. surrender. the ache that follows closeness.

remmick isn’t beside you, but his shirt is. you drape over your bare shoulders, thick and smelling of smoke, pine, and the faintest trace of something human and dark and steady.

you pull it tighter. there’s a soreness in your hips, a looseness in your chest, but it isn’t unpleasant. just… real.

the fire’s burned low, a few embers crackling quietly in the hearth. your clothes are folded neatly at the foot of the bedroll, as if last night had been gentle. it hadn’t always been—but it had never been cruel.

you rise slowly, muscles remembering the weight of him. the way he touched you like he’d done it before, like he would again. like you were something known, and he’d only been waiting for you to remember.

you find him standing by the window. not moving. just watching the woods, his arms folded, jaw slack with thought.

he doesn’t turn when he hears you, but his voice finds you anyway. low. warm.

“you stayed.”

you hesitate before answering. “so did you.”

he glances back at you then, his eyes dark and unreadable in the pale morning light.

you walk toward him, the floor cool beneath your feet. every step brings you closer to that hum, that quiet pull he carries like a second skin. you don’t know what it is—not really—but you want to be near it. near him.

he watches you come closer. doesn’t move to touch you. not yet.

“you’re not afraid of me,” he breathes, like he was expecting something different.

you reach out and carress the outside of his arm, fingers curling around his biceo. “should i be?”

he looks at your hand, then back at your face. his voice is barely more than breath. “not yet.”

you lift his hand and place it at your waist. guide it there, slow. his fingers tighten, tentative but wanting.

“what was last night?” you ask quietly, “for us..”

he leans in, not quite touching, mouth close to your ear. “a beginnin’,” he notes, “or maybe a return.”

you close your eyes. breathe him in. everything about him makes the world blur at the edges. time slows. thought slips.

you press your forehead to his collarbone. he rests his hand against the small of your back, grounding. reverent.

“you feel like something i lost,” you whisper.

“maybe you did,” he answers, “maybe we both did.”

you stay like that for a long time, standing in the stillness, wrapped in warmth and the quiet, unbearable tenderness of being remembered by someone you forgot.

outside, the light finally shifts. dawn creeps in slow. eventually, you step back. his hand trails away from you reluctantly, “stay an’ther day?”

you take a small step back, eyes still on him, breath just a little uneven.

“i don’t know…” you murmur, voice light with mischief, “my daddy’s probably already pacing the porch, mad i didn’t come home.”

there’s a smile tugging at your mouth—teasing, inviting. the kind that says you know exactly what you’re doing. and that, for once, you don’t particularly care about the consequences.

remmick watches you with a look that walks the line between restraint and hunger. “you’re not worried,” he says, stepping forward, slow and sure.

“maybe i am,” you offer, tilting your head, the smile deepening, “but not about him.”

he moves before you can finish that thought, one hand reaching past to tug the curtain shut with a snap. the next second, he’s on you—arms locking around your waist, lifting you with a strength that still surprises you.

you gasp, but the sound is lost as his mouth meets yours—firm, certain, a kiss that spills over into something deeper, something older.

your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight as he carries you across the room with practiced ease, only stopping when the backs of his knees hit the bed of blankets and cushions near the hearth.

you fall into them together, tangled in limbs and heat and laughter that catches in your throat as he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less hungry.

the firelight casts soft shadows around the room, catching on the curve of your jaw, the line of his hands as they smooth over your sides. every breath feels shared, every shift in movement more like a conversation than a collision.

whatever waits outside that cabin—your father’s temper, the questions, the ache of returning to something half-lived—you leave it behind for now.

here, in the quiet hush of the woods and the warmth of him around you, you let yourself disappear into the moment.

just for a little while longer.

remmick’s touch ignites something in you—sharp and consuming, like striking flint to dry leaves. his hands move with reverence, but there’s hunger there too. a need. he reads your body like a language he already knows by heart, coaxing every sound from your throat with precision.

his fingers press into your skin, mapping the lines of your ribs, brushing over your chest in a way that sends heat pooling low. you arch into him before you realize it, breath hitching, your body chasing his touch before your mind catches up.

the fire crackles behind you both, a steady rhythm, but it fades as he focuses on you—and only you. your world shrinks to the space between his breath and yours. the room tilts with every movement, every press and roll of hips that leaves you dizzy and clinging to him.

his mouth finds yours, open and wanting, and you take him in—soft and then demanding, until you’re both breathing the same ache. there’s a strange taste on your tongue, rich and coppery, but it doesn’t startle you. it only makes him groan low and deep, like he’s unraveling at the seams.

you lose time in the tangle of limbs and whispered gasps, in the give and pull of bodies learning each other by instinct. when it crests, it does so in waves—slow and spiraling, until all you can do is hold on.

after, you lie in the hush of morning. skin damp, hair clinging to your temples, your legs still wrapped around his. remmick’s fingers trace lazy circles along your sides, grounding you. you don’t speak. you don’t need to.

the warmth between you is quieter now, but no less powerful.

something has changed. something has opened. and though you don’t yet know what to call it—you know it’s his, and it’s yours.

the fire burned low by the time your eyes cracked open, light from the hearth still flickering faint on the cabin walls. the air was thick—still scented of pine, smoke, and something older. dusk was pressing in outside, and for a moment you didn’t know what time it was, what day it might be.

you shifted under the quilt, still warm from the cocoon of blankets and from remmick’s body—except now he was gone.

you sat up, disoriented.

a floorboard groaned.

the door creaked open.

you looked.

and there he was.

remmick.

but not the remmick you remembered falling asleep beside. not the one who whispered your name like it was something sacred.

this one stood with his shoulders hunched, breathing heavy. blood slicked his jaw, stained the corner of his mouth. it dripped slow from the side of his chin to the base of his throat. his eyes weren’t soft—they glowed faint, scarley and wild.

your breath gets caught in your throat. you know where you’d seen remmick before. that night on the dirt road. he was no man, he’s not who you believed he was.

and his mouth… you saw them. the fangs. not long, but enough. enough to change everything.

he stilled when he saw you awake. like a child caught red-handed.

“i didn’t mean for you to see me like this, mo stór,” he muttered, voice low and rough as gravel. that southern drawl still there, but coarser now, heavier with something feral. like he’s finallt given up the facade, “thought you’d be sleepin’ through the night.”

you stared. breath locked in your chest.

“what did you do?” you whispered. it wasn’t a question. it was a statement.

he stepped forward. you flinched.

he slowed, held up a hand—bloody fingers trembling just slightly. “now hold on, darlin’. don’t go lookin’ at me like that. it ain’t what’cha think.”

“then tell me what it is,” you snapped, the weight in your chest crumbling. “what are you?”

he didn’t answer. not right away. just kept walking until he was in front of you, crouched low by the bed, his head tilted.

“you remembered me,” he said instead, “you felt it. the pull, my call.”

“you made me think we had a past,” you hissed, throat tightening. “you made me think i—that i meant something to you.”

“you do remember,” he said gently, like trying to soothe a spooked horse. “just not the way you want to. i just… gave it a nudge.”

the realization hit you like a stone to the ribs.

“you lied,” you breathed.

his eyes darkened, something hollow flickering behind them. “i gave you a story you wanted to believe. that’s all any of us are ever doin’.”

when he leaned in again, you turned your face—but he caught your chin with blood-slick fingers and kissed you anyway. rough. hungry. it tasted of iron. it burned. you tried to pull back and his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there.

you felt him nip at your lip and you winced, pushing his face away but his grip on you still remained

he growled low in his throat—not pain, but something else. something dangerous. “you still got fire,” he rasped, close against your skin. “that’s why i liked you then. why i still do.”

you shoved him off with all the strength you had. scrambled to your feet, heart pounding like a drumline in your ears. you didn’t look back—you went for the mantle.

your fingers closed around the rifle.

“don’t do that,” remmick said, a warning under the twang of his voice now, “you don’t wanna turn this into somethin’ it don’t need to be.”

“you turned it into somethin’ the moment you walked into my life with blood on your goddamn mouth.”

he flinched, just a little. then smiled. slow. almost admiring.

“go on then,” he said, stepping aside. “run if you need to.”

you didn’t wait. you bolted, feet hitting the floor, body numb but moving fast. you burst out of the door and into the woods, not caring where you landed. not anymore.

behind you, the door remained open with remmick’s shadow-veilled form remained. his eyes glowed, staring at your fleeting form. his head tilted, as if to mock you and as if the wind still carried his voice, it told you this was only a headstart.

the woods swallowed you fast.

you didn’t wait to see if he followed—couldn’t bear to look back. branches snagged at your—remmick’s—clothes and scratched your arms, the damp underbrush pulling at your ankles like it, too, wanted to keep you. the rifle was heavy in your grip, but you held onto it like it was the only truth left in a world turned sideways.

behind you, the door to that old shack groaned shut. and then nothing.

silence.

until the sound of him came.

not footsteps—no. nothing so human.

just the breath of the woods shifting. the hush of something too still.

“you always did have a pretty way of runnin’, mo ghrá.”

his voice was soft, distant—but it was close. too close. it echoed through the trees like wind through hollow bones, “no point hidin’, i can hear your heartbeat.”

your heart pounded in response. he was right. he could probably hear it.

you pushed yourself harder. the path ahead was no path at all—just tangled brush and fallen branches, moonlight flickering through thick pine. still, you knew these woods better than he did. this land raised you, rough and cruel as it could be. you ducked through a thicket and atopped at the shallow ravine, the same one where you met him that first time—where it had felt like fate.

fate was for the doomed.

the mud is cold, and it clings to your skin like a second breathless silence as you slip down into the ravine, hiding under the rocks protruding from the sides, heart hammering. the rifle lies half-buried under your arm. it’s quiet now, but you can feel him near—close enough that even the insects have stopped humming.

then you hear him.

his voice slips through the trees like honey through cracked bark.

“i’m gonna tell you how it’ll go, mo ghrá,” remmick says, slow and clear, not shouting—he knows you’re listening. “so when it happens, you won’t be so afraid. it’ll be like steppin’ into water you already tested.”

you don’t move. not even a twitch.

“first, i’ll find you,” he says. “don’t matter how long it takes. i’ll hear the tremble in your breath, the quake in your bones. you can’t hide that from me. not forever.”

a pause. you think he’s closer now.

“then i’ll touch you, soft like before. like a prayer. i’ll hold your face in my hands so you can’t look away, and i’ll ask—just once. ‘cause even creatures as i remember their manners.”

your fingers dig into the earth.

“and when you say yes—and you will, sweetheart, ‘cause the fire’s already in your blood—i’ll bite. not hard. not cruel. just enough.”

you clamp your jaw shut, willing yourself not to cry.

“you’ll go quiet first. the world’ll spin. like drownin’, but there’s air somewhere deep. you just gotta trust me to bring you back.”

his voice lowers—softer now, like a secret between lovers.

“then i’ll give you mine. my blood. my curse, if you wanna call it that. but i call it freedom. no hunger, no time, no dyin’. just the two of us. for however long the dark lets us stay.”

the leaves rustle. you swear you see his boots move past the edge of the ditched revine—but he doesn’t stop.

“you think you’re still runnin’, but you crossed the line a long time ago,” he says. “and now, sugar, you’re just walkin’ toward your end. or your beginning. depends how you see it.”

his steps drift away, slow and sure.

“you think that rifle gon’ save you?” he called, voice lilting, almost amused. “you got grit, i’ll give you that. but you ain’t the hunter, sweetheart.”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t dare.

your breath came out in ragged exhales as you decided now was the time to make your move. you trudged through the quick water, holding back your sobs of fear. your legs felt weak against the current but your will to live kept you going, was what made you climb back out and keep running.

somewhere to your left, a bird shot up from the ground. your breath hitched. he was circling.

you crouched low behind a rotted stump and held your breath. the forest pressed in, thick and watching. you swallowed hard, pulse thudding in your ears as your mind worked quick and sharp. remmick was faster than you, stronger too—but he moved like a creature, not a man. instinct ruled him. sound, scent, sight. if you could take those from him—his senses—you might just have a chance.

your fingers tightened on the rifle.

one shot to the eyes. another to the ears, if you got close enough.

he hunted like a beast. so you'd fight like someone who knew how to kill one.

“see, i tried to be patient with you,” remmick’s voice drawled, “gave you time. gave you space. hell, i even gave you a head start. that’s love, darlin’. that’s mercy.”

the wind shifted—and so did the air.

he was close.

you peered around the stump, heart hammering. the forest held its breath. nothing moved.

then something snapped to your right.

you fired.

the sound cracked through the woods, echoing sharp and mean. a shout followed—a grunt of pain, rough and guttural. remmick shot up, clutching his nose.

you’d hit him.

your stomach twisted—not from guilt, but grim satisfaction.

you ran again, faster now.

“well now,” he hissed, voice ragged, furious. “that ain’t very ladylike.”

your lungs burned. thorns clawed at your shins. the sky above was painted gray-blue, dawn pressing at the edges of night—but still not enough light to guide you.

“you think you’re gonna win this?” he snarled from somewhere too near. “you can’t hide from me. i can smell your skin in the rain, hear your blood singin’ in your veins.”

you stumbled, caught yourself on a low branch. sweat ran into your eyes, your mouth dry with panic.

“you thought i was soft, didn’t you?” he said. “thought i was just a memory. just a pretty voice in the dark. but no—i was the dark.”

it irks you—how he hypes himself up and turns himself into this amazing stellar being.

the trees swallowed your breath.

every twig underfoot betrayed you. every branch above you watched. the only sound sharper than your heartbeat was the distant rush of the river far behind you now—and his voice, rising like smoke.

“is that any way to repay your savior?”

you stopped. the echo of his shout trembled through the woods, full of fury and something worse—wounded pride.

“i saved you,” remmick said again, closer this time. “you don’t even know how much yet.”

you spun around, rifle shaking in your hands. shadows shifted, but you couldn’t find him. not fully. just the sense of him—moving like a second wind through the trees.

“stay away from me,” you warned, voice dry, weak.

he laughed, low and bitter. “you already know what i did to the cultists.”

your blood went cold.

“they would’ve bled you like livestock,” he growled. “i stopped ‘em. broke their ribs in and salted the ground where they laid. for you.”

leaves rustled to your left. you aimed, breath caught, but he wasn’t there.

“you think i’m the danger?” he hissed. “you think this—this game you’re playin’—ends with you runnin’?”

then suddenly, he stepped out from behind a tree, maybe ten feet away, breathing hard, mouth smeared with dark red. his eyes caught the moonlight like a predator’s.

“you lied to me,” you whispered, tears welling unbidden. “you made me think there was something—something good in you.”

his expression softened just a flicker. “there is, darlin’. i kept it soft for you.”

“but you—” your voice broke.

he took one slow step forward, arms out slightly. “you ain’t seein’ the whole picture. you’re still sleepin’ through it.”

“don’t come closer.”

“you called me in your dreams, sweetheart. don’t you remember that? i came when you needed me. i always come.”

he took another step.

you stepped back, falling backwards into the gully that bordered your daddy’s land, and slipped down the bank, half-falling. mud coated your hands and knees. crying out, you scrambled backwards the rifle strapped tight across your back as your eyes darted to find remmick.

you raised the rifle.

a blur of movement to your left—and suddenly he was there.

remmick lunged, fast and wrong, too fast for a man. his eyes burned gold in the dark. he must’ve been angry and unsatisfied. you’d only seen his scarlet irises, never ones of pure gold.

you whipped around and struck out with the butt of your rifle—caught him square across the temple.

he snarled, reeled back. blood splashed across your shirt. you didn’t stop. you jammed the barrel toward his face and pulled the trigger again.

bang.

straight through his ears. one side to the other. he stumbled back, yelling as his ears bled.

bang. once again.

his left eye. it knocked him down into the mud. one more shot and he’d be out of commission for a good, good while.

click.

your heart dropped and you ran without giving one more thought to the fact that you ran out of bullets.

his lips peeled back into a grin as he watched you run.

“clever girl,” he rasped.

he lunged again and you ducked, scrambling back up the ridge. pain flared in your thigh as you slipped, bark tearing into your skin.

his laughter followed you—cruel, sharp as thorns.

“crazy, ain’t it?” he called, breathless with the thrill. “how the hunter becomes the hunted?”

you ran toward the house lights barely flickering in the distance. only a field stood between you and the porch—but your legs were heavy, your breath ragged. you didn’t know if you could make it.

“you can’t run forever, darlin’,” he called, voice rough and ragged now. “and even if you do… i’ll always be just behind you.”

you turned, raising the rifle like a club.

but he wasn’t there.

only silence.

only night.

and then a whisper against your ear, too close, too cold: “found you.”

you screamed and swung the rifle again. this time it caught something. he grunted, stumbled back—half-shadow, half-man.

you didn’t wait to see if he’d rise again.

you bolted across the field.

your daddy’s house loomed like a savior. you hit the steps hard, burst through the door, heart in your throat, eyes wide and wild. no one else was awake. only you. only him. outside, the wind howled.

and somewhere in the trees, remmick was still smiling.

the front door slammed open before you reached the porch, the screen door bouncing off its hinges.

your daddy stood there barefoot in the dirt, shotgun clutched in both hands, wild-eyed and heaving. he must’ve heard the scream—your scream—and come running. he squinted into the night, trying to make sense of the shape tearing across the field.

you.

you, in another man’s shirt, your nightdress nowhere to be seen, your face streaked with blood and sweat. the rifle hung limp in your hand, your bare feet cut and muddy. you looked nothing like the girl he kissed on the forehead two mornings ago. the one who he never would’ve suspected would up and leave so suddenly.

“what in god’s—”

you didn’t give him time to finish.

you hit the steps like a storm breaking and threw yourself into his chest, burying your face into the familiar, sweat-salt smell of him. the shotgun clattered to the porch floor.

“please,” you sobbed, fists clinging to his shirt. “please let me come home, please let me in—please.”

he caught you like he’d done when you were little, arms steady even though his whole body had gone stiff with confusion and fear.

“baby girl,” he muttered, voice caught somewhere between a growl and a prayer, “who did this to you? who—”

“don’t let him get me,” you begged. “please.”

his hand cupped the back of your head, rough and warm. “ain’t nobody gonna touch you now, y’hear me? i got you. i got you.”

he held you up when your legs gave out and kicked the door open wider with his boot. you sagged against him like your bones had gone soft, breath catching in wet gasps.

“leroy! daniel!” he barked over his shoulder. “get the goddamn lanterns. somebody’s comin’—and it ain’t somethin’ good.”

but all you could do was whisper again, voice trembling: “please let me come home.”

and for the first time in a long while, your daddy didn’t ask questions. he just held you close and took you inside.

after that night, things changed.

you slept long into the day. the light stung your skin. you stopped laughing. the world felt too loud, too bright, too much.

daddy kept the rifle by the door and said nothing.

leroy tried once—just once—to ask what happened.

you didn’t answer. you just looked at him long enough for him to regret it.

and still, none of them touched the button-up.

you folded it up and tucked it into the chest at the foot of your bed, though some nights you swore you heard the buttons rattle when the wind blew wrong.

they found your dress by the river a week later. one sleeve torn. hem stained red with something that wasn’t quite blood.

no tracks. no signs of pursuit. just absence.

it was like the woods had swallowed you whole and spit you back out a changed woman.

some nights, you stand at your bedroom window and listen.

the wind drags through the trees like it’s calling your name. sometimes it almost sounds like him.

sweetheart, it coos. i gave you somethin’. you just ain’t figured out what yet.

you close the curtains.

you tell yourself it’s over. that you’re safe.

but deep down, you know the truth: whatever happened out there in the dark, it wasn’t finished.

not yet.

okay we made ittt !! what remmick wants hell get. i saw someone say that because hes yearning for a community, instead of being all nonchalant and swuave, he’d be all clingy and stuff and do anything to make their partner stay and would defo turn them (are you a vampire??? hmmm) so that kind of inspired me.

[atomicapplebees]

Such a common bad faith argument about trans men vs trans women is to equivocate it to White vs Black. In reality, trans men's position here is more like being mixed race (Black and White in this analogy).

A mixed race person may benefit from colorism while their darker skinned relatives will not. That doesn't make them White. Being lighter skinned is a privilege, but it is not White privilege.

A mixed race person will face different kinds of dehumanization. A White person won't typically look at a fully Black person and ask them "what they are." White privilege comes without racist microaggressions.

We also cannot flatten a very diverse group into one box. The straw trans man that gets compared to White people is fully transitioned and perfectly passing. This is like using "mixed race" as a catch-all to mean people who can pass as White. Most mixed race people cannot pass as White and there are even some who appear fully Black (dare we even mention folks who are not mixed with White at all?). Even a White-passing individual will face an erasure of their full identity; they are only White insofar as no one knows their family history. That is not White privilege.

Transandrophobes want to flatten every type of man into the oppressive group of Man™ even though that's predicated on being cis. They say that's "just transphobia, not misogyny", as though gendered oppression isn't about comparing everyone against cis men. From what I understand of transmisogyny, part of it is viewing trans women as a "failed men." By having been assigned female, trans men never live up to "true" (cis) manhood.

Saying trans men deserve no visibility is not like saying a White person should be excluded from a DEI program. It's like saying mixed race people should not be part of DEI programs because colorism exists. Colorism does not cancel out their need for support as a racial minority. Saying they need support should not imply that fully Black people do not need support, unless we're viewing this as a zero sum game where racism for darker skinned people can't exist unless we judge it against the privileges of the lighter skinned. It's a ridiculous notion when both of them are being judged by Whiteness and found wanting.

Much like we can call out colorism without accusing every mixed race person of benefiting (when many don't because again, this is a broad group of many differing individuals) and perpetuating it (even when they're just, like, existing), I should think we could call out misogyny without treating trans men that way.

But what does any of this matter, to people who only care about the black and white.

[papenathys]

One of the things I find particularly interesting about the rise of cozy or "queernorm" fantasy books in the past couple of years is when authors want to specifically focus on one kind of oppression, while eradicating the rest from their fantasy universe.

This is NOT referring to some authors who don't want to overstep with alternate histories or queer stories. For example, I don't mind that Andrew Joseph White mainly portrayed the lives of white transmasculine folks in The Spirit Bares Its Teeth, a horror fantasy novel which is set in Victorian England, without his mentioning the plight of people of color, especially colonized subjects, probably living through the same harrowing cult-like medical experimentation and loss of bodily autonomy as the central white British characters did (and probably worse, because of race, colonisation and class differences). That is actually okay with me, because that is not his story to tell. This is not so much erasure, as discretion about choosing what you can write about, with tact and responsibility.

However, as for the Bridgerton-style rise of alternate fantasy or "diverse" historical romances, I notice that I often come across books where people use neopronouns and everyone is ok with gay marriage, and racism is also eradicated from the world (not just legally, but socio-culturally) but like.....upper class cis women are still somehow the most oppressed faction of all, and are getting bartered into arranged marriages with dukes and nobles.

And this bothers me to some degree, because it seems to contradict how the structures of oppression are interlinked, and how these structures depend on each other to keep functioning stably.

Take for example, marriage and capitalism. Like, you're telling me in your queernorm universe, people are okay with same-sex relationships and marriage. This implies, at least on a very simplified level, that society has overcome its prejudices (or never had any, to begin with) against

a) romantic relationships that do not replicate heteronormativity, or domestic structures.

b) alliances with high chances of non-traditional family structures, in terms of procreation, kinship and offspring. in simpler terms, more possibility of living together (not marriage), or alternately, child-free marriage, poly relationships, commune systems etc.

c) individuals with non-normative marginalized genders.

This would ideally imply that there is no need for women's bodies to be used as capital, and they are no longer dehumanized, used as material goods (in their roles as wives and mothers, in terms of labor and sexual service) and that society is chill with any type of union, even outside of institutionally sanctioned marriages.

However, instead, for necessary conflict, there is *still* intense and often violent social pressures upon women to get married and reproduce in these queernorm books. Why. Like let's just take a moment. Why. If the heteropatriarchy has been dismantled, or at least isn't so rigorously adhered to as in the real world, why is there one isolated axis of oppression that persists in this case (by isolated, I don't mean for individuals, I mean only applicable to one marginalized group)?

I feel like I'm not doing a great job explaining this, but you guys know what I mean right?

Note: I also know that historically upper class women were cordoned off from participating in labor, and often their duties were relegated to childbirth and upholding traditional marriage, while lower-class/caste women were expected to be the bread earners and participate in labor with the male members of their family. But again, let us consider the context of this diverse society and see how that system holds up. Why? Is the functionality of this queernorm society still contingent to the rules of capitalism?

[halfway-house-in-hell]

updated alastor altruist redesign!🦌📻

rewrite under the cut ⬇️

-alastor was a famous radio presenter in the 1920's. he was also a serial killer and a cannibal, who died in 1929. he was 46 when he died.

-he wished to be famous in his life, but he could not safely become a tv show host or a movie star because of the racism of the time, so he chose to hide behind radio instead, never showing his face- even going so far as to show up to prestigious events wearing deer masks

-this obsession with staying anonymous made him infinitely more mysterious and interesting to his listeners

-he was also quite charming and charismatic

-he was quite poor in his youth and so became obsessed with eating, which led to him becoming a cannibal. he is always hungry. hungry for fame, hungry for power, hungry for flesh

-he died of starvation. he was chasing a victim through the woods when his foot got caught in a bear trap. he was stuck there for 3 days before succumbing to his injuries. (thats why hes so alarmingly skinny)

-his reputation as a serial killer preceded him when he arrived in hell. major evils dying is always a big event, and he used this to gain power

-he now sits as a major overlord - but none of his empire is real. he doesn't have any major powers, and has lied his way to the top by implying that he has more power than he is letting on. he doesn't

-he discovers Charlie's hotel through her tv show last-ditch pitch (same as the pilot, except ive now decided that that interview cost them the last of their hotel money, so the stakes to find an investor were higher). he decides to sponsor Charlie's hotel because he wants POWER, real substantial power to ensure his throne of lies is safe, and he figures manipulating Lucifer's weak daughter is the easiest way to get that power

-i should mention that in my rewrite if a sinner is able to kill an overlord or a Sin that sinner gets their title and (relative) powers. alastor knows he can do this to lucifer as it's happened once before with satan

-he is immediately overbearingly friendly to her, which vee & the other guests find suspicious. he begins bending the hotel to his whims, making it more suited to his tastes.

-he has large amounts of money, which he uses to fund and advertise the hotel

-his radio show, however, has slowly been dwindling in popularity over the years. this and "the goodness of his heart" are what he tells charlie are why he invests in the hotel

-he tends to disappear when fights start

-his best friend is nifty. they have a very strong bond. he often communicates her worries for her, and in return she spies on the guests for him. he doesn't even own her soul they're just buddies

-he's still aroace but not bc he only cares about himself. thats stupid

-he is intentionally mysterious and speaks in riddles & lotts of 1920s slang

-he is firmly still in the 1920s, to an unusual extent. he has all the dated ideas and mannerisms of the 20's, refusing to become more modern.

-his room in the hotel is entirely monochrome

-he shares charlie's love of musicals, and often encourages her to sing. whether his like of them is genuine or an act is unclear

-his face does not have the capability to move. he cannot blink, close his mouth or eat

[creatingblackcharacters]

i don't know if this is an appropriate question to ask this blog, but why are most allegories for racism in modern fiction iffy at best and straight up harmful at worst? for example, zootopia and beastars are both fictional works where every person is an anthropomorphic animal. predator/carnivore animals are a marginalised racial minority and prey/herbivore animals are the privileged majority, which (unintentionally) implies that Black people and other racial minorities are inherently a threat to White people and need to hurt and kill them to stay alive.

You answered your own question! (Though, I thought Beastars was written by a Japanese person). How can someone with biased beliefs write a good story... On those same biased beliefs?

When it comes to writing allegories of race and racism, if you 1) don't understand racism and what that entails, and/or 2) are too afraid to commit to what that means, then you're gonna write a watered down story.

I've mentioned it before, but the hardest part of dealing with racism is the mundanity of it. It's a chronic pain. It's knowing that there's no "ancient curse" or "misunderstanding" or "natural selection of predator and prey" that can solve this nicely; it's a group of people who benefit off of the systemic oppression of The Other, and so purposely make the decisions necessary to continue doing so.

And that reflects in every day moments, where someone might be nice as pie to someone in that group in power, and turn around and be terrible about someone marginalized. And they were "so nice!" It's regular asf to be racist- but that means you might upset someone who thinks they're "regular" when you show them the mirror that shows just how much they benefit, just how comfortable they are doing so. They're not the good guy!

But that won't make you money, if white fans are unhappy (as we continue to see)!

[verdantmeadows]

So, in case you haven't heard...

Penny, from Scarlet and Violet is officially related to both Peony and Peonia (and, well, Rose too, since he'd be her uncle)! Peony is her father, and Peonia is her sister.

For those unaware, this is Peony.

And this is Peonia!

The woman in this image is (presumably) their mother (unless Penny is a half-sibling or adopted, which I don't think is the case).

And let me just say, this makes me so, so happy, seeing this visual/genetic diversity in a family.

So many people are completely ignorant to how genetics and biracial people can exist and have their genes expressed. Two siblings from a biracial couple, such as a black and white person, can look totally different. One could have curly hair and one could have straight! One could be super light-skinned and the other dark-skinned! Two kids from two parents doesn't mean that they necessarily just get a "mix" of how they both look.

Seeing this represented makes me so happy. I really hope more people realize just how different siblings from interracial couples can look. I really hope people don't erase this aspect of Penny's character, or think that she doesn't look Black enough or enough like a POC.

For a real life example, here are a pair of biracial twins!

(Lucy and Maria Aylmer)

So, basically, the point of this post is this:

Penny is Peonia's sister and Peony's daughter! This was my headcanon for a while, considering her name is Penny and based on Peony, but seeing it confirmed makes me so happy. I want this post to end on the note to inform people that biracial people can look like this. Biracial people can pass completely as white. White-passing biracial people can have dark-skinned parents and family members. Biracial people don't owe you passing as their ethnicity and the ethnicity/race of their family.

Please embrace this aspect of Penny and learn what being biracial can look like! Understand, acknowledge, and accept how biracial people can look! I've already seen people frustrated that Penny doesn't look "Black enough" or saying that her design makes no sense, or that she couldn't possibly be Peony's daughter, which is already a huge issue for REAL LIFE BLACK PEOPLE, who are told this!!! Even if you don't realize it, these thoughts and ideas ARE racist to have. How you view people when they're not real can often be indicative of how you treat them when they ARE real!

I hope that if you didn't already know these things, that you don't feel bad about it, and instead come away with new knowledge and understanding!

Edit: Also she could just be adopted? I meant to say that in this post and forgot. Like, adoption is a thing. Like, we know that Bede was an orphan and all... (I however don't think she was adopted based on her visual similarities)

Additional edit: I'm not trying to imply that their family is Black, either—I mentioned Black biracial families as an example, and also mentioned it at the end because I specifically made this post in response to people saying Penny "isn't black enough" and directing their racism towards Black biracial families. In all likelihood, their family is probably implied to be the Pokémon equivalent of Indian.

Other additional edit: Dialogue in game

Penny also frequently refers to her dad's behaviors that align with how Peony behaves

[aroace-ventplace]

…can’t believe i need to say this in 2024, but if you see a tumblr blog that’s an obvious sockpuppet, just block them. don’t give them any attention.

for those who weren’t aware, a sockpuppet is an account that someone uses to pretend to be someone they aren't, usually for the sake of accomplishing a particular goal. "asexual" sockpuppets were used extensively in tumblr's ace discourse years (which reached their peak in 2016-2019). aphobes and exclusionists made blogs where they roleplayed as exaggerated aspec caricatures, trying to paint asexuals as childish, ignorant, bigoted, etc - in a word, "cringey." crazey-acey-in-spacey was an especially notorious example of a sockpuppet that a lot of people took at face value, since their deliberately outrageous behavior (falsely) confirmed a lot of the biases tumblr users already had about aspecs. it's NEVER worth engaging with any of these accounts - don't feed the trolls, as they used to say.

ways to spot an "asexual" sockpuppet:

makes a lot of statements that are intentionally tone-deaf and offensive. especially look out for sudden mentions of race/analogies to racism ("ace genocide," "ace reparations") - a common tactic in the acecourse days was to paint asexuality as a "white" orientation, and to suggest asexuals were racist.

references other infamous sockpuppets like crazy-acey and the "warm milk aceggot" post.

makes claims about famous people being aspec, especially people who are known for bigoted beliefs. it was very common for aphobes to make asexual moodboards of people like thatcher or trump; they did this to paint aspecs as out of touch with reality and the wider queer community, and to strengthen the association between asexuality and bigotry.

use of the words "acey" or "asexy." some people do use these words in a positive sense now, but anti-aspec shit-stirrers used them a lot back in the day to imply asexuals were stupid and childish. (and if we're being honest? autistic, too. the aphobic parts of tumblr had a VERY strong undercurrent of ableism.)

this one's a bit less common, but watch out for references to christianity. one widespread aphobic talking point is calling asexuals "puritans" and suggesting that they're aligned more with conservative christianity than the rest of the queer community. aspec christians certainly exist, but given the history of this site, it's just better to double-check aspec accounts that bring up christianity out of the blue when they're engaging with other blogs.

it can be hard to tell the difference between a sockpuppet and a genuine aspec account if you don't have the exact same amount of 2016 tumblr brainrot as me, so feel free to message me and ask about anything you're not sure about - my dms are always open 👍

[knight-a3]

First Family: Adam Firstman, Eve Firstman, Seth Adamson, Cain Adamson, Abel Adamson.

Heavenbound AU

Hazbin Masterpost

Since only Abel is currently in canon, I had a lot of wiggle room to decide how I wanted to go about this. In some ways that's easier, in others it's harder.

More under the cut

--Bible Story--

The basic story is that Cain was a farmer and Abel was a shepherd. Both offered sacrificial offerings to God. Abel offered the best of his flock. Cain offered some of his crops, but there was no mention of the quality of it. So it's implied that Cain did not offer his best. It was either average or sub-par.

God was pleased with Abel's offering, but not with Cain's. Cain was upset that Abel was favored over him. So out of jealousy, he killed Abel.

As punishment for murdering his brother, Cain was cursed, 1) to be a wanderer and a fugitive 2) he could no longer farm, because the ground would no longer produce crops for him.

God gave him a mark, so others would know who he was and not to harm him(because vengeance and judgement is only for God to enact). Nobody was allowed to kill or harm him. If they did, the damage would be returned sevenfold.

After Cain's banishment, Seth was born and considered to be a replacement for Abel.

-personal interpretation: I consider the story of Adam and Eve to be representative of the evolution of ape to sapient humans. In a similar vein, I consider the story of Cain and Abel to be a representation of humans' ability to sin, due to the knowledge of good and evil that came from Adam and Eve having eaten the fruit. Without getting too deep into any specific theology or nuances, sin is to knowingly and intentionally do bad things. Repenting is to continuously learn and change to become a better person. God's goal for us is our personal growth and improvement.

-Mark of Cain: it's not clear what the mark was, or if it was even visible. It was some sort of sign that warned people who he was. The idea of the mark being dark skin and that black people are Cain's descendents is not supported by the Bible. That was a medieval christian idea that was used to justify racism, discrimination, and slavery well into the 1800s. It's, thankfully, not widely accepted anymore.

-Folklore: There's another myth floating around that Cain is Bigfoot, cursed to wander the earth for eternity. Although the Bible does not say that he would live forever, just that he wouldn't be killed. It's silly, but it served as inspiration for Cain's demon form.

--Alterations for the Heavenbound AU--

-Birth Order: It is never stated that either Cain or Abel are the firstborn. There could have been other children born before them that go unnamed. That's ultimately not important, so we're sticking with the three who are named for now. The bible only specifies that Seth was born after Abel's death. But I'm going to change that around a bit because I can take artistic liberties. Seth is the oldest now.

-Each son represents a lifestyle of early humans. Hunter-Gatherer and Agricultural(agronomy is growing crops, pastoral is raising livestock).

--Seth--

-Mortal: Because the lifestyles of Cain and Abel are pretty well defined by their biblical roles, Seth represents the hunter-gatherer lifestyle. But that means I had to change him to be the oldest, since that came before agriculture. This gives him a bigger role in the family dynamic.

After Abel's death, he and his family(unspecified wife and kids) had to take over the responsibilities of Cain and Abel. Seth himself favored shepherding over farming, since his hunting skills could transfer to that a little better than to raising crops.

Because he's a hunter, his clothing is composed of primarily animal skins and furs. I wanted him to look sturdy and strong, so he's a bit stocky.

-Postmortal design: his halo has a crosshair design to reference his hunter lifestyle. I don't really care that it wouldn't have applied to his time period. It gets the idea across for us, and I think that matters more. He is one of the most dangerous soldiers of the exorcist army. And he is somewhat annoyed he can't exterminate Cain.

--Cain--

-Mortal: Represents agronomy (growing crops). He's a farmer.

His clothing would be made of plant-based fibers, like linen or cotton. I based his design off of Aaron from Dreamwork's The Prince of Egypt. I liked the tall, lanky look. It felt like a natural choice, since I based Adam off of Dreamwork's Moses.

Mark of Cain: during his life, I'll probably depict the mark as a symbol on his forehead. It's better than going the mark=dark skin route. His skin is a little darker than the other two, but that was because I was thinking of a farmer's tan, so it's unrelated to the mark.

-Postmortal: Because he's a wanderer, he has the ability to go between earth and hell(also because I want there to be bigfoot sightings, lol). Maybe it would be obligatory that he has to wander earth for 7 years, then wander hell for 7 years, then back to earth, etc. To force him to be nomadic. Idk for sure. He is easily identifiable by the mark that floats over his head(not typically visible to living humans on earth). The exorcists are forbidden from exterminating him(much to Seth's frustration). The other sinners can't hurt him either. He's essentially untouchable, but has no significant power compared to other sinners. He can't sell his soul, even if he wanted to, and he can't take other's souls. He's just lonely and miserable now. Cursed to wander, and can never truly rest.

--Abel--

-Mortal:

He represents the pastoral lifestyle and is a shepherd. I've got a bit about sheep HERE

In canon, he's blonde. But since I redesigned his parents, I had to change his color palette too. I gave them a more Middle Eastern inspired look, since they're based on ancient Hebrew characters.

I wanted him to look young and innocent, to emphasize the tragedy of his death. I kept the chubby look from canon because I thought it fit the vibe. He's the youngest of the brothers. His clothing consists of animal fibers like wool and possibly some sheepskins.

-Postmortal: His halo has a stylized ram symbol because of his background as a shepherd. He plays the bugle/trumpet and leads his merry band of sheep cherubim. He wears a marching band uniform, despite the concept not existing while he was alive. He fell in love with it in the afterlife. I altered the canon design so I could wrap my head around the construction of it, and also to simplify it a bit cuz Hazbin has a habit of overcomplicating designs.

He has a hard time seeing himself as much beyond "Adam's son--the one that was murdered". So he's got some low self-confidence issues and is a bit of a people pleaser and is non-confrontational. He would prefer to just hang out with his sheep. He needs to learn to accept his role as more than just the first murder victim.

--Animal companions--

Because I like dogs and sheep and spent too much time thinking about them, I'm including a bit here.

Seth: The domestication of dogs happened pretty early in human civilization. So I gave him a wolf dog that he probably would had as a hunting companion in life. They're big doggos.

But I didn't stop there. I wanted to combine various aspects of different breeds of hunting dogs. So I combined a German wirehaired pointer(I like the eyebrows and mustache) with the tri-coloring of a Foxhound and Coonhound, and long ears like a Beagle. Basically a sighthound and scenthount cross. The idea was to give him a multipurpose hunting hound. Sighthounds visually locate and retrieve prey, scenthounds follow prey's scent and alert the hunter. Beagles, especially, do not shut up(my family dog is a beagle).

Cain: I figured a farmer would want help with pest control. So, a cat to deal with mice. But there are also dogs for small game and pests too. So I gave him a terrier. It's mainly based off a rat terrier.

Abel: Shepherds often use two types of dogs for very different purposes. Herding dogs are obvious. And border collies are well renowned for their intelligence and herding skill. They're a bit more gentle than other herding breeds(ie heelers will nip at cattles' legs to encourage them to move), that gentleness is helpful for sheep especially, because you want to reduce as much stress as possible (stress affects the wool quality, which can be a big deal). But I was also inspired by the Austrailian Shepherds' multicolor coat. The two can look pretty similar.

The other type of sheep dog is a Livestock Guardian Dog(aka LGD). They are raised with the sheep and will protect them from wolves or coyotes, maybe even sheep thieves. They're massive dogs, and will sometimes be given a wicked-looking spiked collar(called an antiwolf heck collar) that protects their neck from predator attacks. Great Pyrenese and Maremma Sheepdogs are a couple popular breeds, but there are quite a few that are big, fluffy, and often white-furred. They can be super sweet, but don't approach their flock of sheep without permission, cuz you don't want to make them angry.

I think that's all.

(Edit notes will go here if needed)

[markkiatocafe]

to all the boys

prologue : the receivers, instigators, sender, and watchers of the letter-filled-chaos

 ✐ warnings: light implied cursing (“idgafer”), mentions of racism, sexism, homophobia, etc in ningning’s header (a shirt worn by frank ocean, not supporting or teaching these ideas, basically jst saying they’re stupid!), joking mention of being insane (?), that’s it for the prologue!!!

✐ synop: after her love letters she kept in a precious blue box get sent out by her roommate, somehow yn has to figure out how to forage her dignity, and along the way catches a boy she didn’t even intend to get.

✐ pairing: f!reader x peterkavinsky!jeno

✐ taglist status: open!

✐ a/n: edited the layout, hope y’all like it <3 updates may be slow on this since my motivation has been rlly off lately!

yn - hopeless romantic, romance book enthusiast (anti booktok tho), majoring in english lit, and a sweetie pie with dark humor. enjoys baking & cooking in general for fun or to simply relieve stress, loves 80s music & movies, and animals. book-smart, not street-smart!!

jeno (irl group: nct) - jock and college athlete (basketball player), communications major, although a total marshmallow on the inside. enjoys bowling and ice cream, along with watching racing and cars. lowk convinced he IS a samoyed

four leaf clover ꕤ (yns group)

BALLERS 🔥🔥 (bawlers) (jenos group)

others

✐ taglist: N/A

masterlist prev next

[redvexillum]

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human!alastor, period-typical racism, period-typical sexism, implied abuse from reader's husband

SPECIAL MENTION: @cartoonykat thank you for the request. It has been fed into the monster that is called VEXITOBER.

SPECIAL SHOUT OUT: @redfoxwritesstuff I know I promised a fanfiction of your fanfiction (Misdemeanour of the Heart) like 300 years ago. But, just take this one-shot to stave off your hunger for now.

The brittle paper crinkled under your fingertips, every crease, every worn edge, a reminder of the countless times you’d held it before. It was delicate – seemed like it would crumble into dust at the slightest touch – but despite its fragility, it was the most valuable thing you’d ever possessed. Your fingers trembled as they traced the lines of the newspaper clipping, but it wasn’t the printed news of the “Bayou Butcher” striking again that made your heart race.  

It was his writing, the neat curling script at the bottom, a mere whisper of words: “Tune in next Monday at 3:00, ma chère.” 

Your breath hitched, a sharp hiss escaping between clenched teeth as the persistent ache in your left leg flared. Pain shot upward, digging into your hip like a dagger, but you fought to stay upright. The agony was a minor inconvenience today.  

Today was the day.  

Your heart pounded harder, matching the rhythmic throb in your leg. The memory of those elegant, looping letters tugged at your emotions, just as they had when you’d first received the note. Every time you touched the ink, you remembered his voice – smooth as honey, with that rich, radio charm, the voice that captivated thousands. But it wasn’t just a radio host’s voice.  

It was his voice. 

It was…Alastor’s. 

You never should’ve gotten involved. At first, it had all been so innocent, hadn’t it? You thought little of it – a mere curiosity – when your husband, a man who harboured such blatant hatred for “coloured folk,” began conducting business with Alastor, a man of Creole descent. It was scandalous in its own way, but you, ever the dutiful wife, entertained your husband’s association with grace.  

You were polite, respectful, keeping your eyes down and your words sweet. But slowly, ever so slowly, those polite gestures became something more.  

A fleeting brush of his hand, lingering longer than it should have. A shared smile, deeper than you intended. The space between you shrank until a single kiss shattered the fragile boundary you’d drawn. And now… 

Now… 

Tears blurred your vision, each drop falling onto the brittle paper and smudging the ink. The once-crisp words bled together, dark and dreary, as if the rain itself had swept across the page. A storm had gathered within you, just like that fateful night. You almost got caught. You and Alastor, locked in a forbidden moment, nearly discovered by your husband.  

The thought of your husband finding out, of him laying a hand on Alastor, made your blood run cold. You couldn’t stay.  

So you left.  

You left Alastor.  

A broken whimper escaped your lips as you stumbled forward, your body too weak, too damaged, to hold itself upright any longer. You caught yourself against the bookshelf, your trembling fingers gripping its edge, knuckles white. Every movement was agony. The bruises littering your skin throbbed with each breath, each heartbeat, a cruel reminder of the hell that had become your life.  

Lately, your husband returned home late, reeking of alcohol so pungent it seemed to burn your skin when he got too close. The man you once knew, once loved, had become something unrecognizable – a monster lurking behind a mask of daylight.  

You were trapped. A prisoner in your own home, your body marked by his rage, your soul shattered by the weight of your tight-lipped silence.  

The clock ticked steadily in the background, its rhythmic pulse mocking your stillness. You closed your eyes, wishing for a moment of peace, but even in the dark, the memories of Alastor haunted you. You hadn’t seen him since the day you walked out of his life. But weeks after, he appeared right on your doorstep, unannounced. His brown eyes were gentle with concern, only to have that warmth crack and harden when he saw the state you were in. His once soft brown eyes had turned into stone, his anger rippling beneath the surface as though it could tear the earth apart.  

He tore a piece of newspaper he had in his pocket and scribbled a message before handing it to you. His eyes narrowing when he saw the striped bruises around your wrist. He hadn’t said a single word to you, other than the two words that seared into your heart: 

You’re mine.  

The clock struck three, and slowly, painfully you opened your one good eye – the other swollen shut from the brutal fist that had come down on you after you refused your husband’s demands. You had denied him access to your body – denied him your so called “God-given wifely duties.” And this state you were in was your divine punishment. The bruises around your bony wrists were dark and vicious, branding you with your husband’s mark that trembled as you reached for the radio.  

Today – Alastor had asked you to tune in specifically today – and out of some stroke of luck, your husband was out of town. He hated when you listened to other men, even if it was just the radio. The idea of another voice in your ear, a voice that wasn’t his, filled him with blind rage.  

You took a quick glance at the window, letting out a brief sigh of relief that your husband was still away. Your fingers hovered over the dial, and with a soft click, the radio crackled to life. Static filled the room, but then, through the distortion, came a voice that made your breath catch in your throat. 

His voice.  

“…and now, I have a special message for the lucky lady tuning in!” 

Alastor’s familiar, jaunty tone spilled through the speakers, wrapping around you like a warm embrace, like the gentlest touch on your battered soul. You bit your lip, stifling a sob as tears welled up, your body shaking with the need to cry out. It had been so long. Too long since you’d heard his voice.  

“A-Al…” you tried to whisper, but your voice was hoarse, cracked from the screams you’d muffled in the night. Your lips were raw and bruised, but even with the pain, you smiled. It was small, fragile, but it was a smile nonetheless. Because here, in this small moment, you had him again. His voice, his presence, filling the void left by your husband who only knew how to hurt you.  

Closing your eyes, you sank onto the floor, legs giving out as you rested your head against the cool wood of the shelf. Alastor’s voice filled the room, filled you, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let yourself feel – let yourself be held by the words of the man who had once shown how gentle and beautiful love could be.  

You tuned in, just as he had asked, and for the first time in weeks, you weren’t alone.  

“Ma chère, I still remember your warm eyes that gazed only at me, steadfast and unwavering, filled with wonder and bright cheer. Your voice, a sweet melody, that I could listen to daily and never tire of. Ah – but if I may be so bold to confess, ma chère, it is your smile that visits my dreams. It is your smile that keeps me company daily, it is your smile that I miss…” 

His words hit you like a wave, crashing against the fragile wall you’d built around yourself. Your smile, once warm and bright, slowly withered. The first tear trailed down your cheek, hot and burning, followed by another, and then another, each one faster than the last as you bit down on your lip, suppressing the sob threatening to escape.  

“I miss your smile too…Alastor,” you whispered, lips quivering, forcing the words through the pain. For a moment, you let yourself pretend. Pretend you were strolling though a sunlit park with him by your side, hidden from the eyes of the world. But reality, cold and merciless, clawed at your throat, dragging out a small, broken whimper.  

“… Ma chère, my sweet, my love,” Alastor’s voice dipped lower, his tone like velvet through the static of the radio. If you closed your eyes now, you could almost feel him – standing behind you, his breath warm against your ear, whispering his sweet, honeyed words. Words that once filled your heart with joy now felt like they might tear you apart. “A day without you is bleak, but a future without you is…” His voice wavered, a beat of silence, as if he was fighting to get the next words out.  

“Hell.” 

That single word, harsh and broken, cut through the crackling static like a knife. You flinched, the pain radiating from your chest as if someone had reached in and twisted your heart.  

There was another stretch of silence. The white noise filled the room, deafening, until finally, his voice returned –softer, aching. “My love,” he whispered, “if you would allow me to see you once more, to brush my fingers down your lovely cheek, to gaze into those bright smiling eyes, then I vow… I would move Heaven and Earth for you. I would be everything you want and more. And there will never be a day when you must endure the chilling embrace of an unworthy touch, nor a single night of agony. This, I promise. I vow to you, ma chère, if you would only give me the honour to be worthy of your love.” 

Your breath caught in your throat, teeth chattering as you let his words wash over you, seeping into your tired bones. He was offering you everything. Love, protection, a life free from the horrors you endure every day. But didn’t he know? Didn’t he understand that this love was doomed from the start? You were already married, bound by vows to a man who made your life a living nightmare. A love like this – your love with Alastor – could never survive. It wasn’t meant to.  

And yet…yet, like always, Alastor had planted a dream within you, a sweet, dangerous seed that promised bountiful harvests of love, of tenderness, of a life you’d only dared to imagine in the darkness of the night. How could you not reach for it? How could you not want to believe in it, despite everything? 

Your fingers tightened around the scrap of newspaper, the brittle paper crumpling in your hand as you tried to stop the flow of your tears. Yet, it was no use as the tears continued to stream down your face, stinging your bruised eye. You pressed your trembling hand to your lips, your skin still raw and split from your husband’s violence, as if trying to hold in the cry steadily building inside you.  

But you couldn’t hold it back. Not anymore.  

A wail tore from your throat, loud, agonizing, your body wracked with sobs as the flood of tears spilled out, unchecked and relentless. It was too much. The love, the longing, the pain – it all crashed down, drowning you in its biting cold tide.  

You loved him. You loved him. You loved…him.  

The truth of it echoed in your mind, in your soul, and as if he could hear your heart’s desperate cry, Alastor’s voice broke through the storm of your agony, as soft and tender as the touch you craved.  

“My sweetest dear,” he murmured through the radio, his voice filled with the words you had both been too afraid to speak during all your stolen moments together. “I love you.” 

It was the confession you had waited for, the one you never dared hope to hear. And at that moment, despite the bruises, despite the pain, despite the impossible weight of your circumstances, you believed him.  

And you loved him back.  

You bowed low, forehead pressed against the floor, your tears soaking into the polished wood, staining it with sorrow. The ache in your heart was unbearable, sharp and unrelenting, a pain deeper than any bruise your husband could leave on your skin.  

This love – it hurt. It hurt in ways you had never imagined. The realization cut through you like a blade: loving someone you could never have, never be with, was a torture far worse than any physical blow.  

Oh, it hurt.  

Your eyes fluttered shut as your body, too exhausted to endure any longer, curled onto its side. Just for a moment, you needed rest. Just for a moment, you wanted to escape the reality of your life – the bruises, the pain, the suffocating hopelessness.  

In your mind, you reached for Alastor, imagining him beside you, his arms encircling you with warmth, his voice lulling you into a peaceful slumber. A world where his love was real, tangible, and the pain that haunted you every night simply vanished.  

He promised you everything in those dreams – tenderness, devotion, a life free from fear. And as his voice played softly through the radio, talking about the weather, the sports, the latest hot gossip, you let the tears dry on your cheeks. His voice, so familiar and comforting, pulled you from the edge of despair, if only for a little while.  

For the first time in what felt like eternity, a small, fragile smile curved your lips. It had been so long since you felt any semblance of peace. So long since you could rest without the constant grip of terror choking you.  

As your consciousness began to slip away, sinking into the embrace of sleep, Alastor’s voice faded with it, the steady cadence of his words slowly disappearing into the background. The surrounding darkness wasn’t frightening this time – it was welcoming, calm. There were no screams here, no pain.  

Only him.  

But before you fully drifted away, his voice lifted again, bright and animated, his thick transatlantic accent dancing through the radio 

“Now, dear listeners, before I end my segment, please do take care! Word on the street is that the notorious Bayou Butcher is prowling the streets, and the past several victims all appeared to be married men! Haha!” 

The words hung in the air, but you were too far gone to hear the dark twist of humour in his tone. Too far gone to realize what it might mean. Your last thought, before sleep claimed you, was of Alastor, and how much you wished – how much you needed – to be in his arms, far away from the world that was tearing you apart.  

Follow #vexitober 2024 to read my questionable kink/fluff stories!

[ruthlessrogeroverhere]

my interpretation on roger 🫡

i’ve seen a similar post on here i’ll tag who i was inspired by, but i just wanted to share one of my interpretations about roger and perhaps an explanation as to why he acts why he does, this isn’t canon at all it’s just my interpretation and thoughts and i’m aware the killing of the sow is meant to interpret how boys were taught to treat woman as the female pigs were the only female things on the island.

( tw for SA mention and racism )

alright so we know roger is a part of jacks choir, described as a “quiet furtive boy” (this will be important later), who we don’t see much of until chapter 4 when he’s with maurice and the littluns and towards the end of the book. during the killing of the sow, we all know roger pushes his spear into the pigs ass which the boys all find funny; “a phrase which was received uproariously” but why? 

this book was set in the time when the book was written, around 1940-1950, and as we know roger is in a presumably strict catholic choir with jack and the others. around that time period, the church held a lot of power over people and especially schools. this then meant that vicars, priests and other people of the church were extremely respected people. because of this as im sure we’ve heard in instances before, child sexual abuse was in fact alarmingly common and unreported in the church, especially back then when churches had so much power. i’m sure you can see what i’m trying to imply here but it’s a possibility that jacks choir could’ve been in the same unfortunate situation.

now, when i said roger is described as a “quiet, furtive boy”, this could represent how kids that had succumbed to sexual abuse acts in the church were told to stay silent about what was happening, and/or turn a blind eye when it happened to other people. then with the killing of the sow, what roger did isn’t normal and clearly isn’t something that should be the first thing that comes to mind when you see a female pig. this could mean that an adult had told him that that stuff was okay, thus why he did what he did. sexual abuse victims often also become angry and develop personality disorders because they’re confused and scared and they don’t understand what’s happening to them, this also would further explain roger’s ‘sadistic’ behaviour, and inability to communicate a lot. 

i’d like to add in something about simon too, how he’s in the forest and watches the killing of the sow take place but doesn’t do anything. in my opinion, this heavily represents seeing something take place (sexual abuse in the church) but being taught to stay silent because it’s the ‘right thing to do.’ 

alright this is the second part of my essay which is my other interpretation which in my opinion could lead roger to act the way he does. throughout the book, roger is described as having a dark complexion, but sometimes it’s hard to tell whether golding is talking about dark nature-wise or in skin colour. sometimes throughout the book though you can tell he’s of a dark complexion such as; “the swarthiness of his skin” “a dark face appeared” and the fact he’s so dark he doesn’t tan. taking this into account i personally am very convinced roger isn’t white. in chapter 4 when roger throws stones at henry, it quotes “round the squatting child was the protection of parents and the school and policemen and the law” also in the time period when this was set, it was common for policemen to pick on kids that aren’t white because they hold a prejudice against them, the same of which could’ve happened to roger pre-island. it doesn’t say anything else which could have a meaning to racism anywhere in the book but it’s just an interpretation i thought of, that roger could’ve been subjected to racial profiling before the island thus another reason as to why hes ‘uncommunicative’ and rather aggressive. 

thank you for reading this! again i’d just like to remind that this is just an interpretation, none of this is canon and it was just a thought of mine id like to share! this was inspired by @shaky-b0n3s post 😎😎

[franklyopinionated]

I feel like some PJO fans are just really dense or they clearly didn't read the books

I literally saw a post comparing Annabeth to Gabe because she "abuses" Percy (fastest block in my life).

Like, WTF are we doing at this point? Is the misogyny so ingrained in this fandom that we cannot be helped?

First things first, the judo flip is clearly written to be read as romantic down to Percy smiling up at her and flirting when it happens. They're also literal soldiers who have grown up training together. Ya'll cannot on one hand gush about Percy being uber powerful and then on the other hand act like Annabeth could have killed him from a judo flip, something she's trained to do and would be able to easily do without causing any pain to the person she did it to. Using the judo flip to paint Annabeth as abusive when that clearly was not the intent is so ridiculously moronic. You can argue that you don't like the judo flip. That is 100% understandable. But saying it's abusive and calling Annabeth abusive over it when it's so vicerally clear in the narrative that Rick meant it be read romantic is downright stupid. You can have problems with the fact that Rick meant that to be read as romantic, but again it does not change the intent. And he was clearly not writing Annabeth as abusive in the scene (the character is literally based on his wife and mother of his children for crying out loud).

And when else has Annabeth "abused" Percy? Playful taps between friends does not equal abuse and it's downright insulting to call it that. I'm so tired of people using the dancing scene in TTC as an example of Annabeth "hitting" Percy. Are ya'll ok in the head? Her budging him to get his attention to dance or her tapping his foot under the table to get him to stop talking is not abuse, it's not even abuse in even the most basic interpretations of that word. Ya'll are insane and scraping the barrel. This is getting so STUPID. Seriously, show me examples of Annabeth abusing Percy. This line of hate used against Annabeth is downright pathetic and really offensive to people who have been in abusive relationships.

Name calling? Do people even realize that Percy called Annabeth "Wise Girl" first and 100% meant it as an insult as he was implying she was stupid at the time? Wise Girl was only meant in an affectionate way later. When Percy first started calling her it he was using it as an insult to imply she was actually not smart. You know who he got the name from? Clarisse, the camp bully. Yet some folks call Annabeth abusive for calling Percy Seaweed Brain and casullly ignore that Percy was an active participant in the name calling? Why is it ok for Percy to name call but it's not ok for Annabeth to return the favor. Not to mention that Seaweed Brain and Wise Girl became terms of affection by at least the end of Lightening Thief. Past Lightening Thief neither of them use those names as outright insults from my recollection.

Ya'll want complicated female characters but can't even handle Annabeth Chase not being a Mary Sue and actually being a female character with flaws.....UNDERSTANDABLE FLAWS.

One thing I've noticed about a lot of PJO fans is that most of them have never actually read the books, and it shows. Either that or some of ya'll are getting way too comfortable with the misogyny that contributes to most of the hate for Annabeth. That and the racism which has picked up with the casting for the show. Because there's no way the uptick in Annabeth hate that started around the time the casting was announced is a coincidence.

[qwimblenorrisstan]

Inept Entitlement | Sgt. Leland Coyle x Reader

Summary: After being abandoned by the rest of your team, you’re left alone, cornered by Coyle. However, you quickly manage to turn the tables, in more ways than one.

Word Count: ~ 2.7k

Warnings: smut, p in v, bondage, orgasm denial, implied overstim, masochism, sadism, getting electric shocked??, blood, violence, gore, implied racism, mentions of corpses, mutilation, excessive cussing, riding, reader is freaky and Coyle is freaky everybody is a FREAK

Minors, do not interact!

A/N: so funny writing a southern character because I’m southern and i know all the sayings. and i DID have some fire pictures to go along with this but tumblr refuses to format it correctly so yall are stuck with this. i tried to keep reader gender neutral best as the voices let me. anyway have this outlast freaks, enjoy <3

Requests are open!

It had been going smoothly.

Every task was completed decently, items collected, propaganda posters gathered amongst you and your team, avoiding most of the enemies—though Sgt. Coyle, the prime asset, was who you were avoiding like the plague.

You’d hit the button, figured that you’d get back to the Sleep room with no further difficulties, the exit opening up as the alarms blared throughout the facility, echoing through the halls as you and your comrades booked it.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been forced to split up, nearly running face-first into a grotesquely mutilated giant woman, diving into the closest room nearby while the sounds of your teammates’ boots hitting the floor became farther and farther away.

It wasn’t your first time getting to the exit alone. You could manage.

Sliding your night vision on, you crouched down, trying to get a bearing on your surroundings, or anything recognizable that could help you get where you needed to.

Shelves, hallways, locked doors, and already-looted rooms were all your eye could find as you carefully stalked from one room to another, not too keen on getting slaughtered without anybody nearby to help.

Peeking around the edge of a doorway, your hand going down to stabilize, you found a brick beneath your palm, and decided to keep it.

Just in case.

The blaring of the alarms slowly became more of simple background news as you became slowly desensitized to the environment, eyes skimming over the charred and abused bodies lying around, the things that could barely be considered human roaming the halls.

Your anxiety settled into a stable almost constant, a tightness in your chest that while not loosening, didn’t tighten anymore either.

Until you heard the sound of a familiar clicking boot hitting the floor.

“Go on and hide, if that’s what turns you on.”

You didn’t like how familiar that rough, southern voice was. Nor the zapping and harsh bite you could hear from that godforsaken baton with the wires around it.

You’d tasted the sting of it one too many times.

Holding your breath, you shimmied into the dark corridor, watching him walk down the same one, only praying you could get past him in time. You had to get to the exit.

There was a time limit, and you knew that.

The sounds of his shoes clicking against the stone floor became louder, as did your movements as you began speeding up, the doorway you were aiming to reach still being quite a few feet away.

You turned back, glancing back to try and see where he was, to gauge how fast you had to go, when it happened. You registered the sharp stabbing pain of glass in your palm before hearing it crunch beneath your feet.

“You rabbit on me ‘n I’ll fuck you to death!”

His harsh voice rang out, and you sprung up from your position, adrenaline pumping through your body, legs carrying you through the doorway as you leaped over a cart in your way, over a counter in a room, before sliding out into a hallway, nearly falling over in the harsh turn.

Ahead of you was a garage door, the yellow line at the bottom telling you it was one of the few ones you could open, though usually a team task, you could manage it.

You had to.

Running forward, trying to shove the sounds of him approaching, getting closer, into the back of your head as you reached the door.

Your fingers grasped the bottom of the metal door, yanking up, straining every muscle in your body to pull it up before you were murdered and forgotten as another reagent at the hands of Coyle.

Mind spinning, body aching, you could hear him nearing, not daring to turn and glance back at his progress, a noise of pure strain, something like a bottled scream turned to a sharp whistle, escaping your throat.

A near sob of anger escaped you, emotions welling up as you heard the crackle of buzzing electricity behind you.

You wouldn’t be here if you’d stuck with the others.

Just as he came impossibly close, the smell of his cheap cigarette wafting into your nose, his breathing right up in your ear, the vibrations of the baton nearly whispering against your skin, the garage door locked in place.

Just enough for you to slide in.

Breathing out a sigh, and nearly a sob, of relief, you dropped to the floor and began scrambling under as fast as you could, nails scraping against the concrete floor, clothes dirtied with the sticky, wet blood of others who’d tried the same and failed.

You could see the exit on the other side.

The glowing red sign. The pods. Only a few more feet, just a bit longer, then you could—

A rough, calloused hand around your ankle stopped your thoughts right where they were.

“Where’n the hell’d you think you’re goin’, peaches?”

He brusquely spoke, dragging you out from underneath the door as you screamed, kicking and flailing at him, landing a shoe directly on his face and smashing his cigarette, watching it tumble to the ground, embers smothered as he let out a growl.

The baton swung forward, and your nerves were alight with what felt like fire directly in your veins, through your skin, in your bones for god's sake. An agony you didn’t want to experience again.

When he finally pulled it away, you were left limp on the damp, cold ground, letting out a hiccup, body trembling as you tried to wrap your arms around yourself, mumbling gibberish, shaking your head.

“Don’t cry, pretty,” He crooned mockingly, a small grin overtaking his face as he pulled a cigarette from his belt, lighting it against his baton, and slipping it between his lips.

His fingers went to your face, trying to swipe away the warm, salty liquid that ran down your cheeks, his other hand now secured around the front of your shirt, lifting you to him.

He was cut short, however, when your arm shoved forward, a hard brick slamming into his face, one of the lenses of his glasses shattering partly as his hands released, knocking him to the ground, his baton separated from him by a few feet.

“Fuckin’..red bitch!”

He screamed, one of his lips busted, a clear mark left on his face, and a few small abrasions with blood beginning to just barely come out.

The brick tumbled to the ground as he got to his feet, stumbling at first, before straightening his hat, lunging towards his baton, only for you to snatch it first.

The electricity crackled to life as you plunged the baton right onto his inner thigh, watching his knees buckle, and feeling a sick satisfaction as he collapsed to the floor, though the feeling turned to something else as he began jerking forward, rutting against it like he owed it money.

“Jesus, fuckin’—god on high,” He slurred, the tent in his pants he was rubbing against the floor not becoming any less obvious by the minute.

While he was..preoccupied, you grabbed some of the rope laying around, thick with mystery liquids you didn’t want to know what were, and tied his hands behind his back while you could, watching as he was too caught up in his own dick to even notice, or if he did, care.

The reason you would give for taking the baton away right when he began to speed his frantic pace, an obvious pursuit of an orgasm, was for discomfort. Though in reality, it was a simple urge to deny it, to watch his face fall and have the power over him for once.

He tried to chase it regardless, but maybe his nerves were too fried to be able to register anything other than the pulverizing pain of a continuous electric shock, because he looked at you like you’d just murdered his whole family in front of him.

“The fuck are you doin’, whore?” Though he tried to keep that control, you and he both knew it was lost, even as his fingers fumbled with the rope, a hint of him even hoped he couldn’t untie it.

Maybe for the thrill.

You crawled over to him, legs too shaky still to even fully support you, before flipping him over, swinging a leg over his lower torso, your hands going to grab at his pecs (or more affectionately, his tits).

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing under the scruff of his neck, grey and white hairs snuck among the black ones.

Leaning down to his mouth, you stopped just a minute, face hovering above his, watching his pupils dilate just a hint, before letting your tongue lazily lick at the seam of his lips, shoving the baton into his side, the subtle shock it gave not hurting as badly as the initial sting.

He groaned, hips rolling up into yours as his eyes rolled just a hint, lips easily separating under your tongue, the taste of cheap whiskey and smoke smoothing over your tongue, your hands sliding up his neck, grabbing hold of his face and forcing him to kiss you back.

He didn’t get a choice.

One hand slipped back behind his head, taking hold of his hat and slipping it onto your head, separating from his mouth, a thin string of spit dangling until you gathered it in the back of your throat, and spat it back on him, watching how he cursed, hips growing more erratic.

Again, just as he grew close, muscles straining, eyes nearly shutting, you pulled the baton away, watching the desperation form in his eyes, the hatred of a woman on top of him and in control, or maybe the hatred of himself for liking it.

“You…you’re a real piece o’work, never met a fuck-o commie bitch like you,”

He was panting, sweat gathered on his brow, at his wits end nearly as he squirmed beneath you, watching how your pointer and middle finger reached down, plucking the cigarette from his mouth, and holding it just in front of your own.

You grinned, this time, and pressed the hot end of the cigarette against your tongue, the hot sizzle of it burning only making the sweet ache in your body stronger.

Re-lighting the cigarette with the baton, before sliding it in your mouth, you replied to him finally, a layer of mocking kindness laid on thick in it.

“You love it.”

The sound of his fly getting yanked down penetrated the air, his eyelids twitching from anticipation as you yanked his pants and boxers down in one pull, pulling his dick out less than gently.

Oh, it wasn’t pretty. One side was half scarred and burnt to hell, the other a pale color like the rest of his normal skin. The thick vein on the underside still ran, throbbing, half of the mushroomed head dripping and red with excitement.

“You’re gonna go blind if y’keep staring.” He spat, watching as you tugged your clothes out of the way, not even bothering to take them fully off in this environment, before slowly sliding him in, eyes clenched shut, grip white-knuckling on his chest.

He wasn’t extraordinarily big, didn’t need to be for you to feel as if he was splitting you in fucking half. Every inch of space taken up, your hips occasionally jerking forward, not wanting to give your body any time to adjust.

You could see how he was slowly losing it too, body moving up in the tiniest increments, desperate. But he would need that sweet, savory shock to get that release, you had a feeling.

“Christ, slicker than dick spit,” He muttered, finally just jerking up, jolting right up into your sweet spot, his legs having mini spasms at how you clamped down on him like a vice, your hips shoving forward, legs pushing against the floor as you bounced on him, riding him with as much vigor as your body allowed.

“Fuck—“

You gasped when his tip rested right against that sweet little spot of your gummy walls, grinding down against him, your nerves firing overtime, lighting your body with pleasure as you began trembling, just barely, but enough for him to notice.

“Gonna make you fuller than a fuckin’ tick,” He swore, his head jerking to the baton, a silent plead, and you grinned down at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and voice drunk on control.

“Yeah? You want it? Beg.”

He swallowed, his ego not letting him beg, but his body pleading with his mind to just give in. It would be so easy, after all, just a few words, then he could have it all.

Though he tried containing his groans and slutty grunts, he failed, watching with a near trembling lower lip as you came closer and closer, wrapped tighter, warmer around him, before finally, he broke.

“Please.” The word burst out from his mouth like a gasp for air, and you smiled, murmuring a small—

“Attaboy,”

—before shoving the baton right between his legs, right onto his balls.

He let out a noise unlike anything you’d ever heard from him before, hell, he hadn’t even made anything similar of the sort when you’d smacked him with a brick.

His eyes rolled all the way back, head tilting back far as it could as he began desperately humping into you, looking for any reprieve he could get, his skin shiny with sweat and dick weeping with arousal.

As he grew closer, his mouth fell open, harsh thrusts pummeling your insides as you could only grasp onto him, gasping with every new jolt forward, every new wave of pressure to that tightening coil in your stomach, all too ready to snap.

He slurred out what sounded like slurs mixed with southern lingo when his muscles finally tightened, body quaking as he spilled in you, hips shoving as far up as they could go, trying to keep you plugged, probably a more instinctive than intentional thing.

The wave of ecstasy overcame you, violent and completely out of control, ripping through your body until you were screaming, the cigarette having long tumbled out of your mouth, and then you were biting into his shoulder, desperate to muffle yourself.

“Crazy bitch!” He yelled, squirming, though he didn’t say he disliked it. Most likely because it would be a lie. And though Sgt. Leland Coyle was a lot of things, he wasn’t a liar.

Most of the time.

You were left soaked in sweat and god knows what, gasping for air, his hat having long fallen over your eyes and covered your vision as you collapsed against him.

Your mind was a slushy at this point, every coherent thought having been fucked out of you, and thoroughly blended.

Though your senses were hazy, you could still push yourself up and off of him, hat tumbling off your head, your hair a ragged mess, though you could also still hear the subtle sound of a door behind you opening.

Not the normal wooden doors, no, this was one of the metal ones.

A gloved hand wrapped around your throat, and you watched Coyle’s expression shift to annoyance as he began cursing the man behind you out, the ringing in your ears drowning out the sound of it.

A syringe entered your peripheral vision, before a sharp sting of pain bit at your neck, the world turning a yellowish shade of black right before your very eyes.

“Easy, take a rest.”

A male voice muttered, and you could vaguely hear Coyle screaming in the background, though he got farther away as you were picked up, carried somewhere by somebody.

“——————them for?”

Another voice asked. Coyle was gone now. The sound of buzzing fluorescent lights reached your ear, the scent of a sterile atmosphere reaching your nose, and you heard one last thing before totally losing consciousness.

“To see if he’s defective or not.”

[kateysummers99]

Do you think the WWBM Interacial movement has now got to a critical point where momentum has starting to challenge even the majority of White Women now as far as there choices for relationship ? May we as White Males even lose this group of females to African Men more then we keep ourselves ?

The short answer is definitely yes.

Because of my own personal experiences and also just looking at major social trends, it's pretty obvious that IR relationships (in general, but specifically white girls and black guys) are much more common now than they were 10, 30, and 30 years ago. 

I think there are lots of reasons for this and I’m obviously not an expert (I work in finance, not cultural psychology), but lets just look at the obvious trends:

Girls today are more empowered in general, and especially regarding sexuality and romance. I mention this a lot on this blog, there are less things hold girls back than there used to be. Movies and TV and culture in general are so much more accepting that people can love who they want to love, and that applies especially to society being more accepting of girls expressing their sexuality. I grew up in a time when dating black guys was an obvious but implied no-no, and it's just not the same today. (Note this is NOT true everywhere. Sadly there are racists and homophobes still, but they will probably be holdouts until they die.)

Black men are idolized for their physicality and masculinity by society more and more every day. Sports, music, advertising media, movies, social media and TV shows - you name it, black guys are constantly the icon of masculinity, status and power. This is really true for their masculinity, where we regularly fetishize the sexual prowess of black men in every day culture with phrases like “once you go black you never go back.” 

Porn is free and everywhere. Also something that wasn’t the case when I was growing up, but now you just pick up any cell phone and in a few seconds be privately and anonymously staring at an amazing black man and his huge black cock (or whatever your fantasy is).

Also in the last few years, social justice and institutional racism has become a hot topic, I think a lot of women recognize that the same old white male patriarchy that has been suppressing women since the beginning of time has also been responsible for suppressing Black people. This puts white women and black men on the same side on a pretty deep level, where they see each other in the same existential struggle for happiness against the common enemy that is old white guys.

Another interesting thing that I've read reports about is more and more young white guys who are essentially "staying single" forever, sometimes due to porn addiction. They make a sexual connection with porn that is easy and judgment free, which is the opposite of the real-world dating situation where they deal with complex social dynamics and competition (including trying to compete against more masculine black men who are constantly in movies and music).

So if that's a growing tend... then young women find themselves more free in choosing partners, society idolizing black guys, exposed to IR sex and porn, and more culturally aligned with black guys… and young white guys basically removing themselves from the dating pool.

As for me personally, I have always thought think black guy / white girl couples are the most beautiful -- there's a special passion and primal attraction that goes deep down that you just don't see with other couples.

So yes, I think black guy and white girl couples are definitely more and more popular. I don’t think we’ll ever get to a point where all white men are unwanted forever (sorry white boys who message me, desperate to live in such a world), but I do think increasingly empowered girls and wider acceptance of female sexuality will naturally trend to more black guys and white girls together - which is all beautiful to me :)

[moattemptstoarticulate]

Seamus Finnigan and Irish Stereotyping

Hello,

This is my first attempt at a Tumblr post so forgive me if this lacks all sense.

For context, I was born and raised Irish, if that's important for this post.

I've been in the Harry Potter fandom since the age of eleven. During that time I've dipped in and out and have gained more knowledge and nuanced thought towards literature in-between. Admittedly these books are not well-written even if you ignore the immense bigotry drowning anything JKR does. I've seen many conversations surrounding the blatant transphobia of JKR and the racism, anti-semitism and homophobia within her work. All of these are extremely important topics that we, as a fandom, need to continue the discussion on. One of the more subtle forms of hate shown through her work that I don't often see talked about, is her treatment of Seamus Finnigan and her portrayal of Irish society and it's people through that.

The more obvious stereotyping is seen through Seamus and his "proclivity for pyrothenics" (a quote from McGongall in the Deathly Hallows Part 2). A key point to note about the books is that they were written during and in the aftermath of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. I'm not going to do an in depth explanation of the Troubles itself as that would require me to recap over 800 years of British Colonial rule and oppression over Ireland but I will give a brief run-through for clarity incase anyone reading is unaware of the conflict.

The troubles as it's known today spanned from 1968-1998 and resulted in an estimated 3600 deaths. The stereotype of Irish individuals having a supposed "proclivity for pyrotechnics" comes from the IRA (Irish Republican Army). This group was formed by Irish civilians to fight against Catholic Nationalist communities oppression through violent means. This post by no means is an attempt to jusitfy the horrifc actions of the IRA during the Troubles. It is only an attempt to shed light on the harmful stereotyping JKR imbedded in her primary Irish representation in the Harry Potter series. Saying your Irish Character has a penchant for explosives, during a time in which Irish people were in the midst or recovering from such a violent conflict, leaves the assumption that Seamus, the only real reoccuring Irish representation, is a part of the IRA or that Irish people in general love to blow things up and cause chaos. This is harmful, especially when being read by young british people. Political relations in Northern Ireland and between Ireland and Britain were incredibly strained and still are in some aspects. Pushing the narrative that Irish people are dangerous does not help heal these relations and subtly increases the bad image of Irish people in the eyes of British society.

Another issue with Seamus Finnigan's character is the mentions of alcohol. It's a common stereotype that Irish people love alcohol and this has been used to demonise our culture in other areas of media. In The Philosphers Stone (keep in mind Seamus would've been 11-12 years old at the time.) Seamus actively tries to turn water into rum. The spell itself can be implied to be of Irish origin "Eye of rabbit, harp string hum, turn this water into rum" as the harp is the Emblem of Ireland. Having your Irish character, at the assumed age of 11, try to turn water into rum is incredibly harmful and builds on this "drunken Irish" stereotype. Not to mention the spell results in multiple explosions, linking back to my first point of his "proclivity for pyrotechnics."

My final point, which is simultanously the most subtle but quite frankly the craziest and most damaging is Seamus' initials matching that of the party Sinn Fein. I've already given a brief synopsis of the Troubles and a key thing to note about Sinn Fein is that they were heavily intertwined with the IRA with the two initally starting out as the same group before splitting into an armed group (the IRA) and a political half (The party Sinn Fein.) So intertwined that their president during the 80s, Gerry Adams, was also the tactical leader of the IRA (alledgedly...). Once again JKR has managed to subtly (yet not so subtly if you know what to look for) imply her primary Irish character is a memeber of the anti- british violent organisation through his initals.

Another point that is more of a reach than my other points is that Seamus is the first of Harry's friends to turn on him in ootp. The only Irish character turning on the British hero and in a sense leading the hate train against him? Given the clear views JKR holds against the Irish, it's not too much of a jump to assume that she'd start by villianising Seamus.

Overall it's clear JKR had some very strong opinions on the Irish that she felt the absolute need to inform everyone on through her work aimed at children. Rather unfortunate as a young Irish reader who watched their idol not only begin a campagin agaisnt their rights as a trans individual but also perpetuate horrible ideas against a country still feeling the impact of decades long violent conflict.

Once again it comes far too easily to condemn JKR and her horribly damaging actions agaisnt her own readers.