#nostalgia embedded within nostalgia

[simplygojo]

Friend-Of-A-Friend ── Chapter One

author's note ⸺ Hello all! This is a teaser chapter for a series I've been cooking up, just wanting to put it out here while I work on a few requests. :) pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader summary ⸺ You met Gojo in university through your roommate, and while the two of you became the closest of friends, his other best friend, Suguru Geto, was always just a mutual acquaintance. After graduation, life pulled you all in different directions, with only the occasional reunion keeping you connected. But when Geto unexpectedly reaches out asking to catch up, your mind can't help but wander... content ⸺ platonic-bestie!gojo, corporate-worker!reader, modern au, reader uses female pronouns, this is an 18+ series - mdni divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

series masterlist ୨୧ simplygojo masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

You met Satoru Gojo because he briefly dated your roommate. Three weeks, to be exact.

It wasn’t a particularly serious relationship—Gojo wasn’t exactly the “serious relationship” type back then—but somehow, when it ended, he didn’t just disappear from your life like most fleeting university romances did.

Instead, he stuck around, not as someone’s boyfriend but as a chaotic, ever-present force in your friend group. 

He was simply too much fun to let go, and despite his ex moving on, Gojo embedded himself in your daily routine as if he had always belonged there.

The two of you clicked almost instantly. 

Perhaps it was his boundless energy, the way he could make even the most mundane of tasks feel like an adventure. Or maybe it was because you, unlike many others, had no problem challenging him, calling him out when he was being insufferable—which was often. 

Either way, within a matter of months, you and Gojo were practically inseparable.

Your late nights turned into study sessions that lasted until dawn.

Over time, those sessions gained a third member: Suguru Geto, Gojo’s quieter, more composed friend. Compared to you and Gojo, anyone would seem reserved, but Geto had an air of serenity that balanced out Gojo’s manic energy. 

He wasn’t just one of Gojo’s best friends; he became an integral part of your routine. 

While Gojo would get distracted and try to rope you into some absurd conversation about the merits of sunglasses indoors, Geto would be the one actually ensuring the group got any work done.

He was thoughtful in small ways—like bringing you both coffee before an early lecture (though Gojo always insisted on lemonade because, in his own words, “coffee is for old people”). 

You liked Geto. He was nice. But you never really got to know him beyond the surface. He was there, a presence woven into the fabric of your university life, but you never considered him more than a friend-of-a-friend.

Then, university ended.

You landed your first real corporate job in the city, trading the carefree nature of student life for morning commutes and office politics. 

Gojo, despite his initial complaints about you ‘leaving him behind,’ ended up securing a job in HR somewhere in the rural south—how he managed that, you’d never know. The details remained murky—he provided no real explanation, only a steady stream of texts detailing his ongoing struggles with adulthood.

And of course, every now and then, the three of you—Gojo, Geto, and you—would reunite for drinks or sushi, laughing about your university days as if they weren’t already slipping into nostalgia.

But despite the occasional meetups, your dynamic with Geto remained unchanged. 

You were friendly, sure, but you were just mutual friends. 

Every conversation was held in Gojo’s orbit, every interaction buffered by his larger-than-life presence. You had never hung out with Geto alone, or even had a conversation. There was simply no reason to.

That’s why the message caught you off guard.

It was late, the soft glow of your phone illuminated your darkened bedroom. A new message popped up, not from Gojo, but from Geto.

Geto: Hey, are you still working in the city?

You blinked at the screen. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you and Geto had texted one-on-one. Maybe a few years ago for a party? Maybe never? And yet, here he was, reaching out.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart beating just a little faster than it should. 

You: …Yeah. Why?

Geto: If I remember correctly…I just started working in your area.

Your brows furrowed as you reread his message. Geto? Working in the city? That was unexpected. 

You had always assumed he’d followed a path similar to Gojo’s—something a little off the beaten track, something unconventional.

To be honest, if you thought about it, you didn’t really know where Geto went after you all graduated.

'He could have been in the city the whole time and you wouldn't have known.'

You: Oh, that's nice! It’s a pretty good area—what are you doing?

The three little dots appeared, then vanished. After a few moments, they appeared again.

Geto: Doing some accounting for a Nonprofit. Community outreach stuff. It’s pretty decent.

That sounded about right. You could picture it—Geto, with that steady, composed demeanor, seamlessly fitting into a role like that. He’d always had a way of making people feel heard, like whatever they were saying actually mattered. It made sense.

You: That does sound decent. Way more noble than my corporate grind, lol.

You expected that to be the end of it. A polite exchange, nothing more. But then—

*Geto Liked Your Message* Geto: You free this week? Would be nice to catch up. :)

The casual phrasing didn’t match the unfamiliar weight in your chest.

Your stomach twisted in something that wasn’t quite nerves, wasn’t quite excitement either. You stared at the screen, rereading the words, trying to remember a time Geto had ever asked to see you alone.

He hadn’t. Not once.

It wasn’t like you had anything against Geto. Quite the opposite, actually. If you were being honest, you had always thought he was attractive. How could you not?

Even back in university, when you spent most of your time sparring with Gojo over nonsense, you had still noticed Geto. 

He was the kind of person who didn’t need to be loud to command attention. 

While Gojo filled a room with sheer force of personality, Geto had an effortless gravity to him—sharp eyes that always seemed like they knew something you didn’t, an easy smirk that hinted at amusement even when he barely spoke.

And he was—annoyingly—good at everything. Studying? He aced it. Debating? He never raised his voice, but somehow, he always won. 

He was the only one who could rein Gojo in with just a single look, a quiet “Satoru” spoken in that low, measured tone of his.

You had noticed all of it.

But noticing him wasn’t the same as knowing him.

And when it came down to it, Geto had never really been your friend—and you don’t mean that in a rude way.

He had been Gojo’s best friend. A presence you had gotten used to that was conditional to Gojo’s presence, but not one you had ever gotten close to.

So why now?

You: Yeah, I think I could be..

You paused before sending the next message.

You: Should I invite Gojo?

There were a few minutes of hesitation before his reply came through.

Geto: He isn’t in the city, might as well not force him to commute.

You stared at his response, reading between the lines.

He wasn’t saying no outright. But it also wasn’t a yes. And for some reason, that felt significant.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, a dozen different responses flitting through your mind. You could leave it there, let the conversation fizzle out naturally. It wasn’t like you and Geto had ever been close—this was already unusual enough.

But instead, you found yourself typing back faster than you expected

You: Fair point. Where are you thinking?

His reply came quicker this time.

Geto: I know a place. I’ll send you the details later this week.

Simple. Straightforward. Like this was just a casual meetup between old acquaintances. Like it wasn’t strange that, after all this time, he was reaching out to you specifically.

You exhaled, setting your phone down on the nightstand and staring up at the ceiling. The city buzzed softly outside your window, the distant hum of traffic filling the silence.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe it was just a coincidence.

But as you turned off your phone and settled into bed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, for the first time, Geto was stepping out of Gojo’s shadow.

And he was looking directly at you.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

The soft light of early morning filtered through the blinds, the city streets already bustling with their usual noise. 

The sound of your alarm dragging you from sleep felt abrupt, too sudden, as though your body wasn’t quite ready to let go of the peaceful weight of the night.

You groaned, stretching and blinking into the darkness of your bedroom. Another day of emails, meetings, and the familiar grind of corporate life—the rat race, if you will. 

The message Geto had sent you last night flashed in your mind.."You free this week? Would be nice to catch up. :)" 

You could almost hear his calm, measured tone in your head. The quiet rhythm of his speech that always made you feel like whatever he was saying was worth listening to.

You stared at the screen for a long moment before closing the app and tossing the phone back down. 

It wasn’t like you were doing anything special today. You had a million things to think about—your morning routine, that proposal you needed to finish, the quarterly meeting you’d been dreading for weeks. 

Yet, for some reason, his message had settled into your mind like a loose thread that wouldn’t stop unraveling.

You dragged yourself out of bed, pulling your work clothes from the closet with the same practiced motions you had done a thousand times before. But today, as you stood in front of the mirror, brushing your hair and debating whether or not to wear something a little more polished than usual, you caught yourself.

You hadn’t done this in ages. You hadn’t even thought about what you’d wear in advance, or how you’d look.

‘Get a grip,’ you thought to yourself. ‘It’s not like he works in your building—or that I even care what he thinks…’ 

Geto hadn’t reached out in a year and a half, and yet now, here he was, pulling you from your routine with nothing more than a few words on a screen.

You exhaled and ran a hand through your hair, pushing any butterflies back down into your stomach, because as all the finance bros say..the grind never stops. 

As you gathered your things for the day—grabbing your coffee, slipping on your coat—you found yourself checking your phone again, more out of habit than anything else.

No new messages.

You shook your head as you pulled open your apartment door, stepping into the cold, gray morning. The bustling sounds of the city greeted you, but your mind kept drifting back to Geto. 

The way he’d worded his invitation. The odd shift in his tone.

You told yourself you’d just focus on work today, push this all to the back of your mind. But it didn’t quite feel like you could. 

You walked to the subway, lost in thought, wondering if maybe you were reading too much into it. 

You had always assumed that, between the two of them, you and Geto would always just… be friends of Gojo. An afterthought.

‘I’m sure he just wants to catch up, it has been a while…and I guess we did spend a lot of time studying together’

But as the subway doors slid shut and you pressed your earphones in, blocking out the noise around you, one thought lingered in your mind like an unanswered question.

Why now?

a/n: hi all, this is a new series I am thinking of continuing...please let me know if you liked it!! I'd love to ehar your thoughts <3 ty for reading

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you write How would jacaerys, aemond, benjicot, and cregan court the reader? Thank youuu

Benjicot Blackwood was a kind man, a sweetheart to you, a lite awkward but he made it endearing and sweet.

Benjicot knew that there was only so much that his house could offer you in comparison to other houses, but he made sure that you were never alone as he was always by your side; providing you with his company all the while making you well versed with Raventree Hall and all it encompassed.

He treated you better then most men of the realm by treating you with respect and dignity which meant a lot more to you then meaningless expensive gifts of jewellery, as you knew that with Ben you’d be treated as a living breathing human, rather then be considered a possession out of duty.

Benjicot practically worshiped you and the ground you walked on. He was loyal to you and only you and he made that evident with how often he spoke about you in high regard as he stands by your side strong and firm like an oak tree. Benjicot would gladly go down fighting for you for your courting meant that much to him as he just wants to prove to you that he would forever be the better choice in suitor.

Which he is, he definitely is. He’s the perfect man and would treat you like you were the one sat upon the iron throne.

He’s probably the one to ask your father to court you before anyone else could get you before him, he’s determined to have you as his spouse but does it in the most sweetest and respectful way possible that would end up making you melt.

Benjicot didn’t need to be the richest man in Westeros to win you over because his words and his actions spoke louder than meaningless transactions of coin. He would defend you to his last breath while holding you in his arms as he kisses you.

Benjicot was like a warm fireplace as you burrowed your head into his neck, never having felt safer then you did in his arms as he whispered sweet honeyed words of how he’d protect and watch over you as you sleep.

The man would raise hell if you’d come to harm but that’s something you were made well aware of and had you finding safety in his arms faster then most.

Aemond Targaryen could be a possessive man when it came to courting you, such as blessing you with his gifts of jewellery that bore the same blue sapphire that was embedded into his face, a stark reminder to all who had your heart.

He trusts you, which was rarity on its own, but he didn’t trust everyone else. and so if he found out that someone was encroaching on what was his? Aemond would be quick to make an example of them during his training sessions, making sure that there would be enough eyes to witness the persons humiliation -yours included- as he effortlessly knocked them down within minutes.

Aemond expressed his interest in very unique ways and would bolster the fact that he rides the largest dragon in Westeros. -Reader and cannibal from my other series would scoff at this- along with how much safer you were with him, and he would tell you how he’d gladly set towns aflame if anything were to happen with you with a deadpan face.

He keeps a close eye on you that it’s borderline suffocating but at least you’ll have someone who’ll immediately know what you were feeling through sheer observation, where he’d take you aside and show a softer side to you as he asks you how he could help you feel better.

Aemond could be soft if he wanted but I think the biggest sign that he was certain he wanted to be with you and that’s by showing you his sapphire eye. He’s very much still insecure about it despite it being so long and so many things had happened since then but old scars tend to hurt in moments of nostalgia, and so when he showed you his sapphire eye, it means he takes your courtship seriously and hopes that you think the same.

Jacaerys Velaryon is the epitome of a gentleman.

His mother raised him well as he treated you as though you were the most precious person in his life, which you very much were.

He’d gladly wake up at weird times of night if you were ever in need of anything and he could do something about it, such as sneaking towards the kitchen on Dragonstone for lemon cakes or something to drink.

Anything your heart wanted, Jace would get it for you tenfold, no matter how far he’d have to go to get it. If it was for you then Jace would gladly fly to the far reaches of Westeros to get it.

Flights on Vermax were a common thing between you and Jace so much that Vermax was well acquainted with you and grew to love you, much to Jace’s relief. He loved it whether you held onto him as tightly as possible, even after he reassured you that no harm could come to you on Vermax, but he couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling of you pressed up close against his back.

He’s quick to take up arms if anyone were to ever speak a threat towards you. No hesitation, he will fight on your behalf because he wouldn’t dare let anyone get away with saying such foul words against you.

‘Their words should mean little to you,’ he’d tell you as he holds your face in his hands, making sure that you were looking him directly in the eyes. ‘ for you are far more then what they say and I will not have you echo their words either, an insult on you might as well be an insult to me too.’ He then presses a kiss to your forehead. ‘I will not allow others to tear you down as you deserved to be lifted up.’

Jace is a man of his word and he’s never go back on it ever. He was loyal and honourable man who’d eyes never left yours as he awakes in the morning, ready to think of new ways to spoil you absolutely rotten.

Cregan Stark is another man who’d treat you far better than most in the realm.

He would most likely get you a Direwolf pup when he came across one mourning its dead mother, finding the star shape mark on its forehead interesting, before gently scooping it up and taking it home with him to bring to you.

You named the Direwolf Astarion.

Cregan would make sure you’d have the best equality furs possible to keep out the cold weather of Winterfell whether for your shared chamber or to wear outside the castle. He knew that the cold wasn’t for everybody and would much rather you be comfortable during your stay at what would possibly be your future home should your courting go well.

Cregan would probably gift you flowers that had adapted to surviving in the cold winter whenever he was out hunting.

‘For the most beautiful soul in the realm.’ He’d say as he handed them over to you, smiling as you took them in with a smile of your own. He’s truly a sap with you and you wouldn’t want it any other way as having a man as notoriously stoic and duty driven, but yet be so soft and carful of you was enough to get you weak on the knees.

He’s devoted to you and you alone and it showed in the softer moments you shared where he looked at you as though you were the muse for the most beautiful artwork in Westeros today. He could be quite clingy also but you weren’t complaining when you had a man as pretty as him keeping you against his chest, reminding you that his heart beats for you as he lists off many reasons he desires you.

[nie13chen]

Player 132

This is the first part of the fiction I started to write. I'm trying to write a little slow burn, as far as it's possible since the events take place during the game in season 2 and it only lasted three days so far, so let's see where it goes.

I'm not a native speaker, I hope it doesn't sound super weird. Hope you enjoy it.

PS: I know, Player 132 is some random guy in season 2, but I just ignored that fact.

Chapter 1 - Player 132 (below)

Chapter 2 - Games and Nightmares

Chapter 3 - Whispers of the Past

Pairing: In-ho x f! y/n (3rd person)

Summary: In-ho first notices you during the vote after the first game. After he spoke to Gi-hun during the first night, he decides to approach you.

Words: 1,569

Content Warnings: attempted suicide, drug abuse

Chapter 1 - Player 132

In-ho entered the room through a side entrance. The lighting was dim. It felt strange to move without a mask. All the players were preoccupied with the voting, so no one noticed the newcomer. Some stared blankly into the void, while others whispered excitedly to each other, but no one paid him any attention. In-ho's eyes landed on his green suit with the number 001 and then shifted to the voting board in front. He was one of them again. He would play again. A faint smile crossed his lips. This time, it was different.

The voting had started in reverse order on his instruction, giving him enough time to blend unnoticed among the other players. In-ho observed the white numbers on the green suits. For a brief moment, his gaze lingered on the number 456. Bringing Gi-hun back had been a risk. However, he was the first known winner in the history of the games to return. That would undoubtedly increase the game's appeal…

Player 004 made their way to their seat. A tie.

When In-ho was called to vote, he moved slowly and almost silently at first, then quickened his pace. The other players stared at him. His fluid movements were reminiscent of a predator deliberately approaching its prey. Since he had kept himself hidden behind the other players, he now had to cross almost the entire room. The other players began cheering for him, trying to pull him to their side. Halfway across the room, he suddenly felt like he was being watched. One of the gazes in the crowd felt different. He tried to look around without slowing down or turning his head. His gaze met that of a young woman.

Player 132.

For a fraction of a second, he froze, just long enough not to arouse suspicion.

Player 132.

For years, it had been his job to observe the players, to know their backgrounds, and to collect data on them. It had become something of a ritual for him to pay special attention to this number—perhaps out of nostalgia, perhaps out of connection; he couldn’t quite tell. He tried to recall what he knew about her, but for some reason, his mind failed him.

Player 132.

His jaw tightened. For a brief moment, his breath caught. He felt as though he were moving in slow motion. A stabbing sensation in his chest made him uncertain whether something was breaking free within him or whether something was embedding itself deeper, something he thought he had long since forgotten. In-ho’s dark gaze met a pair of eyes carrying the same pain shared by anyone who agreed to the terms of the games, but also a melancholy and restlessness that stirred something deep inside him—a part of himself he had buried long ago. It took effort to refocus on his goal and continue toward the voting podium.

When he finally reached the console, he hesitated. Not now, not here. These words swirled through his mind, attempting to silence whatever had just occurred. It couldn't happen. He had meticulously planned everything, removed every obstacle, accounted for every scenario—except this. If he allowed the cold fog creeping into his mind to take hold, it could mean his downfall. Perhaps it was already too late.

He knew all eyes were on him, and he didn’t have much time to make a decision. He thought briefly, then pressed the green button.

-

In-ho tried to sneak back to his bed as quietly as possible after speaking with Gi-hun. He glanced around to ensure he was unobserved and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

The weight of unanswered questions pressed coldly and heavily on his chest, just as the shared fate between him and Gi-hun did. They both had won, yet their victory had come too late. The memory of failing to save what they had risked their lives for connected them and, at the same time, led them down paths that could not have been more different.

Suddenly, he heard a faint humming. It was a melody he had never heard before. He wasn’t sure whether it was the memory of his family, which he had just shared with Gi-hun, or the gentle sound of the voice, but the song deeply moved him. A shiver ran through his upper body, leaving behind a painful burning sensation, yet it oddly soothed him. He drew a sharp breath and looked around. Across the room, a woman sat on her bed, her legs pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

Player 132.

In-ho didn’t know why he followed the melody, but for some reason, he couldn’t turn away. He slowly descended a staircase between two bunk beds and then sat on one of the steps next to Number 132. When she noticed him, she fell silent.

“Please, don’t stop…”

The woman looked at him questioningly, but his smile convinced her to comply. It didn’t quite match the rest of his expression, but she sensed it was genuine. There was something questioning and quietly desperate in his eyes. 132 closed her eyes and began the song again. For a while, they simply sat next to each other, letting the melody transport them to a world beyond this island—away from the games, away from fear and death. When the song ended, they sat in silence for a moment.

“I saw you during the vote. Why did you decide to stay?” she finally asked.

In-ho didn’t answer immediately.

“And you?” he countered, gesturing to the green circle on her jacket.

He caught a brief glimpse of the long scar on her neck, but she seemed to notice, as she pulled her jacket’s zipper higher. Then she let her arms drop so that her hands now rested gently and soft on the mattress.

“You’re trembling,” he noted.

He resisted the sudden urge to place his hand over hers. After a few moments, she quietly began to speak into the silence.

“It’s a rare neurological condition. I was a pianist. Music was my life, but because of the disease, I couldn’t take on any work anymore.”

She lifted her trembling hand as if to demonstrate.

“The pain comes in waves. Normal medications don’t help, and the doses doctors prescribe me are a joke. So, at some point, I started obtaining sedatives on my own.”

She paused for a moment. Now In-ho remembered. He had read in her file about her spiraling debt due to drug abuse, about the measures she had taken to get money, and how he had judged her for it. He swallowed.

“Over time, I needed more and more of the stuff to get through the attacks, until I finally decided to quit. The drugs are gone now, but the pain remains. And so do the debts.”

She smiled at him through the silence.

“May I ask your name?” she asked quietly, averting her gaze as if uncertain whether the question crossed a line, since she was clearly younger than him.

“My name is In-ho—” he hesitated, then continued, “But the others here know me as Young-il. I… I’d appreciate it if not everyone here knew my real name, if you understand…”

She nodded.

“I’m Y/N.”

Why had he told her his real name? He knew it wasn’t an accident. He wasn’t supposed to trust anyone—trust made him vulnerable. And yet, for some reason, he didn’t regret his decision, even though he knew how dangerous it was.

“It was nice meeting you, Y/N. You should get some rest,” he said abruptly, standing up.

He was about to leave when she lightly touched his arm to stop him. Her touch took his breath away for a moment, spreading warmth and softness over his entire body. He didn’t dare move, hoping to prolong the moment.

“In-ho,” she said, so quietly only he could hear it. He turned back to her.

He swallowed. Only now did he realize how long it had been since he had heard his name spoken aloud. Here, he was Young-il or The Frontman—never In-ho. The last person to call him that had been his brother, just before falling off the cliff. Hearing her voice say his name unsettled him yet comforted him at the same time. He looked at her. Now it was he who trembled.

“Are… are you all right?”

There was something about her that drew him in, and that scared him. It was pointless to deny it. Perhaps it was her sharp intuition, her gentle voice, or the quiet despair in her gaze that seemed to seek refuge in him. For a while, he remained silent. He had already lost everything once on this island and wasn’t ready to take that risk again. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from her presence. In-ho tilted his head slightly to the side, trying to appear as unaffected as possible.

“Why do you ask?”

Y/N looked down at her knees, as if hesitating to answer. Then, slowly and seriously, she continued:

“Your eyes. They look like you’ve been through a lot. More than most of the people here.”

In-ho looked at her for a long moment. He knew she already knew the answer. Finally, he smiled, turned, and walked back to his bed without another word.

Player 132 watched him leave for a long time.

-> Chapter 2 - Games and Nightmares

[ltash]

"Wicked" Pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

Palm Jumeirah, Dubai - Midnight.

The lights inside the mansion flickered, once-just a glitch, a flutter of voltage-but Rose's pulse skipped all the same. It always did now. The walls felt too close. The air, too quiet. No house this beautiful should feel like a cage, but hers did. Behind its manicured gardens and imported marble, the mansion wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison.

Massimo had made sure of that.

She hadn't been allowed to leave in weeks. Her phone was replaced. Her laptop filtered. The staff now wore polite smiles that never met their eyes. Rose had grown used to surveillance: the cameras hidden in chandeliers, the microphones embedded in vent grilles, the locks that clicked shut when they weren't supposed to.

But she still had one ghost left in the machine.

She padded barefoot into the darkened study, the only room she was never searched in. Inside the antique desk drawer was a tiny circuit board connected to a hidden port-one she'd built herself back when she still had freedom. It looked like a piece of the HVAC system, but under the hood was a different story.

She was about to use her only remaining ally: an old AI security system she had personally installed before her staff were replaced. It's disguised under the house's climate control and lighting apps-Massimo's men never even noticed it.

Late at night, she writes a command.

A hidden SOS, encrypted and buried under code.

She can't name herself, can't give details.

Just:

Her fingers trembled as she typed into the dim screen.

>High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction.

She uploads it to an old abandoned GitHub repo registered under a pseudonym she once shared with a boy who used to sit at the back of her chemistry class.

Simon Riley.

The message was anonymous. There was no name, no coordinates. Just metadata buried in lines of an old GitHub repository registered under a long-forgotten pseudonym.

A joke. A nickname from school. One she had once shared with a boy who never smiled.

She didn't even know if he was still alive.

She hit send.

And hoped the wind still remembered her name.

Location: Undisclosed SAS Safehouse, Northern England

Simon was SAS now. Special Forces.

Callsign: Ghost.

The alert came through on a cold Thursday night.

He monitors that GitHub repo out of habit. It's nothing but sentiment, a scar he keeps reopening.

He hasn't checked it in years.

Until he does.

Simon Riley sat in the quiet glow of his monitor, the rain painting war patterns against the window behind him. He barely touched the internet. Except for this.

He hadn't checked the repo in years. It was a dead habit, something he did every few months. Nostalgia with no reward.

Until he saw it.

> Last push: 2 hours ago.

Encrypted within the code wasn't just a distress call.

It was her.

Rose.

He didn't breathe for nearly a full minute.

Ghost stood slowly, fingers curling into fists as a cold burn lit up in his chest. He hadn't heard her name since he'd buried it. Since the night he left without a goodbye.

His blood runs cold.

Encrypted in the code is a name he hasn't heard in half a decade:

"Rose."

He goes to his superiors.

The request is unofficial. Shadow ops.

But the words hostile containment and high-value civilian raise flags.

It gets buried under a private bodyguard detail ordered by a powerful British defense ally with silent interest in Massimo's dealings.

No name. No address. Just Palm Jumeirah, high-value civilian, hostile containment.

Enough for an unofficial op.

And the name that gets assigned?

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

His name was the first one on the assignment.

48 Hours Later a black SUV rolled past the iron gates like it belonged there.

Rose stood in her hallway, arms wrapped around herself, watching from behind the curtains.

One man stepped out. Alone.

Massimo's guards stood straighter.

Tall. Broad. Black tactical gear that looked too sharp for Dubai's heat. A skull mask covering his face, balaclava beneath it. His eyes were cold, unreadable. Like winter.

He didn't speak as he passed the guards. Just handed a sealed letter.

Authorization for close protection detail.

One of Massimo's men, it said.

Rose didn't buy it. But she didn't argue.

She stood at the top of the stairs as he entered, heart hammering.

He looked up at her.

And she, she froze.

There was something about him.

Something terrifying and familiar.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stopped just a few steps from her, the skull mask gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

"Ghost," he said. Just that.

The name tasted like ash.

Her voice trembled. "You're one of Massimo's men?"

"Something like that," he answered. Low. Controlled. British accent like frostbite.

She swallowed. The fear in her blood was real. She'd seen hitmen. Thugs. Brutes.

But this one was different.

An Alpha among the wolves.

Massive, silent, lethal.

The black cargo pants hugged his powerful thighs like a sculptor's sketch in motion. Every inch of him said: do not cross.

She stepped back as he approached. He didn't follow.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," Ghost said quietly, almost too softly for a man like him.

But she was.

Terrified.

Because deep inside her, something screamed that she knew him.

And that scared her more than anything else.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of luxury, but the silence of surveillance, the kind of silence that watches you breathe.

Ghost stood by the edge of the marble balcony, framed by the dim amber of Dubai’s dying sun. The call had come. The assignment given. No backup, no fanfare, just a flight, a briefing, a skull mask, and a destination: Palm Jumeirah.

He hadn’t expected it to be real. The message hidden in the GitHub code had been too poetic to believe. Too her.

But it was real.

Rose was here.

And she was in trouble.

48 Hours Earlier, She had stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours.

> "High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction."

No names. No cry for help. No traceable language.

Just enough to mean something, to the right person.

Rose encrypted the text in base-64, nested it into an update in an abandoned GitHub repository linked to a fake climate control API, something she and Simon had once joked about building back in school. Back when he was still just Simon. Before he disappeared like mist.

She hit commit.

And prayed.

Now...

The skull mask stepped through the threshold like a shadow that had grown legs. Black tactical gear. Gloves. Thick black cargo pants that stretched over thighs built like war machines. Combat boots that echoed like the ticking of an ending.

The guards nodded, not questioning his clearance. Massimo trusted him now. The cover had been placed well.

She was in the living room. Pale as bone, curled up in a silk robe on the ivory settee.

She looked up, and froze.

The skull.

The mask.

The height.

The weight of him was a presence.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice small, breaking.

He stood still.

"Name's Ghost," he said finally, voice deep and northern, cracked like winter pavement. "Massimo brought me in for security. I’m here to watch you."

Her brows creased, fear threading through the delicate angles of her face. “I don’t need another one of his men watching me.”

He tilted his head, slowly.

“No offense, but I’m not one of his men.”

Her throat worked. She stood, slowly. The robe fell just enough to show a bruise. Faint. But there.

His jaw ticked under the mask.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said. “That means you’re not stupid.”

A beat passed. The chandelier hummed above them.

She turned away, but not before he saw the tremble in her hands.

He had to earn her trust. Carefully. Quietly. Not with the truth, because the truth was dangerous. To both of them.

Not yet.

So he watched. And waited. And followed. Like a loyal shadow.

Simon Riley was gone.

There was only Ghost now.

And she didn’t know him.

Not yet.

But soon, she would.

The sun bled orange into the Gulf, casting golden ripples across the water as the massive white yacht sliced through the marina like a predator in silk. Palm Jumeirah, glittering like a crown in the ocean, had seen its fair share of luxury, but even here, the arrival of Don Massimo Toricelli turned heads.

Ghost watched from the top floor of the mansion through a sliver in the blackout curtain. He recognized the yacht, custom-built, three decks, helipad, and a private lounge with imported marble flooring. He’d studied it in the brief.

His yacht, a gleaming, multi-million dollar Leviathan, rocked gently in the turquoise water, tethered just off the private dock of her Palm Jumeirah estate. It gleamed like his ego, always visible, always looming.

Massimo was coming.

And that meant trouble.

The Italian stepped off the yacht with the confidence of a man who owned the world and everything in it. Black suit sharp enough to cut, sunglasses shielding eyes that never missed a detail.

The black Maserati had barely stopped outside the mansion before Massimo Toricelli stepped out, flanked by his two most loyal bodyguards. He wore his usual armour of a designer three-piece suit, sunglasses despite the low golden sun, and that chilling smirk that made Rose’s stomach turn. The man smelled of cologne and control.

He carried a box in his hand. Velvet black. The kind of box that didn’t contain anything simple.

Rose was summoned to the lobby. Always summoned, never invited.

Inside the mansion, Rose was being prepped. She didn’t want to go downstairs, Ghost could see it in her face. Her robe was replaced by a floor-length designer dress, her makeup immaculate. A doll on display.

She descended the marble staircase slowly, her every step echoing in the grand, hollow luxury of the mansion she couldn't escape. The lobby was vast, double height ceilings, Italian chandeliers, crystal vases she didn’t pick, all curated to reflect a life she no longer had control over.

He stood in the corner of the marble lobby, arms crossed, skull mask reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Every nerve in his body burned.

Then the door opened.

Massimo entered like a storm in human skin.

Massimo sat in one of the velvet armchairs like he owned the place. Because he did. Or at least, he owned the cage around her.

"Bellissima," he purred, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Dubai suits you.”

Rose managed a smile, tight, hollow. “Massimo.”

Ghost stood in the corner, near the mirrored console table. He was motionless, silent, a black sentinel in full tactical gear. Skull mask on. Hands behind his back. The perfect blend of menace and restraint.

Massimo glanced at him once, indifferent. "You can leave us."

Ghost didn’t move.

Rose lifted her chin. "He stays."

Massimo gave a faint chuckle and gestured dismissively. "As you wish, tesoro."

He reached into a bag one of his men handed him and pulled out a velvet box.

"Cartier," he said simply, like it was an apology. "For your good behavior."

She took it with stiff fingers, murmured a thank you that made her mouth taste like ash. The necklace inside was encrusted with diamonds. Cold. Lifeless. Like a chain pretending to be a gift.

Ghost’s hands curled into fists in the shadow of his sleeves.

Massimo’s eyes flicked toward him.

“And you must be the new shadow. What do they call you? Phantom? Skull?”

Ghost didn’t move.

“Ghost.”

Massimo chuckled. “Fitting. Let’s hope you’re as loyal as the last one.”

Rose shifted, her discomfort palpable. Ghost could feel it in her silence.

Massimo turned his attention back to her. “I’ve missed you. We’ll have dinner this weekend. I’ll have the chef flown in from Florence. You’ll wear the necklace.”

He leaned in closer, voice a whisper of threat and lust. “Say yes.”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Massimo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look tired. Are they feeding you well? Are you sleeping?"

Rose said nothing.

He smiled wider. "Still so stubborn. That’s what I like about you. We’ll talk again soon."

Massimo straightened, pleased with himself.

“Until then, cara mia.”

And then he stood. Kissed the air beside her cheek.

Left as quickly as he arrived.

He left the box in her hands and turned, his coat swaying as he walked out. The doors shut behind him.

Only then did Rose exhale.

Ghost stayed still. Watching. Planning. Rage crawling up his spine like wildfire.

He couldn’t move. Not yet.

He hadn’t called Task Force 141.

Because this wasn’t the moment.

But it was coming.

And when it did, Massimo wouldn’t walk away.

The moment the double doors shut and his footsteps faded, she turned and ascended the stairs quickly, almost running.

Ghost followed, his boots quiet behind her.

She reached her bedroom, the velvet box still clutched in her hand like it had burned her.

Once inside, she hurled it across the room. The lid snapped open. The necklace hit the floor with a sharp, cold clatter, scattering light across the marble.

She sat down beside it. On the floor. In her silk gown. Head bowed, fists clenched, tears pooling in her eyes like they had nowhere else to go.

Ghost stood by the door. Watching. Silent.

She didn’t notice when he stepped closer.

Until he knelt down beside her.

"You don't have to do what he says," he said softly.

She looked up, startled.

He reached forward, hesitantly, almost reverently, and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with a gloved thumb.

Her breath hitched.

And then...

He extended his hand.

Palm up.

The same way she had, years ago, trembling in a glittering gymnasium, her heart in her throat as she offered her hand to a boy who never took it.

"You don't have to deal with this alone," he said gently.

Her eyes widened.

She stared at the hand. At the shape of it. The calloused palm. The curve of his fingers. So familiar.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Simon...?"

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just nodded.

The silence cracked around them like thunder.

Her lips parted, her chest rising with a thousand emotions she couldn’t name.

He slowly removed the mask.

And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Older. Harder. Scarred. But still him.

His eyes locked onto hers.

"I came back for you, Rose."

And this time, when she took his hand, he didn’t let go.

[akaikikuchi]

Sōsuke Aizen [A Moodboard of His True Soul] Every lie needs some truth embedded within it.

When Aizen awoke, the faint light of dawn touched his eyes, slipping timidly through the translucent shoji paper. In that first second of wakefulness — when he knew no other soul was stirring, no sound existed but the hush of his own breath — his heart flooded with solitude. Dressed in a traditional ochre samue, his wavy brown hair fell across his brow, and his head rested upon his arm.

His dark, yellow-tinged eyes traced the details of the tatami, upon which his futon lay. In his mind, images of that woman lying naked beside him returned in flashes, each one tightening his chest with nostalgia and regret. Now, only the future kept him company, and he knew his path would be lined with sacrifice.

But… what if he could claim her one last time? What if those cherry-colored lips could, once more, be his? Aizen, lying there, was now only Sōsuke. And this secret, repressed version of his soul remembered, vividly, the feeling of his hands wrapped around the smooth, fragrant neck of that woman. If he could have her again, bare himself to her… Would she, then, follow him?

Now, the Soul Society was awake. And Sōsuke had become the Captain once more. Seeing that woman walking through the corridors of his squad, he returned to his senses: he could never damn her in such a way.

[yuyinesque]

WINDBLUME BARD | “𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀…”

⚘ précis. = you’ve noticed changes in your lover’s temperament the closer the two of you have grown. they’re not negative changes, per se, but you’re having trouble comprehending how exactly a guileless face could inure such terrors.

⚘ disclaimers. = blind!gn reader x venti/barbatos, poetic writing (he’s a bard, hadda switch up my groove), the baby gust of air goes by they/them, major character death mention (the nameless bard), not proofread.

⚘ category. = sfw fluff/angst headcanons/drabble.

⚘ wc. = 708.

𖦥 m.list. oc.list.

𖤥 Venti is the ballet dancer to your boxer. While all bards possess the ethereality to poetically enact stories that pertain to universal crises, this surrealist in question is the one that stuck out to you the most. You like to imagine that when you're in their vicinity, listening to them charm the ecstatic crowds with their intangible anecdotes, ivory cecilias scampered to flourish each time the mysterious individual would ramble, their trusted diaphanous lyre rejoiced in their memorable tunes to influence the tear-inducing plots, and their guileless giggles mistaking songbirds for melodic flirts from their mates. You naturally developed the obsessive need to protect them, casually and uncharacteristically threaten the ones who would dare disrupt his silly stories, earning a mischievous titter from Venti. Especially since they've been assisting you and your cecity ever since you've moved to Monstadt.

𖤥 You didn't need it, but you didn't say anything, for you believed that they'd leave you alone since there was no reason for them to linger around you anymore. Meanwhile, you're their anticipated fan, adoring the fact that you're the first one there when they're going to sing another song. The nostalgia was overwhelming for the both of you; they could never forget how concerned you were when they received minor backlash that didn't move them in the slightest. It left quite the reputation. How fast you almost ditched your walking stick to follow the voice of their awkward replies to the said outsiders who dared treat them in such a way; it was truly an adorable sight to keep embedded within their memory for eons.

"Well, aren't you as sweet as an ambrosia apple? Ehehe, thank you! Buuut, if you really wanna ensure my peace, I accept libations in decanters, if you know what I mean~... Huh!? What do you mean I "seem" too young to drink!? I'm as old as the Anemo Archen themself!"

𖤥 Meanwhile, Barbatos is the boxer to your baller dancer. As the two of you've grown closer, you've learned a thing or two about the bard who derived from an Archon. Or perhaps is an Archon; your expression was utterly priceless when they confided in you! They would seem to carry more of an aura of an Archon the more you ponder about it; was it because they seemed rather... serene with you now? Previously, they were the personification of bustling billows of suffocating winds, but now the winds practiced tranquility, converting into whispering zephyrs who implored to tell you all the truths needed to understand their character. Their implores were merely in vain, resulting in the bard to continuously quaff down bounties of alcohol to subdue the helpless sentiments they wish not to sing about. To think that he was a retired boxer all this time, subtly swaying you away from the evil of Teyvat to avoid another important loss. The idea of losing you was overwhelming; the thought of being incapable of burying themself in those achromic eyes of yours as they serenaded you under the moonlight was heartbreaking.

𖤥 You could tell that something was bothering them that specific day with the way the tunes were drearier than usual, slower than before, and even some notes were uncharacteristically misplayed.

𖤥 These were one of the rare times they adored the fact that you couldn't see, but loathed the fact that they could. The more they doted at your concerned expression, the more their face suffused with crimson, the more their under eyes surged, reddened, and swelled with disruptive tears, and the more their throat seethed with fears they failed to subdue. Although it's been a while since they last cried to someone, they refused to ruin such an amazing time with you. Because of such, they wiped out their doe, viridian eyes with a feigned giggle, scooting closer to you in order to cuff your hand, which only proceeded to worry you even more.

"Very intuitive. Hehe, as expected from my flawless lover. There's something that's been pestering me a bit, but don't you go worrying about it. Even Archons need to feel something every once in a while. Come on, come on! Let's indulge more in each other, I promise that your presence will wash every dread I have stored in my heart."

yuyinesque | translate with permission & peruse without theft.

[twochildreninamoteldemo]

what’s on your personal list of “must reads” for wincest? i have a feeling you’ve got good taste

- @spn2006

i wouldn't necessarily say i have a must-read list as in everyone has to read something, because everybody has different taste, especially when it comes to sam and dean's dynamics (both sexual and otherwise), but the fics that i would heartily recommend that fall into my reading of supernatural (or adjacent to it) go as such, keeping in mind that I am a samgirl, pretty much only care about early seasons, and enjoyer of the family horror of the show:

The Ballad of the Invisible Boy + Two Headed Boy by @dollyluxed

If i had to pick any fic as a must-read for a samgirl cestie, this would be the one. the yearning and desperation speak deeply to the isolation of samdean's youth, especially how sam feels it, and dollylux isn't afraid to get inside the beast of teen angst, which makes it feel really lush and visceral. the 90s nostalgia is excellent (disclaimer: i was born after the 90s, but it made me feel like i was there without being corny), and the way the story is told through several vignettes feels a lot like the show itself. these kind of snapshot short films of how samdean's codependency develops through this unspoken tension over the years. the stanford era portion has a scene i think about every time i listen to joni mitchell (check out the soundtrack for this duology too; it's excellent), and the season 1 section ties together the story in a way that fits well with the show. a slow burn, really beautiful story, and i love the illustrations. i would also recommend dollylux's shorter works for amazing smut:)

@applecrumbledore 's fanficography

The first of Roni's fics I read were "Dream fuckery" and "Drywall dust" (the latter the first of a 4-part preseries story), and the balance of angst, sexual tension, and humor blew me away. It keeps the tone of supernatural, which a lot of fics don't (which is fine), but this was super cool in that it felt extremely natural, and very fun to read. I haven't been updated in all my fanfic reading lately, but I loved the beginning of Pine Sweat, their time travel fic, and "try asking," their pov outsider fic, is fucking hilarious and exhilarating. they have lots of creative ideas from preseries to late seasons and it never gets old!

Gospel Truth by @cowboyified

A case fic with an accute sense of shame embedded within angst, a really great sense of description, and perfectly inspired by art by @thegoodthebadandtheart for the reverse bang a couple years ago. the aesthetic of both frauke's work and the fic itself feel real, both the openness of the great plains and the claustrophobia of incestuous pining. definitely a modern classic.

"Buy You a Mockingbird" by candle_beck

the dark pov outsider fic to crown all others. candle_beck is an amazing writer and i also recommend all their work, but this one in particular stands out because of the horror of the dramatic irony of the story--what the reader knows, but the pov character does not. it's incredible to see everything unfold, and a realistic if bleak interpretation of another classic trope (which i won't name for spoiler's sake).

"Other Brothers" by @homo-pink

another incredible pov outsider fic with this beautiful sense of empathy and also a hint of adrenaline thrill. sam's cheeky and sassy and smart, and dean's cute and so in love. pov outsider weecest has the potential to be disturbing or sweet, and while this teeters the line, i think it falls into the latter category in a way that doesn't feel too saccharine.

"Three Days on the Rack" by keerawa, read by Reena Jenkins

I'd highly recommend listening to this via podfic! reena is great and there's a lovely cello cover of fade to black by metallica that plays in the interlude. anyway, the fic is an orpheus and eurydice-adjacent story about sam trying to get dean out of hell--but it's a torture fic. i love the way it describes hell, i love the way we see dean in the depths of alistair's apprenticeship, i love sam's strength. another gorgeously dark gem.

"Skin Like Fear" [orphaned]

I can't speak much on this one because I don't remember it super well, but it's a take on samdean after sam's hell trauma, something not very touched on by the fandom, and the horror is super well done, it's a great fic. obviously dark, deals with rape aftermath, proceed accordingly.

"show me again, shame takes hold" by objectlesson

if you can't tell yet, i really love preseries fics. this one is a lesbian femchesters AU, butch dean i love u foreverrrrrr. as you can tell by the title, more angst, more shame, etc etc. i was catholic what can i say. there's a lot about the ambiguity of sexuality and gender in this fic too.

and that's it! some of my other favorites are "Tomcat," the Caged Desires series, "The Truth in His Bones," and Brothers, but those i wouldn't necessarily rec on a wide basis because the first one is specifically about transmasculinity, and the second 3 deal with dom!dean/sub!sam dynamics in a pretty sharp way that everyone may not sit with right. that being said they're wonderful and sexy (and the last two, rather sad). let me know what u thought of this list!

[twst-drabbles]

Mozus 1

Summary: Being in Noble Bell College brings out the nostalgia in Mozus. You want him to continue. You like hearing him talk about his wife.

(I was going to write about Rollo since it seemed appropriate, but Mozus took place in my brain instead.)

“And while she never witnessed the bell, she was always enchanted by its sound,” Mozus’s voice was soft in the way one cups a flower blooming in the soft frost of winter: delicately, yet still filled with the strength of love.

“Oh? Tell me more,” you couldn’t help but lean into his view with an exaggerated stretch of your spine, arms gripped behind your back. “Remember, you promised me more stories about her, Mozus.”

Mozus didn’t twitch nor lose any gram of composure. His back was still straight, but it seemed as though gravity added weight to his shoulders. “I remember well. Though I must ask, why are you so interested about such a subject?”

“Because you practically grow twenty years younger whenever you talk about your wife,” it wasn’t a radiant glow so much as it was a gentle light that bloomed from within Mozus’s heart, blanketing his shoulders in a shroud of dancing spring air, “it’s very sweet, seeing how much you love her so. Of course I want to hear you talk about your fond memories all day.”

It was a rare thing to witness from Mozus, so of course you want him to continue speaking of those years, so as long as it doesn’t hurt him. He may be an older gentlemen, and while you don’t have a clue as to what age he became a widower, to lose his wife before the age of sixty seemed far too young to lose a loved one. When you hear of stories of old couples dying, you imagine their backs curved, hands knobby and skin slack with laugh lines so deep in their faces their eyes practically vanish, and yet the twinkle in them is still there.

You don’t know the amount of years that have past after Mozus’s wife’s death, but it seems to have been enough for him to have come to terms with his grief, to speak of her memory, both good and bad.

Perhaps it was too casual an action, lightly tapping your elbow on his arm to goad him into talking more stories, but there’s something about Mozus that you just can’t help but want to be a bother him a bit. And you’re happy when you heard that tired gruff of a sigh come out of him, like you’re an insistent kid from the playground that wanted to listen to stories instead of being on the monkey bars.

“Be patient,” Mozus shook his head but it wasn’t a verbal ‘no,’ “I’ll make do on my promise, but right now we’re on Noble Bell College’s campus, and we’d do well to listen to the years of history embedded within the walls and minds of the students here.”

“Gotcha gotcha,” you straightened yourself out, disappointed but not surprised, “I’ll be sure to remind you if you do forget. You lost that game of cards after all.”

He won’t, you’re sure of it, but you may as well give him a warning in advance that you’re going to be a bother until you get those stories.

Perhaps it was dirty of you to do that, coaxing Mozus into an old card game that just so happened to be relevant to the era he was teaching to Ace, Deuce and Grim, but you had gotten the cards as a gift from one of your faerie buddies and you couldn't pass up the opportunity that was presented to you.

Oh well, what can Mozus do besides complete his promise? Besides, he didn't say no to your request. You bet he does want to talk about her as much as you want to hear about it. Otherwise, why would he indulge you?

See, this is why Mozus is probably your favorite out of all your co-workers, barring his strict conduct.

[langfield]

thinking about max’s ‘godly’ status by cause of her role within the world and the powers embedded deep inside of who she is … and how i described max as a god who’s willing to be brought down, willing to be considered basic and normal, and that this defines her relationship with vinh. because unlike safi she doesn’t view him as inherently ‘lesser’ than her : to max, vinh is interesting, and handsome in such a shallow-good way, and his problems may be small and he may lash out but they matter significantly to her, much more than his wrongs do or his past. and yet despite max being an otherworldly force happy to be a human ( or at least happy to pretend to be one ), vinh still regards her with a fierce reverence, still sees her as perfect and good and a metaphor for greater things -- ie the queen of swords. but despite his own worship he is allowed ( and thus, does ) defile her and engages with her in simple, stupid acts of drinking and sex and it’s different because max likes these things, wants them and him, and when has vinh ever had that? and when has max herself ever been loved so totally, without her powers changing a thing between her and a loved one? vinh’s devotion is because max will have him. will let him. it has nothing to do with rumored godliness or nostalgia or because he has to. idk i think that’s special <3

[gorimbaudandgojohnnygo]

This diner is the right kind of diner The kind where grizzled biker dudes sit and drink coffee and read the paper Where the coffee is thin and watery And the food is good and greasy And the waitresses call you hon And the music on the radio is terrible Cheesy, maudlin pop ballads that I hate

The diner is right but the time is wrong Where did the last 13 years go and what do I have to show for it Except some words I wrote and more lines around my mouth and eyes

I look out the window and I keep expecting to see a boy with a shock of dark hair and myself standing next to him propped against the warm hood of his car smoking a cigarette Prolonging the moments before I have to get in my car and head home

The diner is right but the man on the radio sings I've been looking for love in all the wrong places

And I find myself tearing up

—c. summer 2014

[maxdibert]

The girl can leave the Catholic school, but the Catholic school never leaves the girl.

It doesn’t matter that her parents were staunch agnostics, that at home they spoke of the Church as a stale remnant of power and corruption. It doesn’t matter that from a young age she argued with priests and teachers, that she questioned every dogma with the obstinacy of someone who refuses to be molded, that her notebooks filled with conduct reports for insolence and defiance. It doesn’t matter that in adolescence she embraced rebellion with fury, rejecting everything that institution represented, to the point of turning her opposition into an almost visceral principle.

Because, even though she thought that simply leaving would be enough, that with time her childhood among whitewashed walls and cassocks would become a distant echo, the school remained within her, adhered like a second skin, embedded in the depths of her memory.

She discovers it unexpectedly, in the most unlikely places. In the scent of incense drifting through a narrow street, transporting her back to morning masses on feast days. In the amber glow of a stained-glass window, in the solemnity of an organ resonating through the nave of any cathedral. In fiction that delves into the inner workings of the clergy, in frescoes where saints lift their eyes to the heavens with mystical devotion. Something in these details unsettles her, envelops her in a strange sensation of familiarity. It is not faith. It is not nostalgia. It is something else, deeper, more primal, like an imprint from childhood that time has failed to erase.

And in those moments, when memory overlaps with the present like the whisper of a prayer, she understands that some things cannot be chosen, that the imprint of formative years cannot be shed like an old garment. That, although her entire life has been an act of resistance, the echo of those days will continue to accompany her, subtle yet persistent, like a litany learned in childhood that, without realizing it, she still murmurs in the dark.

And after all, she had been told this long ago, though she never wanted to believe it:

The girl can leave the Catholic school, but the Catholic school never leaves the girl.

And it is true, it remains inside her, rooted deep into her very marrow.

[sophiebadu]

Not Everyone Can Be a Princess: Colonialism and Pop Culture.

Lati 10

13 June 2025

When the casting for the live-action The Little Mermaid was announced, extreme public backlash quickly followed. The actress portraying the titular role of Ariel, Halle Bailey, was the wrong casting choice for many fans who grew up with the character. Although Halle Bailey had the right skillset–professionally trained in both singing and acting, professional experience in both fields, and mentored by and signed to Beyoncé’s label–she does not fit one key criterion for disappointed fans: she is not White. Not only is Bailey not White, but she is a monoracial Black woman with undeniably Black features and flowing waves of dreadlocked hair. As the animated version of Ariel’s character had bright red hair, pale skin, and blue eyes, Bailey’s dark skin, brown eyes, and cultural hairstyle offended the masses. Fans of the original animation turned to social media to express their disdain for Bailey’s casting, claiming that Bailey cannot play Ariel due to her race, falsely claiming that the character’s whiteness is central to the movie’s plot and identity. But what is the significance of race when the titular role is half fish? 

This backlash is not only about nostalgia–it reveals how deeply embedded colonialism is in society, specifically through Eurocentric beauty standards. This blog post applies a concept from Latin American studies – Aníbal Quijano’s coloniality of power – to examine the racial backlash against Bailey’s casting. Quijano’s theory helps explain how colonialist ideals continue to influence many individuals’ perspectives on who is “allowed” to be viewed in a positive light. By connecting this theory to Bailey’s controversy, this blog shows how studying colonialism can help us trace the roots of modern-day racism in popular culture. 

Current example:

#NotMyAriel. Following the casting of singer-songwriter and actress Halle Bailey as Ariel, fans of the original Disney animation, now critics of the new Disney live-action, took to social media to loudly protest Bailey’s casting. The issue with Bailey was not talent, she exudes it and has the credentials to prove so–she is one half of the 2x Grammy nominated duo “Chloe x Halle”–it was that she was not white. Many posted and reposted the hashtag separating Bailey’s adaptation from the original animation. When the live-action rendition’s first trailer was released on YouTube in 2022, it received over 1.5 million dislikes, the hate eventually leading the like/dislike counter to be disabled. Within hours of the casting announcement, hashtags like #NotMyAriel trended on Twitter, allowing internet hate towards Bailey to spread out of control. Albeit a fictional character, many believed that she should be portrayed by a White actress in order for the live-action rendition to stay “faithful” to the original. 

Many critics of Bailey’s casting drew false equivalences, claiming that if a Black woman could be allowed to portray Ariel, a White woman should be allowed to portray another Disney princess, Tiana. This argument dismisses any cultural specificity and significance of Tiana’s character in The Princess and the Frog– a princess rooted in Black New Orleans culture–while pretending that fictional characters like mermaids are exclusive to whiteness.

This controversy reveals how princesses and other characters that represent beauty, strength, or heroism are still racially coded. Bailey’s crime was disrupting the idea of who is allowed to be magical, beautiful, and heroic. This raises the question: can anyone be a princess, or is that label reserved for those associated with whiteness, and what does this association with whiteness represent?

Course Reading:

A key concept of the course that helps further explain the live-action The Little Mermaid debate is Anibal Quijano’s theory of “coloniality of power”. Anibal Quijano was a Peruvian sociologist who developed the concept of the “coloniality of power”, which refers to the lengths and legacies of the structures of power that were cemented during colonialism. This concept infers that the impact that colonialism had on social structures survived into the modern day, specifically in social hierarchies and cultural norms, and is apparent in everyday society. As Quijano explains in his essay “Coloniality of Power and Eurocentrism in Latin America” (2000), “coloniality has been the most general form of domination in the world today, once colonialism as an explicit political order was destroyed” (Quijano 533). The concept argues that colonialism spread into societal standards and social orders, giving power to White individuals. 

This concept is especially relevant when examining the live-action The Little Mermaid backlash. Quijano explains that the impact of such thoughts runs so deep that they still hold relevance, and a lot of this relevance is seen in modern beauty and standards. As he notes, “the coloniality of power perpetuated the classification of the world's population within the model of race”, and this classification continues to influence who is considered beautiful, worthy, and visible in dominant media (Quijano 534).

This concept explains how whiteness became the default both politically and aesthetically. Colonialism made pale skin and Eurocentric features universal ideals, while non-Eurocentric features were deemed inferior. 

Fans were not upset because Halle Bailey was neither beautiful nor talented; they were upset because their radicalized idea of a beautiful princess is White, and Bailey does not look the way that Disney princesses are “supposed” to. Some even asked why Pocahontas, Mulan, and Tiana aren't enough representation, as if three non-White princesses could balance out an otherwise non-inclusive franchise. As Quijano explains, “[i]n America, the idea of race was a way of granting legitimacy to the relations of domination imposed by the conquest,” and this legacy still shapes how society sees race.

Quijano explains the appeal of whiteness, how many interpret it as pure and beautiful, and this explains how the magic of Ariel slipped away as soon as non-White Halle Bailey was cast in the role. Modern-day Beauty standards come from colonization that prioritized whiteness and put down other races, and the backlash surrounding the live-action The Little Mermaid is representative of how significantly these beauty standards impact society. Modern-day beauty standards are due to colonial practices, which prioritized whiteness and put down other races. These standards are built into society and the way it operates, as noted by Quijano, “[o]ne of the fundamental axes of this model of power is the social classification of the world’s population around the idea of race, a mental construction that expresses the basic experience of colonial domination” (Quijano 533). 

Analysis:

Although a recent and widely spoken about subject, Halle Bailey’s casting in “The Little Mermaid” is not the only incident of beauty standards born from colonialism impacting pop culture. For example, the live-action adaptation of “The Hate U Give” stars lighter-skinned Amandla Stenberg as the main character even though the book portrayed her as dark-skinned. While this change did create some backlash, Stenberg did not face nearly the same amount of backlash as Bailey. Through Quijano’s “coloniality of power” lens, this could be assumed to be because of Eurocentric beauty standards favoring those closer to whiteness. Stenberg–who is half White and has a lighter skin tone–is closer to whiteness than Bailey, and thus closer to the Eurocentric beauty standard. Although there have been many strides in inclusivity in popular culture, the negative attention that Bailey’s casting attracted is proof that much of society still believes in colonial beauty standards. Bailey’s casting could have been a major stride for representation in pop culture, but instead, it was a disaster. This is a reflection of how the pop culture industry impacts how audiences perceive characters–how they look, what they represent, and who should be allowed to play them. This perception often excludes people of color, not allowing for POC audiences to see themselves portrayed in pop culture at the same levels as White individuals, further upholding Eurocentric standards. 

Conclusion: 

All in all, the backlash received due to Halle Bailey’s casting in the live-action The Little Mermaid was not due to poor casting, but due to the Eurocentric beauty standards imposed on society–and therefore on pop culture–by colonialism. Quijano’s concept of the coloniality of power shows that this is not a one-time incident, but rather the repercussion of colonial ideals that center whiteness. This centering of whiteness continues to shape popular culture and decides who is allowed to be seen as heroic, inspiring, or beautiful, and who is and is not allowed to be a princess. This logic from Quijano helps explain why so many people felt entitled to reject Bailey’s portrayal of Ariel in The Little Mermaid. 

Latin American studies is not only useful for understanding past events, but also helps us make sense of what is happening in the present. Through learning how colonial systems impacted social standards, we are better equipped to understand the resistance to progressive change today. This blog post aimed to use tools from Latin American studies to explore the colonial roots of modern racism in popular culture. The truth is, not everyone is allowed to be a princess, not due to lack of talent or beauty, but because colonial legacies still grasp social standards today.

Reference: Aníbal Quijano, “Coloniality of Power, Eurocentrism and Latin America” (2000).

[luna-wing-cns274]

< L3 Hachiko: Alright. Nonlethal active memetics stockpile [Bagofwoe.omf.secure.zip], AKA the Styxie Stash, full inventory.

...With some of my own additions. :) >

1.) fuckbadperiodcramps.omf - visual vector, variable duration/intensity, nociceptive/aversive. The classic.

2.) Memory_Hole.omf - visual vector, variable duration. Short-term memory attack: prevents recall within a thirty second window of time exactly thirty seconds prior to present for duration of effect. Scary :(

3.) Vacuum_Exposure.sim - NI vector, variable duration, nociceptive/aversive. A force-executed simulacrum created from experiential capture. Namely, the experience of being Styx, in vacuum. This one sucks.

4.) Manual_Breathing.omf - visual/graphemic/auditory vector, variable duration, annoying. Ugh.

5.) Breathing_Manual.omf - visual vector, vaccine. Neuroplastic antigen designed to prevent effects of previously-listed memetic. Also provides broad-spectrum protection from attacks which interfere with respiration.

6.) Eyesore.omf - visual vector, variable duration/intensity, nociceptive/aversive, permanent damage potential. Induces sensation of itching, localized inside the retinas. Has tactical utility.

7.) Heartbreaker.omf - auditory vector, fixed playback duration, subjectivity interference. Audio induces emotions of intense heartache. Active memetic embedded within what internal documentation describes as an "upbeat, happy-go-lucky pop song."

8.) Peter_Pipers_Paracausal_Peppers.txt - graphemic vector, preset termination condition, extreme self-propagation risk, potential permanent damage. A tongue-twister poem, encoded with exotic graphemes, which compels spoken repetition until uttered correctly.

9.) the_JPEG_that_makes_you_puke.jpeg - self-explanatory. Open with caution.

10.) WASPZONE.omf - visual/NI vector, variable duration, subjectivity interference. A little ditty from yours truly. There's a wasp in the room with you. You know it's there, you're sure of it. Where's the wasp? Where's the wasp?

11.) Lallation.omf - auditory vector, variable duration, sensorium interference. Your tongue can't fit comfortably in your mouth. Makes speaking really, really hard.

12.) casket_desync.omf - anti-NHP, visual/NI vector, fixed duration, variable intensity, ontologistic disruption. No effect on exposed humans or other organic subjectivities. Induces a state of desynchronization between casket and blinkspace corpus, with...interesting results. Modern casket firmware is capable of identifying and excising this memetic agent within sixty seconds of exposure, or more quickly for milspec casket architecture. Potential tactical utility.

13.) forlorn.omf - olfactory vector, non-set duration, subjectivity interference. This one is odd, and requires a printer to synthesize. It's a chemical compound which, when aerosolized and smelled, induces feelings of intense longing, nostalgia, and homesickness. Effects can last from a few minutes following exposure, up to an hour.

14.) zax.omf - visual/auditory vector, variable duration, subjectivity interference. Whatever direction you happen to be facing when you're exposed, that's the only direction you can move for the duration. Tends to result in repeat exposure.

15.) styxclean.omf - visual vector, variable duration, subjectivity interference. You need to lick your own eyeball, and you won't stop trying. Good luck.

16.) hyperformal.omf - visual vector, fixed duration, neurolinguistic alteration. This one is simple. For one hour, you cannot use any contractions. This is applicable to both spoken and written language.

17.) burn.sim - Non-anthropocentric qualic vector, non-set duration, non-harmful ontologistic alteration. Ontologic bridge required—NHP USE ONLY, LETHAL HAZARD TO HUMAN PERSONNEL. An attempt at inducing an altered cognitive state in NHPs matching the effects of tetrahydrocannabinol consumption in humans. Effects are…temperamental.

18.) calm_down.omf - auditory vector, fixed playback duration, non-harmful subjectivity alteration. I, uh…so, this one feels like being comfy. Wrapped up in blankets, warm, drowsy. Active memetics are embedded within an audio track of a cat purring. It’s just designed to take your mind off things for a bit. Might help a human sleep. If anybody wants a copy, I’ll hand this one out on request.

[churchblogmatics-blog]

Books for political formation

Books that have left an indelible mark on my understanding of politics some way. My political development is unfinished, so this list is unfinished - I'm always open to suggestions

Capital Vol. 1, Karl Marx - unmasks the inherently exploitative social relations embedded within capitalism, critiques capitalism as ineffective/self-destructive (not just immoral)

Capital and Ideology, Thomas Piketty - there is no such thing as a "natural" social order, examines how inequality regimes have emerged and been justified across the world throughout the past 1000 years of history

Nixon Agonistes, Garry Wills - captures a cross-section of American politics over a short period, probing insights into the psychology driving political affinities, documents the evolution of the word "liberal" in American political discourse

What Are We Doing Here?, Marilynne Robinson - provides a constructive, anti-Hobbesian view of society

Poverty, by America, Matthew Desmond - shows the extent to which poverty in America is a policy choice, harm reduction is possible without revolution

The Code of Capital, Katharina Pistor - a cursory overview of the legal strategies to insulate capital from any competing legal claims

Eichmann in Jerusalem, Hannah Arendt - laziness and insistence on self-exoneration is often the psychological engine behind human wickedness and injustice over and above malice

Illness as Metaphor / AIDS and Its Metaphors, Susan Sontag - shows how deeply ingrained prejudicial views of disability is within our collective language and psyche

Blood Meridian, or, the Evening Redness in the West, Cormac McCarthy - violence has never been excised from politics, the invisibility of violence to the bourgeois is an illusion

Lysistrata, Aristophanes - unmasks the nature of gender politics despite its operation behind closed doors, imagines a project of mass organizing along gender lines

Civilization and Its Discontents, Sigmund Freud - civility is unfortunately a tenuous prospect

Heroes of the Fourth Turning, Will Arbery - excoriates conservative psychological pathologies

Martin Luther King Jr

A Gift of Love - justice is love in public

Letter From a Birmingham Jail - there are contexts where civil disobedience is mandatory for the Christian, solidarity with the marginalized is always mandatory

The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot - progress is not inevitable

William Faulkner

Absalom, Absalom! - racism is an inexorable part of American capitalism, imperialism cannot be stopped until we are able to free ourselves of our disingenuous national myths

The Sound and the Fury - nostalgia makes you an idiot, unable to understand your present or to predict your future

Herman Melville

Billy Budd, Sailor - history is unavoidably malleable

Moby-Dick - a true-believer demagogue is worse than a cynically disingenuous one, democracy can be an ineffective antidote to a tyrant

Franz Kafka

The Trial - the very procedures instilled to protect (or at least mitigate) injustice can also exacerbate it

The Metamorphosis - modernity interferes with our ability to see and relate to others as human, liberalism's self-advocating and individualistic ethic destroys us from the inside out because it forecloses our ability to recognize this

John Milton

Areopagitica - freedom of speech is as much about the individual's freedom to render judgment on speech as it is about the speakers ability to speak, the problem with censorship is the top-down nature of it, not in the governed people's discernment of quality or value

Paradise Lost - similar to Birmingham Jail, the character of Abdiel represents righteous opposition to Earthly principalities

The Autobiography of Malcolm X - the psychological, spiritual, emotional toll that being black in America takes on a person, black empowerment is a necessary step towards black liberation

Ursula LeGuin

The Lathe of Heaven - structural reform can only be undertaken democratically, no change is without trade-offs so changes must be broadly accepted and supported by the populace who will inevitably bear the unforeseen burden that results

The Ones Who Walk Away From the Omelas - shows the extent to which our brains are broken by imperialistic thinking, exploitation is a necessary feature of the worlds we are capable of imagining

[imaginefinneganswake]

Wither hayrein honds tuck up your part inher.

Finnegan's Wake - James Joyce

ChatGPT40 literary report:

The line you provided, “Wither hayrein honds tuck up your part inher,” seems to evoke James Joyce's distinctive style, although it appears somewhat fragmentary. If we assume it is either an exact or closely inspired Joycean passage, the following approach will help analyze it through the lens of Joyce's literary innovations, particularly referencing Finnegans Wake, his most experimental work. This text exemplifies his radical approach to language, which mixes multiple languages, sounds, puns, and dream-like logic.

1. Joyce’s Use of Language and Polysemy

Joyce was known for creating language that operates on multiple levels simultaneously, a technique central to Finnegans Wake. Each word or phrase can have several meanings, often fusing words from different languages and linguistic traditions. This phrase seems consistent with that tradition. Here's a breakdown of the possible meanings embedded in the words:

"Wither": The word "wither" could relate to the verb "to wither," as in to dry up or decay, or it may also reference "whither," meaning "where to." Joyce often played with such homophones, where one word can generate a variety of meanings, allowing for both physical and existential interpretations.

"Hayrein": This could be a portmanteau blending "hay" and "reign." It evokes images of agriculture and ruling authority—perhaps a comment on the decay or mortality of something once fertile or dominant. The "reign" part could also carry associations with sovereignty, control, or passage of time, invoking deeper metaphysical concerns about who or what has dominion.

"Honds": Likely a modification of "hands." Joyce frequently used variants of common words to suggest different associations, such as "honds" echoing Old English or Dutch/German influences (in Dutch, “hand” is also “hand”). This can evoke both literal hands and the concept of handling or taking action.

"Tuck up your part inher": This is a more challenging construction, though Joyce often created phrasal constructs that force a reader to think associatively rather than literally. "Tuck up" suggests gathering or preparing something, which may be physical (like clothing) or more abstract (like preparing oneself for a journey or task). "Your part inher" could relate to inheritance (a "part in her"), where "her" might symbolize the land, a role, or an allegorical figure like Ireland, history, or even the female figure as muse or motherland.

2. Possible Interpretations

The passage as a whole seems to play on the idea of action, inheritance, and responsibility. A breakdown could suggest:

Direction or Displacement: The phrase "Wither hayrein" may suggest movement or an inquiry into where something is going, possibly in the face of decline or decay ("wither"). This could be reflective of Joyce's frequent exploration of themes like the decline of Irish culture, personal legacy, or the inevitability of death and time.

Agrarian Imagery: The word "hayrein" evokes rural, agrarian imagery that recurs in Joyce’s work. It could symbolize a form of pastoral nostalgia, while also hinting at the transience of harvests, seasons, or power (with the duality of "reign"). This could tie back to a broader commentary on the passage of time, societal change, or a collapsing authority.

Agency and Action: "Tuck up your part inher" seems to compel action—telling someone to claim or prepare for their role, perhaps in a broader inheritance, whether material or metaphorical. Joyce frequently addressed personal responsibility within historical and cultural frameworks, often leaving characters struggling with the weight of their heritage and their place in history. This could imply the same sense of engagement, telling the reader (or character) to prepare to "play their part" in a shared historical narrative or personal destiny.

Feminine/Irish Symbolism: The phrase "your part inher" could refer to Ireland, often personified as a woman, as in many nationalist and literary traditions. If so, it may be addressing someone to take up their inherited role concerning the nation, history, or personal legacy—perhaps a call to action to preserve cultural identity in the face of change or decline.

3. Allusions and Themes

Joyce often wove classical, historical, and biblical allusions into his works, and this passage could be read with those lenses in mind. For example, "inheritance" is a biblical theme, and in the Irish context, it could refer to the inheritance of culture, history, or even the troubled political landscape of Joyce’s time.

The passage may suggest a struggle between loss (decay/wither) and inheritance, demanding that the individual "tuck up" (prepare) to take responsibility for a legacy that is at once fading and persistent. This could resonate with themes found throughout Joyce’s works, particularly concerning Ireland’s historical and cultural identity.

4. Conclusion

This fragment, though brief and abstract, reflects Joyce's typical complexity. It challenges the reader to engage with language on multiple levels, invoking historical, cultural, and existential concerns. The play with words such as “wither,” “honds,” and “inherit” may suggest themes of decay, action, and legacy, while simultaneously calling attention to the reader’s responsibility to interpret and inherit the meanings within Joyce’s language itself.

For literary experts, this line can serve as a microcosm of Joyce’s broader thematic preoccupations—mortality, history, and the complex interplay between individual and collective experience. It is a striking example of how Joyce compresses vast ideas into intricate wordplay, demanding that the reader unfold the layers of meaning embedded in every line.

[mocksfate]

@fatewoven asked: He was horrified! Truly aghast at the reveal Abrielle did not know the steps to the classic Nevaran waltz. A clap of the hands to summon Manfred with a record player, the waxen song embedded within eager to suffuse the air with its lively notes, and Emmrich takes her hands in his, the contact warm and steady as he begins the lesson. "Follow my lead first, dear. Then you can allow me the pleasure of seeing you set the tempo."

' a lacking that should be addressed ' is the inevitable rebuttal. indeed, the idea amuses her ─ intrigues her, even: abrielle bets that if there's anyone in this little team who's adept in this particular field, it's got to be her favorite necromancer. little did she know, however, that their dancing lesson would happen right now. the old crow watches the scene unfold before her, utterly entertained by both their undead conductor and the music itself. the pleasant tune reminds her of older, not as happier days, yet the nostalgia and her passion for this craft are enough to allow emmrich to guide her into position; a hand on his shoulder and the other entwined with his. her movements are smooth, controlled and graceful, a tastement to her skill.

" are you sure, bijou? if i set the tempo, will you able to keep up? i do wonder ... " she teases, a chuckle slipping past her lips.