void-keeper

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back in business...?

I am looking to get back into this blog slowly, RP wise. If there is anything you need from me or are looking to write together, please let me know. Thank you for your patience.

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Somethings wrong with your kofi :( I can donate $5 (so sorry it's not much) but it keeps saying somethings wrong when I try

You can try this link. Select a one time donation and you should be able to put any amount you like! I will fix this later.

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an old Voice from the void - it continues to get bad. a post with an explanation you all deserve.

In April, I experienced a manic episode (spiral)—part of what would later become a diagnosis of bipolar disorder/ personality traits (whatever that means). 

I didn’t know what was happening at the time, only that I couldn’t function and was about to lose it and scaring everyone around me. My partner stepped in and contacted my employer on my behalf, and I was placed on medical leave.

When I returned to work on May 1st—with clearance from my psychiatrist and approval to take a few mental health days a month—I found nothing waiting for me. No reintegration plan. No support. Just silence. A week later, I called out, because trying to pretend I was okay again had wrung me dry.

The next day, I was told that one more absence meant automatic termination. And that’s exactly what happened.

But this wasn’t just about bipolar. This was a long time coming.

Last year (or earlier this year, it's hard to remember), I disclosed my auADHD diagnosis to my employer and formally asked for accommodations. Around that same time, and times before which I addressed, another employee made discriminatory comments about my disability. I asked for them to be removed from my workspace. Nothing happened. No consequences. A '"don't do it again.''

Meanwhile, I was still constantly being targeted for my work performance after having several direct and honest conversations with my manager about me trying my best and wanting to stick it out with medication adjustments, mental health, etc. 

Now I’m in limbo. Florida’s unemployment system is a maze. My partner was laid off recently too. We’re both actively job hunting—but the market is brutal right now. Hundreds of applications go out. Silence comes back.

I am stressing big time. I can't even explain the amount of stress. I can't even enjoy the things I like to do properly without the feeling of being a deadbeat horrible person in the back of my head. 

And through all this, I’m trying to keep up with medications I need to function—ones that aren’t cheap. Rent. Bills. Groceries. Any help would be appreciated and can be made so as a one time donation on my ko-fi. Friends I am close with may DM me on Discord to ask for my paypal directly if they wish.  Please share if you can.  $0/$3000 Much love and light to you all. 

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zayne with a glock everybody

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Emery Allen, "Soft Human"

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Zayneee chaaaaan. Nani ga suki? 😙🎶🎶🎶 - @aethercore-seeker

“…What?”

Zayne’s entire face did not move, save for one very slow blink.

“I—what even—why are you like this.”

The corner of his eye twitched. There was a war being fought behind his expression: one half of him trying to decipher what she’d said, the other wondering if he was being flirted with, mocked, or threatened. Possibly all three.

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As they stepped into the hallway, Atlas exhaled a long, dry breath and jabbed the elevator button like it had insulted him.

“Flourish isn’t even headquartered on the Strip. They’ve got this... glass monstrosity carved into the side of the Red Rock cliffs, like they saw Iron Man once and thought, ‘Yeah, that’s a reasonable tax write-off.’”

He shook his head, the tone low and laced with disbelief.

“Vivian makes every dev wear these gross lavender lanyards with little affirmations printed on the back. ‘I am growing today.’ ‘Mistakes are brave.’”

He stepped into the elevator, back to the wall, watching Sylus with a flat look that somehow screamed I'm already regretting this, even though he was clearly already committed.

“And get this,” he added, the words faster now, bitter momentum building, “there’s a waterfall. Indoors.”

The doors slid shut with a whisper.

“I went once, when she was still pretending to be civil. They served chlorophyll shots at the front desk."

He paused. “You ever met a guy named Chip who programs in sandals and calls himself a ‘tech empath’?” Atlas looked up at Sylus, dead serious. “I have. I’m stealing his laptop. If he's still in charge of the CI/CD pipeline.”

close rp with @sylus-hds-7213 continued from this

He stared at Sylus with that flat, sideways look like he was trying to decide whether to punch him or agree with him.

He settled for neither. Just reached for the laptop on the desk, still warm from its last boot, and slid it into his bag without ceremony. “Cool. Vegas.” He zipped the bag with a soft whrrk, slinging it over one shoulder. The movement was jerky, like it hadn’t quite synced up with his decision yet—but the decision was made. He was going. No way in hell he was letting Sylus pull some suave cloak-and-dagger solo act while he sat at home refreshing telemetry logs like an idiot. “Let me guess,” he muttered, deadpan. “You’ve got a private jet fueled by blood diamonds and rich guy angst.” He adjusted the strap of the bag on his shoulder, glancing around the server-lit room like he was mentally cataloging what he’d miss. The glow. The hum. The lack of real danger. The comfort zone, cold and humming and safe. Then his eyes landed back on Sylus. Flat. Focused. “Stealing a device from a Flourish dev makes more sense than phishing someone who probably still prints their emails. If we get our hands on a machine that’s already logged into the sandbox, I can clone the drive, scrape the session tokens, maybe even bounce a local instance of their dev environment if we’re lucky.” A pause. “If not lucky, I brick the machine and get a black eye. Statistically, I’ve had worse Tuesdays.” He nudged a cable out of the way with his foot, grabbing a flash drive from the desk. It disappeared into his jacket pocket like muscle memory. Then he looked back at Sylus. “You better not make me stay at some futuristic rich-people hotel with neon toilet paper and bed sheets that talk.” His tone was the same: bone-dry, just this side of unimpressed. But his mouth twitched at the corner, just slightly, betraying the tiniest flicker of adrenaline. Or maybe just spite. He was already moving toward the door now, fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. Under his breath, almost too low to catch: “Hope your blood diamond jet has Wi-Fi. And barf bags.”

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AND I DONT WANT THE WORLD TO SEE ME

CAUSE I DONT THINK THAT THEY'D UNDERSTAND

WHEN EVERYTHINGS MADE TO BE PERFECT

I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW WHO I AM

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tulips season 🌷💐

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i was such a weird lonely little girl and maybe i grew to be a weird lonely woman but idc i built this life for myself and maybe it doesn’t always make sense to others and maybe isn’t always easy or beautiful but it is mine and i cherish it

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it is spring and i am alive and that is enough

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The sheets were cool when she flopped down onto them, her scarf falling lopsided across her shoulder like it had made the journey too. Lana didn’t bother fixing it.

The room was dim, but the sky outside was beginning to shift—black fading into that silvery blue just before sunrise. From the window, the city looked like it hadn’t slept at all. That high-up hush filled the air, the kind that only came when you were far from the noise.

She could hear him somewhere behind her—quiet movement. No need for words. They didn’t crowd each other in the quiet, not anymore. Sharing the same air was enough.

Eventually, Lana pushed herself upright with a soft groan, rubbing her hands over her face before twisting toward the duffel bag she’d dropped by the bed. Her fingers rooted around inside it for a moment until they found what she was looking for.

No wrapping paper. No bow.

She rose and crossed the room, barefoot, and stopped in front of him where he’d settled—somewhere familiar, somewhere his presence always managed to fill without trying.

Then she held it out to him. Both hands. No ceremony, no speech. Just this is for you.

The music box was small enough to fit in his palm. Carved from dark cherrywood, its corners worn slightly. Intricate constellations had been etched into the lid—delicate swirls of inlay silver catching the faintest glint of morning light. The clasp was old and stubborn. But inside, the mechanism still played. Not perfectly. But honest.

Lana had wound it up herself, once, in some tiny shop that smelled like old books. It had played a soft, almost hesitant melody—something that made her think of Sylus immediately. Not because it was sad, but because it had that pull. A quiet sort of gravity.

She didn’t say that, of course.

She just watched him take it, her expression unreadable but open.

Then, gently, perhaps a bit too raw for reasons she didn't understand— “Happy late birthday, darling. I love you.”

Wrapped in tissue paper that smells vaguely like her perfume—orange blossom and something warm underneath—is a framed photograph. But not just any photo. It's an aggressively candid shot of Sylus looking tired, coffee in hand, caught mid-eye-roll. In the corner, she’s written (in smudged pen and barely legible, lowercase scrawl): “the moment you realized i was right, documented forever. happy birthday.”

Attached to the back with washi tape is a tiny envelope—wax-sealed, with a little “L” pressed into it. The letter inside reads:

Sylus,

I hate that I won’t be there on your birthday. Truly, deeply, in a way that makes me want to rearrange the universe or at least yell at a flight attendant until the laws of time bend in my favor. But, alas. Here we are.

So instead, I’m giving you this: a very serious, incredibly heartfelt birthday gift. Early. You're welcome.

Now, the part that actually matters:

I’m sorry I won’t be home. I know it’s not the same, and I know you’ll pretend it doesn’t bother you because you’re thoughtful like that. But I wanted you to have something here. Something that reminds you that you are loved—loudly, stupidly, unapologetically. I love you more than I know how to explain most days, and certainly more than can be contained in one letter. Or a book. Or a library.

You are the safest place I’ve ever known. You make the noise in my head quieter. You see me in ways I never expected anyone to, and somehow you still stay. That matters more to me than I can say.

So eat the cake I left in the freezer (yes, it’s the good cake). Don’t let anyone else near it—especially Luke. I will find out.

I plan to make up for missing your birthday in every way I can think of. Prepare accordingly.

All my love, Lana

@stubbornlysoft

Sylus hadn’t meant to sit with the letter as long as he did. The soft crack of the wax seal breaking had felt far too ceremonial for something like this —but when it came to Lana, even the smallest things carried gravity.

The scent of her perfume curled in the air—warm, grounding. Like her. Like home. He stared at the photo for longer than he’d admit, thumb brushing over the glass where his own eye-roll had been immortalized. The memory flashed like a flare—her laugh just out of frame, the teasing glint in her eyes when she caught him at just the right moment. And the scribbled note in the corner? It tugged a smirk out of him, crooked and helpless.

But it was the letter that stopped everything else.

He didn’t move for a while.

The quiet of his parlour thickened around him as he read and reread every word. Her voice lived in the spaces between the sentences. Her warmth in the curves of every letter. That she’d thought of this—that she’d known exactly what to say—felt like both a punch and a balm to the chest.

He set the frame gently on the table, then held the letter to his lips for a brief second before folding it carefully, reverently. That was the thing about Lana—she didn’t just write with ink; she wrote with intention. Every sentence stitched into his ribs now. He’d carry it with him, maybe longer than she'd ever guess.

And gods, he missed her.

The pull in his chest that turned into something sharp and overwhelming. Her words weren’t dramatic or flowery—but they were hers. Honest and full of that sideways affection only Lana could deliver.

He swallowed hard at “You are the safest place I’ve ever known.”

The lump in his throat was sudden, heavy. She had no idea what it meant to him—being that for her. That she felt seen, understood, held, even when he couldn’t always find the right words. That she chose him in quiet ways like this. Through cake in the freezer and snapshots of stolen moments and smudged ink that said, I love you more than I know how to explain.

He pulled out his phone, his fingers lingering over the keyboard for a beat too long. Then he typed

💬 You wreck me in the best ways.

💬 That picture’s awful, and I love it. Because you were there.

💬 I’ve read your letter three times already. I’ll probably read it a hundred more.

💬 You may not be here but, you’ve left pieces of yourself everywhere I look.

💬 But I’ll still be counting the seconds until you’re home.

💬 You’re everything soft in a world that’s anything but. And I’ll take all of it. All of you. For as many birthdays as we get. Just us.