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papermatisse · 7 months

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Solace || B.JY

† genre: horror, fluff?

† word count: 5.4k

† warnings: extreme stalker behavior, paranoia, betrayal

† synopsis: when the world seems to be entirely against you, sometimes all you need is a comforting set of arms and whispered reassurances to get you by.

† (a/n): fourth installment of spooktober anthology! stalkers freak me TF out :)! this is also the longest one thus far 👌. enjoy!

† taglist: @scuzmunkie @hipsdofangirl @hydroyaksha

anthology | masterlist

The life of a star is never purely the glitz and glamor they portray it as being, and the same goes for social media influencers. Not that she'd compare herself to a star, because she was anything but. Just an average nobody who managed to post pretty, aesthetically pleasing pictures that appealed to the masses. Though aside from the few hundred thousand people who awaited for her next update, she lived her life just as normally as anyone else. Wake up, go to work, go home. If she was feeling especially daring, perhaps she'd take a different route home just to experience something new. Her free time was spent traveling with her friends and gaining new experiences in life, all the while taking pictures to document her memories forever.

Perhaps things started changing around the time she grew more comfortable with her platform. She'd perfected the art of showing, not telling. Her brief stories were enough to sate the curiosity of her followers, though still maintain her overall privacy. She'd even grown comfortable slapping on the locations of her travels—albeit, she'd post them after she left.

At first, it was mundane. A simple acknowledgement of profile names she recognized as being veteran followers. She'd look out for their sweet comments or if they tagged her in any content. Sometimes she'd even invite them to her live sessions for simple one-on-one chats. There really was no indication of any ulterior motives.

The first time she sensed something off was after having had dinner with her friends, as she scrolled through the comments of her latest post featuring said meal. A single comment amidst the sea of a thousand others, seemingly unassuming at first glance, though enough to stir a feeling of unrest within her.

"The picture doesn't capture how absolutely tender your steak really was."

It left a lingering thought in her mind as she went to sleep that night. It's a common statement, and one she's heard quite a few times, though in the context of meeting someone in person. They usually like to comment something nice like "your pictures do you no justice," or something along those lines. Hearing this comment online, and not even about herself, just felt… off. Though she tried not to dwell on it. There will always be a shroud of ambiguity when conducting communication online. It's a facet of this life that she must consider at all times.

Though as time progressed, the strange occurrences seemed to only intensify from that point on—all deriving from the same username.

DanteanNomad.

She recalled the name towards the start of her account, though he never actually spoke. That comment of her dinner was his first interaction with her. The first of many, so it seemed.

He had begun leaving comments on every new post she made, each comment just barely skimming the gossamer thread of suitability.

"You have such a captivating presence, even in the virtual world."

"I find myself coming back to your profile long after you've posted, just because you're always on my mind."

"I'm always eager to see what you'll share next. It's like a little window into your world."

He even comments in her lives, yet somehow only she seems to be wary of his approaches. No one else seems to notice. Her friends have merely suggested blocking or reporting him, yet something deep in (y/n) knows that won't do her any good. Especially after a certain post she made garnered yet another comment from this person.

"The blue sweater was a good choice."

It was his most unsettling comment. It was mundane like everything else he says, though the underlying connotations were beginning to surface in her mind. Because how else would he have known that she spent nearly an entire hour debating on wearing it before finally opting to do so? And through the gut wrenching anxiety which twisted her insides and tormented her heart, she successfully blocked him.

At least that's what she thought happened. However, he continued to appear on her account, as if her countermeasure did absolutely nothing to deter him. Neither blocking, nor reporting, nor even calling customer support for assistance. Nothing seemed to rid her of this plague upon her life.

His words were beginning to get to her, and she felt herself sinking into a dark chasm of paranoia. As if nowhere was safe for her anymore. As if her own walls seemed to be only a mode of voyeur for his own sick delight. It left her seeking an answer to her anxieties, worriedly searching her home with a wooden bat at the ready, yet coming up empty. Not even a secret camera nestled in any dark and unassuming nooks of her room. Yet these precautions did not sate those paranoid thoughts consuming her.

"How about we host a party?" Belle suggested, hope in her voice as the group of friends sat together at a cafe. "A little house party at my place! Just us. We'll invite some trusted friends and colleagues. Just let loose, without the worries of being in a public place?"

The group slowly turned to (y/n), nestled in the corner of the booth, sipping away at her beverage whilst nervously considering the proposition. Her friends had been nothing but supportive, albeit with a touch of skepticism in their mannerisms. They didn't see the cause for concern in it all, but they saw (y/n) and how the occurrences ate away at her. To them, she was perhaps going through a minor mental breakdown and needed all the support she can get.

So while the prospect of a party made her incredibly uncomfortable, especially during such a strenuous time as this one, she could see where her friends were coming from. She could see their attempts at a compromise. They wanted to bring her relief in the only way they knew possible, which was having fun and forgetting your worries. The thought was touching, even if the idea of a party brought a subtle edge to her disposition. She didn't want to be a damper on their fun. She didn't want to be the driving force to expel her friends from her life.

And so she found herself, rather unwillingly, nodding along to their idea.

With the party in full swing, (y/n) attempted to blend in with the other participants. Some faces she recognized, others she didn't. Names had begun to blur into one, and she found it more and more difficult to keep track of the attendees with every new introduction she received.

Sooner rather than later, she found herself slipping out the sliding glass door onto the balcony. The cool night air was a comforting presence on her overheated body, sharply contrasting with the sheen of sweat residing over every square inch of revealed skin. With the full moon hanging overhead,she allowed herself to drop her defenses, body weary from being on edge the entire night. The thought of leaving revolved around in her head, and she toyed with the idea, amusing herself with silly schemes of escaping under the surveillance of her friends.

The sound of the sliding glass door jostled her from her thoughts, defenses building up once more as she turned around and prepared herself for the battle of socializing.

"Hey," the man greeted, gently nodding her way. He was another familiar face of many. A friend of a friend's, no doubt. While she wanted to dismiss him, she knew he meant well.

"Hello," (y/n) responded meekly, nervously tapping a finger against the red cup in her hands. The man gave her space, which she was rather grateful for, as he approached the railing of the balcony and leant against it.

"Taking a break?" He continued, staring out into the city. Whilst his eyes lingered elsewhere, he carried that air that his undivided attention was upon her.

"Yeah." He never turned to her, and so she followed his lead, staring out at the city below. Though unlike him, her resilience was much weaker, and she continuously kept glancing his way. "You, too?"

"Just a little break. Never hurts to lay low for a few minutes. Get off the freeway and do a little drive."

Such a simple analogy, one that seemingly pertained to solely the party, though she couldn't help but gape slightly at his words. They seemed to transcend the immediate situation and coincide with her exact predicament. And the subtle dose of validation had her defenses weakening by the minute.

"Yeah, I get that. I get that a lot actually." Her voice wavered as her emotions seemed to take over, doing everything in her power to hold the onslaught of tears threatening to be released. The last thing she wanted was to startle away this kind stranger with a sudden bout of crying. Though he was just full of surprises she wasn't prepared for.

"Hey. Hey, it's alright. You're okay." His voice was soft, retreating from the railing in favor of comforting her any way he could. He hesitated in touching her, hands hovering over her body, though his presence alone seemed enough for her defenses to all but crumble as the first sob broke through. And then the next. And soon she was full blown weeping into this man's chest, burying her face into his dark sweater and releasing all of her pent up frustrations.

His arms around her were a comforting constant, rubbing up and down her back and holding her tightly against him. She felt… safe. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel eyes upon her or the paranoia that someone was attempting to infiltrate her space. It was just her and him. And she couldn't have been more grateful.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, hands grasping at his top in desperation, not wanting this reprieve to ever end. He seemed to understand as he just shushed her and drew her closer.

"It's okay. You're okay."

She didn't know for how long they stood there for, rocking back and forth in this calming trance-like state. As if slow dancing to the acoustics of the cityscape below them. And it was all she could have asked for.

"Thank you. For everything." A final sniffle on her part, and she hesitantly shifted to look up at him. "I don't know your name." He let out an amused huff, arms still wrapped around her body, though retracting just enough to meet her curious gaze with his own delighted one.

"Jinyoung."

The coming days were a mix of ups and downs which rattled the very fabric of her life. Any semblance she may have attained had been washed away with the torrential events succeeding that of the party.

On the one hand, following that very night on the balcony, (y/n) found herself more than grateful to have met Jinyoung. Sweet, attentive, dedicated Jinyoung.

He filled her days with kind messages, reminders she was not alone in this and that he was always there for her whenever she needed him. It was a comforting sentiment, waking up to texts from him and then going to sleep on call with him. He'd send lovely pictures to her, like a dog he passed by on a walk, or the setting sun from the view of his apartment. As if saying he thinks of her in everything he sees.

Jinyoung through his ceaseless attention upon her proved how truly little her friends seemed to acknowledge her and her situation. The way he provided his undivided attention whenever (y/n) deemed to speak on the subject was further proof that her friends had merely granted her a percentage of the help she needed. She realized she was venturing into dangerous ground, though she couldn't deny the feeling that Jinyoung was perhaps the only person she really needed in this lifetime.

And he continued to prove that with every thoughtful action of his.

Though even with this brief reprieve, the plight seemed to only spiral more out of hand than ever initially conceived.

Again, it started out covert. Live streaming with her fans when she accidentally broke a vase of hers. It was entirely circumstantial, and she laughed it off for the viewers, even if she was disappointed in the cute decor she had picked out herself when first moving in.

Within a matter of days, however, the once demolished vase she presumed she'd never see again was found at her doorstep, neatly tucked away into a box. Pristine and brand new.

Her friends all praised the mystery fan who sent it, commenting on how sweet it was of them to do so, but (y/n) grew even more uncomfortable, as all she had ever shown of that vase was a single shard when it broke. There was no possible way for someone to know the exact item she once had.

Her suspicions were soon being proven with the first sighting of a photograph in her mail. Photos of her house. Photos of the cafe she frequents. Photos from her friend's house where the party was just a few weeks ago. All information she's never revealed online before.

The next set of images was that of her in her day to day. Walking with her friends at the park, reading at the cafe, even shopping at the grocery store. Images taken from afar, though unsettlingly close enough that she could have very well seen them had she looked around.

At this point, her friends were now growing wary of the situation, understanding the severity of it all as it had gotten this out of hand. Jinyoung was the one to suggest the cycling method. One person stays with (y/n) at all times. Whether it be staying over at her house or spending the day with them elsewhere, she would always be monitored by one of them.

Surprisingly, they all agreed, and the rotations soon began. Just as Jinyoung had planned, one person would take night shift, and when the next would show up for their shift, they'd leave. Things seemed to work swimmingly, and (y/n) felt more comfortable than she had in ages. She began reducing her time online, as well, keeping her online presence even more professional and disconnected than ever before. If there was anything she was doing to feed this person's delusions, she wanted to put an end to it as soon as possible.

"Where did you go?" Jinyoung asked from where he sat on her couch, eyes remaining on the screen where their movie was still playing.

"I went to get the mail before it got dark," (y/n) responded, pressing her back against the door to close it as she made her way back to the living room with Jinyoung. She shuffled through some junk mail and a few letters from fans before landing on a small mailer package. There was nothing attached to it. No return address or indication of any shipping company, nor did she recall ordering anything recently.

Absentmindedly, thoughts still wandering on the subject of what she could've purchased, she peeled back the sticky opening, reaching in to retrieve the item. Though as her fingers grazed a suspiciously familiar material, she retracted, eyes widened as fear began to settle in once more.

The fabric was unmistakable. Something that had been lingering in her mind for quite some time now, and she both wanted to confirm her fears though also run away from them.

Tentatively, she tilted the package her way, peeking into the mailer for a mere second before a gasp ripped forth from her throat, tossing the offending object across the room.

"(y/n)?" Jinyoung was immediately by her side, movie abandoned as he focused on the panicked girl hyperventilating and staring at the thrown package. His hands wandered about, brushing back her hair, stroking away her tears, squeezing her shoulder, anything to get her back to reality. "(y/n), talk to me. What's going on?"

She was silent. Her throat had constricted upon itself. The room seemed to sway in this infinitesimal spiral, as if her body wanted to shut down, though her brain refused to go unconscious. This painstaking tug of war that left her absolutely deteriorated.

There was a momentary lapse in her demeanor as Jinyoung's presence anchored her to reality. His soft and warm touch grounding her when she could have drifted off long ago. His sweet whispers murmured into her ear, drawing her away from the accursed object lying at the other end of the room. And she was once more glad to have Jinyoung by her side, lulling her to a rare yet ever so peaceful slumber.

When she wakes up, she'll explain it to him. She'll explain how weeks ago, as she did her laundry, she realized her favorite undergarment had all but disappeared. She'll explain how she searched high and low yet couldn't find it anywhere. She'll explain how she briefly forgot about it from how long it's been.

She'll explain how she finally found them—in an anonymous package delivered to her.

"Is this the last of it?" Jinyoung's voice sounded from behind (y/n) as she stood amongst a sea of boxes. A quick scan of the room, listless and barely even acknowledging anything, she turned to Jinyoung with a nod.

"Yeah… That's all of them."

"Are you sure?" He asked again, stepping into the room to stand beside her. She looked around again, though now she felt even less concentrated on the matter as his gentle touch once more rested on her, warmth penetrating through her sweater and stirring a sense of comfort in her conflicted mind.

Another nod, along with a brief and assured smile, and Jinyoung finally seemed sated. He glanced around alongside her, eyes scanning the many boxes scattered about his guest room.

"We'll get to packing after we eat, yeah? What would you like?"

"You can order whatever."

"I want to eat what you want to eat."

Her cheeks warmed under his attentive gaze, muttering something about giving her time to think as she wandered out into the main living area of his apartment—of course, with Jinyoung in tow.

As if he hadn't done enough for her as is, the moment that horrid package arrived at her home, Jinyoung had all but insisted she live with him. At least for the time being. Until she can find her bearings. Find a solution to this ordeal.

It had taken some insisting on his part, as she didn't want to burden Jinyoung anymore than she already had. He urged her into accepting, anguishing over the possibility of her being harmed while he's not there for her. How tormented he'd feel if she were to ever get hurt. And no matter how much she wanted to reject his proposal, insist that she could return home to her parents whilst she figure out the ordeal, she felt compelled to accept his offer. His soothing warmth encompassing her as she wept into his chest, the low timbre of his hushed voice quelling her frightened soul. Jinyoung felt like safety.

His apartment reflected his personage well. As if a perfectly crafted haven for her. Decorating which fit her tastes to a tee, kitchen stocked with all of the foods she loved to eat, even her favorite candle scent filling the air whenever she walked around. Her room as well carried this sense of home with it. Even with the swarm of boxes stacked within it, it felt like she belonged there.

All of this was only a mere factor of her new happy living situation, as the primary source of that security came with Jinyoung's presence. Those texts she had always loved receiving now transitioned into little sticky notes everywhere. Reminders to eat and take care of herself, to text him when she wakes up, silly jokes to brighten up her day. And when he'd arrive home to see her seated at his couch, the mirthful smile that would spread on his face all but melted her heart. The grins he'd give her as they cooked dinner together, watched movies together, existed as one together.

Perhaps that's why she wasn't too shocked when Jinyoung one day asked her to be his.

A sweet and simple declaration of love. With full stomachs and wine muddled minds, he professed how he felt whilst they sat in the living room, movie long forgotten as their conversation hit uncharted waters. His thumb smoothed over her knuckles, eyes ardently staring into her own as he spoke. It was undeniable now how smitten she was with him, something she hadn't truly processed with all that had been conspiring in her life. Though now with the light of the moon seeping into their home, intermingling with the warm orange glow of the lamps, movie droning on as mere white noise in the background, and Jinyoung's adoration practically radiating off of him in waves, she felt it near impossible to reject him. A shy smile and a whispered acceptance, their fates were sealed with a deep and passionate kiss.

A whirlwind romance that seemed too good to be true. Sticky notes exchanged for morning whispers and good night kisses. Cuddles on the couch, Jinyoung's soft and tender touch lulling her into a state of tranquility. As if nothing could ever harm her again. And for a moment, she had forgotten what had led to such happiness. What trials she had gone through to get where she was now.

It was almost scary how quickly she had forgotten what lay outside the safety of Jinyoung's apartment. Even the brief outings with her friends seemed to never spark that subconscious paranoia that had lay resilient up to this point. Her social media had returned to its state of normalcy. Live sessions were back to how they once were. Comment sections were filled with their usual dynamics of love and hate. And through a bit of hesitancy on her part, after checking the account that had been tormenting her—DanteanNomad—she was pleased to learn he had gone radio silent.

It seemed things were back to normal. And there was only one thing left to take care of.

"What?" Jinyoung asked, voice low as he looked up from his dinner plate.

"I think I should move back home." He remained silent, staring at her through his lashes with furrowed eyebrows. She took that as a sign to continue on either way. "I mean, your solution worked! I've been safe and protected this whole time. To be honest, perhaps a little coddled at this point." She laughed, though Jinyoung again stayed quiet. "There's no activity anymore. I think it's safe to go back home."

"I don't understand." Jinyoung put down his fork with a clatter, hands wringing together and resting against his mouth. "What about this place isn't home to you? Is it the guest room? You can just sleep with me in my room. Is the food not satisfactory? Are you not happy with the couch or the TV?"

"Jinyoung," (y/n) cut him off, a chuckle of disbelief expelling from her lips. "It has nothing to do with you at all! I don't know how you could have come to that conclusion. You've been nothing but supportive of me." His eyes seemed to endlessly pierce into her, still waiting for a valid explanation. "I just think… We should have space."

The silence was near deafening. The kind of silence where your ears ring to fill the void. A thick tension filled the atmosphere, this heaviness lingering in the room that felt almost suffocating in a sense. And Jinyoung's eyes remained trained on her. Gone were the warm and loving eyes of her lover. The eyes that would crinkle every time he laughed. The protective eyes she'd wake up to, already watching and waiting for her to wake, too. There was no comfort in his gaze now, replaced only by a dark, cold, unforgiving emptiness that twisted her gut into knots.

"Space?" He asked, eyebrow quirking up at the word he all but spat out.

"Jinyoung…" Her voice was wary, barely even spoken above her breath. "I don't want to rush through things. You have to understand. I want things to be as natural as possible. I don't want to jump into certain stages of our relationship that we're not ready for." Her hand shook as she reached across the table for him. His eyes lazily drifted to her hand and back to her, and after a few seconds, he reluctantly held her hand in his. Though the comfort she sought in his hold was hard to find, his touch feeling cold, uncaring almost. "If you think about it, you'll feel even more excited to see me when we meet. Distance makes the heart grow fonder."

The remainder of the night was perhaps the strangest she's ever seen Jinyoung be. He walked about the apartment like a robot. Eyes distant and calculating. Posture tense and brooding. He cleared the table, cleaned the dishes, prepared dessert, all in utter silence. Even on the couch, his demeanor remained as is. It was as if it didn't matter how close she got to him. The little kisses she pressed to his jaw to try and awaken him from this state. The swirled patterns she'd trace along his chest. Jinyoung stayed in this perpetual state of solitude. And if she wasn't mistaken, it looked almost as if he was thinking. So deep in thought that he barely even processed when the movie ended and she got up to go to bed. A final kiss goodnight, and she went to her room.

The next day was like a complete switch from the night before, with the return of her loving and affectionate Jinyoung. He helped her pack any necessary items, insisting she keep everything else here for whenever she sleeps over. He helped return her home, checked the premises to make sure she was safe, and even helped her unpack afterwards. To top it all off, he decided to stay over, and she couldn't have been more delighted to have this Jinyoung back, cherishing the cozy embrace of his arms around her again.

Like that, she entered another state of normalcy. A combination of her days before the online occurrences and her days after meeting Jinyoung. They'd spend their free time together, go out on dates with one another, alternate houses for movie night. She had to relearn how to live on her own, but the joy of living life without any fear made up for any discomforts she may have felt.

Life was perfect.

(y/n) closed the door behind her with a huff, tossing the sponsored packages she received onto the floor. With a heavy sigh, she trudged through the darkness of her house and into the kitchen, fishing out a water bottle from the fridge before turning to find the light switch. Though as she did so, she was greeted by the sight of flowers on her counter.

It was a rather obscure sight to behold. A clash of purples and yellows and blues. The ones she could identify were baby's breath. So, so many. Practically pooling out of the feeble vase the flowers were tucked away into. Turning the vase around, she searched for a note. Perhaps Jinyoung brought them in whilst she was out. Though when she did find the slip of paper she had wanted, it was empty. Virtually no writing at all. And while she was momentarily stumped, a brief flash of a memory sparked in her head. The memory of an equally blank return address.

A gasp surged forth from her throat, backing away from the flowers until she was pressed against the wall. She clutched her phone, ready to call for help as she slipped out of the kitchen. But then she took a gander at the living room.

The first thing that caught her eye was the pop of green suddenly in her vision—a moss green couch. Atop it were pillows that complemented its shade, and a throw blanket across the cushions. The walls were adorned with artworks she admired, bookshelves contained trinkets she fawned over. And atop the coffee table lay a candle of her favorite scent.

All of these things were mere fantasies to her, nothing more than fleeting desires for a future home. Added to a wishlist of her own to track them for future reference. Yet now resided in her living room as if always having belonged to her.

At this point, her mind was racing, heart beating out of her chest. Her eyes darted around her home to find that practically everything was unfamiliar to her. Paintings, vases, furniture, plants. Everything was different. Everything was what she had always wanted. Yet she had bought none of it.

In a surge of mindless panic, she bolted out of the living room and down the hall, eyes downcast so as to not see the walls lined with more unfamiliar decor. Once inside the sanctity of her bedroom, she planned on calling for help. Whether it be from her friends, the authorities, Jinyoung, someone had to come and save her from this hellscape of a house.

She all but shoved open the door, nerves alight with utter fear from what she had just experienced. Her hand clutched the phone like a lifeline, just about ready to call emergency services before she caught sight of what had become of her room. What nightmare had unfolded in the place she once considered her sanctuary.

Every square inch of wall.

Every available surface.

Every single speck of her room.

All of it was plastered with photos. Photos of her.

Ones printed from her social media just last week, ones from years ago, ones she had deleted immediately after posting, ones she didn't even remember taking. Shots of her walking around town with her friends or spending time on her own out and about, like the ones sent to her in the mail, yet these she had never seen before.

There were shots from her window as she did her makeup. Shots of her changing, though with horizontal dark lines obscuring the full images—grates from her louvered closet door… as if having been taken from within.

Photos of her sleeping in her bed... taken from right above her.

She stumbled back, a gasp catching in her throat as her pulse thundered in her ears. A whispered sob spilled from her lips, and then a defeated, mortified shriek as she crumbled in upon herself. Her body coiled into a fetal position, face burying itself into her knees. Her one refuge which hadn't been violated by this sickening invasion.

She didn't know for how long she remained there until Jinyoung soon came, the familiarity of his voice calling out to her relieving her anguish almost instantaneously. A remedy to her every ailment. (y/n) felt his hands roam across her, gathering her limp body into his own sturdy one, cradling her to him in his protective embrace. He littered her face with soft kisses, brushing away her tears and whispering reassurances to her. If he was shocked by the surrounding area, she hadn't been made aware, mindlessly nestling further into his body and crying out the last of her tears.

"Jinyoung," she muttered weakly, voice battered and defeated. He hummed softly, fingers gently carding through her hair as he rocked the two to and fro. Her eyes were shut, face pressed into the crevice of his neck, hiding away from the horrors of the world, the horrors of what she once perceived as her home. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, my love," he responded, voice mellow and steady. The vibrations from his chest soothed (y/n) as she grew more distant from her surroundings.

"I want to go home."

Those words were like music to his ears.

Everything he had ever strove for. Everything he had ever wanted in life. Like a confirmation that all of his hard work, all of the trials he'd gone through, had finally paid off. He had finally obtained his one sole desire—and he wasn't letting her go ever again.

A smile crept onto his face, a twisted and manic grin as his arms coiled around her tighter, claiming her as a constrictor does its victim. Taking a look around at the memories he had captured of her ever since he first met (y/n) online, he felt triumphant. Succeeding in both capturing (y/n) whilst simultaneously proving how she can never be safe without him. Victory was sweet, but this false vindication for a situation he himself conjured felt somehow even sweeter.

"Of course, my love. Let's go home."

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plantinghobbies · 7 months

Text

Growing Pains

Two: Sure I’d Never Be Found

Author’s Note: Back from some traveling and finally had dedicated time to write. I’ve been overwhelmed by the support for the first chapter. Thank you so much, revisiting your notes kept me motivated when I struggled to focus or hit a block. The incredible @solipsisticno1 also helped keep my ass in gear. This’ll be a fast and slow burn (I’m a Gemini so cannot escape my love for duality). Welcome all constructive critique, favorite parts, questions, etc - so grateful for any and all feedback. Ok, here’s more of Tess and Matty.

It’s the longest he’s spent near mountains since he left home. Growing up, the idea of vastness had scared him; he doesn’t like to be reminded of how small and microscopic his existence is in the very grand scheme of things. Sometimes, he’ll lie awake at night fixated on just how tenuous life is, how quickly something outside of his control could end it. He wonders what he’d be remembered for – his art or his infamy? On particularly bad days, he wonders if he’d be remembered for long at all.

But the panoramic views of the peaks from the house the label rented him have the opposite effect. After years of touring in cramped bunks and living in packed cities, he feels the space around him palpably, like he’s been curled into a ball for too long and is finally able to stretch out.

When he’d announced his plans to spend the band’s hiatus working on some solo material with Jack in the States, he’d been most nervous about telling his band mates. Even though they’d always been supportive of each other branching out in various ways, this felt different somehow. It was one thing for George to work on remixing the odd single or producing with other artists, it was quite another to put out a whole solo record as Matty was planning, with a potential tour as well. But, as they had for the last twenty years, the guys had his back one hundred percent.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the call from his mum that came in the night before he left. She’d seemed antsy when he’d seen her for a bon voyage dinner two nights ago, but he chalked it up to her not wanting to say goodbye.

“Matthew, I’m still not sure if I should even be telling you this, had to really talk myself up to it. But I know I’d be kicking myself later if something happened.” There’s a tremor in her voice that he hasn’t heard in years.

Oh God, he thinks, she’s sick. Worse, she’s dying. His mind already flashing to her funeral, him attempting to perform a song for her before he breaks down in tears, failing her in this final act.

“You know I am so proud of you, and I wouldn’t ever dream of questioning your sobriety. But you’ve never been on your own like this without your support system – and lord knows neither have I – but it’s not easy. So I just need to say be careful, be vigilant, ask for help when you need it. I’m a plane ride away.”

The indignation that reared up at him was visceral. 34 years old, several years in recovery, and she still didn’t trust him. Looking back, he knows he could have handled it better. He’s proud of himself for not blowing up at her, something a younger version of him would have absolutely done. But he knows he was curt, wanting to punish her, inflict hurt like what had welled up in him at the thought that his own mum doubted him.

After the first few days of wandering his house, un-showered and aimless, he’d begun to see what his mother meant. The process of writing and recording is inherently unstructured, at least for him, filled with days where he does nothing and nights of manic activity. It’s him, sitting around with his own thoughts, picking at the scabs and scar tissue of his past. He didn’t realize how much he relied on the rhythm of others - the band, the tour - to provide structure for him. For the first time in his life, he is without those things, and the space that it creates feels like a blessing and a curse.

In the couple of weeks since, he’s settled in a bit more, has found a gym and can now navigate to Jack’s studio and back without relying on his phone. The word routine has always rubbed him the wrong way, evoking images and associations that make him uneasy. Boring. Pedestrian. Old. When he left rehab, they’d armed him with a written routine to help ease his transition back to his “everyday life.” It was cookie cutter shit that he hadn’t even done in rehab, let alone out of it – daily meditation, making his bed, a gratitude journal. One glance at the word and the list of to-dos had him pulling up his dealer’s number before the plane had even landed.

When he finally got clean for good, a new therapist suggested he develop a structure in lieu of a routine. At first, Matty didn’t understand the difference, and he’d worried that he’d once again sunk a ton of time into bettering himself only for the system to fail him.

“What do you like to do for fun?” His therapist, David, asked. The question caught him off guard, he was expecting the beginnings of a diatribe on the benefits of eating healthy.

“You mean, besides heroin?” Matty often tried to get a rise out of David but had yet to succeed, his shit-eating grin met with nothing more than a stoic quiet. Sometimes, when he was bored or couldn’t focus during their session, he’d imagine what David’s home life was like. What does this guy do for fun? Is he a Saturday golfer and Sunday churchgoer like he looks? Or does David leave the prim façade at work, shedding his tweed jacket on his way to a BDSM club or an after-hours rave?

Finally, David indulges him. “Yes, besides heroin.”

That was easy. “Music.”

“Ok, but music is also your job, which can be a source of stress. What do you like to do besides making music?”

He’s embarrassed to admit he’s a bit stumped. Over the years, he’s amassed a laundry list of abandoned hobbies – some lasting for a few days, others a few months. But only one has ever lasted long-term. Well, social media but that’s more of a habit he’s adopted to avoid other, worse vices.

“Umm, honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t really ever been able to keep up with one long-term besides writing songs.”

“Ok” David smiled “let’s start there.”

In the end, he was glad that he stuck with it. Nowadays, Matty had a simple list of things that he liked to do that help him feel his best – he isn’t regimented about doing them, which he thinks is how he’s been able to stick with it for so long. They didn’t cure his addictive cravings but they kept them at bay. He still resented the amount of effort that was required for him to have a “normal” day - but it was better than the alternative.

Given how late he got in from the studio the night before, he should still be in bed. He and Jack had been holed up for almost two days straight, capitalizing on a burst of creative energy that had them laying down the rough cuts of three songs and the outlines of a fourth. When Jack had finally gone home to Margaret, he’d kicked Matty out of the studio as well, demanding that he shower, eat and sleep – in that order. He’d caught a few hours of shut eye but the chord progression he’s stuck on has him unable to quiet his mind enough to rest. What’s new? Unable to even muster the focus needed to make tea, he settles for coffee instead. The expensive coffee machine gurgles next to him as he stares out the window, realizing that he can’t remember the last time he’d been outside. Maybe “touching grass” (he refuses to admit that he might be too old for certain phrases) would help unstick it?

It’s the first time the front porch has seen any action since his arrival and he takes a minute to get situated, shifting his chair this way and that. Finally satisfied, he looks up just in time to catch the vaguely familiar side profile of a woman walking by with her dog. Before the image registers in his brain, she’s gone. He finishes his coffee then heads out to jui jitsui before meeting Jack.

That afternoon is one of the most productive days in the studio so far, he feels like they’re getting somewhere. He’s desperate to sustain the momentum, to try to quell the intrusive, insecure thoughts that he can’t do this on his own. No amount of encouragement from Jack has helped, he needs to see it for himself.

He’s not above relying on superstition and decides to do everything the same the next day, including watching the sunrise on the porch, staring at the coffee as he swirls his mug. The jingling of a leash has him tilting his head up, eyes journeying up long legs, tracing an hourglass figure that had been hidden by the bar, meeting her piercing eyes – yep, that’s her. He leans forward in his seat, casting about for a witty comment to put her on her heels the way she had put him on his with that story the other night. But he doesn’t get a chance, her eyes seeming to look right through him as she passes by.

At first, he convinces himself that she just didn’t see him, unable to accept that he hadn’t left any impression on this woman. The next few days find him inching his chair closer and closer to the sidewalk each morning, but her and her dog just sail past without a second glance, seemingly immune to his presence. And listen, he’s not a dickhead - it’s not like she owes him any acknowledgement. He understands more than most how rare uninterrupted time to yourself can be in this day and age. But he hears her daily greeting to the older man who sits on his porch reading the paper a few doors down! So, it feels like she’s ignoring him specifically and intentionally – and the question of why is driving him mad. It scratches at sensitive scar tissue where his admittedly oversized ego meets a more fragile self-esteem, seizes on feelings of being unremarkable and weaponizes them. Has his overactive mind casting about for various reasons for her silence, most of them bad. She doesn’t recognize him, not even from the other night. Or worse, she does.

The rest of the week in the studio is a bit of a wash.

Saturday finds him bored and antsy, with little to do and even less motivation. Trying to occupy himself, he sets his sights more firmly on getting a rise out of her, any acknowledgement really. Just to get her to crack once, he tells himself, and then he’ll leave it be. He doesn’t dwell on why he gets so bothered by apathy, physically shakes away memories that surface uninvited in his mind - his mother’s glazed expressions, his exhaustive attempts to garner her attention. Getting a reaction from people was his coping mechanism long before it was his job.

Pulling the Adirondack chair - so cliche but also so bloody comfortable – right up to the fence, he positions it at an angle in clear view of the sidewalk. Sure enough, as she approaches, her eyes land on him from behind her sunglasses. He only knows this because her step falters slightly, head dipping into the barest of nods as she passes. The thrill that Matty gets from even this subtlest reaction is a welcome change from the monotony of the last few weeks. He can imagine what George would say if he saw this “Christ mate, you’ve got to get out more.” But George isn’t here, none of them are – and that’s the problem isn’t it?

The next day, it becomes clear that she is, in fact, fucking with him. She’s walking toward him, her mouth opens to speak – Matty slides forward in his chair at the sight, ready to declare victory – and then curls it into a smirk at his earnest reaction. It’s obvious enough that it had to be intentional. Oh, game on.

His tendency to hyper-fixate is a blessing and a curse, making him a better artist but an occasionally insufferable human. He’s determined to not let her get the best of him this time around, spending downtime in the studio brainstorming how to get her to break first. The answer comes to him as he’s standing outside, having a cigarette between writing sessions. The sign hanging in the window across the street is just too cringe, too cliche, too absolutely perfect to ignore and Matty strolls out of the store with it not two minutes later.

The next morning, he’s giddy with anticipation. As she turns the corner her head is down, almost as if she’s determined not to see or been seen. At the last second though, she glances up and clocks the sign leaning against the outside of the fence right, him seated next to it with a sly smirk on his face. She stops, stares, and then - right as he’s certain she’s going to maintain their silent standoff - she barks out a laugh. It is loud and raucous and feels like a well-won prize after two weeks of continuous effort.

“Oh my god, where did you get that?” She seems surprised to hear the sound of her own voice. If she’s disappointed that she’s “lost,” it doesn’t show. He begins to tell her, in his trademark roundabout way, a winding story about the fucking writing block that him and Jack ran into which led to him being outside, to seeing the store but then back around to the song that he was working on. She is nodding along but glances at her watch twice, the dog trying to pull her to keep moving, bored of him. She opens her mouth to interrupt him, a split-second pause where she huffs and seems to question herself, before rushing out with “Listen, I gotta get this guy to the park or he’ll have a meltdown, you can tell me the rest as we walk.”

She walks on, not giving him a chance to respond as he hustles to catch up with them. He meets her on the sidewalk the next morning, not giving her a chance to pass him by again.

#Matty Healy fanfiction #Matty Healy fanfic #the 1975 #the 1975 fanfic

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k1yamaluvskaiser · 2 years

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utopia.

❧ a cylou shortfic. [ reincarnation!au ] ✧ genre ; angst / comfort [ reincarnation - reunion ] ✧ warning/s ; slight spoilers , death mentions ♡ ✧ taken from my twitter hcs { @nymphxlia } ✧ word count ; 1,341 / character count ; 7,464

extra notes // i cried writing this, so you better do the same <3 ✧ cynonari - cynari shippers ; pls dni with my blog.

the scarlet king, driven to madness after discovering of his love's death, swore an oath to find his beloved deity of flowers again. no matter how many eons passed, no matter how many lives it would take, he was going to search for her time and time again, until he succeeded. he would not stop at any rate, not at any cost.

he fell to his knees, feeling his body disintegrate into grains of sand. the scarlet king raised his head and smiled, for the first time in archons know how long. despite his vocal chords being long spent after decades of endless mourning, he chanted his final words, as he closed his eyes and let death overcome his consciousness.

"until we meet again, my dear."

now, centuries later, in the theatre of zubayr, stood a young lady. a dancer, following in the footsteps of the goddess of flowers as to perform the sacred dance of sabzerus to commemorate the day of lesser lord kusanali's birthday.

the lights around the bazaar dimmed, leaving only a spotlight for the red-haired girl.

it was like a dream-- no, a dream come true.

wherever she stepped, strings of golden dust would float and swirl around her delicate figure. the flower arrangements that sat behind her as props changed, and instead of the common sumerian flowers, there now sat a miraculous flora that was only rumoured to be a legend.

the padisarah, a flower that would only bloom on the ground that the goddess of flowers danced on. hundreds of them bloomed from the pots of dirt that stood behind the young lady as she gracefully danced.

it was an understatement to say that the audience was awed by her. they were absolutely enthralled. gasps and whispers passed around the crowd as the people tried to process how an ordinary girl like nilou was able to put own such a show like she was doing now.

however, one bystander in particular, saw beyond just the flying golden dust, the miraculous flowers, and the magical aura that seemed to surround the girl.

in most situations, you wouldn't find the general mahamatra to be standing in a crowd of fans, especially just to watch a girl perform a silly little dance for some archon that he didn't even really believe in. after all, arts were just viewed as a disgrace to the akademiya, and braniacs like them had no time for such trivial matters.

cyno wasn't even supposed to be there, standing idly in an audience. the main reason why he came to the bustling city was not to attend the banquet, but to meet with the other matras and sages over urgent matters. however, when he heard passerby's hurriedly rushing into the grand bazaar, giggling and squealing about miss nilou's performance of the dance of sabzeruz, he felt a sudden batter ongoing in his chest.

the feeling was indescribable. it was like his gut was being squeezed and twisted diabolically. like some unknown spirit was telling him to follow suit inside to the theatre. now, it was just in now way possible that the feeling could have been his own. cyno wasn't passionate about arts, hell he didn't even know about that lady, nilou. however, he was unable to resist against the feeling, and he obliged, giving in to the strange desire.

now there, the general mahamatra stood, spellbound as he carefully took in the details of nilou's every move while she performed in all her elegance. he felt himself getting lost in the moment, forgetting all about the world and its' cares. the only thing his mind focused on was nilou, and her alone.

then, there was a feeling that arose from his heart when the young ladies' big, teal eyes locked with his own.

for the longest time, cyno had this yearning for something-- someone. and for as long as cyno could remember, it caused an excruciatingly painful emptiness in him when he was unable to satiate it.

and in that moment, he felt complete.

that emptiness, when he felt himself being sucked into what felt like a black hole as he stared into nilou's eyes, it was gone, completely. a piece, that one missing piece of his life's little jigsaw puzzle, he had found it.

and it was in her eyes.

nilou felt herself slowing down, her movements coming to a cease as her eyes met the matra's. the music continued, despite her lack of action, and the crowd began to mumble incoherent things. inside her head, she was screaming, pleading, even begging herself to keep moving, to break away from cyno's gaze and finish the sacred dance.

but she couldn't. she just... couldn't.

an uncanny feeling started to bloom in her chest, and it felt like a bed of flowers was sprouting from her insides. her vision became fuzzy, like dust was blurring her line of view so she could only focus on the general, and him only.

then, a voice inside her head commanded her to move.

it felt like strings were pulling her limbs to budge, as she slowly regained her ability to move.

but nilou didn't move to the music that the instrumentalists played. she didn't move to dance. she didn't move to even excuse herself from the stage.

she moved, taking slow steps forward, before bursting into a full on sprint, leaving the dance for the one thing she could only feel to care about in that moment.

like cyno had heard that same voice in his own head, he came running forward on instinct, with full intention to bring nilou into his long-awaited embrace.

his arms wrapped around her waist, and her hands found their way to his face. as they eased into each other's hold, their souls melted together, and it just felt so right.

centuries of endless yearning and desire, and the two souls finally found one another. they were each the missing piece of the other, and their souls, much like a jigsaw, were complete.

the crowd around them stared and whispered a many scandalous things, but the two didn't care-- much more even notice. they were focused on each other's eyes, drowning themselves in one another. whatever was going on above the reservoir, was blurred.

nilou parted her lips to speak, but it didn't even take a second before cyno lifted her off her feet and held her carefully. "i've found you. i... i found--- you." he mumbled as he closed his eyes and rested his face in her soft red locks. "i may not know who you are now, but my soul... it calls out to you-- it needs you... it knows you, and when i came running into your arms, i just felt so--"

"complete. i know. i felt just the same when i saw you on that stage. you captured my mind, body, heart and soul, even if i've never spoken to you before. our souls must recognize each other, somehow..."

there was a flutter in nilou's chest as the matra held her closer, and in his head, he felt it going fuzzy from the euphoria.

their eternal love for each other even after hundreds of centuries,

their undying desire to reunite and love each other all over again,

their countless human manifestations to achieve such a simple goal,

this, was true love.

this, was the love of the scarlet king and the goddess of flowers.

the ancient kingdom they once swore to create, thousands of years ago, was long gone; but this...?

this was the beginning of a new dynasty.

the civilization that the scarlet king so vigorously chased to achieve while driven by madness. the kingdom that the goddess of flowers dreamt to fulfil in her final and dying moments...

this, was the beginning of a new utopia-- their utopia, ruled by a king and his queen, reborn again after centuries of endlessly searching for one other.

and this time, the scarlet king and his goddess of flowers were finally together, reunited by fate, to rule it together.

fin. <3

#genshin #genshin impact #cyno #nilou #cylou #cyno genshin impact #nilou genshin impact #cyno x nilou #nilou fanart #cyno fanart #genshin impact cyno x nilou #genshin impact cylou #cynonari shippers DNI #cynari shippers DNI #i love cylou so much #cylou<3 #cylou my beloved #I LOVE THESE TWO SM OH MY GOOOOADDDD

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lilac-gold · 10 months

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Why Rococo and the Unbread Twins should absolutely be best friends

Point 1: They've all been locked away somewhere for years

Rococo has been trapped in the walls of Sweetheart's castle for all of his young adulthood, and Doughie & Biscuit have been stuck in Breaven for centuries. They're all touch-starved and lonely, the Unbread Twins having only each other while Rococo has nobody. He deserves bread deities to help him out and they deserve a funny elf who can make them feel better and draw them pictures. They've all hidden away from the outside world for years and are still recovering from their time spent isolated, so can help each other through the healing process and bond over experiences

Point 2: They're all terrible at social interactions

Rococo is overdramatic, has quickly fluctuating moods and a fragile state of mental stability, and has no clue on how to communicate with people anymore. The Unbread Twins are formal, speaking in a manner considered odd by everyone else and communicating as one entity, and they have no clue on how to communicate with people anymore. Together, these three's horrible social skills would balance out so they can just blurt out the most random stuff and have the longest stretches of silence without anything getting weird or awkward. They help each other out of talking to people when it's unnecessary and they're uncomfortable, work on improving, and don't care that the others are horrible at social cues & having normal conversations

Point 3: Rococo is rich

Wait a second here, and hear me out. After Doughie and Biscuit leave Breaven and go out into Headspace, they end up at the Last Resort. There, they get addicted to gambling and lose all of their clams- "we're not very good at this, are we Biscuit?- so they're left with no money. Since Pluto is a travel agency and the taxi driver a taxi, it would make sense that they charge for their services, but the Unbread Twins don't have anything to pay with, so they're kind of stuck and really regretting their choice to leave Breaven. Meanwhile, Rococo's been gathering 106,000 clams solely from Omori and co's commissions. He's rich, and now he's perfected his artistic ability so he's only going to earn more. If they become friends, he can help them out with money :)

Point 4: They can travel together!

Since the three of them have been trapped in one place for so long, they'd love exploring Headspace together. They can feel familiarity and a little bitterness at seeing Orange Oasis again, marvel at how pretty Otherworld is (Rococo totally drags them along to the junkyard to get inspiration for his art), avoid SWH's castle like the plague until the two of them help Rococo confront her and they explain why locking someone in the walls for years is a really terrible thing to do (she doesn't really care about them but she's hardly going to anger the literal gods she grew up learning about & respecting). They look around Deeper Well and meet Snaley and fawn over him bc he deserves it. They pay a visit to Vast Forest and enjoy its tranquility, especially in the little sky island windmill area. Kite Kid's chill with them. All of them get reacquainted with the world they've missed while finding new changes along the way! They'd make such good travel buddies <3 (Rococo pays for everything afjdbhdk <33)

Point 5: The Unbread Twins can bake

Look, I love Rococo, but he's definitely an atrocious cook. The guy's been living off of old, stale toast on the dungeon floors for years, and 1) that's probably the souls of the skeletons Sweetheart executed which is super messed-up, & 2) old toast is really gross. No butter or anything ick. Just soggy, stale lumps of burnt-ish bread. Then the Unbread Twins make him actually good bread and Rococo adores it. He's not had real food in years and they've been perfecting their baked goods since the beginning of the universe. They give him food that is actually edible and tasty and teach him how to use a holy oven/kitchen and forgive him when he burns the bread and sets the oven on fire and has a minor breakdown about it <3

Point 6: Rococo can potentially understand Biscuit

Since he grew up in Orange Oasis, where the Unbread Twins were essentially worshipped, he probably knows quite a bit about their history. It seems that Biscuit's way of speaking is a language in of itself, and one that could be derived from a more ancient period in OO. Growing up there, Rococo and Sweetheart could have learnt it, so Rococo has the potential to be able to understand what Biscuit is saying :)

Point 7: They're all chaotic messes

The Unbread Twins look at a group of children and are immediately convinced that they're living bread that's come back to haunt the two of them. Rococo looks at the same group of children and immediately begs them to listen to his tragic backstory. Doughie and Biscuit leave their prison for the first time in centuries and immediately get a gambling addiction. Rococo gets a hobby and immediately starts progressing at the speed of light until he can make hyper-realistic paintings out of a random paintbrush he found in the walls. Doughie and Biscuit immediately lose everything they own as a result of the gambling addiction. Rococo gets rich and immediately upgrades his wall room instead of actually moving out. They're all idiots and disasters and they would get along so well. Who has the braincell today? Probably Bowen, but who knows?

Point 8: They all believe that have a set purpose in life and need to overcome that idea

Rococo has apparently 'known' since he was a baby that the only reason he exists is to repopulate his species. Doughie and Biscuit have been doomed since the start of time to spend forever locked away baking bread. However, Rococo's courting of Sweetheart ends horribly and there's no other elf to make babies of the species with anyway. And the Unbread Twins are absolutely miserable baking bread every second of their lives. Rococo finds a new purpose in art, but then he masters it insanely quickly, so is left with nothing to do. Doughie and Biscuit decide to leave Breaven after their confrontation with Omori, but have no purpose anymore (or money lol). Together, they can find new goals and figure out that hey, maybe they don't need a predetermined function to base their entire existences off of

There's so much more to explore with this dynamic, from Rococo and Spaceboy having a We're Both Sweetheart's Exes Omg moment while Doughie and Biscuit hover protectively in the background to Rococo giving these emotionally 16 gods a parental figure. Well. He's more of the chaotic weirdo uncle, but still. There's no way that the twins have developed mentally or emotionally at all when they've spent their lives trapped making bread with 0 guidance or learning and they're literally immortal so most likely age a lot slower. They're also all predominantly sad emotion-wise, the Unbread Twins' emotional state going from sad -> depressed -> miserable in their fight while Rococo cries over the idea of being left alone again and at memories of his past. They deserve to find happiness together :")

Let them be friends and go on adventures together <33 They have such a fun dynamic to explore <333

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madfantasy · 2 years

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Dear Blogging

Hope ur doing well🍀

When I realise my updates are futher apart in time, it makes me sad. I don't have much new to say, I am in the same trance following no time yet feeling every passing second. In progress that I can't feel because of how much I'm used to pain and nothingness. I am okay, finally had the brain power to make words today, the last months were exceptionally difficult as I mentioned the unrelenting near 50° heat. And for the majority of that time I spent it without any means to cool off, which periodically made me sick and kept me in bed too long. Even more bits of my teeth broke off, rendering me unable to smile or eat without jolts of pain. My unstable network provider topping off the misery.

Since I moved to my "sunny room" I couldn't use the net I waste money on for because of the weak signal, so I had not much sources of distractions or solace. Nothing separating me from the continuous good old times; living in absolute isolation. I don't think I have online connections anymore and wouldn't blame anyone for forgetting me. I'm sorry, I feel absolutely disconnected, I don't know what I want or what to do or how to dare be involved. And in all honesty, I am functioning on 1% energy spent on drawing..

I was trying to have a goal to compete that, to keep my faith up and have hope and project it. Wanting a red and black room was one, but I gave up on it because I didn't have enough work to afford it, and really the experience of buying stuff online only to find the advertised color was a lie, specially if its red was a huge waste of time and money. And my guardians fed up with me asking them to return things, ungraciously. I liked my room eventually

After prolonged periods of depression, I found myself longing for my traditional art, flicking through my old diary. I craved to return able to draw on paper again, and the few times I tried, memories, good and bad gushed through. Relived again how it was to draw in secret and to love things you are constantly told are not for you or called it not natural and be punished severely for.. just made me cry over how culture always just hurt for the sake of hurting and uses religion as a loose cape, mourning them using it to exclude while it was something aimed to be harmonious with all and they never focus on being actual good people over keeping appearances.. for the longest time making me wonder if something was actually wrong with me beyond just being different than them.. now there's plethora of mental things thanks to their abuse. Starting with my inability to look at people without feeling quick to panic discomfort. Making me see this isolation as they say, a "blessing in disguise ". I don't know how to take that as, tbh, I still to this day get nightmares of when I used to live in big houses with multiple families, or the endless schools I went to.

I started drawing on paper bit by bit. The minute I find myself overwhelmed I stop. With time I felt I can enjoy it again, and recalled all what passer through my mind as kid, how I fantasised of owning the chunkiest coloring tin or the thickest drawing paper. So decided to get sketchbooks and notebooks and try everything new, I didn't care

I didn't know where to start, so I got randomly selected sketchbook and one lockable journal, so I can hopefully write diary again like i used to. I show everything i get to them but already Guardians couldn't help themselves and flick though it, I didn't say anything but my inside automatically clinched and turned into an angry imp snatching to have it back, like i used to actually react when they searched my school things for doodles.

I changed the lock c:

I learned of the existence of more mechanical pencil sizes so I got every possible one, carefully not breaking my law of owning only red and black things, hehe. Also some essentials so my guardians won't comment on my spending ways. Like a tooth brush, and the best bonnet ever. I also got myself a backpack for my pen people to live in, for the longest time I wanted a shark backpack but this one just screamed Mani (it was cheaper 😝). As kid I had a red bag with snoopy's face on it, it was my literal safe zone that I carried it everywhere, pretended to travel in cardboard boxes with and had many garbage things stored in it that ment something dear to me, already that blissful feeling is regenerated when i wore it. And hopefully next month I get work to buy colors..

I got my eyes on those atm

(Also something funny, I can promise you I got the talk about devil worship from them for getting horns, and here's the thing; they know about the actual sketchy devil worship practices, its a common knowledge in our surroundings. To me, having red horns it felt Mani like, style euphoria, I love being a polite naughty gentlethem and that spoke of it clearly to me so I didn't care too much)

I also in my careless defiance rush, bought a shoulder- abaya that resembles more of a cloak, to me at least. To help dim my dysphoria even for the tiniest bit and maybe give me one point of courage to want to go out when possible. 'Cause the only thought i have when I'm out is absolute fear, or brain blanking out on me and i freeze in my place

I was stressed for so long that they might fight me on it because they never allowed me to wear but the cover ups of their choice from the dark ages, one I could not walk in or see where I was headed in (i actually wear glasses to see), but I presented it to them and I don't think they noticed.

Maybe now i can feel comfortable in it, throughout the years I never really adjusted to wearing it— having almost no occasion to leave the house 3/4 of my life. It was never something i felt connected to, been only a reminder of pure shame and embarrassment. From the very first day I started to cover my face at middle school, was forced to do that the day before, non of my guardians taught me how to wear it. And the minute it fell from my face thanks to my clumsy attempts at tying it, my face was welcomed with— not the fresh air and 4k sight clarity, but a slap that knocked me back into the car. Followed by an entire hysterical berating, calling me a sl*t and what have you, for everyone who was dropping their kids to see and hear.

I didnt know it at the time, but i was also mocked of how I wore it many times by my peers, while some took petty on me and dressed me themselves. I merely envied those foreign students who wore it just to follow the school rules and offed it the minute they got into their cars to leave. I still have no answer to what I truly want, and thats okay..

I forgot to mention how they can be super pricy, so I got the cheapest I could, resulting it being thick, strings jutting everywhere, way too big on me and all of its buttons fell. So I had to do some long hem shortenings and buttons sewing, I think I started to like it

I now just need someone to hold my hand and never let go, to take me to the hospital and hypothetically be my voice till mine return... manifesting

Oh and i did drew alot of snarry cuz it was my only cure during this time of dissociative routine, ofc endless of sketches that did not make it and 2 did, and still more to come hopefully when I continue to feel better

I wish you all the best in this world my dears, your burdens ease and your heart beats with your desires met , mani loves you ❤️‍🔥🍀🕊🙏

24.6.2022

#text #drawing journal

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blocksruinedme · 1 year

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Team Rancher Fic Preview!

I've said "I want to get this fic out tonight" every day since the fricking episode aired. It was supposed to be a quick cute thing before I went back to my stated writing priority, the MY EX STOLE MY SOULMATE Cave Ranchers Sequel. Well, it's heading towards 15k and I'm not trying to get this one out tonight. I was really close, and then I realized something I really want to give the boys, so we're giving it breathing room and going back. To keep myself from feeling too down about taking a little break (and going back to Cave Ranchers), here's the first little bit. The Scarian is background but not that background. Enjoy! (Sub to my ao3 to get the notif, slam that bell, i don't know how to promote without being annoying, etc.) Cover art credit to @toasted-cricket & my anon spouse.

Some Tags: Angst with a tentatively happy ending, Jimmy's Abandonment Issues, Tango's Avoidance Issues, Grian & Jimmy (brotherly), Jimmy's still thinking about fWhip a lot, Jimmy &almost Everyone, just a lot of emotional conversations, they just kept talking

Tango moved in right away, the day after Jimmy built the new ranch for him. Jimmy didn’t know how talking to fWhip went, and he didn’t want to know. Tango thankfully seemed to have picked up on Jimmy’s absolute lack of desire to talk about fWhip. To speed up the moving process, Jimmy emptied all of his shulker boxes into the most monstrous, disorganized chests he’d ever had. He waited for Tango just outside the bounds of Gobland, shulkers at the ready in case he needed extra inventory space. Luckily, Tango fit everything into the shulkers Jimmy gave him, so they quickly flew back together. Was fWhip watching from his entrance? Did he see Tango flying away with Jimmy, to where he belonged, flying home? Did fWhip feel defeat, or resentment, at his failure to steal Jimmy’s soulmate? Jimmy didn’t know, and he put those thoughts aside. Tango was coming home with Jimmy, to their home, and nothing else mattered. Certainly not fWhip.

It didn’t take long to get Tango settled. It wasn’t like there was much to do. Jimmy couldn’t stop smiling—he’d made a bedroom for Tango, all on his own, and here Tango was, living in it. The fact that Tango was going to work in... that place. It was just work. This bedroom, the one he made with his own hands, was where Tango would rest his head, hang his (honestly fantastic) hat—his homestead. His home. Their home.

As soon as he was settled, Tango immediately started on plans to expand the ranch. He never, not once, spoke disparagingly of Jimmy’s build. (He had said it was the happiest day of his life when he saw the ranch. He’d been more enthusiastic than Jimmy could have hoped for.) Jimmy loved all his ideas, but Tango still always wanted his feedback, wanted him to pick from options, even when Jimmy promised he loved all of them. Tango declared Jimmy was just like Bdubs, always loving every build. Jimmy didn’t know about other Hermits’ builds, but Bdubs was right about Tango’s—of course they must all be amazing.

No one had ever really cared about Jimmy’s opinion on builds before now. Everyone liked compliments, but when it came to actually making something new? Never. And collaboration? No one wanted to collaborate with Jimmy, not unless they really needed to. Jimmy was stupidly excited to get to work with Tango in the future. He loved Tumble Town, of course, but now? Now it was going to be something beautiful, something made by him and Tango, and Scar too. His friends. Maybe someday people wouldn’t say Joel’s walls were the best thing about his home.

Tango and Jimmy both wanted to celebrate Moving Day, and the saloon had never gotten enough use, at least not any that was actually fun. Pixl, Shubble and Impulse came by for a while, but Scar and Grian stayed the longest. Scar obviously lived there, and Grian spent plenty of time hanging around Tumble Town. (How much was to see Scar, and how much was to harass Jimmy, there was no way to know.)

Jimmy couldn’t quite remember who started the drinking game, but he was having a great time. The thing about Jimmy and Grian’s relationship was that the amount of teasing lessened the longer they were together. If Grian was just popping by for a couple minutes, it was nonstop. If they’d been drinking for two hours, he would have gotten most (but certainly not all) of it out. As much as he shouted about Grian harassing him, he knew Grian didn’t mean anything by it. There was always a smile, and a warmth to his words. He liked being around Grian, even when he was being absolutely annoying.

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florbelles · 1 year

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sorry to continue being woman screams at clouds about the most overexposed topic of late but because i’ve spent the past few days dealing with ai relentlessly (even moreso than usual, which is really saying something) at work it’s at the forefront of my mind (and a lot of us in an impacted field, which, being honest, is most of them).

here’s the thing. i get why those who aren’t in a creative field or simply haven’t been touched or impacted by it yet don’t understand the animosity towards it. i understand their confusion. i understand why they ask, isn’t this a good thing? doesn’t this make art more accessible? isn’t this a valuable tool? because it absolutely fucking should be. it should be a valuable tool. some forms of it have been; the automatic spelling and grammar checks in word processing software is the most obvious example. and yes, that’s genuinely helpful in a lot of respects. but only to a point; it will still misunderstand context, it will still try to substitute in the most common misspelling of a word because that’s what it’s been trained to believe is the correct one, it won’t catch errors that could be correct used differently, it will try to make verbs agree with the wrong nouns. so, certainly, it can and should be helpful — but again. to a point.

the same could be said of most forms. ai could, theoretically, be a useful resource for artists to find references. it could be a useful form of generating rudimentary plot ideas to be built upon by writers. it’s been used, in its most basic forms, for both of these things for a long time — even software like writeordie will pop up with a madlibs-style “write a blank about blank who blank” prompt upon opening it.

but here’s the thing. ai, as it presently is being used, as it is increasingly being promoted to use, is not about accessibility. it’s not about being a useful tool for human creatives to inspire and improve and promote versatility in their work. the reason artists hate it, the reason we’re offended by it, the reason it is actively hurtful and frightening, isn’t only about our jobs. yeah, that’s part of it. obviously it’s part of it. no one has ever liked being used without their consent to train their replacement, and we like it even less when data mining is being used to attempt to replace entire fields. but on a more personal level, it’s not simply because ai in its present form eyes eventually being able to replace us in the workforce. that isn’t really a new fear, and it’s certainly not one limited to creatives.

but the way ai is actually used? the way it’s promoted by techbro bitcoin musklites? it comes from a place of active disdain for us. it comes from a place of genuine malice towards artists and human creativity. it comes from a place of, if we’re being honest, ego fragility — oh, you think you have a talent i don’t? watch this. and where it leads is, ultimately, the hope to make us irrelevant, not merely because they don’t want to cut us a check, but because our existence is threatening to them. if humans are not the ones creating art, then art is the result of trained formulas. and those are a hell of a lot easier to direct and control in their messaging. those are hard-pressed to communicate much of anything at all. if art is meaningless, if it’s simply entertaining or a pleasing combination of words, then humanity’s longest standing outlet of protest, revolution, criticism, and straight up fucking empathy is gone.

i don’t say this from a place of doom and despair. i don’t think there’s any merit in that. the fastest way to ensure artists are exterminated is to communicate to artists that there’s no point in pursuing it and we should all pack up and go home now, so, no, there’s nothing helpful in wailing about our inevitable demise, particularly because it is absolutely not inevitable. look how well bitcoin shaped up. that lacked the fundamental issue with ai taking over creative endeavors, which is that it’s literally formulaic — it functions on an if x then y basis, and good luck capturing the human experience in that. good luck ignoring the fundamental fact that humans do not create for profit, or out of obligation, but because it is literally what keeps us sane and alive. we’re going to continue creating whether we’re getting paid or not, and yeah, there will continue to be a disparity in what’s being produced, and yes, that will be visible, and no, we’re not going anywhere.

but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s fucking horrifying and infuriating that people want us gone and are self-congratulatory about the fact they believe they have the eventual means to do so while trying to sell the public on the idea we’re the ones trying to gatekeep creativity.

#stella's ted talks continue. thank you for coming.

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inceptionart · 2 years

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Today’s artist spotlight is on the incredible Emma @noitsnacktime! Read on for her thoughts on art, and you can find all of her stunning artwork here!

🎨 When did you start creating art for the Inception fandom, and what is your inspiration?

I started drawing for the inception fandom on July 16, 2018, when I filled my first bingo square: ”Answering an Ad”. The fandom itself has been so incredibly inspiring—being able to talk to creative people, participating in so many events and exchanges, so much gorgeous fic to inspire me—all these things made Inception one of the most generative fandoms I've ever been part of. Special shoutout especially to Lemon @lemon-yellow, Q @queuebird, Mo @archangelgabriel, Mikka @raincappuccino, and Mousie @iamanonniemouse for being wonderful collaborators who have helped me become a better artist and person!

🎨 Tell us about your creative process, and which part do you enjoy the most about it?

My creative process for a more involved piece usually starts with a super rough series of thumbnails, and then finding (or creating) reference images. I tend to do a lot of film studies, though, so often I will just take a screenshot and run with it! I tend to do a lot of sitting and painting for long stretches of time, and then not drawing at all for weeks or months. My absolute favorite thing is when I'm painting and the piece finally makes the crossover from looking like a misshapen blob of colors to an actual face! That's always a really exciting moment, one which is never as revelatory for other people as it is for me. I've learned that my process does not really look “good” for a good while (and that's ok! I've really been trying to let myself not make perfect art that looks gorgeous every step of the process)

🎨 Link us to your first and latest artwork, and how your style has evolved since then?

I already linked my actual first Inception piece, so I will link a different early drawing! This is the first thing I drew on a tablet of my own, my trusty wacom that is now living a beautiful retired life in a box in my closet. It's a photo study of Locke! This is my most recent piece, a color study I did on my current tablet that I'm really proud of. I've gotten a lot more confident with creative use of colors and expressive brush motions! I haven't moved past dark and gritty portraits of white men, unfortunately.

🎨 What is your absolute favorite piece of art that you've made, and why?

Oh jeez, that's a tough one! I would proooobablyyyy say this one because of the colors and vibes or maybe this one, because of the way it gave me an opportunity to play around with animation! Always fun when I get to draw two drawings for the price of one!

🎨 What is something about Inception that you really want to make art for someday, and why?

Oh definitely the gymnastics AU I've been bouncing around my head with my friend Nimi for ages! I just have been so busy with other fandoms recently that I hadn't been able to. I also want to paint Saito's first-meeting-with-Cobb look! Lastly I really want to make a real life copy of Eames's totem! I think it would be a ton of fun.

🎨 Give a shoutout to your favorite Inception artists here!

OHO THERE'S SO MANY! I love the work of @mizunoir, @ffc1cb, @domlerrys, @lemon-yellow, @archangelgabriel, @sin-repent, @marourin, @zigster-ao3, and so many more than that! And a special shoutout to Mousie and Q for writing fic that's inspired my art and my art's growth as well. I adore you all (and the people I'm not remembering right now too!!!) so very much.

🎨 Anything else you'd like to talk about art and the Inception fandom in general ❤

Agh... Inception is very special to me. It's the longest I've ever been part of a fandom and the first fandom I ever posted fic for. It's the first fandom I organized an event for, and definitely without a doubt the fandom I spent most of my formative years in, for better (often) or for worse (rarely). I will always, always be grateful for this space and this community, however many other fandoms I snap up and however much I stress about finishing my sixth big bang piece on midnight the day of the deadline. I have loved creating for this fandom and I have adored being the recipient of over a decade of vibrant creativity and passion—a fandom like this really truly doesn't happen often, and has only stuck around so long because of events like this one. I'm so, so happy and honored to have been asked to contribute to this spotlight, and I wish you all the very best. (Also I KNOW I'm forgetting people at this moment, and so please know that if I didn't say your name and you're wondering why, it's probably because I meant to and forgot, much like I forgot to fill these questions out until a full day past the deadline!)

#inception artist highlight #inceptiversary #inception #noitsnacktime

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acemapleeh · 1 year

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I posted 2,196 times in 2022

That's 2,001 more posts than 2021!

274 posts created (12%)

1,922 posts reblogged (88%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@kitaychan

@hetaari

@hetagrammy

I tagged 1,909 of my posts in 2022

Only 13% of my posts had no tags

#art - 774 posts

#hws england - 390 posts

#hws america - 346 posts

#hws canada - 325 posts

#hws france - 211 posts

#ace twaddles - 121 posts

#writing - 80 posts

#hws scotland - 75 posts

#hws netherlands - 57 posts

#hws russia - 55 posts

Longest Tag: 136 characters

#changing his knitting from alfred's sweater to matt but i bet even after everything matt will be able to tell it was not meant to be his

My Top Posts in 2022:

Come Ashore for Rack and Ruin

Summary: In the midst of the Battle of the Somme, an ancient horror has decided to show its ugly face on the battlefield and Matthew is somewhere out in the fog. Alistair goes to find his nephew.

Characters: Scotland, Canada, France, England

Word Count: 5282

Warnings: Temporary Character Death, Graphic Description of Gore

Read on ao3

Late Summer of 1916, North-Central Somme, France

It felt like it didn’t even have to rain for the thick wool of Alistair’s kilt to be absolutely soaked and weigh an extra ton against his reddened, numbed thighs. The mud did a good enough job as well as the rain from days long gone still lingering deeply in the fibers.

It was a rare, silent evening and those were the ones that put Alistair on edge the most. Silent, apart from the moans of the plethora of wounded men, many of whom, Alistair would say have copped a blighty and should be on their way home. Gunfire had been shot earlier that day and the entirety of his Majesty’s empire of scattered corpses stretched across no man’s land and a thick fog was the only grave they were getting for the time being. He peered over the top of the trench, but it was as black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. No one was certain what the Germans had in mind yet but men needed to be retrieved if any survivors had a chance at being saved.

Matthew was out there somewhere.

The lad was lucky that he hadn’t been found by Gilbert or his brat of a brother.

Alistair wasn’t entirely sure if that was the case though and his stomach lurched at the thought. Earlier in the evening, he had gotten into a shouting match with his youngest brother. ‘ Matthew’s a grown man and will make his way back if he knows what’s good for him and the Empire . I know him, he wouldn’t allow himself capture. ’ He knew he couldn’t rest until he was certain the boy was brought back to the safety of their hellhole of a home, whether that meant dragging his corpse back or knowing for sure he had to come up with a plan to rescue him from the enemy. The latter would mean having to get Arthur furtherly involved which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

He was going to scout it out alone.

Securing his helmet on his matted red curls and kit firmly to his side, he climbed out of the ditch, his belly and out of regulation beard down in the detritus and rubble.

Matthew was always hard to find in these situations.

Time and time again, Alistair had memorized how to find his kin. He knew the scent of death they all emitted, what their face-down forms looked like in the dark, and the sounds they made as life rushed suddenly back into their flesh and bone.

His brother’s children though?

Even though he’d spent the most time with the young Canadian, he had only witnessed his death perhaps once or twice before and he couldn’t recall any useful details of how to go about locating his corpse.

Arthur smelt of the sea and rain-soaked woodland.

Dylan, a hedgerow in spring and driftwood.

Morgan of seaside morning dew and buttery furze.

Himself, blooming heather and an ocean storm.

Matthew smelt like... he wanted to say evergreen pine. He wanted to say he smelt like winter. But he knew that couldn’t be right. There was a lack of smell in the cold, on those freezing, white mornings before he went hunting or hiking; his eyes felt keener, ears on edge for the slightest of sounds.

The air felt heavy as he shifted through the scattered remains, feeling uneasy with every step until he eventually had to stop to get back into sorts.

Something was amiss in the deepest parts of the fog.

He spotted a shape in the dark and his grip tightened on the butt of his rifle. He would say the thing was at least fifty meters away if he wagered a guess. Squinting, he vaguely made out something large, something that appeared to be scraping in the mud. Just staring at it made him feel uneasy, and made him want to vomit up his sorry excuse for tea.

He risked firing a flare into the sky, praying the rest of the world was asleep for just these few moments. He had to know what he was dealing with; what he had to fight if it meant bringing his nephew to safety.

A dim red light briefly lit up the night.

His breath stuck in his throat.

It took every muscle fiber to keep his arm raised, to not drop the flaregun and bolt the other direction.

See the full post

100 notes - Posted July 21, 2022

Arthur Home Headcanons

Minimalism? What’s that? This man has stuff everywhere in his home. Cluttercore

He is entirely guilty of reusing containers that don’t match what’s inside. Have you see English tea tins? He has a cabinet dedicated to them but it’s anyone’s guess as to what’s actually inside. He has a separate cabinet that has actual tea and the works. This tin was the limited edition Christmas English breakfast from 1962, of course I can’t get rid of it. That was a gift from Matthew in 2003, he’d be devastated if I tossed it in the bin. He may not even remember the reason for one but thinks if he holds onto it, it’ll eventually come to him.

I’m not even touching his collection of teacups and mugs.

His house is in good, clean condition. I want to make that clear. He just has trouble when it comes to change. If something breaks, it may stay that way for a while because the manufacturer who made it isn’t around anymore. Arthur will attempt to fix it himself but he’s no expert. He’s ruined things in his attempts so he’ll leave them to gather dust. He’s had a bread cutter from before World War II that’s rusted and the cutting board desperately needs a cleaning but he hasn’t gotten around to it.

If he absolutely must swallow his pride, he’ll ask Alistair to fix something he’s particularly found of.

His home in London isn’t his original one from a few hundred years back. The townhouse that was a relic of the Victorian/ Georgian era was all blown the rubble in the Blitz. He’s moved to East London to try to stay a little in the time capsule that’s formed there.

Really losing his home in the war was something that took years to get past but really, he hasn’t. He had saved what he could but the armchair from 1754 that he’d replaced the cushions of numerous times, the entirety of the library, and things one man alone just couldn’t pull from the flames were all silently mourned for.

The newer residence is honestly far less of a death trap and perhaps losing the old one was a blessing in disguise.

Still very much has the “nice” living room for guests and more formal affairs and the much more lived in one where the clutter really has gotten out of hand. Aside from his study that is.

His main residence is that townhome in Spitalfields.

He hates purging. He’ll constantly say he’s in the process of it whenever company is over to excuse any clutter or mess. Sorting through books, seeing if any the shops or museum will take. Going through clothes again that fill the closet even though he rotates the same handful of things.

Has the same spoon he’s been stirring his tea with for over seventy years. The bottom is completely flat. He’s been gifted a new one but he hasn’t taken it out of the drawer quite yet.

Similarly, he was gifted an electric kettle one year but in a drunken state on pure muscle memory, he put it on the stovetop. He’s been gifted a new one and is much more mindful on where he keeps it.

Please stop giving this man new things for his kitchen.

You want to talk museum, you go to his centuries old countryside manor. The land was gifted to him in the 14th century during the Hundred Years War in Suffolk. Perfectly isolated. He’s owned homes and land before, mind you, but this was his first private manor that he’s built upon and had full control over.

The clutter did get out of control during his early archaeology days and he’s been very carefully going through things so they go to the proper place. He has returned things and is trying to make amends.

Some rooms, not all, have those ugly, Victorian wallpaper ceilings.

It’s a hodgepodge of just, so many different eras.

You never know what you��re going to find when you open just about anything. Books? He uses just about whatever was near him at the time as a bookmark. Drawer? Funeral lockets from his children and lovers. Some things haven’t been touched in ages and look like they’ll fall apart if you do so much as breath on them.

There are a lot of rooms here and each one of them of themed to his design. The rooms his children lived in still very much reflect that they were once a part of his home.

Used to throw very elaborate parties here as well as a funeral or five.

Please be careful because this house is not child friendly. All of his weapons and armor are proudly on display in the halls.

There’s little projects scattered around the house that you’ll find pieces of.

This is the house that has the majority of his more precious items. Between the first Great Fire of London and the Blitz, he moved whatever he could fit in that home.

His third home I’ll mention is a smaller cottage in the North Midlands. It’s simple, really meant for one or two people at the most. This is his get away from it all.

Stunning garden and his absolute pride and joy. The fae watch over this one since he’s unable to tend to it most of the year. They get to reside in the home and take care of it even when he’s present.

Least modernized than a majority of his homes. Still has electricity and running water but no television for example.

The Victorian era really defined what his home would be like going forward. Of course, things were deadly so in his newer versions of the home, the authentic arsenic soaked wallpaper has been replaced with replicas.

121 notes - Posted January 8, 2022

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please enjoy this stupid compilation of instagram memes about our favorite dysfunctional anglo family

148 notes - Posted April 14, 2022

Throughout Victorian England, mourning jewelry was used as a tribute or memento to remind the wearer about their love for the person they had lost. Hair was very commonly used in these pieces as it did not decay and represented a love everlasting.

Though Arthur knew his sons would return from death, there was still deep grief and sadness in times they were lost.

Featured here are two funeral lockets in his possession.

Select here for Charlie’s and Jack’s

The first is inscribed, ‘My dear son’s spirit hath fled the 17th of September 1862. Alfred Fortenay Jones.’

The lock of hair was acquired shortly after the Battle of Antietam in the American Civil War. Though the pair was not on speaking terms at this time, Arthur would still quietly mourn times he knew his eldest son had met with Death. He asked his second son, Matthew, that upon checking his brother, should he have perished in battle, to please bring home a lock of hair with him. Arthur wished for a keepsake of his son, to hold onto a hope he wouldn’t speak aloud for his son to live. But in case the war were to end in disaster, he would have something of Alfred’s he could hold onto if he were to return to the Earth.

The second reads, ‘My dear son fell asleep the 27th of April 1842. Matthew Marc Jean-Luc Williams.’

Disease is never an easy way to die. Arthur held Matthew’s hand as he succumbed to consumption, the first time the young man had a disease take him. Arthur would swear that his son never quite looked the same after this took place. His eyes always tired and sunken, skin pale, and just a little too thin. Perhaps he always looked this way and it wasn’t until after this wasting disease did he notice. He had almost lost his son a handful of times in the past to other illnesses but each time he would recover. Not even Arthur himself could escape this dreadfully romantic plague. How quiet Matthew was when he died, quieter still upon awakening. Arthur knew he would return, despite all the turmoil in Quebec some years ago- he had to believe his son would live to see another day.

171 notes - Posted March 15, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Pls tell me more about your universe where nations are public and are public meanaces to society. I think it would be super funny,

I haven't really incorporated the idea in any fics or anything, but realistically speaking, nations have got to be known in the public eye. I know when I first started writing for the fandom, I read one fic where nations were considered top secret so I sort of followed in suit for the longest time. Now, the idea of them being very well known and figure heads is hilarious. It also makes more sense canon wise (but like who cares about following canon).

See the full post

549 notes - Posted November 6, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #there's something about the stupid memes being my best post that like #doesn't surprise me #doesn't feel super good but also like #getting that many notes on a hetalia post feels pretty okay #idk my third is fucking instagram video meme so like #who am i to really say

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ruiniel · 1 year

Note

this is a lot but I’m nosy 👀

3, 9, 10, 11, 27, 29, 30 for ao3 wrapped pls !

Oh you're so kind, ty ty!

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

Another way! I'm liking how it's turning out and still enjoying exploring that scenario.

Honorable mention goes to my hurt/comfort angstfest: Beyond this place of wrath and tears because I spent some time on that one, and besides this is a sample of my character POV/dynamic sheet so far:

1- Sypha AB

2- Trevor AC

3- Alucard, Sypha AB

4- Sypha, Alucard AB

5- Trevor BC, ABC, ABC

6- Trevor, Alucard ABC, BC, AB

7- Sypha, Trevor AC, ABC, BC

8- Sypha, Trevor ABC, ABC, ABC

... so really invested in that fic but also very slow, hoping to finish it by the time Nocturne drops though

9. Favorite pairing you wrote for this year?

Aegnor x Andreth (The Silm)

Lisa x Carmilla (CV 2017-2021 series)

Trevor x Alucard (CV 2017-2021 series)

10. What work was the quickest to write?

I wrote my Scarlet Heavens fic (18+) in one sitting barring the edits.

11. What work took you the longest to write?

Again this one! Beyond this place of wrath and tears

27. What do you listen to while writing?

Sometimes silence helps, other times music! Which can be summed up as:

random playlist for *insert genre you're writing*

the same, specific beloved song/artist for days on end, probably finish a fic on said song

Shuffle Liked songs

Music ranges from atmospheric to folk to metal to art pop and darkwave and others that don't come to mind now!

30. Biggest surprise while writing this year?

That I stayed constant in practicing it (which was my aim for this year) despite all that went on in life and the world. And! the support from people on some of my works really helped keep the flow there, so thank you!

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

Uhhh-uhhh *fidget* ended up with two, but since one of them isn't a passage but a longer scene, I'll just add it... it's this scene between Trevor and Alucard from Trevor's point of view (context: Trevor's recently been very ill). I'll place it under the cut because it's too long!

Thanks again for sending!

“Hold on to me, Belmont, not my shirt.”

Trevor does, or tries, grunting with his arm slung around Alucard’s neck as he stands to his wobbling feet. He can’t even feel irked by Alucard’s tone, eager to be moving and, if he’s being honest, too grateful to complain. “I really could try this on my own, you know,” Trevor says anyway, receiving no reply.

Alucard’s support never falters, his arm steady around Trevor’s ribs. “I appreciate the care for my time,” he says as they take a few steps together, “but I do have an inordinate supply of it.”

Well, he’s right about that. Again, Trevor lets it slide. Maybe he’s getting soft here, or maybe he’s become more used to Alucard’s cold-shoulder retorts. He’s warm against Trevor’s side, and the hunter is absolutely not focused on that more than the important task of putting one foot in front of the other.

This is not awkward.

He recalls Alucard’s words to Sypha, to them, the honesty in his voice with the admission that he wanted them here and despite Trevor’s own previous misgivings, those moments stayed with the hunter ever since and now live free in his head to mull over.

This is not awkward.

They pass through a tall entrance to an adjoined chamber, and from there onto a long terrace overlooking the wooded pathlands. It is here Alucard eases the hunter down on a padded, upholstered bench, set in the shade and heaped with cushions.

Trevor squints, uses his hand as a shield until his eyes stop hurting from the sudden change. He blinks as the wilderness appears in tints of green and fading blue the farther it spreads, climbing up the knees of solemn mountains rising jagged in the distance. Getting some fresh air was the goal here, and the hunter takes full breaths of it.

Alucard busies himself with some bottles and flasks, then sits beside Trevor on the bench. It’s quiet up here, comes the thought, but not as silent as the stifling four walls of a chamber, and days passed since Trevor was reacquainted with lucidity — a state he’s apparently taken shamelessly for granted before the onset of his illness. It’s strange to him to be left so weakened as to need help in this manner, stranger still to actually receive it; something Trevor remembers happening but once before in his life, a kindness he clung to through the latter years when his defaced hope in humanity was finally about to give. “Thanks,” he says, shaking off the memory, because not everything must be ghosts and regret.

Alucard looks his way, an eyebrow raised; waiting patiently.

“For this,” Trevor sighs, pointing at himself. “For helping me heal.” He rubs the back of his head, furrows his brows.

Alucard picks a tome with a dusted blue cover from a sheltered table in the corner. He looks down at the damn thing, and there is that fucking sadness again; it's on his face, in the way he moves, in everything he does.

This is awkward.

But he’s Trevor fucking Belmont, afraid of no man or beast et cetera, et cetera, and if he was unhinged enough to punch Dracula in the face he won’t quail before talking about his feelings to his son.

“Neither Sypha nor I could have done any different,” Alucard says, meeting his eyes and he’s… he’s smiling. Brief and pale, but it’s there, like it was those first moments of clarity when Alucard was leaning over him, looking like something priceless had just dropped in his lap. A silly comparison, maybe, but Trevor’s never been a poet, and it’s Alucard’s expression he still sees in those states between wakefulness and sleep.

“Still,” Trevor looks back ahead, sliding lower against the bench, “I’m not dead, probably would be if it weren’t for you, again, and… and, yeah.” He sighs, “What I’m trying to say is,” he throws Alucard a brief glance to see him staring at his feet, elbows propped on his knees, “I’ve lived on lucky chances for the latter half of my life. I’m surprised I’m still alive, to be frank.”

“Agreed.”

“Shut up and let me say this. I was used to being treated like shit by people, and after a while, it’s easy to become what everyone makes of you.” He feels Alucard's gaze on him, finds it easier to stare at the clouds smeared like white pastry across the sky. “From the beginning — ever since your weird entrance into our lives you both always treated me like I’m worth something, and that’s… I’m thankful for that. Yeah? Wanted to get this out of the way. Wanted you to know.” He falls silent, observing two eagles as they circle each other in strong, graceful sweeps against a backdrop of blue.

Alucard rests with his head on the backrest, hands clasped together over his chest, finally looking like he’s got no stake up his arse. But he understands, he must. After all, his own life did a complete flip, making way for… for whatever this is. Maybe Alucard isn’t sure either. But he no longer avoids their company for most of the time, no longer slinks away at night to hunt until he returns bloody and worn. Instead, he stood by Trevor and Sypha since that morning, kept feeding Trevor that horrible tasting medicine and if he left, many times they would wake late into the night and find him there, either reading or dozing in an armchair close to the bed.

And that, too, is what Trevor is grateful for — all of them taking a direly needed breath together. No heavy topics. No talk of sieges. No questions apart from practical matters of the present. He rubs at his chest where it still hurts to breathe and a persistent fatigue renders him incapable of doing much, for most of the time, but the air is clean, they’re not running for their lives, and Alucard is here.

“So, we’re staying for a while,” Trevor speaks gruffly against his own fear. For how long? They haven’t discussed that, either. And how much does it really matter now, anyway? “You’ll need a lot of help with this place, by the looks of it.”

Alucard reaches for the water pitcher, pours and offers out a glass. His hand is pale and bony beneath the brush of Trevor’s fingers, his eyes sunken in, and he still looks like something heavy and nasty constantly drags him down by the shoulders. Trevor makes an effort and doesn’t comment. Nobody likes having their pain called out at every turn; they know it’s there, after all.

“First, regain your strength. Then we’ll see to the rest.”

Trevor can't argue with that, and a few steps forward are usually better than none.

Above them, the eagles cry.

#ao3 wrapped

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