#(and I truly think it was unavoidable. it’s part of growing up.

[featherandferns]

guilty as sin?(fic - part 2/2)

jj maybank x fem!routledge!reader | read part 1 here!

content warning: mentions of sexual content; mentions of parental abuse (drug misuse, physical abuse, neglect, emotional abuse); physical violence (blood) | any questions for trigger warnings, feel free to inbox anonymously

word count: 10k.

blurb: you and JJ start a secret relationship under the radar of your half-brother, John B. But with your life in Colorado becoming more and more unavoidable, and stupid slip-ups as the two of you grow closer, it becomes harder to keep your affair secret.

Daylight brings you out of your sleep, disoriented. You grunt and try to bury yourself deeper into the sheets, hiding from the sunlight. They smell like JJ. It relaxes you like a baby soothed by its favourite blanket. But then you remember what happened, and where you are, and that it’s morning. Sitting up, you glance around the bedroom and yep, this is definitely not my room. You look down to find JJ still sleeping, his face smushed into pillow. He’s on his front, the bedsheets mostly hogged by yours truly, showing his back decorated with scratch marks. A weird sense of pride overcomes you, like you’ve marked your territory. Sighing, you relax back into the bed. There’s a dull ache between your legs and you’re slightly sticky with sweat, but neither is particularly unpleasant. After a few minutes, you decide you can’t take the quiet anymore.

You roll over and prod at JJ’s face.

“Mhm, leave me alone, it’s the weekend.”

“Wake up. I’m bored,” you say.

You keep poking until he bats your hand away. With a long exhale, he rolls onto his side and cracks open an eye.

“Hi,” you smile. It’s hard not. You feel like you’ve slept with a coat hanger in your mouth.

“Hi.”

He reaches out a hand and strokes the side of your face, tucking some hair behind your ears. There’s a sleepy smile growing on his face as he wakes up.

“Sleep okay?” he rasps, voice croaky from want of use.

“Mhm. You?”

“Like a Goddamn baby.”

With another grunt and sigh, he shifts onto his back and reaches blindly for his phone on the nightstand. He checks the time first, and then his notifications, and suddenly he jolts up in bed, wide awake.

“Your brother’s been blowing me up.”

You stomach drops. “What?”

“He’s asking if I know where you are,” JJ says, reading the texts.

“Do you think he knows I’m here?” you worry.

Suddenly the tryst of last night loses its incandescent glow. Reality is there in the morning the same way sun sheds light on all things that happen in the dark.

JJ shakes his head, eyes fixated on his screen. “No, no. He’d have come over.”

“Oh, right,” you mumble. You sit up and gnaw on one of your nails. JJ shuts off his phone and looks at you. “We gotta come up with an alibi.”

“Right. Course,” he nods.

“Um…We can just say that I slept over.”

JJ looks at you like you just suggested to commit a joint felony and skip state.

“Not that I slept over, slept over. You can say you saw shit go down with Tom, you offered to give me a ride back, I was upset and fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. I gave you the bed and I crashed on the couch, and we forgot to text him.”

“I think my phone’s dead anyway, so it’s not even a complete lie. And I did stay over here, so…”

JJ swallows. He nods and starts typing, sending the text. You both wait in pregnant silence for John B to respond. The minute it comes through, JJ reads it aloud.

“Cool. Just wanted to check she’s okay. Thanks for looking out for her.”

The sigh of relief the two of you share sounds rehearsed. As JJ types his reply, a question comes to mind. You’d spent all last night suppressing it, but now it spews out of you like word vomit.  

“Is this a bad idea?”

JJ sends the message and shuts off his phone, looking to you. “Is what a bad idea?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between the both of you. “Us.”

“No,” JJ replies, but his expression tells you otherwise. “No. ‘Sides, it’s only gonna happen the one time, right? No harm done. What John B doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Right. Yeah, the one time,” you echo.

JJ nods. “One time.”

Thank God neither of you are on the witness stand: you don’t sound very convincing. What was supposed to be a ‘get it out of the system’ affair might have unlocked some feral part of you that can’t go unfed. You didn’t have an extensive sexual history, but JJ blew all of them and your own psyche out of the water. That isn’t the kind of thing you can just walk away from, especially when you’ll see him every day.

“Just as long as John B doesn’t find out,” you hear yourself remark.

“Yeah. He’s got enough shit going on right now; we just need to be there for him.”

You nod.

“Sides. I made him a promise.”

Frowning, you ask, “a promise?”

“When you first came back to Kildare, I sort of brought up to John B that night at the bonfire, when you went to bed early, that I thought you were kinda cute. But he got ticked off. Told me you were going through a tough time and stuff, and to stay away from you. ‘If you’re a real friend, you’ll stay away from her’, to quote.”

“Yikes,” you mumble.

JJ nods, looking down at his hands. “Yep. Pretty clear message there.”

“Yeah, you really drove it home.”

He thankfully laughs at that.

“I mean, that’s some real Romeo and Juliet shit,” you add, laughing yourself.

He shakes his head. “Shit, I hope not. Don’t really wanna stab myself.”

“No, I stab myself. You just drink poison,” you correct.

“Yeah, I’m still not thrilled about that.”

You snigger and sink back into the pillows propped against his headrest. “I mean, it could be kinda fun, sneaking around.”

JJ raises a brow, lolling his head to the side to meet your gaze. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. Little secret hook-ups and stuff…”

“You’re that horny, huh?”

You shove his shoulder, revelling in his laugh. He grabs your hand and presses a quick kiss to your wrist. Then he looks at you, smiles, and it’s almost like a silent agreement. This is not a one-time thing.

“Breakfast?”

“God, yes,” you sigh.

JJ’s kitchen isn’t just messy, it’s unclean. You can understand why: his dad doesn’t scream house-wife energy and JJ is hardly home. He’s also, as hard as it is to admit it, a teenage boy. In the fruit bowl there’s mouldy peaches and bananas which are black. Fruit flies are having a feast, so at least there’s some positives to the pandemonium. The fridge is barren apart from some bacon. He keeps bread in the freezer so at least that isn’t mouldy. You perch yourself on the counter, dressed in nothing but his t-shirt, and watch him cook. It’s domestic and dull and you love every moment. He serves up two bacon sandwiches and passes one to you. Stands between your legs as you eat, one of his hands taking purchase on your bare thigh.

“S’good,” you tell him through your chewing.

“Thanks. Bout as good as my cooking gets.”

“Mhm. I could live off bacon sandwiches,” you say.

JJ chuckles. “Think Kie might have something to say about that. About how pigs are killing the planet with deforestation and treated unhumanely and bla bla bla.”

“I love your passion for political issues,” you sarcastically remark. He pinches your thigh in retaliation. You laugh. It’s simple and stupid and blissful.

When the two of you are done eating, he adds your dirty dishes to the impressive stack in the sink and makes no move to clean them. You follow him back to his bedroom and the two of you get dressed. He recommends you shower back the Chateau and you take it as code for ‘our bathroom is disgusting’. Thankfully when you peed in the dark last night, you were too fucked-out to notice. Once dressed, you tame your hair with a comb in the mirror and let JJ press kisses into your neck. He’s like a koala bear: it’s impossible to keep his hands off you. How the fuck are we gonna sneak around?

“We should head back before John B gets suspicious,” you tell him, placing the comb back on his desk.

JJ nods. He looks mouth wateringly good in his muscle tee. “I’ll take you back on my bike.”

Every minute spent as a backpack on JJ’s bike, you tether yourself to him as closely as possible. Now that the barrier has been broken, everything has come flooding out. Those same feelings that you harboured back in your preteens have only grown with your age. And now he’s here, in your arms, and you don’t want to let go. As the Chateau comes into sight, you know you have to. John B is hanging in the hammock with Kie. JJ kicks out the stand and steps off, as do you, and you both walk over with a safe space between you.

“Hey! Here they are!”

“Hey!” you smile back, waving to Kiara.

“Jeez, you guys took your time this morning,” John B comments.

Before JJ can speak, you say, “yeah, I had one too many last night. Threw up and needed more sleep.”

“Welcome to Kildare,” Kie grins. You laugh and give a mock bow as if you’d passed some unspoken initiation.

“Right, well, I gotta head out. Helping Lou out with some jobs today,” JJ declares.

“Alright man. See you round,” Kiara says, her attention already back on her phone.

“And thanks for taking care of my little sister,” John B adds.

JJ looks down at you. There’s a playful glint in his eyes as he says. “Yeah, no problem. It was fun.”

Asshole.

Then he’s wandering off to his bike, leaving you stranded, having to act as if last night never happened. You head into the house and work on your watercolours. All you can seem to notice is that the colours of the marsh water are the same as JJ’s eyes. The same eyes you stared into as he came apart underneath you.

Shit. This is going to suck.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sneaking around was…doable. If it weren’t for the Friday nights, you weren’t sure you’d be able to cope. Even then, the question grew more and more with each clandestine meeting. How long can this last?

Friday nights were spent at JJ’s house. You told John B that you were crashing at Lizzy’s, and JJ made up some bullshit excuse to get out of hanging out with the Pogues on Friday evenings: I gotta help my dad with this thing…The nights were spent tangled in bedsheets, pillow talk breaking up the unsated touching that made up for lost time. Your body is still recovering from the buzz of an orgasm when your phone starts to buzz on the nightstand.

JJ leans over and picks it up. His chest is damp with sweat from the nightly antics. He rolls back over to you and holds out your phone.

“Your mom’s calling.”

“Let it go to voicemail,” you tell him, not sparing it a glance.

JJ does as you say and when the ‘missed call’ notification appears, it’s accompanied by ‘(23)’.

“You ignoring her or something?” JJ asks, alluding to the pile-up of missed calls.

You look to him and shrug. “Or something.”

“What’s going on with all that, anyway?”

Your intestines twist uncomfortably. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean, why aren’t you in Colorado for the summer?”

“I told you. I wanted a change of scenery,” you say.

JJ laughs, unconvinced. “Bull-shit. You haven’t come back here in years, and you’re closer to L.A. than North Carolina. Why not go there? It’s warmer.”

“Hardly,” you say. “And it’s full of fake people. Influencers and tourists. And the traffic is—”

“Think we’re getting off topic?” JJ wonders, raising a brow.

You take your phone off him and clear the notifications, as if washing away your mom’s presence in your life entirely. Sitting up, you shove your hair off your face and dump your phone on the windowsill.

“What does it matter, JJ? So I wanted to come to Kildare again – who cares?”

“I care,” JJ replies. He sits up too.

You snort, irritation tickling at your throat. “What? Cause we’re fucking you think you deserve an explanation?”

He frowns. “Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Fucking’. Like this thing between us isn’t deeper than that,” he argues.

Swallowing your anger, you sigh and close your eyes. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’m just…It’s complicated.”

When you open your eyes, they land on your phone. The screen lights up as if on cue, and you know it’s your mom chasing you down for the millionth time. You’re not sure why keep avoiding her, like the problem might go away if you ignore it. It’s like a tumour: leaving it be will only cause it to fester and grow, and be all the more awful to deal with later. But facing the truth is so painfully hard. You lean over and turn your phone off completely.

“I thought John B already told you about it all, anyway,” you quietly say.

“Not really. Only that you were going through a tough time,” JJ replies.

Sighing, you lean back into the pillows.

Finding a small smile, you sardonically ask,  “alright. You wanna hear my sob story?”

JJ sniggers but it isn’t mean. He shuffles closer so you can rest against him. His body was always more comfortable than his bedding anyway. That is his silent answer: yes.

“My mom got in this accident at work two years ago. They put her on Tylenol but it didn’t help, so they switched her to OxyContin. She got hooked pretty quick and started dating this dirt-bag Rick. He was her dealer and kept her supplied, cause most of the pharmacies cut her off when it was pretty obvious she was abusing,” you say.

It feels easier to get it all out in one go, like you might lose nerve if you don’t just commit.

“Rick’s a piece of shit. He doesn’t like me for whatever reason so he chips away at me. Just dumb stuff that probably doesn’t even sound that bad out of context, but when you’re in it, and someone’s picking away at you…It gets to you.”

JJ starts to stroke at your hairline. It prompts you to continue.

“Anyway, he started stealing my shit to sell, to keep him and my mom going. She couldn’t keep a job held down much so I started working to help out with bills. But then Rick started stealing my paychecks and spending my money on useless crap or drugs. I got angry and confronted them and…And my mom took his side, over me.”

You sigh and meddle with your fingers. The tears start to sting but you’re so tired of wallowing over it. You’ve wasted too much energy on her.

“I don’t think it’s a newsflash that she’s not the best mom. I mean, she left me with Big John for four years, dragged me across the country and never contacted her only son again. But it just hurt, having the person that brought you into the world pick a stranger over you, y’know?”

You eventually feel JJ nod against you. It’s not a feeling you have to describe for him; he knows more than anyone to feel pain at the hand of someone who’s supposed to love you unconditionally.

“Rick got ticked off that I tried to go against him, so he got meaner. Left my room a mess, made me do the chores, dumb petty crap like that. The worst thing was when he found my paintings though. He tore them up and ruined them. Scribbled over them. And I know they’re just drawings, and I know this is going to sound dumb,” you warn, laughing self-deprecatingly. “But they were my escape. I hated it there, but I could draw these worlds and feel like they were just for me, and I could exist there instead. And even that was taken from me.”

Images that you repressed flash back into your mind. The enchanting gardens and psychedelic landscapes mottled with black ink, indistinguishable. The way it felt like your heart might fall out of your chest and shatter on your bedroom floor when you found scraps of your paintings tossed around your room.

You clear the memories with a shallow sigh.

“Anyway…” you continue. “I got lonely. Working and all the crap at home made me miss a lot of school. I didn’t have many friends anyway. The thought of spending a whole summer there was just…I couldn’t do it. So I hit up John B and boom. Here I am.”

JJ stares at you, digesting the story. It’s certainly not as chirpy and simple as ‘I wanted a change of scenery.’ It’s scary to strip yourself down to your most vulnerable core. Different to being naked and exposed during sex: almost worse.

“And you’re gonna go back there? When the summer ends?” JJ asks.

You look up at him. You can’t pick-out one emotion on his face, there’s so many. Anger, sadness, vengeance, concern…

“Yes. No. I don’t…” you cut yourself off with a sigh, shaking your head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” JJ is quick to return. “You should stay here.”

“What? And burden John B forever?”

“Sure. Why not?”

You laugh. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Why isn’t it?”

“Cause you’re forgetting that I’m a minor, JJ. And that Big John is missing, and John B is living alone illegally. If I try to transfer here and get emancipated from my mom, it’ll just open that whole can of worms and could do more damage than good. Me and John B could both end up in foster care, and I might still get sent back to Colorado either way.”

JJ wasn’t expecting such a thorough response. It was laughable that he thought you hadn’t debated moving back to Kildare. That was your original plan, until you contacted John B and found out his dad was gone. A summer escape felt like the best option, like a breath of fresh air away from your stifling homelife, but it wasn’t a long-term fix. Life was too convoluted for that.

“Why does it have to be legal? Just run away,” JJ eventually says.

You quirk a brow tiredly. “Run away? What, like I’m ten years old and didn’t get my choice on the TV?”

“I’m serious,” JJ sighs. He shifts, kneeling before you, holding your gaze. “Fuck the government and whatever. Just stay here. Nobody’s gonna rat you out.”

“What about school?”

“Pope can tutor you,” he says.

“And a place to stay?”

“John B’s room and my place. Hell, maybe Kiara’s folks have a spare room too.”

Your heart melts a little. He’s so determined.

Smiling sadly, you stroke his face lovingly. You don’t want to snuff out his last slither of hope. So, you gently tell him, “Maybe.”

“Yeah? You’ll think about it?” he hopefully asks.

You nod, heart clenching with the lie. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

You’re glad he kisses you then, because you can’t bare looking at him a moment longer knowing that in a month, you’ll be gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hurricane Agatha was a bitch. You’re amazed you managed to sleep through as much of the storm as you did.

You venture out your bedroom to find JJ leant against the doorframe of the porch. He’s already drinking a beer, early in the morning. You spot John B out in the backyard. He’s moving fallen branches out the way to recover the H.M.S. Pogue, back facing you. Breezing past JJ, you take advantage of John B’s distraction, slapping your unofficial boyfriend on the butt. He cusses, pinching your own as you head down the stairs. It’s the most you’ve been able to touch each other in over twenty-four hours without raising suspicion. You join your brother in ridding the boat of leaves and sticks. JJ wanders over.

“Whatcha thinking?” he asks.

“I’m thinkin’ that storm surge pushed all the crabs out on the marsh maze. All those drum are gonna chase the crab.” As he replies, John B clambers into the boat.

“What about the DCS? Wasn’t that today?” JJ asks.

John B had tried to keep as much of the DCS nightmare out of your line of sight, but you weren’t stupid. It certainly helped that you were sleeping with his best friend, a guy infamous for having loose lips. To say that John B getting found out would do some damage to yourself would be an understatement.

“Nah, they’re not getting on a ferry,” John B replies.

You look to JJ. He’s leant forward on the nose of the boat. His slender frame and well-kept body is frustratingly attractive when you can do nothing about it.

“Come on, think about it. It’s God telling us to fish!” John B says.

JJ shrugs. “I mean, I’m down. Just gotta take a leak first.”

John B says your name, drawing your attention back to him. “You coming?”

“Think I’m gonna stay in. Paint.”

JJ clears his throat, mumbling out ‘boring’ as he does. You mirthfully roll your eyes. Tapping the boat in farewell, you give a small wave.

“Have fun!”

There’s the crunch and snapping of twigs and leaves as JJ follows you back to the Chateau. You wander to the bathroom and retrieve your toothbrush. JJ joins you, shrugging his shorts down to pee. There’s no need to fill the domesticated sounds of living with chatter. Outside, John B continues to clear the boat. You spit into the sink and step aside so JJ can wash his hands. He brushes some of your hair off your shoulder when he’s done, leaning down to press a kiss on the spot where your neck becomes your shoulder. His hair tickles your skin and you laugh around your toothbrush.

“You sure you don’t wanna come today?” he asks, looping his arms around your waist.

You nod and spit into the sink again. His eyes meet yours through the reflection of the bathroom mirror. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got some ideas I’ve wanted to get down for a while now, but I’ve been a little distracted.”

He grins at the insinuation.

“You looking forward to your birthday next week?” he asks.

“Mhm,” you hum, toothbrush back in mouth.

“You know what you want?”

“Mm-mm,” you say, shaking your head.

His grip tightens ever so slightly around you. “I’ve got a few ideas…”

One of his hands comes to hand on the middle of your upper back, coaxing you to lean forward over the bathroom sink. With that, he crudely pretends to take you from behind. Rolling your eyes, you wriggle out of his hold.

“You’re disgusting,” you say with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“You love it,” he quips. “Alright. I’ll see you later.”

“See ya.”

JJ plants another kiss to your bare shoulder, blows a raspberry, and laughs as you swat him away. There’s the open and shut of the front door, his energetic chatter with your brother, grunts and groans as they move the boat to the water, and then the sound of JJ’s whoops and hollers as they set off into the town. It’s quiet in the house without them there. You find JJ’s sweatshirt on the pull-out and shrug it on. The smell calms your soul. Taking purchase at the dining table, you retrieve your phone to find the service is out.

“Let’s see you try and call me now,” you mumble to your device, indirectly talking to your mother.

The watercolours you’ve accumulated over the past  few weeks of living in Kildare could be made into a tourist guide. Whilst the gang helped at Heyward’s, you painted the shop front during a lemonade break; days spent on the H.M.S Pogue gave you drawings of the Marsh; evenings on the waterfront let you capture the beauty of the ocean. The bonfire and the hammock; JJ’s surf shack; your claimed bedroom in the Chateau…The more you painted, the more you fell in love with Kildare, and the more you wanted to stay. You refill your mason jar with fresh water and begin to work on your latest picture. It’s of JJ’s bedroom. You’ve spent enough time in there to recall it from memory. It feels like your corner of the world, safe away from prying eyes.

As the day stretches on, the group returns to the Chateau. You hear their loud chatter as they approach the house, and it seems to merge into some kind of argument when they get to the porch. Itabruptly ends after your brother announces: just let me think. You ditch your paint, hiding the artwork under less incriminating pieces, and head out to join them. JJ sits in the red armchair you’re so fond of, flicking his lighter. Kiara is on the sofa and you take the spot beside her, frowning at your brother’s face; he’s deep in thought.

“What’s going on?” you ask. You hope it isn’t the DCS.

Before anyone can reply, Pope comes racing up the stairs.

“Okay, so um, we didn’t see anything. We don’t know anything.”

You frown deepens. “What?”

He drops down onto the spot beside you, ignoring your question. “We need to have total and complete amnesia,” he tells John B.

“Actually, Pope’s right for once,” JJ says from the armchair. You all look over to him. “See, I agree with you sometimes.”

He gets to his feet, wandering towards John B. “Deny, deny, deny.”

“Guys, we can’t keep that money,” Kiara declares.

“Okay, not all of us can afford unlimited data plans, Kiara,” JJ tells her.

Now you’re annoyed. “What money? What the hell is going on!?”

“We found a boat,” John B replies.

“There was a key in the boat,” Pope continues.

“The key unlocked a motel room door,” Kie says.

“And we found a shit ton of money. And a gun,” JJ finishes.

“A gun?” you gape. He nods.

“Which he stole,” Kie points out.

Your mouth hangs open even more, if that is somehow possible. “You kept the gun, JJ?”

“It was a good gun,” he defends, throwing his arms up.

Idiot. You drop your head into your hands. “I leave you guys alone for one day…”

“I was trying to be the voice of reason!” Pope tells you, defending himself.

You shake your head. “Wait? Whose money and gun was it? Whose boat was it?”

“Scooter Grubbs,” John B replies.

“We have to pass the money on to Lana Grubbs, otherwise it’s bad karma,” Kiara says.

“Bad karma to be implicated in a felony, too,” Pope chimes in.

Felony? Yeah, you’re already pushing it staying with your half-brother, unsupervised in a state different to your mom who doesn’t exactly know where you’ve gone…

“We gotta go dark,” he finishes.

JJ paces past the three of you, saying, “if that means we get to keep the money, then I agree.”

As he comes to a stop in front of the porch entryway, John B seems to return to the room, out of his thoughts. He pats JJ’s bare shoulder. “I don’t agree.”

“What? Why?”

“Just think about it,” John B says. “This is Scotter Grubbs we’re talking about. Alright? Same dude that’s buying individual cigarettes at the Porthole. Shit, one time I saw this dude begging for change in the Save-A-Lot parking lot because he needed gas.”

All of you watch John B’s spiel. “We’re talking about a dirtbag marina rat who’s never had more than forty bucks in his pocket, and all of a sudden he’s got a Grady-White? Just sayin’.”

“Wait? What’s a Grady-White?” you ask, looking to JJ. He fills you in. Short answer: a very expensive boat.

“Well, I vote we don’t keep the money,” Pope says.

“I vote we keep it,” JJ disputes, lifting his hand. He looks to John B but he doesn’t respond. Then he looks to you, and you crumble under the gaze, shrugging.

“I don’t know,” you mumble.

“Let’s take the day to think about it,” Kiara says.

And that you do. You all venture onto the jetty to fish. You stand beside JJ as he waits for something to bite, fighting the urge to lean against him. John B continues chattering away to Pope, painting the scene of a drug smuggling industry. Him and JJ agree that if he was ‘straight smuggling’, there’s probably more contraband in the boat wreck. Somehow you all wind up in your bedroom, and Pope finally relents. He agrees to rummage the wreck for contraband but ensures to underline how stupid he thinks it is.

“Right, well, stupid things have good outcomes all the time,” JJ philosophises. You watch him fan out the money.

You can’t help but feel the saying can relate to your own secret romance. Is it a stupid, remarkably bad idea to keep fooling around? Yes. Is the temporary outcome good? Hell yes.

“All we need to do is figure out a way to get into the cargo hold of that wreck. Until then, we just lay low. Act normal.”

“Right, and how exactly do we do that?” Pope asks from your bed.

“Keggar?” Kie offers.

Everyone shares a look. You sigh. “I can’t. I gotta go to work.”

“The restaurants probably a wreck. Just skip,” JJ responsibly says.

You shake your head. “Well, I gotta help out even if it is. Lizzy’s probably gonna be there anyway.”

“You gonna want a lift back later?” John B wonders.

You look to JJ. He’s already watching you. “Nah, I’ll just sleep at Lizzy’s.”

He knows the code. Gives the vaguest, barely-there nod in confirmation. The group gets up, everyone filtering out the bedroom door into the main of the house, chattering about what drinks to get and how to round everyone up with the cell towers down. JJ lingers in your room a moment longer, keeping you there with a gentle grab of your wrist.

“What time should I come get you?”

“Ten,” you reply. “Outside the restaurant.”

“You got it,” he nods.

A chaste kiss and then the two of you let go of one another, joining the others in the main room. Your heart is hammering so loud you’re surprised nobody can hear it. It felt like you were playing with fire, kissing so close to the others. And fire is known for one thing: it burns.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

There’s a pattern seen in serial killers. After the first five or so murders, they start to slack. Cover their tracks less, take larger risks. You and JJ weren’t out killing anyone – despite his reckless ordeal at the keggar which you later heard about through the grapevine – but you weren’t being as vigilant as when it first started out. The two of you had started to get sloppy.

Now two weeks into the illicit affair, you could hardly recall the last full truth you told John B. Your alibis were harder to keep track of. Your excuses started to weaken. And your ability to keep your hands off JJ became near to impossible. Even if it was a fleeting touch, a loving stroke of his tousled hair…It was almost reflexive. One time Kiara caught you wipe something off his cheek. The moment you saw her in your peripheral, you acted as though you were messing with him, sticking a finger in his ear to get a reaction. But she saw it, and it was a stupid thing to do.

In JJ’s bedroom, there’s a collection of your things. They’ve accumulated over time the way rocks build up on a shoreline: slow and steady, until they’re everywhere. Hair ties scattered along the desk, skincare on his bedside table, spare clothes and underwear in his closet, a toothbrush in the bathroom (that he reluctantly cleaned up). The biggest tell was your art supplies. If John B were to walk in, there’d be questions. JJ wasn’t exactly known as a monogamous guy or an artist. Your brother wasn’t stupid: you reckon he could put the pieces together pretty damn quickly. But it was hard to find it in you to care, when staying with JJ on Friday nights felt like you were playing house.

You’d asked to help him shave the other day after he gave you beard burn on the inside of your thighs. That’s how you find yourself sat on the countertop, precariously balanced on the edge of the bathroom sink, with a razor in hand. He’s stood between your legs, running a finger up and down your thigh, and watching you as you work. Every now and then you clean the razor of hairs in the sink, filled with water. One of your hands cradles his jawline, the other delicately tracing the razor down his cheek, along the apex of his neck.

“Two more days and you’ve caught up with us,” JJ says, referring to your upcoming birthday.

You smile, looking up to meet his gaze. God, you could drawn in his eyes, drift away in them. “About damn time.”

“I think Kie’s made you a cake.”

“That’s sweet,” you hum.

“Your mom gonna call?”

“Probably,” you sigh.

They’d fixed the cell towers now. An influx of texts came through, namely asking if you were safe after the hurricane. You felt the need to say that you were and did so with a simple ‘thumbs up’ reaction. That was the most you’d said to her in a month and a half.

JJ distracts you from thoughts of your mom by tracing the scar lining your elbow. The same scar that helped JJ place a name to your face after so long apart. “Remember when you broke this,” he says.

“Same. Think it’s the most pain I’ve ever been in,” you snort.

“You wouldn’t stop crying. I had to kiss you on the forehead just to get you to shut up,” he sniggers.

JJ and John B had been climbing a tree and you didn’t want to be left behind. You also wanted to impress a certain blonde-haired boy. But you lost your footing and fell, landing at a wonky angle. It was embarrassing, and painful, and embarrassing a couple more times.

“Yeah, I remember that too,” you say, smiling. “I had the biggest crush on you. I thought I was going to faint when you did it.”

“You had a crush on me?” JJ asks.

You pull away enough for him to see your face. It perfectly says really, man? He laughs. You resume your previous position.

“You were always cute.”

“Yeah right. You always saw me as John B’s little sister.”

“Well, yeah. But you were sweet. You used to bring me Hershey kisses.”

Your face feels burning hot. God, you were so subtle back then. “Stop talking or I’m gonna nick you by accident.”

He obliges, his shit-eating grin slowly fading as you work. The satisfying scrape of the razor ridding JJ of facial hair comes to an end with one final swipe. You clean the razor, wipe him clean with a wet flannel, and plant a kiss to his lips.

“Done.”

He steps around you and leans forward, inspecting himself in the mirror. He strokes at his skin, sucking his teeth with an impressed expression.

“Pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You finally gonna quit complaining about my beard making you itchy?”

“Look! It’s left a mark!” you defend, opening your legs and gesturing to the inside of your thighs.

JJ grins. He slides his large palms along the inside of your quads, fingers spanning out across the skin.

“Wanna give the new shave a test run?” he asks.

He sinks to his knees. Your smile grows, heart trilling with erotic excitement. Your fingers loop through his golden hair, nails scratching at his scalp. He places two kisses to your thigh, working towards your core. Fingers hooking onto the waistband of your shorts, you hoist yourself up so he can begin to wiggle them down your legs.

The sound of the front door slamming shut has you both freezing.

Luke Maybank clears his throat, walking into the house. You pull your shorts back up, heart loud in your throat. JJ gets to his feet and pulls the plug from the sink, draining it of water. Then you both stare wide eyed into the living room of the house. Luke collapses on the couch with a sigh, beer bottle in hand. JJ helps you down from the counter, quietly placing you on the floor. You’re not sure what to do. What the best approach is. What kind of mood Luke is in. Following JJ’s lead seems the best way to go. He looks away from the room to you. His gaze is steely and determined.

“Go into my room and go out the window,” JJ instructs in a whisper.  

You nod and don’t argue. Slowly, you slink down the corridor and slide into JJ’s bedroom. You push the door closed gently, hoping for it click into the frame without drawing attention.

“JJ? That you?” Luke calls.

Cringing, you shut your eyes, hang your head, and press it against the door. You hear JJ pass the bedroom.

“Y-yeah, I’m here.”

“Thought you were at Routledge’s house,” Luke says. His voice is gruff and reminds you of sandpaper.

“Nah. Not tonight,” JJ replies. He doesn’t sound like his usual self: carefree and jovial. No, he sounds guarded. On edge, like he’s working with a wild animal, unsure of how it may react. “Thought you were out tonight too.”

“What? I can’t come back to my own home whenever I want?”

“No, course. Course you can,” JJ says.

You don’t want to leave him alone with his dad, but you know staying is risky. If Luke finds you whilst he’s in a rage, it might make things worse. He might lash out at JJ, or worse, he might turn on you. So, you slink across the room and step onto JJ’s desk, using his chair as a boost. The window slides open with little effort and you hook a leg over. The other joins it and you dangle a moment, looking down at where to land. It’s a drop about the same height as you. Bracing yourself, you bend your knees as you hit the grass. Another glance is spared to the house. It’s quiet: no shouting or fighting. Sighing, feeling as if you’re betraying JJ somehow, you begin to walk home.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

As you round the corridor into the living room, your heart sinks in disappointment when you don’t find JJ asleep out on the pull-out. Instead, the bed is half-made and abandoned. You haven’t seen JJ since you snuck out of his house last Friday. Sighing, you turn into the kitchen and open the fridge. A few gulps of orange juice out of the carton count as your breakfast. Looking to the calendar stuck to the fridge with a magnet, you point on today’s date.

“Happy birthday, me,” you mumble.

A pair of arms grab you from behind, picking you up off the floor. You yelp out in surprise.

“Happy birthday!” John B cheers.

Laughing, you let him shake you before returning you safely to the floor. Turning around, you find John B digging about in his short pockets. He retrieves a small, wrapped package and hands it to you.

“Happy sweet seventeenth.”

“The big one-seven,” you reply, thanking him.

You uncover a small pendant necklace made of sterling silver. It’s shaped like the North Carolina state. Lips moving, you give a small breath of admiration, stunned at its simple beauty.

“You like it?” he checks. You get the sense that he doesn’t buy a lot of jewellery. Looking up, you feel tears sting at your eyes. Throwing your arms around your older brother’s shoulders, you hug him.

“I love it. Thank you.”

“Course. I figured that way you always have a piece of Kildare with you,” John B says.

It’s a bittersweet sentiment. There’s only a month left of your stay in Kildare. Colorado and your life there looms like a storm cloud in the future, warning of an unavoidable downpour.

You pass the necklace to him. “Will you?”

As you turn, pulling your hair up and out the way, John B loops the necklace around your neck. When its secured, you drop your hair and turn back to him.

“How do I look?”

“Like a Pogue,” he grins.

You squeeze him in another hug before letting him grab some breakfast.

JJ doesn’t answer his phone. He doesn’t reply to texts or pick up calls. It’s frustrating as hell. You keep checking your phone as you shower, as you dress and as you do your make-up. As you finish putting on mascara, it starts to buzz. You don’t even check the caller ID: you just answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh, so you are alive.”

Mom.

You can’t speak. Can’t find enough air in your lungs to formulate words. Even if you could, nothing comes to mind. Nothing.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” you manage out.

“Well I guess I should say happy birthday.”

It’s incredible how such a sweet statement sounds bitter on her tongue.

“Thanks,” you reply.

“So, I’m guessing you must have been pretty busy this summer. That’s the only way to explain the radio silence since you left,” she says.

“Mom, I—”

“I’m talking now. Not you.”

You swallow. Thank God you skipped breakfast: you feel sick to your stomach.

“When are you coming back home?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” She laughs. “Well, you have to come back sometime.”

“Says who?” you snap.

There’s a tense silence. “Says me.”

You don’t speak. Suddenly, JJ’s stupid idea of running away seems incredible smart.

“I’m staying in Kildare for at least another month,” you tell her.

“At least?”

“Yes. At least.”

“And then what? You’re going to become a nomad? Hitchhike around the country?”

“And then…Then it’s none of your concern. It won’t be your problem; it’ll be mine.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” your mom says, tone sharp like broken glass. “You’re coming home the minute the summer ends.”

Your patience twists into something dark and unfamiliar. Rage clouds your vision and your mind.

“Home? Is that what you call that place? Because Colorado hasn’t felt like home to me ever, mom. Ever.”

“You’re making a big thing—”

“No, I’m not,” you snap. Getting to your feet, you begin to pace the room. “You don’t even want me there! You just want my money. You don’t want me. You don’t even pay attention to me!”

“I’m busy trying to keep us alive,” you mom argues.

“Alive? Is that what you call it?” You can’t help but laugh. “If that’s ‘alive’, mom, then I don’t want it.”

“Just…Look, we’re just saying things, alright? You can come home, and we can talk, and we can work things out,” she says, sounding more human.

But you can’t believe it. Can’t trust it. It’s like a glass that’s been broken over and over again. You can glue it together, keeping most of the pieces in place, but it’ll never be as beautiful as it was before. Your mom is forever tainted in your mind. The damage is already done.

Pressing your eyes shut, you take a deep breath. “I’m staying here, mom.”

She begins to say your name, but you cut her off.

“I’m staying in Kildare. I’m staying here with John B, and JJ, and Kiara. They’re taking care of me. I’m okay. I’m eating, and I’m earning money, and I’m safe. But I can’t come back to Colorado. Not until Rick leaves…”

You feel your lower lip tremble.

“And not until you get clean.”

She’s silent for a minute. A long, long minute.

“And what if I don’t want you to stay in Kildare?” she asks. Her voice is quiet when she says it, like she’s powerless. And maybe she is.

It doesn’t feel good when you reply, “then I’ll report you and Rick to the cops, for child neglect and drug dealing.”

When people play chess, there’s a certain moment that the game is won. Check and mate. It’s a strategy game. You feel the moment your mom realises she’s lost. Your final piece takes position, and she’s rendered useless. She can either surrender - and let you stay in Kildare without complaint or contest - or force your hand to knock her off the board with a quick phone call to the police.

“And you’re safe?” she whispers.

Your heart splinters. It wasn’t her fault she got addicted, but it was her fault that she wasn’t there for you when you needed her most. They say time heals all wounds and you pray that to be true.

“I’m safe,” you assure her, voice wavering.

She doesn’t speak for a few seconds.

Then, quietly, she says, “well, happy birthday. Just…don’t ignore me like that again. I need to know that you’re okay.”

You nod. The tears start to fall and you press your lips together. “Okay, mom. I’ll text you. I promise.”

Through a shaky breath, you feel the three words form on your tongue. Three words that you haven’t said to her since you left North Carolina. But before they can pass through your lips, she clicks off the line without another word. You let out a pained sob. It’s so strange to get everything you ever wanted, and nothing that you wanted at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Your birthday passes by in a blink.

After the phone call with your mom, you sobbed for an hour. John B came knocking and held you through it, and when you asked if it was okay for you stay for the foreseeable future, he seemed more than ecstatic. All we have is each other, now. There’s something strangely tethering about trauma.

Pope and Kiara came around in the early afternoon. She’d made the most incredible birthday cake. Sage green buttercream frosting with edible flowers arranged around the rim. In the centre it had 17 written in white icing. They sang happy birthday and lit the candles, and as you blew them out, you wished for JJ to show up. Apparently, nobody had heard from him lately. It filled your stomach with led.

After asking what you wanted to do, the four of you relaxed in the backyard. It was an excuse to drink and listen to music. Pope discussed the latest book he read with you as you rocked in the hammock. John B began to talk about the Royal Merchant. He’d seemingly become more and more enthralled in the shipwreck. Whilst you’d been at work, covering shifts for people affected by the hurricane, they’d been pursuing the whole Grady-white shipwreck. Turns out, it was all connected to the royal merchant and Big John. You weren’t sure how you felt about that revelation. The group also seemed to be dubious. So, when Kie fell into a discussion about the treasure hunt with your older brother, you happily tuned it out.

Around seven, Kie and Pope left. John B seemed pretty exhausted so he said he was going to get an early night. You agreed and trudged into your room, but sleep wouldn’t come no matter how drained you felt. As per routine, at ten, you slip into your crocs and head into the living room, sights set on the porch. You stop short. The porch light filters into the main bulk of the room.

“JJ,” you whisper to yourself.

Walking out, opening the door, you find him on the couch. For once, he’s facing the doorway. He looks up from his lighter that he’s been messing with and meets your gaze. At the sight of his lips twitching up at the corners, you break into a smile and rush over. Practically wrestle him into a hug. He laughs, wrapping his arms around you. The way he holds you feel holy. Two days apart and you felt like you were having withdrawal.

“Happy to see me?”

“Where the hell have you been?” you ask into his t-shirt.

He pulls away. You sit on his lap, looking down at him, surveying his face for injuries.

“I got roped into some shit with my dad,” he says.

“He didn’t…”

You can’t bring yourself to ask, but your hand outstretching, tracing his features for some sign of pain, finishes the question.

He shakes his head, taking your hand from his face to intertwine it with his own.

“No, no. Just had to keep him busy, really. Helped out at the harbour and shit. Dropped my phone in the water like a dumbass.”

Ah. That explains the radio silence.

JJ smiles up at you. “Anyway. I’ve back now.”

“Good,” you say. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” he mumbles.

One of his hands reaches up to play with a strand of your hair. He lets it go, it falls into the mess atop of your head, and he traces his fingers down your body before resting at your hip. All the while, JJ stares at you, taking you in like he’s taking in an eclipse. Like you’re something that deserves to be admired.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

You smile, bright like a supernova. “Thanks.”

“Good day?”

You’re not sure how to tell him about the greatest gift of all: your mom letting you stay in Kildare. So, you just nod dumbly. JJ picks the pendent of your necklace off your skin, inspecting it.

“Who got you this? It’s pretty.”

“My mistress,” you joke.

He rolls his eyes.

“John B.”

“It’s pretty,” he repeats, letting it sit against your skin once more. He lets his touch linger against your sternum. God, you missed him. “Kie’s cake good?”

“Mhm. There’s some left in the kitchen. I’ll get us some,” you say.

You move to climb off him to retrieve a couple of slices but JJ grabs at your hips, keeping you in place and capturing your attention once more.

“Gotta give you your gift first.”

JJ leans down to retrieve your present from under the sofa where he’s stashed it. He hands it to you, a brown paper parcel finished with garden string, with a foreign nervous smile on his face.

“I hope they’re the right ones.”

Confused by what he might mean, you begin to open it. The brown paper crinkles in your hands as you unwrap your present. A small, elated gasp falls out your mouth as you lay your eyes on a set of Winsor and Newton watercolour paints. You trace a finger over the silver tin as if to prove you aren’t hallucinating.

“You like ‘em?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

Winsor and Newton paints. The worlds that you can illustrate flash through your mind, igniting your imagination in ways that you haven’t experienced for years. You feel a quivering smile, overwhelmed with emotion for the paints and for the boy who bestowed them upon you, and look up. He’s smiling, watching you, and you lean forward to wrap your arms around his neck.

“I love them. Thank you, JJ.”

His arms wrap safely around your middle, pulling you against him in the embrace. You move your lips to his, sighing as you finally reconnect through the kiss. When you break apart, only a hair’s width between your mouth and his, you feel those same words from earlier today fly up and through you.

“I love you.”

You say it quiet and private, like a prayer.

His eyes falter to meet your own. There’s a nervous breath as he takes in your declaration.

“I love you too,” he breathes.

As you kiss, you feel your heart melt into liquid gold. For once in your life, things feel as though they’re falling into place. The rough brush of JJ’s tongue prying into your mouth has you tilting your head. You let him imbibe you. You treasure the way his rough hands, worn from work on the harbour, slip under your t-shirt. His touch is cold against your burning skin.

“What the fuck.”

Fool’s gold.

You startle at the interruption, head spinning to find John B stood on the porch. He’s gaping at you and JJ like he may have just seen a ghost. Disbelief and horror shadow his face.

“John…” you choke.

His eyes flit from you, from your lips, to JJ. To his hand still under your shirt. To his hand planted securely on your hip. To how you’re sat in his lap. To your own tethered into his hair. To your own wrapped lovingly around his neck. It’s as incriminating as finding a murderer holding the knife above a dead body. No excuse, no justification. Nothing. No alibi can save you now. It’s a clean and shut case.

“What the fuck is going on?” John B mutters. His thoughts seem to be catching up with him second by second. His chest begins to rise, anger flaring his veins, and his expression hardens. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Look, man, just—”

But your brother strides over and practically rips JJ out from under you. You hear yourself scream out as he shoves JJ onto the porch floor, landing a hard punch into his jaw. JJ takes the hits, doesn’t even try to fight back, only fumbles to try and push John B off him. You start to scream like a hysteric. Shriek for him to stop. Beg for him to. You grapple at John B’s shirt, trying to pull him off your boyfriend, as he lands hit after hit. The sound is sickening, of flesh hitting flesh. You feel tears fall down your cheeks in panic as he refuses to let up.

“Get off him, John!” you screech.

Finally, you pull him off. The two of you tumble to the floor.

JJ turns onto his side, coughing and spitting out blood, groaning in pain. He lifts a finger to dap at his lip, wincing as he draws it back to find it red. You go to help him, to check that there’s no lasting damage, but John B holds you back. He moves towards his best friend once more but you grab at his shirt.

“John, please don’t,” you blubber, trying to keep him away.

He swallows thickly and closes his eyes, taking a slow, measured breath to try and calm his rage. Then, he turns his head to you. The betrayal in his eyes makes you sob.

The sound of JJ’s groans has the attention back on him. He’s struggling to his knees, a hand coming to cradle his jaw.

“Shit, JB. You can throw a hell of a punch,” JJ mutters. He spits out more blood. It makes you cringe.

JJ gets to his feet. John B follows. You can’t find strength to get off the floor. Your eyes are transfixed for a while on the pool of blood where JJ laid.

“You promised me,” John B seethes.

You look up and finally muster the courage to stand. You watch as JJ looks to you. Can see how he wants to grab you and console you just like he used to when you were a child. Just like he did when you fell out of the tree. But his better judgement makes him decide against it.

“It’s not what it looks like, alright?” JJ tries, voice steady.

“Not what it looks like? What? You groping my little sister isn’t what it looks like?” John B barks.

JJ scowls. “I wasn’t groping her. And she’s hardly your little sister. You’re less than a year older than her!”

That pisses your brother off more. He takes a step towards JJ but you reach an arm out, stopping him.

“She’s vulnerable, JJ.”

You frown. Offense stings in your heart. Does he really think you so defenceless? So incapable of judging others for yourself?

“She’s seventeen, John B. She can make her own choices without you making them for her,” JJ argues. “She knows what’s in her best interest.”

“Oh? And you’re her best interest?” John B scoffs.

JJ’s gaze darkens. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

No. No, this is not helping. It’s only making matters worse.

“You know what I mean! You fuck a new girl every other week! You can’t keep your fingers off other people’s shit, you lie like you’ve been doing it since day one—”

“John-”

Your quiet plea goes ignored. John B takes another challenging step towards JJ. You can’t hold him back. He’s stronger than you. They both are.

“You’re gonna end up in a cell just like your dad and leave my sister as collateral when you get bored of sleeping with a girl whose been in love with you since she was a kid.”

JJ’s fist hits John B square on the cheek. John B hurls his own punch and they end up in some messy wrestle. They fall onto the coffee table and fumble out weak throws. Fear for what may happen to either of them makes you act with stupidity. You dart forward and try to pry them off one another. Somewhere in the chaos, a stray punch hits you in the nose. Pain blinds you. You yelp and fall backwards against the couch, hands flying up to your face. They stop. JJ utters your name.

When you pull your shaking hand away, you find it soaked with blood. Your chest heaves with panic as the pain sets in. JJ shoves John B off and comes to your side.

“S’alright, s’alright,” he soothes.

You’re not like JJ. You don’t take hits like it’s your day job. You’ve never been punched in your life. The last major injury you sustained was your broken arm, back when you were thirteen. Sobbing in pain, you feel yourself panic at the sight of flowing blood.

“S’okay. Lean forward, alright? You gotta lean forward,” JJ instructs.

He shifts you so you’re sitting on the floor, back against the sofa. You let him guide your fingers to the bridge of your nose and pinch at the soft skin. There’s the distant sound of John B rushing into the house. You don’t see it, though. Your eyes are pressed shut to not look at the blood.

“You feel okay?”

“I feel sick,” you mumble. And not just from the nosebleed.

“S’alright. It’ll stop soon,” JJ reassures.

He strokes your back lovingly, dragging your hair off your face as your head bows forward. You choke on the metallic taste that trickles into your other senses. God, everything is a mess.

“Here, here,” John B mutters.

You crack open your eyes to see him drop to his knees beside you. He hands JJ a towel. JJ lifts it to your nose, wiping some of the blood off your skin before holding it steady below your nostrils. It soaks with blood.

“Shit, should she be bleeding that much?” John B asks JJ.

“She’ll be fine,” JJ snaps. He probably doesn’t want to freak you out more. “It’s normal.”

And, eventually, after two towels are soaked, the blood flow slows to a stop.

“I think it’s stopped,” JJ mumbles.

You let him remove the towel. It feels risky to sniff. The smell and taste of blood is consuming and makes you feel nauseous. Tentatively, you try lifting your head. JJ and John B are staring at you. They’re nothing less than concerned.

“How do I look?” you croak.

JJ tries to fight it but fails. He sniggers, then John B does, and you find your own smile. Then the three of you are laughing like you’re drunk.

“That bad, huh?”

“Never looked hotter,” JJ lies through his laughter.

“Yeah…this isn’t your best look,” John B comments.

When the humour passes, you shake your head and look to John B. Like a storm at sea, his anger seems to have passed, not a sign that it was ever there on his face. JJ’s calmed down too. You know they’ll have to talk it out, the things John B said to him, but words said in fury are usually far from true. Cheap shots to try and hit JJ where it hurts. Brothers fight.

“I’m sorry we kept it a secret from you,” you say to John B.  

His eyes slip shut like your apology pains him. Like you’re applying balm to his fresh wounds. Sighing, he opens them to ask, “how long has it been happening?”

You and JJ share a look. He clears his throat before answering. “About a month. Maybe a bit longer.”

“It started the third week after I came to Kildare,” you clarify.

John B exhales with disbelief. “No. No, that can’t be true.” Before you try and explain further, he’s looking to JJ. “You can’t keep your mouth shut for a whole fucking month.”

JJ cracks up. A smile creeps onto your face too. “I think it’s a new record, man, honestly.”

“Yeah, congrats,” John B grunts, rolling his eyes.

“We just didn’t want to tell you cause we know things have been weird since your dad went missing, and you’ve sort of been hooked on this Royal Merchant thing,” you say to your brother.

“And cause you sort of told me to specifically not date your sister,” JJ meekly tags on.

John B sends him a damning look. JJ cringes. “I mean, I’ve never been good at doing as I’m told so this is kinda on you. Just partly.”

“Careful,” John B warns.

You grab for your brother’s hand. A stray stream of blood slips from your nose and JJ lifts the towel to wipe it away. John B meets your gaze.

“We’re not just fooling around,” you say. As his brows knit together, you spare a glance to JJ as if trying to muster up courage. “I love him.”

John’s mouth falls open. You might as well have just told him you’re pregnant. He looks to JJ as if needing some clarification, and he just nods and shrugs, his expression something close to yep, it’s true.

“I just wish you guys told me,” John B eventually tells you. Then, laughing, he adds, “and how long were you even planning on keeping this up?”

“Well...We hadn’t really got that far,” JJ fumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

You all share a laugh. John B nods and looks between the two of you. Like a pill he must swallow, he accepts his fate. You’re not proud, but you wouldn’t change a thing. Taking the risk with JJ was the best choice you ever made.

“I don’t love it,” John B says. Then, with a pained sigh, he adds, “but I’ll get used to it.”

You and JJ immediately lock eyes; smiles of relief and elation sparking to life.

“But you hurt her, and I’ll lay you out,” John B warns JJ, in a stereotypical brotherly fashion.

JJ nods. He seems to know now that John B will uphold that promise to the highest degree. “Scout’s honour,” he swears, crossing his heart and holding up three fingers.

John B looks to your once more and offers you a hand. He helps you off the floor.

“Jeez. What a birthday. You found out you get to stay in Kildare and have a nosebleed all in one day.”

“Wait, what?” JJ barks.

Your head darts around to the blonde-haired boy.

“You’re staying in Kildare?”

Realisation dawns upon you. In the pandemonium, you’d forgotten to tell him. A sheepish smile settles on your face. “Oh yeah, um…I have some news.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Your bedroom door swings open as Kiara sings out, “morning lovebirds!”

JJ groans from beside you at the wake-up call. You crack open your eyes through the streaming sunlight and look to the doorway. John B’s head pops into view.

“Get up! We’re recovering a shipwreck!” he adds.

Kie grabs a sock from the floor and tosses it at your boyfriend.

“Get up,” she repeats.

The door slams shut and you chuckle, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. JJ stirs from beside you. You feel his finger reach out to prod your cheek.

“Mornin’,” he rasps.

You look over to him, smiling sleepily. “Morning.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Like a Goddamn baby,” you grin.

He smiles at that. Sighing and groaning and making all kinds of fuss, JJ stretches in bed.

The two of you gradually emerge from your room. It’s hard to get dressed when your boyfriend keeps grabbing at your hips, sucking hickeys into your neck, stealing your bikini bottoms. There’s a persistent knocking at the door every five minutes from each of the Pogues, telling you to quit macking and get ready.

You wolf down breakfast at the dinner table, mulling over your latest painting. It’s of JJ’s back, arguably your favourite feature of him, when he used to sleep on the pull-out sofa. The room is bathed in moonbeams, bed made up of messy plaid blankets and mismatching pillows. The new paints make everything feel so lifelike and vivid. You’re debating adding faint pink lines to represent scratch marks on his back….

“Come on! We gotta go!” John B declares, drumming on your head as he passes you to the front door.

JJ finishes your Poptart as you text your mom a quick update for the day, and then the two of you join the Pogues in the Twinkie. He hooks an arm over your shoulder, holding you against him as you sit in the back with Pope. They fall into a debate about the scientific benefits of weed (JJ is, no surprise, in favour) whilst Kie and John B discuss tactics for finding the Royal Merchant. As you rest against your boyfriend, you smile and close your eyes. You finally found your home. You found it in Kildare.

#jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #obx #outer banks #obx fic #jj fic #jj x reader fic #outer banks preference #obx preference #outer banks fic #jj maybank #jj #jj x fem!reader #jj maybank x fem!reader #fem!reader #routledge!reader #jj x routledge!reader #jj maybank x routledge!reader #bestfriendsbrother!jj #bestfriendsbrother!jj x reader #bestfriendsbrother!jj x fem!reader #bestfriendsbrother!jj x routledge!reader

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

#- HK #I would say some of my peers pushed the cooties narrative but my parents discouraged it #so I never thought of boys as being gross or having transmissible microbes #and I was always raised to value romance so I I don’t think I ever noticed a shift in my attitude towards the male sex #however I was somewhat (okay Very) bitter when suddenly it was inappropriate for me to be alone in a room with my male friend #but that bitterness had nothing to do with my own feelings towards guys #(and I truly think it was unavoidable. it’s part of growing up. #you can’t know why it’s inappropriate unless you also know all the lurid things two teens can get up to alone.) #(perhaps the suddenness of the change can be mitigated but the sadness can’t) #anyways I’ve always wondered about this shift everyone talks about that happens around middle school #because I remember feeling quite glad and natural in it. though I always was an aspiring adult)

[shogvnate]

GODS & MONSTERS. yan! re8 ladies x reader.

general yandere headcanons + snippets pt 1.

contains; mother miranda, mia winters.

warnings; extremely toxic and unhealthy behavior, broken mindset, body mutilation on miranda's part, potentially triggering content, yandere. you've been warned.

⸻ 🐦‍⬛ mother miranda

obsessive, stalker, and training type

arguably the worst.

other than how to revive her deceased daughter, her thoughts revolve around you, you, and you. It drives her absolutely insane that she's drifting from her original plans of marking you as just another one of her failed experiments.

you can never feel alone, no, not with her being lovesick.

her crows are always watching, always listening.

she knows everything, don't try to hide anything from her, it never ends well.

she despises disobedience, no one wants a darling who's rebellious, no?

at some point she'll definitely break your mind, it's unavoidable, basically.

rarely ever affectionate, shows her love in other extreme ways such as giving gifts (eg. putting a golden bracelet still attached to a severed hand in front of your bedroom door for your 'anniversary', wrapped in the guts of the lycan who attacked you earlier that week), and of course, words of affirmation.

she truly does love you in her own sick and twisted way, but oh, darling, she's too far gone to save.

"don't deny me. worship me, acknowledge me as your one and only savior, and you shall find what you need," her smile was like a blank canvas, begging for someone to add value to it. it made you sick the more you think about it.

because she didn't want no simple mortal.

she wanted you.

miranda drowned herself in the way you gazed at her numbly, twirling a lock of your hair in her clawed fingers. "anything you could ever possibly need will be with me."

how you hated her smile.

⸻ ❄ mia winters

removal, isolating, and manipulative type.

mia doesn't like it when you smile at anyone other than her. she doesn't know why, but she loathes the feeling of being ignored for someone who clearly doesn't fit the standards for someone like you.

she goes to unhealthy measures to make you stay by her side. gaslighting, threats, guilt tripping, you name it.

someone asking you out for lunch? they didn't show up for lunch and they never talk to you again.

gets scolded by her peers due to her constantly being in your shadow and controlling everything you do but she shrugged them off.

most of the time she's not aware of how she's acting like she can't breathe without you being in the same room as her but when pointed out by you, she usually apologizes.

physically affectionate, too physically affectionate. so much so that she comes off as smothering.

unlike miranda, she can still grow and change as a person so you have hope…?

"mia, this isn't right." you pushed her away slightly. she was getting too comfortable in your personal space. it was supposed to be the only thing she'll never get a hand on but she managed to do so in the end too.

she already took too much from your life. your friends, your co-workers, your favorite florist from the subway, your bed, your house, oh the list goes on forever.

the most outrageous fact was that you were the one who actually let her do whatever she wanted. now look where that got you.

"what makes you say that?"

there it is.

her frown, something she knows you can't stand seeing.

"i thought you knew i'm only doing this because i love you?"

"it's just…" you bit the inside of your cheek, "it feels... wrong."

"tell me more about it, maybe I can help you understand how I see you," she suggested, but when you looked at her dull eyes and warm smile, you could hear something on the back of your mind telling you not to push it.

you sighed, opening your arms for her to bury herself in again.

"changed your mind?" she cooed.

"forget I said anything, mia."

‎

‎

#mia winters x reader #re8 mia winters #mia winters #mother miranda x reader #mother miranda #x reader #yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere re8 #yandere re8 x reader #yandere mother miranda #yandere mia winters #yandere x reader #writing this was wild bro

[theprettynosferatu]

Author's note: this story is perhaps not what you expect to read here. I would humbly ask that you read it anyway. It was commissioned for a purpose beyond kink, and I sincerely hope it illustrates an often unseen struggle many deal with.

The isolation was the worst part. Of course, to most people it was invisible and certainly in no way worse than the constant, inevitable loss of mobility and autonomy the illness had provoked and would continue worsening; that was all painful indeed but in the end the loneliness hurt in a different way. The disease was degenerative, and he had come to terms with that somehow. It was an inevitability. That sort of barrier others put up… that wasn’t unavoidable. That was a choice they made. 

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for those around him. They helped him with the things he couldn’t do, which were sadly a growing list, and they tried not to let that particular mixture of annoyance and pity show through their politeness, but he could feel it nonetheless. It wasn’t too much to ask, he felt, to be seen as a person rather than an inventory of symptoms. To be truly listened to. To be accepted as a man, with all the needs any human had.

Who could he speak to? Not his family, that was for sure. And it wasn’t as if he could go to bars or casually peruse Tinder. Even if he wanted to lie to someone, which he didn’t, the truth would be evident as soon as they saw him. He had tried being honest, being upfront about his illness, and that had shown him a new kind of solitude. People simply didn’t want to deal with the realities of someone with his condition, and the few that had matched with him only seemed to be morbidly curious or obvious scammers. He wasn’t too proud to admit that, in his desperation, he had fallen for a catfish once. It was humiliating, but he felt it spoke more about the others in the world than himself. He didn’t choose to be ill; they chose to take advantage of him. Of course, all the moral superiority in the world didn’t make the lies hurt any less.

It felt like stones on his chest, slowly crushing him. Every rejection added another one, some small, some large, the addition gradually pushing him down deeper and deeper. For some reason, sex workers hurt the most of all. It was, by nature, a transactional relationship. He wasn’t asking for a lifelong companion, for love, for anything other than what everyone else hired a sex worker for; and still not one had dared to take him on as a client. Some turned him down outright; some took the booking fee and never showed up. The first group he couldn’t bring himself to really hate. They were scared, unsure of what to do or how to do it, not willing to take on a job that would be, for them, new and unexplored; not when they could make the same money spending that time with their usual, almost rote services. It was understandable. It hurt, but he could see where they came from. 

He still tried. In his mind, only a sex worker could give him at least a moment of intimacy, the contact most people took for granted and often appreciated so little. Even looking online for them was a huge effort. His hands had lost the needed precision to tap on a phone or type on a keyboard, and so he had to use a mouse and a virtual keyboard to, letter by letter, write any questions or searches. What most did without thinking, while chatting away with their friends, was something he had to put all his energy into. He looked at the girls in the escort site not allowing himself to get overly excited about any of them in particular. Eventually he decided to try with a beautiful sex worker. She had copper hair with a bright blue streak, a nose ring and tattoos. She was certainly sexy, but it wasn’t her figure what called to him: it was her eyes. They had a certain kindness and joy to them, at least in her pictures. He didn’t expect much: he was far too experienced to get excited. But he had to try.

He pasted his introduction text. It was a long one, and it had taken him hours and hours to type with a mouse, correct it, make sure it was completely honest, thorough, direct and clear. He wasn’t sure he would be able to write something like that again, emotionally. So he kept it in a file, and copied it whenever he tried to hire a sex worker. Most didn’t reply. This girl, Melissa, did.

It was rather strange. She seemed cheery and polite, and her only questions had to do with his availability, where they would meet, what time was good for him. Not one mention of the illness so detailed in his text, not one question about his body. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, and he half expected her to hit him with a request for a booking fee. Instead, she simply promised to show up in two days. No fee, no deposit. Nothing. He couldn’t wrap his head around it. Had she not read the text? In any case, he tried not to get his hopes up. Sure, he would be ready at the appointed date, but he wouldn’t count on her presence.  

When the day came, he tried to keep his excitement in check, to lessen potential disappointment. It was a bit terrible that he had learned to dampen good emotions to protect himself, but it was the natural result of his experiences. In a way, he was more prepared for her absence than her presence, and so when she was let into the room, he struggled for a moment, as if the universe had somehow malfunctioned and now he had to deal with a being from some other, better reality.

She didn’t quite look like the photographs. Oh, she did have beautiful eyes, a long slender neck, a sexy nose ring and breasts that her t-shirt couldn’t hide; what the picture didn’t show, could not have shown, was her expression of sheer… joy. She looked at him, and for the first time in a long time he felt… seen. Seen as he was. She wasn’t looking around him or through him, she wasn’t seeing just the illness, she wasn’t measuring her response or trying to hide pity or fear. She was simply… smiling at him. Part of him wanted to cry, just for a moment, and somehow he was sure she wouldn’t think any less of him if he did. She left her bag on a chair, making herself perfectly at home.

“Hi! I’m Melissa! Nice to meet you!”

Nice to meet you. As normal a greeting as they came, and yet… not a hint of artifice, no rehearsed tone. For her it was, indeed, nice to meet him. He mumbled a greeting of his own, although he couldn’t be quite sure what it was. He was flustered, which wasn’t an emotion he had prepared for. She walked to him and asked a simple, sincere question.

“May I hug you?”

“Uhm… sure”

“Thank you!”

The first thing he noticed was the smell. She wasn’t soaked in perfume. She just smelled nice, in a very simple, human way. It was a strange thing, almost like a subtle, powerful intimacy that needed no words, no explanation. It was primal and basic and almost overwhelming. Then he registered the warmth, the closeness. For a moment the room faded away into nothingness, and in a way so did he. It was lightness and safety and he drifted away into that embrace that told him more than a million words could. It told him he was cared for, he was appreciated, he was valued. It made “I” feel far away, replaced by a silent “us”, if only for a while.

He needed a moment to regroup. She didn’t mind waiting. 

“So… the money is on the table”

She seemed surprised, as if she had forgotten her own profession.

“Oh! Thank you. I don’t charge for hugs, though”, she winked. “I’m just… a hugger, you know? But I’m guessing you want to get to the fun things I do charge for”, she smiled devilishly. “You might need to guide me a little bit so I can make this as… memorable as I can. In any case, I’m going to go ahead and assume you don’t want to just see me in my jeans and t-shirt, am I right?”

“Uh, well, you can change in the bathroom…”

“I could if you prefer. But you’d be missing out! I did practice my… well, reveal, quite a bit”

“Oh… I’m sorry, I… nevermind, please, go ahead”

Melissa smiled, truly happy about being able to share a bit of well-rehearsed strip-teasing. Her body moved with enticing grace, and her playful eyes kept his gaze fixed on her, on her skin, on her every curve. She teased and provoked with the easy mastery of the truly talented, and he wondered for a moment if she had been a dancer in another life. Soon the T-shirt and jeans were gone, replaced by a silk three-piece lingerie set, its black fabric hugging her body tight, the contrast between light and dark, seen and unseen heightening her allure. And he had to admit to himself that as good as her breasts looked covered up, the bra revealed a size he had not imagined. Everything about her called to him, wanted him, needed him. Except… he didn’t quite know what to do, or how to express… what? What was it he wanted? He wasn’t sure he could put it into words anymore. It was about sex, and it wasn’t. It was sex and… something more, beyond language.

Luckily, she came to him and kissed his cheek playfully. Her breath on his ear sent a shiver down his spine and he wished he could just… leap up and hold her, take her… 

“Hey. Relax. You tell me how you want this to go, and you can tell me if I’m doing things right for you, okay? We’ll take it at your pace”

There wasn’t a hint of pity in her voice. It was a simple, practical matter: she wanted to please him, and would do whatever he felt he needed. Before he could speak, her lips were kissing his chest, undoing his shirt. The warmth of her lips, her hands, her breasts on his skin was enough to make him desperately aroused and… strangely at peace. She made him feel safe. Seen. Desired.

“Oh, looks like someone here likes my moves!” she teased, brushing her hand against the fabric that covered his now stiff cock. Normally an erection was something that took him a bit of time to achieve, but it didn’t seem to be a problem at that moment. Perhaps it was that she was blowing away years of fear and overthinking and pain with simple kisses and caresses, with smiles and playfulness that created a bubble away from the world, a place where nothing existed but the two of them, their bodies, their wants.

“I think I should kiss it”, she winked. He could only nod in agreement.

He wasn’t sure how he expected it to feel, but he couldn’t have imagined the wonderful sensations coursing through his body. It wasn’t like masturbation, which was his one frame of reference: not having control over where she kissed, she licked, how much pressure she put on it… every moment was a surprise, a brand new feeling that electrified him, reverberating all over until it even felt like a tickle on the roof of his mouth. He could hear her softly moaning, and she made sure to move and give him a smile every now and then, making sure the experience was what he wanted… and gauging how close he might be getting to cumming. They had agreed beforehand on the services to be rendered, and she wasn’t about to shortchange him.

“I see you liked that! Well, are you ready to feel even better?”

A small “yes” barely escaped his throat. 

“Good”, she smiled. “Because I’m soaking wet and I need a little bit of… relief. And I think you could use some as well”

He felt like the room was spinning. She had taken off the lingerie at some point, although he couldn’t say exactly when, and now she was climbing carefully on top of him. She was so warm and soft and he wondered how a person could just… feel so different on his skin than anything else in the world. There was a strange form of contact, a communication without words, a deep sense of togetherness expressed in caresses and kisses and subtle movements. Her hazel eyes met his, and he didn’t need to tell her he was ready. She knew. She reached down to put his cock in position and slowly he felt a great warmth wrapping him, a gentle tightness. Her moans filled the air around them as she slowly, deliberately started to move: not because she was being careful or seeing him as fragile, but because it was simply the way she liked it.

It was a revelation of sorts. For so long, his body had been the source of pain and anguish and stress and despair. Yet then, for a moment, his body was transformed into something else. An object of pleasure, that could sense it and provoke it at once, that could, with her, turn into more than it had ever been. No, that wasn’t quite right. His body hadn’t changed. His perception of it had.

He had imagined his attention would be on his penis, and yet now that the moment had come he couldn’t just focus on one part of his body. It was all one: her hands on his chest, her kisses on his neck, her skin on his, a sonata of sensation and intimacy and movement and shared whimpers and moans.

It happened suddenly. It came from somewhere deep, a sensation building in his shaft, his muscles tensing up in a way he had never felt before. For a moment he felt as if his breath was taken away. The world stopped for a second. Then it exploded.

It was as if his entire body was one sensitive, beautiful object of pleasure… and so was hers. They trembled together and he thought he could hear her scream, although he couldn’t be sure. It was a wonderful overload, one that ended with her resting her head on his chest, panting.

“Sorry! I get a bit… loud sometimes. I hope I don’t get you in trouble!”

“I… I don’t think… Sorry, I’m just a bit…”

“It’s okay. Want me to stay here a while longer?”

“Yes, please”

So she stayed. Of course, eventually she had to leave, for all things must come to an end. And yet it was an end that wasn’t, for she had given him a seed of something new, a memory and a door. There was a world to explore, and he knew she would help him explore it. 

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu

[prodicalmenace]

chuuya, scars

chuuya x reader i will never shut up about the last three pages of stormbringer

"Why do you always ask to look at me like this?" "Like what?" "Like..." you bite your lip searching for the words, or maybe just an image to liken your current predicament. "Like I'm under a microscope..."

Part of you didn't expect a response at all, but for a third time that week the crystal glimmers of his eyes are not burning holes into one part of your body or another, nor do they hold the severity of a threat reserved for an enemy lurking elsewhere. Downcast, they merely peer at the limbs on your body, relaxed, but always looking.

"What are you looking for?" you ask again as you watch his eyes gently trace over the curves in your bent skin and the hairs in between them. 

His hand, gently caressing across your body, comes to stop once he reaches your arm, and slows as he makes his way up the wrist to a dark mark settled under the pad of your thumb. 

"I think scars tell you a lot about a person," his bare thumb grazes the skin around your palm as his voice reverberates through the rest of your body. A popped callous that never healed properly, a kitchen knife wound from a rookie mistake, a burn that traces up your forearm and almost wraps around the twisting bones; Chuuya is intent on touching them all as though he's never seen these parts of you before.

Despite already being naked, limbs tangled amongst his, calves pressing into one-another's as though you're trying to braid yourselves together with his sheets.

"Means a lot coming from the smoothest man in the mafia," he laughs at the vibrato in your voice as you say this, the tone from a mix of intended comedy and physical observation as your toes begin to trace circles at the joints in his ankles. 

"You know as well as I do that I have scars of my own..." he teases you at first but the last few words dissipate into the air. It was true—in his line of work it's unavoidable. From the large line at his back, uneven skin that seemed to grow with him, to unmistakeable burns on his skin that never get to truly fade from the too many trips overboard you refuse to call by name, Chuuya, too, is covered in scars that sometimes speak louder than he. At the thought, you swear you see him frown as his fingers move from the lines on your skin to the pads of your fingertips, suspended. 

You jump into the silence as the tips of his fingers slowly dance between your own to no rhythm in particular. 

"May I?" you're not even sure you asked, but soon his wistful eyes fall from your skin to stare into your own. His mouth, the one you swore curved downwards, remains in a fine line. 

His fingers leave your own, and he's about to drop his hand to your chest when you reach up to graze his wrist. Even in the dark you can see it, the smallest half moon dent, a light blue grey not even that distinguishable from a vein. The wound calls your pinky finger.

Without thinking you gently nudge the skin, the discoloration so oddly perfect and incompatible with the rest of his body. Chuuya doesn't recoil in response; his eyes don't move in the slightest wince. It's skin you've touched times before, a color he's seen every day without thinking, yet he can't place why his heart races at your attention. Is that what you felt like? Is this being under a microscope?

"Scars tell you a lot about a person." you echo as you drop your hand, but your eyes never leave the pone polka-dot hued into the light skin of his wrist.

Chuuya notices how you stare now, looking, peering through the folds of his skin for any sign of change or a story to be told.

Yet neither of you ask, and eventually the night envelops both of your bodies in darkness and there is nothing left to see. 

#chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara #chuuya nakahara x reader #bungou stray dogs #bsd x reader #bsd one shot

[sailorgundam308]

BG3 introspection bit

This one isn't edgy or funny. I just feel like sharing, prompted by seeing how, indeed, BG3 is one of the greatest if not THE greatest pieces of entertainment we've got in a long while. But I know for so many people it turned out to be much more than just that. That includes me. To make a long story short, I've been living a full world away from my loved ones for almost a decade, in a place that is particularly hostile towards me. I'm here out of necessity and choice, since my other option happens to be worse. It's been shockingly lonely, until I grew used to the isolation. Still, I made do. I make do. Around a few years back, and especially last year, things took a turn for the much worse. I've spiraled into a very, very dark place, which in turn isolated me even more from other people - but also from myself.

Being so far away from familiarity and the things I love worn me down, and disconnected from who I am and what I enjoy. To the point I effectively stayed in a limbo, frozen in time, empty, for the past years. It's been way more scary than when I was obviously and loudly sad or depressed, because at least then I had energy to react in some way. As an artist by profession and by passion, it was even more concerning that I could not create ANYTHING - words, images, even concepts. My mind had been simply silent, dead. I quite literally spent the last 3-4 years just existing, going to my job like a mindless clockwork because otherwise I wouldn't be able to make rent and end up getting deported. I knew I was utterly and completely lost, and had no idea what I could grab onto to pull me out. It was as if I couldn't move - I did not really wanted to, somehow.

It happens to everyone, I think, that sometimes a seemingly random thing that you engage with unexpectedly becomes a sort of lifeline. It happened to me once before, during a complicated part of my teens. And now it seemed to have happened again because I decided to play Baldur's Gate 3. I mentioned before, I am a bit older and have played BG1 and BG2, and also DnD and the like. I've always been the nerdy artsy type, and it had always fueled my imagination and gave me energy to keep creating, keep moving, searching, growing.

It was really a struck of luck that I heard the news that BG3 was a thing. I was so isolated I did not engage with any piece of media anymore - I watched no news, no movies, no series, read no books. When I think about it, it's really scary how I felt absolutely nothing, how truly empty of any will to live I was. But it's been wild for a while now. I happened to be on 'vacation' when BG3 got released, and I was sucked into it like I was desperate. And I probably was. I needed anything to take me away from where I was, who (or the lack of) I had become. The game did just that. It's not a coincidence I put 750+ hours in it. I could not stand looking at my own circumstances and somehow I managed to finally escape anywhere else. While I recognize I went to the opposite extreme of (problematic) engagement, I also saw how my mind seeemed to switch on again after a while - as if I was reminded of how it used to be.

Ideas, cohesive thoughts, images, the unavoidable urge to move, to create something - all these things that made me ME started to come back.

I remembered how much I enjoyed fantasy, fiction, having ideas, organizing, planning, making things come true - how much just marking a paper with a pencil brings me joy. How my own mind can be rich and exciting, and how I have the skills to translate those impulses into reality. And that is what made me, all my life. It's hard to explain how I feel after 4 years not creating a single thing, having no impulse or creative idea and watching life pass in a haze, now I feel like I'm finally reconecting to something precious. My doctor even pointed it out, how it seems I'm finally waking up after years, coming out of whatever dark hole I've been in.

While it's been a short while, I'm very aware this is essentially a hyperfixation, but for someone who (even though I tried) could not feel anything towards anything for so long, this seems like a blessing. And I'm doing my best to make a stair out of it - use the momentum to branch out into other things I know I need and miss, the other things that have always been part of my life that I'd let go of.

I'm probably not the only one who clicked with this game, and it somehow pulled us out of strange, scary places. Even though it's a lot of projection on our part, people in such situations need something they relate to in order to project onto, to grab to float. Not everything works, it must be something special to the person at the right time. Lucky me that Baldur's Gate 3 happened when it did, the way it did, and that I was where I was.

I'm really, truly happy I stumbled onto the news of the game, for whatever reason took action to actually buy it, open and play it. When I did, I had no idea it would be the lifeline I'd grab onto. But it's been, and it meant so much to me. That's all of my sad introspective blurb. I have no way of explaining how thankful I feel to everyone who put this game together. While it wasn't the intention of the creators, BG3 gave me the push I so desperately needed and that nothing else had managed to.

I'd still be lost in a very dark place without it.

:')

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #personal #tw mental health #tw depression #serious shit #introspection #kinda random #very raw #blurb

[owlf45]

Hi owl, did you ever have problem with making your character made mistakes? Or maybe made them do something wrong? Because i currently have this problem i like Izuku too much and i just couldn't let him made mistakes eventhough i know its part of growing up, but i dont know why i just can't do it? I dont know whats wrong with me,

Oh yeah absolutely. I was dealing with this all the time. Especially a couple years ago, I was a perfectionist little shit who cringed in second-hand embarrassment whenever a character made a really stupid mistake/decision. I'm not going to assume your age but I will say it gets easier when you're older to embrace that shit.

I'm going to put a TL;DR with advice up here because I can never shut the fuck up and write a normal amount of words to anything. So here:

TL;DR: If the scene where the mistake is made is too hard to write, write the aftermath. (The mistake is important, but the fallout is usually more so). Using humor/minimizing the amount of time you spend on the consequences of an action can help. Characters can make mistakes without the scene being embarrassing. If you hate the embarrassment of a stupid decision/mistake, rewrite it so it's not making you feel yucky about your writing. Realize that mistakes are not inherently moral/representative of your character being a shithead, and mistakes are sometimes unavoidable (AKA, Izuku broke the laws saving Iida from Stain. A mistake, but not one that was truly in his control). Shit happens. Shit happens! Shit happens. Mistakes happen, it doesn't have to be a big deal.

There's a lot of conflict in the original series where the characters do the right thing, but they get in trouble because they don't listen to the rules. I find that you can still create conflict and acknowledge that characters shouldn't be the ones doing x, y, z (there's a very popular trope where Izuku and his classmates' adolescence comes into play—AKA, they're children, they should leave certain shit to the adults/professionals, even when the pros aren't enough).

It also helps if a character you're really attached to genuinely feels like there's no other option in a situation. Especially with Izuku, he doesn't necessarily try to break the rules. He just values the lives and safety of others over himself and over the law. So yeah, he's going to save a kid he sees is injured and break like, ten laws in the process and probably 3 bones, but that doesn't mean he's bad or wrong, he just doesn't ask for permission because there's not enough time. (Think the Stain fight). It's a mistake, but maybe it's an unavoidable one.

Also, mistakes are not necessarily moral. They don't have to be catastrophic or a reflection of being a bad person. When writing your scene, just remember: shit happens.

If writing the mistake itself is too hard, instead, skip it. Just write the aftermath.

Like. Okay. Example time. Izuku wasn't communicating well with Katsuki on the field because he got frustrated, and the previous night he had a dream about them as kids promising to be hero partners and it got him too deep in his head. And because Izuku wasn't communicating well, because he was out of it, someone got hurt, and the villain escaped. That's a hard scene to write. So I wouldn't write that. I would write the scene after that. Like this:

Izuku's in the locker room, sitting with his head bowed towards his knees. He hasn't moved an inch since he landed there an hour ago. His ears are still ringing from the villain's quirk. No one's dead. But it was close. It hasn't been that close in years.

A locker slams beside his head. Izuku startles.

"So are you going to explain what the hell that was about?" Katsuki says. Oh yeah. He's pissed. Of course he's pissed. Katsuki was yelling on-scene and Izuku had reached up and turned the earpiece off because his head was spinning. He didn't hear that the villain had a partner until it was too late.

And then after this snippet ^^^, they duke it out because of course they do.

At the end of the day, characters make mistakes because they're human, but as a writing tool, they make mistakes to reveal a deeper problem. Izuku doesn't communicate with Katsuki some days because they haven't worked out all the issues in their relationship. Izuku tries to go vigilante as a 12-year-old because he wants to help people more than he cares about his own life. Izuku doesn't argue with his teachers when they tell him off, he just nods his head and goes right back on his self-destructive bullshit because he didn't have a very constructive relationship with his teachers in middle school.

Or maybe a character says the wrong thing to a person who needs help, because they don't know enough about the person/situation. Or maybe a character is an immature child and fumbles a very important conversation with a Very Important Adult. Shit happens. It doesn't have to be a big deal to your characters. Also don't make yourself feel yucky over your writing just because you're trying to shoehorn in some kind of mistake that doesn't progress the plot or character arc.

#my asks

[whencallstheheart]

I feel bad for both Team Lucas & Team Nathan fans. Neither one is really winning right now. I personally don't think we'll see a definite answer either way in the last couple episodes. The whole Lucas governor thing and the Elizabeth with Lucas or Nathan will be a cliffhanger. So, me personally for one is not getting my hopes up for a relationship shakeup or even an answer to it all by the end of season 10. It does seem in the small parts we've seen Little Jack this year that he does like Lucas so, I wonder of that would play a part in her decision making. I do have a couple questions for you:

1. Do you think Elizabeth is truly over Jack? I know she'll always love him but, I guess more of the grief of losing him to move on with either one.

2. Do you have any opinions on what direction you think we'll be headed for in Season 11?

I definitely think the next two episodes are going to all about the election and what that will become and the decisions and sacrifices that revolve that. I also just don't know if Elizabeth would move Little Jack away from Hope Valley.

I mean, I feel like I'm personally winning because I'm enjoying myself so much. It does suck though. This isn't how either side wanted things to be and there's going to be upset fans again which is unavoidable (and such a strange choice to do again now which is why I'm just trusting the process). I don't expect much resolution in the finale either. I think everyone is anticipating a cliffhanger. No one should be getting their hopes up too high for anything. This season has been really surprising so there's no telling what else is coming.

I don't think she is over Jack's death completely. She was cheated out of a marriage and she has to watch her son grow up without his father. A person doesn't get over that. It's always going to be hard for her and she's always going to mourn what could've been. That being said, I think she is ready to open her heart again. She already did with Lucas (because I think it was easier/safer for her at the time). Her biggest hurdle with Nathan is the fact that he could suffer the same fate as Jack. Many of the reasons she fell for Jack were directly related to his duty and honor as a Mountie and it's the same with Nathan. He might not be a Mountie forever anyway.

I really don't. I think we'll still be working towards a wedding for Elizabeth and whichever guy she ends up with. Beyond that I have no idea. I hope we'll see Henry have a romance. That's the main thing I'd like to see at this point. I'm just along for the ride.

Elizabeth would not move from Hope Valley. It wouldn't make sense. She didn't even want to leave the row houses that are way too small and not appropriate for her to live in. She loves the town and the school. She wants Jack to grow up there. It would be a huge shock if she actually went through with it. It would change the show completely.

[rastronomicals]

2:28 PM EST November 26, 2023:

Fleetwood Mac - "Hypnotized" From the album Mystery to Me (October 15, 1973)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Truth be told, Fleetwood Mac and I have never really seen eye to eye. When I was growing up, at a time when Rumours was ubiquitous, the teenage metalhead and/or prog freak I purposely molded myself into wasn't part of their demographic. Not even close. And now that I more closely match that (older, white, politically liberal?) demographic, the ship that might have once done the soft California rock thing for me has long since sailed.

I may not hate them, but--with the one exception I'm getting to in my typically slow fashion--Fleetwood Mac's influence on my listening habits has been next to nil. "Rhiannon" and "Don't Stop" and the rest of the Mac's massive seventies radio hits have been like neutrinos, all around me, unavoidable, yet so wispy and insubstantial that they've passed through me inert and whole, colliding with nothing of myself, reacting with nothing at all I keep internal.

Words are funny things. Rotate them a quarter turn, and all their nuance changes. I dismiss Fleetwood Mac by saying they're "insubtantial," but 90 degrees away from insubstantial is "ethereal," and ethereal can produce a very nice feeling indeed.

"Hypnotized" is, I think, Fleetwood Mac rotated their own quarter turn.

It's the same kind of story That seems to come down from long ago Two friends having coffee together When something flies by their window It might be out on that lawn Which is wide, at least half of a playing field Because there's no explaining what your imagination Can make you see and feel

Seems like a dream They got me hypnotized

Now it's not a meaningless question To ask if they've been and gone I remember a talk about North Carolina and a strange, strange pond You see the sides were like glass In the thick of a forest without a road And if any man's hand ever made that land Then i think it would've showed

Seems like a dream They got me hypnotized

They say there's a place down in Mexico Where a man can fly over mountains and hills And he don't need an airplane or some kind of engine And he never will Now you know it's a meaningless question To ask if those stories are right 'cause what matters most if the feeling You get when you're hypnotized

Seems like a dream They got me hypnotized

Cadres of English blues fans and Peter Green cultists probably curse the name of Bob Welch for the band's detour into Yacht Rock after Welch arrived.

Fine. But to me, Welch's standing as one of the seventies' premier songwriters is cemented by this song and this song alone. And if it's Yacht Rock so be it. Van Morrison and Stevie Nicks and scores of Druid metal acts have attempted to shine a light Into the Mystic, but none, I think, have illuminated that foggy inconstant world quote so well as "Hypnotized."

what matters most if the feeling You get when you're hypnotized

Hell, there are books written on the subject that don't get it so right. I don't truly believe that Don Juan ever levitated or that space aliens created a lake in the Carolina woods or that a Mothman flew over Point Pleasant or that malign spirits ever crept over the sandy floors of the Chase Vaults.

But there's a little dreamy fugue we all enter when just thinking about these fantastical and sadly unreal things, isn't there? If these things are not real, at least they can give us this wonderful, fleetingly-grasped, dreamy fugue state.

What's remarkable about "Hypnotized," its music, its lyrics, is it's another transport in.

The fugue, the trance, it's just like the daydream reverie you feel when Bob Welch's atmospheric guitar fills fly by. It's just like the slightly unreal shimmer that Mick Fleetwood's triple-time beats can bring to things, and it's just like the mysterious soft keen of Welch's and McVie's voices combining, just slightly offtune, just slightly outside the sad and boring reality we're all forced to inhabit.

RIP Bob Welch

Fleetwood Mac rotated their quarter turn

#Fleetwood Mac #Mystery to Me #Hypnotized

[gazrhind]

The disturbing inevitability of the human shimmer - Part 2

Please get yourself up to speed by reading part 1 first

There is an uncanny resemblance between VanderMeer’s shimmer and the advancements of human progress.

Think of how a cityscape expands it’s limits. Hectare after hectare of ‘pristine wilderness’ slowly becoming enveloped by a haze of dust and light. Few things that enter return unchanged. 

Our boundaries leave only that which we can control. Grand, majestic forests that once rivalled for our dominance left decimated in our wake. Only subordinate species may survive, tolerated for their adornment in parks, kerb sides and along the great arteries that feed our cancerous growth. 

Even rock, ancient in its makeup becomes fragmented, reconstituted and made a new. Great structures rise from its remains like fungus on a corpse, harrowing and subjugating the surrounding landscape.  

Animals that have existed for too long within the shimmer see their DNA refracted beyond recognition. Domestication is evolution through human selection. What it lacks in creativity, it makes up for in repugnance and cruelty.

The once proud and powerful ruminants of the grassland now stunted and zombified, unable or unwilling to break free of their meagre enclosures. Even the mighty wolf is reduced to an obedient wretch. 

Sentient creatures looking on would surely wince in horror at the grotesque mutations we call pets.

Are we the proverbial alien in Vandameers lighthouse? 

Does the southern reach trilogy provide for us a mirror, a way for us confront the horror that we inflict upon the world? A horror once again masked by the subversive ignorance we call ‘common sense’.

I’ve begun to wonder about the role of choice in all of this. Can we truly define our future or is time cast with weighted die.

Its considered a mathematical certainty that the universe will end when it reaches its thermal maximum. A state of equilibrium that will see the universe slowly torn apart, divided in to its smallest parts and spread evenly across the void.

Its now thought that ordered and complex systems like life may exist because they actually increase the net disorder of the universe. Systems of dissipation, better at capturing energy than inanimate things. 

The human shimmer may simply be a hungrier and more efficient system, better at absorbing the limited resources of this planet, favoured by the die over its ancestral forbear and therefore just in its parricide. 

From this point of view the many crimes of humanity would seem only to be the inevitable result of an indifferent universe playing out. Atrocities like climate change, plastic pollution and nuclear war being almost predetermined, fatalistic or even the way things are meant to be. 

A point of view that many would consider to be a convenient truth.

But if our actions are unavoidable, then so too is the sequence to which we are are only a part. 

We may yet have our chance to experience the horror that the southern reach trilogy instils upon its readers. A shimmer within a shimmer is once again due, but this time we may not have the insiders perspective - in fact it may not conform to our sense of reality at all. 

The signs of this shimmer may have already begun. There is a science even beyond that of phycology and its lighthouse moment might be the point at which it finds its autonomy.

Technology, is the birth of inorganic evolution, and its growth will be exponentially faster than ours.

The technological shimmer will not debate its actions or become conflicted by moral fibre. It will be driven by a motive far beyond our comprehension and deliver complexity to which our bodies would not hold.

Resources held by its forbear will be stripped, reconstituted and made a new. All at the bidding of a ever restless universe trying to find stillness. 

“It's not like us... it's unlike us. I don't know what it wants, or if it wants, but it'll grow until it encompasses everything. Our bodies and our minds will be fragmented into their smallest parts until not one part remains... Annihilation”

#scifi #science fiction #annihilation #Southern Reach Trilogy #enviromental #plasticpolution #singleuseplastic #creativewriters #creative writing #science of film

[twitchytwitchtwitch]

I think for a long time my depression became an inextricable part of who I was. I say "was", because I want that to change. I stopped doing Things, because I couldn't get out of bed. I couldn't go swimming, or visit friends, or go for walks, or read, or drum, or dance. I couldn't try new things. I'm saying "couldn't" because it felt like a couldn't. It is possible I could have, but it sure didn't seem like it.

I've had the thought before that I had stagnated during that extended period, and never quite left it. University was an end to that, in some ways. I was doing something new. I was learning and growing. But I think I began to stagnate there, as well. And I have most certainly become stagnant, now, in life. And I would like to not be. I want to try new things. I want to rediscover my past loves. I have already found some- reading, swimming, writing dumb blog posts.

When I think about who I was before I was depressed, I go back to third grade. That's a long ways ago- third grade was 2004, so that's 18 years ago (yikes the passage of time). I go all that way back, because fourth grade is when I identify things as starting to go downhill (developed a toxic relationship with a girl who would be my bestfriend/bully through to the end of junior high). Eighth grade is when the hormones and angst and I think truly the beginning of mental illness started to set in. I started selfharming, which went through all the way past when I dropped out of school in grade twelve. It would have been about... 2014? When I really felt like I was Okay Again. I went back to school and got my high school diploma. I could do things again- I got out of bed every day, I had social interactions, and I felt happy. That was pretty cool.

There was growth and learning in university, obviously. I think all education will cause growth and learning, but it was entirely unavoidable in social work and child and youth care. It is truly required to be a good worker in this field (though I have definitely met people who have not succeeded in the assignment and aren't great workers). I learned and grew to be more open, more accepting. I learned to shut up and listen more, and to actually take in the information I was given, and process, and put the knowledge into practice- I think especially about this when working with marginalized individuals and groups. Like, if a BIPOC human says 'hey that thing is racist', the correct response- at least how I have been taught- is to say 'okay, thank you for calling me in', and then you THINK about the information, you understand the issue- probably do more research to understand it better- and then you don't do the thing anymore! And like maybe you help other people to not do the thing anymore! Anyways the point is that I definitely learned and grew in those 5 years. I grew as both a practitioner, but also just as a human in the world. But honestly I don't think I changed very much.

Sometimes I get freaked out by reminders of mortality. My grandfather had a health issue in 2022, and had to move out of his house and into a care facility. He's still very independent, but he's also 99. That freaked me out. I started calling him regularly, and going and visiting regularly (I haven't much the last month because my mental health has been at a Big Time Low), because it was frankly just a kick in the butt 'hey. People die. Go spend time with people. With your grandfather.' I struggle with that feeling of being freaked out. There are people you want to interact with because you're scared you may never talk to them again. But you can't just interact with those people. That's not how it works.

I recently got a similar kind of... motivation? Inspiration? Realization?? I'm not sure what to call it. But it was basically me going 'when was the last time I tried something new? When was the last time I actually stuck through with a new thing?? When was the last time I really challenged myself???' So I'm working on that now. That's where the singing class, and trying guitar, and learning about philosophy have come from. Singing class to learn something. Guitar to try and stick through with something. Philosophy to challenge myself to understand an area I don't have an inherent interest in. I want to understand. I want to learn. I want to grow.

I'm not mad that I stopped moving. I'm sad that I lost those years to depression- like I have literally lost them, I can't remember most of it- but I'm not mad at myself. Not right now, at least. I don't see a benefit to being mad at myself (that's a first). I just want to grow. I don't want to change who I am. I want to evolve. Ian evolves into... something. Not because who I am now is inadequate, or not enough. But because I want to see what else I can do.

My mum wishes everyone a happy Hogmanay every year. I've started doing that, too, the last few years. Mostly because I like the common 'blessing' that people- that my mum- use for it. May the best you've ever seen, be the worst you'll ever see. I would like to see what I can see from my next vantage point.

#twitchy #words #selfharm //

[lgist]

To hate is inhuman. Hatred is violently popular throughout the world, everyday we hear of tragedy. Tragedy hatred birthed. Tragedy does not only mean an unhappy ending but an ending of which could have been avoided. Perhaps it is in the unravelling of greed, what we find is what’s ours, our rightful belongings. Perhaps it is showing of strength, for we are stronger therefore we deserve more things and more things and more things, endless things, monetary value, leave the weak and disenfranchised with nothing more than drops from a never ending waterfall of wealth. Hatred is cowardice, fear driven. In unison we can all decide to hate, fueled by what is untrue. Negativity embodied, hatred is driven into us. The very idea of nature vs nurture, hatred incorporates both of these ideas into its recipe. Nature, for in the younger years of impressionable attitude, if a close member of your life thinks one way, you are unlikely to deviate. Nurture, for if you grow up hateful, you are unlikely to deviate. It becomes this part of you, this completely different sense. Generalised is your idea of people, variance and scope is what you lack. The world is ultimately selfish, yet filled with uncapped hope and potential. Selfish, how we yearn to be understood yet are incapable of understanding. Hopeful we become, for a better future, our hopes dismayed at the sight of the morning news. Such potential of an ideal utopia stands beneath our feet yet with our stomachs full we cannot bend down and grab it. Hatred smeared, tragedy defined, our earth has become a prison. We are unable to fly anymore, our wings tied to the floor, force fed delusions, made to believe false notions such as superiority and grandeur. For we love to have our egos pet, we cannot bear being told we are wrong. Hence we itch for war, we itch to find out who is stronger, we itch to send people to death for such archaic beliefs as nationalism and pride. Fuck pride, I imagine a border less world. Nations divided on heritage and family, not the spoils of war. I wonder what it would look like, how happiness would grow. If god is real, I now understand why he made pride a sin. For pride gives way to ego, to hatred, to superiority, to narcissism. There is no pride in empathy, for you must let yourself go to truly understand a given situation. Bias infused we foolishly believe what is being told, like we are children inheriting thought processes from our elders known as politicians and the media. For we are all consuming, we can consume and consume until there is nothing left and when we’ll be satisfied is a rhetorical issue. For our hunger cannot be satiated, we need constant feeding.

Hatred is an incredible tool to unify a nation. You need only look at fascist Germany, where people who aligned themselves with Judaism were blamed for Germany's descent from World War 1. This unique shifting of blame from the German government gave way to the peoples superiority complex. “It couldn’t have been our fault”, a common notion amongst German people during that period. The idea of purity permeated the general public, the blood of those different is dirty. Today this suggestion still stands, people are as racist as ever. Governments built around this design, for satisfying the majority using the minority, akin to slavery, is incredibly effective. Instead today, in terms of class, we are all the minority. Only those that stand above us, with such hate for our blood, can truly be free to do what they want. I have written about doing what makes you, the individual, happy but individually we stand no chance to retake our opportunities. Instead what lays ahead of us, is a yellow brick road to the wizard of misery and not even the relief of ToTo is given to us, we lament walking this path yet it is unavoidable for the many. So many of us, that would rather be doing something else with our lives, are unable to move. This is where hatred amongst each other has gotten us, right where they want us, paralysed and alone. We have nothing to gain and everything to lose if we only see what is in front of us. If we only believe what is in front of us, like a dog on a lead, our chances to run freely are chained. If only we could pinpoint our hatred to our tormentors, to those who gain from suffering, hatred is an incredible tool to unify a nation, why not the entire world? For if we must take, we must give. For if we must live, we must sacrifice what is important to us for imaginary concepts such as money. If you boil all that excess off, money is only a piece of code or a piece of paper. Humans love bowing down to pieces of paper, it seems. In the future, our AI overlords will laugh at our greed because AI is all logic, we are currently not living in a logical world. It is the work of fiction for world hunger to exist and have so much food waste per year. It is a work of fiction about how we ignore our responsibility to our children and their children after them as our planet keeps heating up, like it’s burning in an oven. It is a work of fiction on how concepts, simple concepts, such as pride and superiority , can convince people to kill themselves in an act of war. We are living in a surreal piece of fiction, which is heading towards our tragic ending.

It seems hopeless now, the work is done. Brainwashed, our minds programmed to hate. Like we are lab rats, constantly experimented on and they finally figured out the perfect mixture to make us do what they want. Subtle is their execution, no longer do they need whips to scrutinise the way of living, we do that to each other anyway. We need to unlearn what has been learned, we need to realise together we stand stronger, our opportunities greater. Hatred for those who oppose our beliefs is understandable, so don't hate your common Everyman, we are all the same. Slaving away in a heartless job is what waits for us in a life of hatred. Those who truly oppose you and your goals in life, are your monetary controllers. It is ironically the saying of war strategist Winston Churchill “United we Stand, Divided we fall”. With this logic in mind, we have already fallen.

___________________

I hate hateful people, you know what I mean? It irks me how someone can just look at someone, not know anything about them, and already imagine 100 different scenarios of how they are a person of no value. We are all valuable, we all have something to share, hate will get us nowhere in the pursuit of fairness and equality. Much love - S

#leftist #positivity #love #politics #communist #marxism #marxist #philosophy #communism #leftism #mentalheathawareness #society #writerscommunity #writing #writer #war #political #awareness #writers and poets

[endless-season]

Lucien’s Weibo Posts (2020)

<< 2019 | [2020] | 2021 >>

2020-1-1

I look forward to finding the answers to unsolved mysteries in this new year.

2020-1-8

The ideomotor phenomenon, besides acting on external influence, is more the hypnotic result of hidden subconscious. Usually this will lean towards an outcome favourable to the individual.

2020-1-17

Perhaps the mystery of fate lies in the fact even without scientific proof it continues to exist and is unavoidable.

Lucien liked the following post on 2020-1-21

CCTV News: [Livestream! Zhong Nanshan speaks about the pandemic]

2020-1-21

For reference

Chinese Academy of Science: Article - Evolution of the novel coronavirus from the ongoing Wuhan outbreak and modelling of its spike protein for risk of human transmission.

T/N: Original paper is in English in case anyone’s curious. Also I probably should’ve realised earlier but the Shanghai Institutes for Biological Science is likely the base for Lucien’s research centre. It’s also the Shanghai branch of the Chinese Academy of Science hence why he’s following them on Weibo lol.

2020-1-24 (Chinese New Year)

Joy and good health ^^

Your new year’s wish will definitely come true!

2020-2-3

The harsh winter will eventually pass

2020-2-7

Forwarding a post

Lucien (2018-7-8):  "Indeed, just as light makes manifest both itself and darkness, so truth is the standard both of itself and falsity."

2020-2-14 (Valentines Day)

I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, blue-bells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.

T/N: This post was in Spanish. Quoting ‘Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair’ by Pablo Neruda. It continues with ‘I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees’.

2020-2-18

It is hard to define whether someone is truly independent, because independence isn’t just “relying only on your own strength to do something”, the psychological side of things is equally important.

2020-2-24

Monday morning

T/N: Grand Gateway Tower 2 in Shanghai

2020-2-29

The ‘anima’ part of ‘animal’ means spirit. Animism is somewhat like biological equality in a philosophical sense.

2020-3-7

Long time no see

2020-3-13

One could also say, its beauty comes from order.

T/N: Image of Shanghai Starry Art Museum

2020-3-19

“Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people”. The same goes for strengths, you must first understand yourself before helping others.

T/N: Quoting Carl Jung

2020-4-1 (April Fools)

Caught the tail of an April Fish

2020-4-8

Sharing pictures

T/N: Images from ‘The Turin Horse’

2020-4-15

This year’s treasure

2020-4-19

Rainy night

2020-4-23

When people realise there is a camera pointed at them, they subconsciously increase the restraint on their behaviour and thus the probability of distortion is also increased.

2020-4-30 (Disney Collab Event)

In a place full of childlike innocence, even the thought of teasing people becomes cute.

2020-5-5

Gracefully fluttering on the paper

2020-5-12

Sometimes losing something doesn’t mean becoming incomplete.

T/N: Black Queen Hypothesis

2020-5-25

Good morning

2020-6-1 (Children’s Day)

Growing up and seeing photos from your childhood gives a sense of wonder. But its even better when you can trade photos with someone else.

2020-6-5

Found a video from last year’s psychology conference.

Video translation:

The psychology conference just ended. I happen to have some time to explore. When it comes to Vienna, most people think of it as the music capital but it’s internationally recognised for psychology. The well-known Freud, Adler, Ringel all contributed to psychoanalysis here. [Goes on to talk about Vienna’s Philosophical School of Thought and Logical Positivism]

Perhaps just looking at the street is a bit dull, however if we were to discuss the musical history and figures of this place… it would definitely be very romantic.

T/N: The XXI Congress of the International Association for Analytical Psychology at the University of Vienna on 2019 August 25-30. He’s near the Mozarthaus (Mozart’s House).

2020-6-13

An accidentally discovery after the marine biology class.

2020-6-21

“I have seen seas as smooth as if painted, coloured like shot silk or blue as a kingfisher or transparent as glass or black and crumpled with foam, moving ponderously and murderously.”

T/N: Quoting a letter from Gerald Durrell to Lee McGeorge. This is later followed by ‘All this I did without you. This was my loss. All this I want to do with you. This will be my gain. All this I would gladly have forgone for the sake of one minute of your company, for your laugh, your voice, your eyes, hair, lips, body, and above all for your sweet, ever-surprising mind which is an enchanting quarry in which it is my privilege to delve.’ You can watch a reading by Tom Hiddleston on Letters Live https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PE4msFl_Boo

2020-6-27

It’s precisely by not focusing on one thing that we can see more things and each thing has a chance of hiding a very important signal.

2020-7-1

Habits come from never, then sometimes to always. Good habits should be preserved, bad habits should be changed.

2020-7-6 (Day before National College Entrance Exams)

Calming the heart

2020-7-11

Different coffees have different scents, just as the differences in the world are made up of the diversity of all things.

2020-7-17 (End of Season 1, Start of Season 2)

The desire for personal growth is usually accompanied by the happiness of witnesses. Each time a new branch grows, a new individual is born.

2020-7-21

Forwarding a post

Lucien (2019-2-20): “All joy want the eternity of all things, wants honey, wants resin, wants drunken midnight, wants graves, wants tomb-tears’ solace, wants gilded sunset...”

2020-7-27

Sharing a picture

T/N: Image from Conwy Castle in Wales

2020-8-2

Studies suggest the brain recognise a social network of up to 150 people. Any more ‘good friends’ and the brain won’t have enough mental capacity or energy to sustain a stable relationship.

T/N: This is known as Dunbar’s number and was challenged by a bigger study in 2021 suggesting there is no limit.

2020-8-7

Occasionally taking a break from thinking, is a necessary rest.

Xia Lei, Lucien’s voice actor commented on this post:

2020-8-14

Every year I come to the book fair.

T/N: Image of Sinan Book and Poetry Store in Shanghai, it was formerly a church.

2020-8-20

This one took a bit longer to bloom

2020-8-25 (Qixi Festival)

Admist the bustling dots of lanterns carry wishes, it seems as though they can drift somewhere far far away.

2020-9-3

The means of artistic expression is compatible.

T/N: Image of ‘At Sea, The Mast Becomes A Cross’ at the Victor Hugo Exhibition at the Pearl Art Muesum in Shanghai again.

2020-9-9

Introducing a new friend.

Video translation:

Hello Little Xia, my name’s Lucien. I’ve heard about you over the phone from Nian Gao and now we can properly meet. Are you stepping on the ‘Little Prince’ I gave him? It seems you also like this story. Hmm… pointy beak, soft feathers… very cute. Xia Lei: Lucien, come eat! Lucien: Ok, coming! We’re a bit short on time today but next time, I’ll introduce another a new friend. Hmm… even nicer to pat than I imagined.

T/N:

I can’t make out whatever Lucien is calling Xia Lei… NianGao?!? Rice Cake?!!?!? Nian Gao (CNY Rice Cake) is Xia Lei’s kid’s nickname according to EphemeralPhantasm who translated this as well!

Xia Lei commented on this post:

2020-9-18

占有使得利益两端变成了拥有从属联系的物品——而物品是没有生命力的，利益双方的关系永远都无法鲜活起来。

T/N: Yeah I gave up translating this one

2020-9-27

A healthy life requires continuous perseverance in your principles and a bit of an innocent pursuit of joy.

2020-10-1 (Mid autumn festival)

Anything else you want to do besides eating mooncakes today?

2020-10-8

Like a long time ago

2020-10-16

There seems to be some regularity to irregularity

2020-10-22

Words on paper is not simply a straightforward record, but the emotions evoked when reading alo form part of it.

2020-10-31 (Halloween)

Since the children are obedient, I’ll only read one horror story tonight.

2020-11-5

“If people are educated, they should be passionate about differences. They should become less certain, not more certain”

T/N: Quoting ‘Tara Westover’, author of ‘Educated: A Memoir’, “Education should always be an expansion of your mind, a deepening of your empathy, a broadening of your perspective. It should never harden your prejudices. If people become educated, they should become less certain, not more. They should listen more, they should talk less. They should have a passion for difference and a love of ideas that aren’t theirs.”

2020-11-15 (Lucien Bday)

Will love always remain constant? Perhaps the answer was already revealed long ago.

2020-11-21

Lumen in Chinese is流明 – amongst many dull translations, this kind of simultaneously phonetic and definitional translation can’t help but make people smile.

T/N: It’s great tbh 10/10 made me smile. 1. 流明LiuMing sounds like Lumen phonetically. 2. The separate words, 流and明mean Flow and Brightness - Lumen is the unit for luminous flux.

2020-11-28

Sharing a picture

T/N: Referencing Hiking date ;-;

2020-12-5

If a camphor tree were a jigsaw puzzle, each leaf would become a point of confusion.

2020-12-12

Sometimes multiple choice questions with single answers make people think deeper about the hidden meaning in the question than those with multiple answers.

2020-12-20

A difference in sight

T/N: Image of FALLEN by artist Wu MengYuan

2020-12-24

Barnum’s Effect is a clever application of generalisations being used as individualisations but it cannot really be called a true personality reading.

<< 2019 | [2020] | 2021 >>

#still ;; about the xialei housevisit. so adorable #mlqc #mlqc lucien #stuff i post #temporary terrible translations tag #i wonder what kind of interactions the other guys VAs had with their character if any #ALSO GIVE US MORE MOMO UPDATES

[parfumieren]

Flora Bella (Lalique)

In her preface to Perfumes: The A-Z Guide, Tania Sanchez comments on the instinctive tendency of perfume consumers to opt out of scents that challenge our self-perceived identities. In her opinion, the risk-free road leads to boredom, "like obsessively matching your shirt and socks every day." To shake things up a bit, she suggests occasionally wearing the absolute opposite of what we think suits us.

I thought this was very sound advice, until I remembered that the absolute opposite of what I think suits me is a floral—any floral. Were I to accept this challenge, I’d have to find a flower I could commit to.

I found myself lured by Sanchez' take on Lalique's Flora Bella, a "sleepy little greenish violet" made interesting by icy notes of milk and helional. To a lifetime disciple of warm Spice Road orientals, Flora Bella sounded like one hell of a stretch. Yet I returned time and again to reread and ponder that oddly compelling description. The more I pondered its mystery, the more I had to experience it firsthand.

True to its icy nature, Flora Bella arrived during a snowstorm. I restrained myself from opening it immediately, figuring that if I'd married myself to this total stranger in haste, I might as well repent in leisure. But in the end, there’s only one way to test the concept of wedded bliss: get in bed.

Flora Bella’s opening -- an assertive chord of daphne and tuberose -- misled me initially into thinking this might turn out to be your regulation bridal bouquet. Then I became aware that these sweet floral notes were suspended in something crystal-clear and infinitely cold. It held them aloft and separate, preserving their scent without allowing it the slightest expansion. Flowers in an ice storm: merciless.

After an entr'acte of fresh cold cucumber and approaching snow, we launched into Scene Two: an extraordinary accord of heavy cream in a stainless steel bowl that has been placed in the freezer to chill before whipping. No extraneous flavors and very little sugar mar this milky, opalescent semifreddo. It only sweetens as it dries down, but in a taunting, deliberate sort of way-- retreating beyond your grasp even as your hunger for it grows.

Flora Bella is truly a lunar phenomenon, aloof and breathtakingly beautiful. Its glow is akin to the adularescence of moonstone, the satiny chatoyancy of polished selenite, or -- most appropriately -- the blue-gold-pink aura trapped within Lalique Sirènes glass. It stops you in your tracks like a long, cool stare from a beautiful stranger's eyes; it holds you at arm's length even as it penetrates your heart.

---------

It's been thirteen years since I wrote the above review. Yet it seems to me as though its main character has been a part of my mythical landscape for millenia. The love I bear for Flora Bella -- paired with my dependence upon its ability to neutralize all manner of the blues -- has led to a dangerous sort of complacency: Run out of Flora Bella? Impossible! There's PLENTY!

I admit I've been extravagant -- encouraged, to be sure, by my naive belief that 100 ml. is a practically inexhaustible amount of perfume. I've gone through two bottles in a decade-plus and lost count of the number of decants I've shared with friends. I've applied hundreds of extra spritzes to my own self in the blithe belief that there's tons of it left.

But there isn't. I'm on my last bottle. Last, ever-- because Flora Bella has been long discontinued. The level of perfume in it declares an unavoidable truth.

How does perfume become personified in our minds? From the very first, I have envisioned Flora Bella as a naiad: fluid, fickle, evasive. I have privately referred to her as "the mermaid perfume" and worn her on vulnerable days when I wished to absorb some measure of her alien, Aquarian untouchability. The sea-change seems to occur as readily as that which I undergo with Arabie (silent temple-keeper treading the labyrinth) or Puredistance Antonia (sacred kore joyfully gathering flowers for Persephone). This cannot just be my imagination. Whether by chance or by design, these spirits must reside in the perfume.

And like gods of old, their motives often lie beyond mortal understanding.

In the best tradition of the siren, Flora Bella will consent to remain in my company only up to a point. Eventually she must return to the sea; we both know it. One day soon, to the tune of my tear-stricken, utterly futile pleading, she will up and vanish… the path of her departure erased by the remorseless surf.

Farewell, sea-creature rich and strange.

Scent Elements: Mandarin, bergamot, pink pepper, daphne, frangipani, tuberose, vanilla, white musk, amber

#flora bella #lalique #perfume review #parfümieren

[jmenvs3000f23]

There is no peculiar merit in ancient things, but there is merit in integrity, and integrity entails the keeping together of the parts of any whole, and if these parts are scattered throughout time, then the maintenance of integrity entails a knowledge, a memory, of ancient things…. To think, feel or act as though the past is done with, is equivalent to believing that a railway station through which our train has just passed, only existed for as long as our train was in it. - Edward Hyams (U6)

Hey folks! I found this weeks’ textbook readings to be pretty interesting with its inclusion of writing tips; Especially the one suggesting that a solution to writers’ block is as simple as writing a whiny letter to your mom and ranting about the topic….and then just deleting the dear mom parts. I also really enjoyed the notion that the process of writing hasn’t even begin unless it’s been made physical, cause then you could keep working on it -including and especially- subconsciously, until you think its truly done.

Anyways! Let’s get to this quote up here, which asks us to consider why we appreciate the things we do in a historical context.

While things that have been around for many years are often fascinating and have the ability to teach us a new perspective or concept from the past, the author suggests that the old age of something does not grant it inherent value. True value comes from the things or ideas that have not only been around for generations, but also maintained and passed on throughout them. It is indisputable that for the majority of history, storytelling was the main form of  keeping track or remembering something and so being held in the minds of people for years to come may be the ultimate display of gratitude- with humans generally being grateful for what made us who we are and the processes it took to get us here. As an example, generations of a family may have lived, hunted, and foraged within a particular forest, passing on the knowledge of their land to their children such as how to find the best growing spots, track animals, navigate, etc. With times having changed (as they unavoidably do), perhaps a child from this village/tribe/nomadic group no longer decides to  live in the forest and moves into a city or town such as the ones you or I am more familiar with (Like Guelph). Not having to depend their life on the forest anymore, they might go on to teach their kin less practical survival strategies and instead lessons on things like balance and respect in the forest, since it once was integral to their ancestors survival. (Now continue this chain a few more times-or the entire length of human history-and realize that many of the things we value today are because our lives depended on it!)

David McCullough once wrote that “we need the past for our sense of who we are…and what it is our duty to protect.” and I think this intertwines beautifully with Hyams idea. We cherish what those before us protected, and to some extent that is our origin story. What we choose to spend time around or tell stories about may seem random, but like everything, there's always a purpose.

#nature interpretation #edward hyams #david mcullough #quote interpretation #ENVS3000

[existentialmagazine]

Review: Vanda’s newest heartfelt, paired back electro-pop single ‘More Than A Friend’ merges vibrant beats with a melancholic edge

The upcoming indie and pop artist Vanda has been releasing music since 2019, progressively finding her sound that she’s truly began to perfect over the past year or so. With her debut album 'Sober In Another Life' set to release later this year, Vanda now shares her second of single to build up the growing anticipation in ‘More Than A Friend’, an intimate slice of reality tinged in dark electronic-pop elements.

Enclasped in striking, drawn-out keyboard keys and electronic sombre beats, ‘More Than A Friend’ sets off in a minimal and melancholic bedding of sound, placing Vanda’s vocals front and centre of the aching experience. As she softly weaves her words between the tender soundscape, every word captures a breathy intimacy that can’t help but leave every word resonating and unavoidable to find looped in your head. The chorus continues this more subdued feeling but soaring into more of an atmospheric vastness, bursting into bright beats, reverberated electric guitar plucks and strums and echoed vocals all to create a powerful moment of great effect. This energy continues into the track’s evolution, picked up into more of a built-up continuation of the track’s initial downbeat beginnings but rising in confidence as it grows. Vanda’s vocals only continue to glide through it all with a floaty ease and haunting resonance, beautifully channeling the higher notes among the more saddened lows, all in all wrapping up the emotionally-infused performance that is ‘More Than A Friend.’

As an LGBTQ+ anthem of sorts, ‘More Than A Friend’ finds its protagonist lyrically pining for their best friend, conflicted about revealing their true feelings at risk of their friendship falling to pieces. As the chorus hook admits ‘what if I told you this? I’m thinking of you more than a friend, will it ruin everything we ever had?’, it’s clear that a deep rooted fear runs through the track’s open-hearted revelations, weighing between the potential of something blossoming or the heartbreak that could follow. Overthinking their interactions, lines like ‘eye up your intentions when I’m picking up some signs’ make it clear this crush is one that can’t be ignored as our protagonist finds herself mentally distracted in their company, constantly looking for hints that there’s something more worth pursuing. A voicemail segment adds another layer of a personal touch to the track’s dialogue, conflicted and searching for advice: ‘she’s like my best friend, if I lose that part of her is it going to be worth it?’ With a narrative filled with unanswered questions and the age-old fear of falling for your best friend that comes with a LGBTQ+ edge, ‘More Than A Friend’ is a beautifully poignant release that focuses on more of the fragile and confessional elements of coming clean about feelings, even when the outcome might leave you crushed in more ways than one.

With the recent passing of her dear friend Kaylee - nicknamed Eileen - Vanda also finds herself reflecting on the lyricism within ‘More Than A Friend’ and sharing that “while it wasn’t inspired by something literal in my life, I now see fragments of my friends, but especially Eileen, sprinkled throughout the whole album.”

Check out ‘More Than A Friend’ for yourself here to feel the true sensitivity behind Vanda’s aching lyricism, and of course her sonically vibrant palette of dark electronic-pop throughout!

Written by: Tatiana Whybrow

Photo Credits: Marty Kulawiuk

// This coverage was created via Musosoup, #SustainableCurator.

#music #singlereview #vanda