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Why tf is there a fic drought??? Like all of my favorite hashtags are full of smaus… do people lack the creativity and the will to actually write something? Don’t get me wrong, the summaries of these smaus are genuinely brilliant but they get dumbed down by the fake social media posts and accounts. The smau warriors have started to invade some tags that I just got into and it’s practically impossible to find a good fic. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack. Bring back the written word please 🙏🏻.
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Brazil is facing an escalating femicide crisis. In 2025, the country recorded between 1,470 and 1,518 women killed, the highest number in a decade, equivalent to at least four deaths every day. Broader analyses reveal an even more alarming picture, with 6,904 victims of attempted and completed femicides, a 34% increase compared to 2024. Of these, 2,149 were murders, bringing the daily average to nearly six women killed, while researchers warn that underreporting and misclassification mean the real numbers may be even higher.
Most of these crimes occur within intimate relationships. In about 75% of cases, the perpetrator was a current or former partner or someone close to the victim, and the violence often takes place inside the home. Many women had already sought help, with at least 22% having reported their aggressors before the attacks, yet the system failed to protect them.
The human impact is devastating. Most victims were between 25 and 34 years old, many had children, and at least 1,653 children were left orphaned. Some women were pregnant at the time of the violence, underscoring the depth of the tragedy.
Specialists argue that the rise in cases reflects structural failures. Although femicide has been defined in Brazil’s Penal Code since 2015 and is considered a preventable crime, gaps in public policy, lack of funding, and weakened protection networks continue to put women at risk. Even with stricter laws and penalties that can reach up to 60 years in prison, the numbers continue to rise.
January 2026:
New Year's Day Femicide — Bom Repouso (MG)
On January 1st, Bruna Aline Rodrigues de Souza, 27, was murdered by her ex-boyfriend in front of her children. The aggressor broke into the house at dawn, ignoring an active protective order. The children, ages 3 and 6, were found next to their mother's body. The same day, Eva Sofia Santo Silva, 16, was killed in São José dos Campos (SP) in a premeditated crime.
Copacabana Gang Rape — Rio de Janeiro
On January 31st, a teenage girl was the victim of gang rape in Copacabana. Four adults and one minor are involved in what was described as "heinous" and "shocking." The victim suffered multiple injuries. Security cameras captured part of the attack, and international backlash forced the creation of a special task force by Rio's Civil Police.
Robbery Violence — 16 Deaths in January (RJ)
The Rio de Janeiro Metropolitan Area recorded 16 deaths in robberies or robbery attempts in January — one death every two days. Rideshare drivers and shopkeepers were the main victims, with 5 and 4 deaths respectively. The North Zone concentrated 62% of cases.
February 2026:
Amanda Loureiro — Killed Despite Protective Order (RJ)
On February 4th, Amanda Loureiro da Silva Mendes, 32, a community health worker, was shot dead by ex-partner Wagner Araújo, despite having an active protective order against him. Amanda had filed seven police reports over the previous two years. In her last social media post, three days before the crime, she wrote: "I'm afraid justice will arrive too late." The phrase went viral as a symbol of the system's failure.
Cibelle at the Jewelry Store — Killed in a Mall (SP)
In São Bernardo do Campo, Cibelle Monteiro Alves, 29, was stabbed to death by her ex-boyfriend inside a jewelry store in a shopping mall, in broad daylight, in front of dozens of witnesses. She also had an active protective order. The case sparked protests in 14 Brazilian state capitals.
Femicide in Cascavel — In Front of Her Child (PR)
On February 19th, Mayara Araújo Krupiniski Rodrigues, 31, was stabbed to death in front of her 5-year-old son. The boy tried to protect his mother and suffered minor injuries. The aggressor fled and was arrested 48 hours later at the Paraguay border.
March 2026:
In Pernambuco, in early march, a woman was stabbed and set on fire after refusing a relationship. Neighbors managed to extinguish the flames, but she suffered burns over 60% of her body. In Goiás, the same week, a 44-year-old teacher was killed by her ex-husband inside the school where she taught, in front of her 5th-grade students.
Sources: Raquel Lopes for Folha de S.Paulo (January 20, 2026), Camila Boehm for Agência Brasil (February 5 and March 3, 2026) and Mundo Incrível BR (March 4, 2026).
I’m gonna say it, (the thing that you’re not supposed to say), but I genuinely believe the idea of ‘tip jars’ and the like has permeated the fanfiction community and ruined the basis of connection between readers and writers.
Originally a community built on mutual support/rapport, i.e. I write a fic and you comment, engage, like and share it in exchange for my more frequent submissions, (with the underlying assumption that I am a human being writing for free, you read it and encourage that writing with the benefit of reading what I write), and now it’s consumer + producer.
I will be DAMNED. DAMNED. If I ever accept money for fanfiction. ‘Oh I don’t expect people to pay me, they can tip if they wan-’
YOU’RE PUTTING ‘Tip Jar’ AS A LINK ON EVERY FIC YOU WRITE.
Motherfucker I may be gullible, but I know promotion when I see it. From the bottom of my fiery, opinionated heart, FUCK. YOU.
Readers deserve to feel like they have the space to comment and engage with fanfiction material, that’s literally why I started writing and posting my fic in the first place; I was invited! Now with the presence of money you make it seem like your writing is commercial, money-generating and original.
IT’S FUCKING NOT. You took an idea from someone else’s writing/creation/show and changed it to fit your own needs, and even with ‘AUs’ it would still be classified as copyright infringement in the public market, even if you changed details of the setting or character!!!
Your fanfiction isn’t marketable, that’s why it’s (fan)fiction. Stop fucking selling it you ignorant, self-absorbed twat.
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I’ve been sitting with this for a long time, and I think it’s time to actually say it out loud instead of just thinking it and scrolling past it.
I’ve watched too many people I care about slowly disappear from this app. Not because they stopped loving writing, not because they ran out of ideas, but because they were harassed, sent hateful or threatening messages, and made to feel unsafe in a space that was supposed to be creative and welcoming. Some of them didn’t even announce they were leaving. They just… vanished. And every time that happens, this space gets a little quieter, a little emptier, a little colder.
No one should have to brace themselves before opening their inbox. No one should have to weigh whether posting a fic, a headcanon, or just a simple thought is “worth it” because of the kind of messages they might get. Writing is supposed to be something you do because it makes you happy, because it’s part of who you are, not something that comes with the constant anxiety of wondering if today will be the day someone decides to tear you down.
The mental toll this takes is real. It’s not just frustration or irritation — it’s anxiety, self-doubt, sleepless nights, and spiraling thoughts. People start questioning themselves: “Am I overreacting? Is it my fault? Do I even deserve to take up space here?” Fear becomes this heavy weight on your chest. You start shrinking in on yourself, making yourself smaller, quieter, less visible — just so you don’t become the next target. And there are people who thrive on that fear. The kind who get satisfaction from knowing they can make someone else feel powerless or isolated. That’s not just cruel — it’s terrifying.
This world is already scary enough. There’s so much happening outside of this app — in real life, in school, at work, at home — that people are already carrying on their shoulders. Right now, headlines are filled with stories about immigration enforcement and ICE raids that are turning entire neighborhoods into zones of fear, where families are afraid to leave their homes and children are missing school because their parents worry about their safety. Even communities that once felt quiet and safe are shaken by what’s happening, and that kind of fear and uncertainty hits people’s mental health hard. On top of that, so many of us are dealing with anxiety, depression, family stress, school pressure, or personal struggles we may never even know about. And piling harassment — even in online spaces that are supposed to be creative and safe — on top of everything else makes it feel even heavier. It’s a lot for anyone to carry. No one should have to navigate personal struggles and a constant fear of being attacked online.
I know people say “just block and move on,” and yeah, blocking helps in the moment. But it doesn’t erase what’s already been said. It doesn’t stop the words from echoing in your head later, making you feel like you’re always walking on eggshells. It doesn’t stop the creeping sense of loneliness that comes from thinking, “no one here has my back.”, “no one sees me.”, “no one cares enough to stand with me.”. That isolation, that mental and emotional weight, is exhausting. It’s the kind of thing that slowly pushes people away until all that’s left are the voices who can tolerate it — or worse, those who thrive in it.
I’m not saying kindness fixes everything. I’m not pretending there’s a magic solution that will make all the cruelty disappear. But acts of kindness, no matter how small, really do make a difference. A reblog, a supportive comment, defending someone when they’re being targeted, checking in on someone who’s gone quiet — these things are powerful. They remind people that they matter. That they’re not invisible. That this space isn’t entirely hostile. Small moments of care can stop someone from leaving, can remind them that the world — even this little corner of it — can still feel safe, warm, and human.
It hurts to watch people who poured so much creativity, love, and energy into this space leave because it became too heavy to carry. It hurts to know that the reason isn’t a lack of talent or love for what they do, but because this space wore them down mentally and emotionally. We lose voices this way — voices that brought life and heart to the community — and that should never feel normal.
I don’t have all the answers. I’m not trying to act like some hero or savior of the community. I just know that I don’t want to keep pretending this is fine. I don’t want to keep watching people quietly disappear, broken by something that could have been softened by a little human care. If we care about this space at all, the least we can do is try to make it kinder, safer, and less lonely for the people who are still here. Not perfectly. Not all at once. Not without mistakes. But intentionally.
And yeah… it might sound simple, but I genuinely believe it: the only thing that is truly more powerful than hate is love. Not performative love, not empty gestures. Real, quiet, consistent, sometimes inconvenient love. The kind that shows up when it’s easier to scroll past. The kind that chooses to care even when it’s scary. The kind that says, you’re seen, you’re valued, you’re not alone. That kind of love is what keeps people here. That kind of love is what can begin to rebuild a space that’s been broken.
If you’ve been hurt here, your feelings are valid. If you’ve been scared to speak up, you’re not weak. And if you’re still creating, still posting, still trying to share a piece of yourself in a space that hasn’t always been kind, I see you. I see your courage. I see your effort. And I hope you remember that even the smallest act of kindness — whether you give it or receive it — matters. It can change someone’s entire day. It can keep someone here. It can remind someone that love, not hate, is the one thing that truly lasts.
If anyone who follows me — or even doesn’t — has ever been a victim of this, or knows someone who has, I want you to know I’m always here to talk. You’re not alone. You don’t have to go through it silently. And even if it’s just to vent, or feel seen, or get a little support, I’ll listen
How are we feeling after KATSEYE’s Grammy Blind Items? One of them was that one of the members left an after party with someone that wasn’t her boyfriend and that they were getting intimate with each other, and the other one is that the label has “plans” for Yoonchae going forward (which is super weird because she just turned 18 so…)
Summary: All cycles have to close. Whether they repeat or complete metamorphosis is ultimately up to you.
Warnings: Wounds, angst, hurt/comfort
A/N: Thank you for coming on the journey with me for one of my most popular, and memorable series. I’ve grown so much as a writer, even my first chapter feels like a century ago. Turning twenty wouldn’t be quite as special without this series and the readers patient enough to wait for its conclusion. Thank you for inspiring me and keeping me going through this journey. Kisses and hugs, brava! (Read alongside 'Nessun Dorma' covered by Aretha Franklin for extra drama!)
Words: 6.4k
Ilsa's ribs trembled against your hand as you soothed her like a child. For the second morning in a row she'd woken from another nightmare, shrieking and clawing at the sheets like an intruder was laying against her instead of cotton. Both of her arms were fastened around you neck, tight like a noose as she shuddered, a leaf ready to fall from a hibernating branch. She was bare, like she'd been the night before. The humidity was unbearable, no amount of showers, soaks in the tub or cold drinks ever killed the constant swell of sweat under your breasts, between your thighs. Skin stuck to skin as she gasped, slowly coming to as her terror abated.
"Ilsa." you murmured, her name a lullaby.
It was too early to get up, the digital clock reading a dull 4:33 against the dim light of your bedroom. She didn't stir, too weak or too shy, you weren't sure. The bed gave as you returned to rest, her limbs tangled with yours, ivy and stone curled together against the backdrop of the early morning. Every dip of her stomach as she breathed seemed to bring her closer until she was sat flush against you, breast to breast, pubic bones inches away between tangled legs.
"I can't let you leave." Ilsa said, stronger than she'd said yesterday, after she'd tied you to the bed for even hinting at taking a walk.
There was no response to give as you brushed your lips against her forehead, amusing yourself with the pleasurable sensation of contact. It was the same dance all over again. Obsession, possession, unbearable proximity and eventual degrading. Ilsa didn't have the stamina for this round, even if she didn't admit it. She wasn't sleeping well, even with the sleep aids you slipped into her tea. Truly you had no intention of ever leaving, at least not in the near future. But Ilsa couldn't know that. There was no mercy you could grant her, not really.
"When are you going to give this up?" you answered, softly stroking a hand through the dark roots of her hair.
Even in the dim light the gray in her hair was becoming obvious. Sexy, charming and soon to be covered by another swatch of blond box dye. You kissed her hairline, softer now. This wasn't craving, like it had been the first months. It wasn't loyalty either, even if Ilsa inspired a certain degree of fealty in you. She didn't answer your question, nuzzling softly against your collarbone instead, snuffling like a babe searching for a breast.
"I need you."
"I know, darling." another stroke of her head as she relaxed once again.
Ilsa, for better or worse, was here to stay. No fight, no terrible revelation of the past would change that. But it was only you who was able to see that, stroking the lines of her spine as she finally quieted. Even as sleep took her, her neck was still tense beneath your hand.
←:→
A week ago you had been ready to leave, to pack what was easily considered yours and escape to the countryside. A half-full suitcase was all that was left of your master escape, pushed to the side of your bedroom, lid open as clothes spilled out of one side. You hadn't mustered the courage to unpack it yet, even with your favorite pajamas perched on top.
The kitchen sink was in a similar state of disorder when the two of you made it down for breakfast. Glasses and dishes from the last week drew flies, giving the space a sour odor that only made the act of scrounging up breakfast more unbearable. Ilsa didn't lift a finger, whether she refused or simply couldn't you had yet to discern. All that remained constant was her need for touch, for validation and whatever scraps of routine remained. You made coffee for yourself, tea for her. She sat in your lap on the couch, zoning out as another cutesy movie played in front of her. The world, the physical phenomena around Ilsa seemed to be all but dead. Only you brought her out of it, cradling her as she sipped down hot tea.
"Ilsa." you murmured, once she'd drunk most of it. "Let's shower."
The suggestion was the first shudder in what had made up this monotonous routine. Ilsa's anxiety was physically apparent as she walked up the stairs, the hairs on her arms standing up as the bathroom door shut behind you. You swore you saw her lip tremble as you undressed, blue eyes wide and glassy like polished marble as she went through the mechanical motions of pulling off the robe she'd wrapped herself in. A small disruption of routine brought the entirety of Ilsa's nervous system into a state of perpetual panic, no matter how you tried to redirect her.
In the shower she clung to you, crying softly as you washed her hair. By now her body was trembling, shaking beneath the motions of your hands. You knew better than to assume this pain was one you'd caused, or one you could heal. It had begun far before you walked into this bathroom, before Ilsa walked into your apartment and abducted you, before she even knew your name. Maybe it was the threat of you leaving that had finally unraveled her, a house of cards folding in on itself with one puff of wind. She needed help, badly. So did you.
"Ilsa, Ilsa, come on honey." you whispered, rubbing firm circles up and down her spine.
"No." she moaned, brow spasming. "I can't. No."
"Can't what? Dammit Ilsa!" you broke, equally overwhelmed. "You can't what, stay in this with me? Can't live with-"
"No! I can't stay. Anywhere."
Against the red-rimmed oval of her eyes, Ilsa's gaze was startlingly blue, an ocean of color you knew, but not the staggering truth behind it.
"I ran for years. Years! One mission after another, a whole folder full of confirmed kills and… And this is too risky. I'm too risky." she hiccuped, wet hair plastered like an oil spill against her head. "I have a target the size of London on my back, do you understand?"
"So what?" you returned, head shaking back and forth unconsciously. "You are the one that did this! You begged me to stay, drugged me, lied to me, misled… Why do I have to be the one to go?"
Outside the bathroom door was your suitcase. Packed halfway with clothes, with a few sentimental objects you could never part with. But there was Ilsa's hoodie spilling out. Your pajamas, your trinkets, her mark indelible on all of it. There was no leaving Ilsa. The videos had been distressing, revolting, and inconsequential. By the next day they were gone, along with every trace of Ilsa's digital footprint on the computer. There was no wiping her from your soul, not that easy anyways.
"When they find me, which they will… These people I worked for, the people I run from, it's not so simple as changing my identity or flipping through a few false passports." Ilsa managed, hand shuddering as the shower flipped off under her hand. "My face, my biometrics. I leave the house and go to one supermarket with cameras linked to the web… I'm done. I'm flagged, I'm traceable."
Every syllable stuck out like burning cinnamon against your throat. It felt like charcoal every time you tried to breathe, every time you tried to rationalize the mountain of shit Ilsa was unraveling. She'd been an agent, you'd known that. There was no other way to explain her strange skill set. But what she was hinting at, the candid mention of a folder of confirmed kills… Ilsa wasn't some office warrior, some military manager or otherwise deadly, but reasonable ex-operative. She was a Jason Bourne, a James Bond, a… A killer. And kidnapping you was the least of what she had done.
"How… How much blood is on your hands, so to speak?" you stuttered out, breaths shallow in the steamy shower.
"In decaliters or in barrels?" Ilsa coughed, covering the terrible smirk underneath her hand.
"That much?" you winced, gut churning.
"More, probably. Confirmed kills are… Difficult to quantify when you drop grenades or… A missile."
The shower curtain shrieked as you stepped out, doing your best to dry off without making your movements too jerky, too telling. Sitting against the cold porcelain of the bath edge only made you feel more vulnerable. Her wet skin was soft against your arm. She caved the same way she caved on the couch: sinking into your side first, and then her head tucking into your neck, her nose burrowing under your jaw like a dog searching for a scratch.
"… Is the world so terrible that it takes killing hundreds to fix anything?" you murmured, finding her hand with your own.
"Yes. And no." Ilsa answered, breathing shallowly as she clutched tighter to you. "I don't know who started the bloodshed, or when really. It could be nature, it could be tradition. But we kill a father, or a mother or a child. And then they come back to kill. And kill, and kill, and kill. And at some point it became about money."
She spoke with a brokenness of character, devoid of sympathy, but lacking cynicism. Her gaze would ripple off the walls like paint stripping off of plaster. The thousand yard stare, but worse. Soldiers didn't smile like Ilsa on a good day. Didn't dance with her lightness of foot and kiss like a starved beast, a lover let free of a prison tower. She was maiden and monster together. The fire that burned in her wasn't yours to claim, nor yours to blame.
"You left because the government killed for money?"
"Proxy wars. Like the United States and Russia in Korea. And in Vietnam. It's all they can do now, to generate wealth through inflation while the truly rich, and I mean truly rich eat their fill of the spoils of war."
If it had been anyone else speaking, you would've chuckled at the conspiracy. But the world was too fucked for anything but conspiracy. Ilsa was entitled to hers, and you were at the very least obligated to listen, both for answers and for honesty. This was the most raw you'd seen her, and perhaps the most raw you were.
"And they want you dead because you left?"
She paused, taking a gulp of air, killing the dull chuckle that almost spilled out. You sounded stupid to her, probably childish or naive. It was why she liked you in the first place, but to Ilsa this might've been like explaining the alphabet instead of the intricacy of global espionage.
"Yes. Because I know too much and it's easier to dispose of me rather than buy my silence. As if I have the strength to say anything." she sighed, trying to laugh.
"Baby." you whispered, gently coaxing her up, into a soft towel.
"No, no. Stay." Ilsa shook her head, wrapping herself around you, wet skin against yours. "I want to tell you everything, let me…"
Ilsa didn't speak for a long moment, eyes glassy as she stared numb at the foggy shower curtain. Her grip on your hip didn't relent either, and you gave up attempting to get either of you drier. Your lover wasn't good at opening up. She chose the best and the worst times to do so; right before bed; before leaving for her morning runs; secrets about her past dropped in between sleepy or sexy kisses. What you wanted to know, the answers about Ilsa's past you desperately searched for, they weren't easy to get at.
"Let me tell you the truth. Please."
One nod was all you gave. The silence stretched, letting her skin stick to yours, clinging to her for warmth as the bathroom fan chilled your toes into icicles. You expected a bullet list, perhaps a broken summary of her missions. But there was nothing cold or factual about the way she spoke. No excuses, no pleads, just the truth. It wasn't a single line. She spoke in symphonies.
"What I'm going to tell you next isn't going to be easy. And it's not going to be any easier to hear. Every story has some sort of tragedy in the middle of it, right? Some awful precursor, a propellant forward into the valiant desire to do good. My dad was in the Navy. The British Navy, of course. We lived in lots of places. But this house was my favorite, mostly because it wasn't on the edge of some stormy coast.
When I joined the military I was merely a grunt worker. Nineteen, stupid, but hard-working. I wasn't the strongest, not by far. Wiry, bony, and insufferably small compared to every single man I grappled during my training. But I was fast.
She laughed, eyes shimmering like a mirage.
And strong in my legs. Men are top heavy, their center of gravity is different. It's like pressing two fists together with equal pressure; without technique they just exhaust themselves. I can maneuver, balance and bend like most men can't. I stood out, you see.
There is no path into MI6 that starts with a resume and an interview. They find you, whether through the military, like me, or through other corporate or forensic fields. And it's not as simple as signing a piece of paper and agreeing. Not until you're too far in, too excited with the possibility of being a secret agent to really refuse. I worked for so many years on military missions that initially it was all the same. I was twenty six, still burning hot enough to withstand whatever bullshit operations we were pulling through in Southeast Asia.
I wish I could tell you when I realized it was all pointless. The rain brews in the clouds for days before it falls, but even my rain didn't register until I was already soaked. I ran after a mission I did. Two years undercover, an enemy of the British state merely by correlation to the mission. I bought it back, their trust. And by the time I did I didn't want it anymore. I came back to this house to say goodbye before fleeing into another pointless errand. And then I saw the sun. For the first time in twenty years the sun was on my face, shining with a tentative smile from the doorway of a house I knew with certainty.
There is no excuse for the way I went about this. I know it was irrational, dangerous and abusive. Kidnapping someone, imprisoning and betting on the chance that Stockholm syndrome would set in, that you'd find desire in my hands that caged you. Putting you under a bushel and gulping down your light was never going to work, and still I don't know how else I would've gone about it. Starving, love. I was starving for twenty years before I found you."
Within my heart, my secret lies…
And what his name is none shall know, no, no
Till on the heart I confess it
Soon as morning lights shall dawn
Three bags sat lined up in a row, matching patterns unmistakably telling of a new purchase. The house you knew, wallpapered with soft gold crests winding over ivy green sat vacant. Closets emptied, cupboards left bare, (but neatly swept). A sign stood beside the old stone wall, white paint stark against the aging stone. It was sure to leave a square sized crater when the house sold. The one stipulation that it was to be sold to a family felt right — aside from governments, there was nothing Ilsa had hated more than landlords.
"MAUW!" Bella howled, pawing at her carrier with ferocious energy.
The black and white feline stared bug-eyed out from the cage wiring of the door, already making difficult the thought of a never-ending road trip. She'd been inside the new caravan a number of times, acquainted with all of the best spots to stretch out and take a nap, but the carrier remained her biggest enemy, the cage with which she screamed for freedom from.
"Okay, say goodbye to the house." you sighed, hauling the last few bags out of the door while Bella howled at the doorway.
Shiny rims, cherry red, decorated with adorable green stripes. Owning a brand new vehicle was a luxury you never thought you would get to have. It was Ilsa's last gift, you supposed. Even the thought of it being the last of anything had your heart clenching painfully. It was for the best, you reminded yourself. Change was good, even if you took U-haul lesbianism to the unmistakable, nomad-lifestyle extreme.
Everything about the caravan was new. The smell, the kitchenette, the loft bed with a built in entertainment center… Money couldn't buy a better designed, better machine than this. It was all a hollow reminder of the beneficiary of your new life, the unspoken creditor that supplied you with enough money to explore, to travel and put off worrying about employment for a year or two. Just enough time to remember who you were beyond the small house that stood in Berkshire, beyond the life you'd had.
As the engine purred to life, you took a deep breath, biting back the urge to cry as you gave one last glance to the stone house that was once yours. Ilsa was burned into every crevice. The new light fixtures, the windows that shone with distant sunlight. Beautiful, sturdy, and filled with memories too painful to return to.
Only when Bella's purrs broke you out of your depressive state did you shake yourself out of the hypnotic trance you were on. You'd been driving, not consciously, nor unconsciously for well over an hour. Only a few more hours and you would be close to the ferry point, one step closer to the mainland of Europe. Intelligent yellow eyes stared up at you from the passenger seat, blinking slowly. Ilsa's hoodie lay crumpled beneath her over the suede, grey fabric dotted with black fur. A pink tongue poked out as she yawned, and then rolled. It would smell like her. Of Old Spice deodorant and sweat from her last work out. Perhaps coffee if you searched for the old stain on the left sleeve.
It would stay that way, molded into the passenger seat well into your journey. Bella's fur would make it necessary to wash one day, and yet you doubted you could ever touch it again.
Oh Prince, then shall my kisses break the silence
That make thee mine
"I never knew the ocean could be this beautiful." you whispered to Bella, making use of your open window to gaze out across the Spanish coast.
Crystal blue water, lush trees and sand yellow beneath your feet. Medicine, you'd told your mother on the phone. Spain was medicine for your soul, medicine for your heart. The first night the heat had been unbearable, and you'd debated wasting gas just to have the AC on for an hour. The next night had been cooler, ocean air whispering through your open windows as you drank in mouthfuls of the cleanest air you'd gulped down in months.
Your trailer was beginning to feel like yours. Posters hung up, rich fabric carpets decorating the floor. Pictures from your travels hung like trophies on your kitchen wall. Strangers holding Bella up proudly, her concerned expressions relaxing with each successive photo. Tonight she lay curled at your feet, already asleep. Another night here wouldn't hurt either of you. There was no budget to worry over, after all. A Swiss bank account kept your fridge stocked and your gas tank full. And a credit card with no limit.
Your fingers traced softly over an oil-stained Polaroid. Flour covered cheeks, a skeptical, but deeply affectionate smirk on her face. Sourdough bread frozen perfectly in her hands. Missing Ilsa was a given. But missing the memories that could've been? All the food you'd tasted, all the people you'd met. And yet your mind still lingered, still begged the questions that you tried not to entertain. Ilsa would've loved this.
"You rat bastard." you whispered to no one in particular. "If you installed a camera in this camper, you'd better listen up."
A spasm in your throat was a warning, but not one you heeded. Even as your eyes prickled with tears, you remembered to speak loud enough to be truly heard.
"I'm on the east coast of Spain. And I have never loved a place like this." you managed, a tear wetting you trembling cheek. "The food, the language, the people. The people, Ilsa! And I keep collecting post cards to send to you, I have a whole box. There's no address I can write on them. But they're yours."
A sigh of wind rushed over your cheek, tickling the hairs on your neck. For a second you pictured Ilsa's hand, ruffling your hair, kissing the nape of your neck before bed. Perpetual silence, just as Ilsa had promised. She would leave, vanish and erase any trace of her existence from your life. No one could ever know you knew her, none could know what she'd told you.
The nightmare she'd had right before she'd left had been the worst of them all. No screaming, no shrieking, no sudden jolt awake, her hand grasping the handle of a gun she kept under her pillow. Just a jerk, a gasp of air. And then she'd slipped around you, her hands cradling the back of your head. If you'd understood the strange steps she'd taken in the days previous, the time she spent on the computer, you would've prepared yourself for her absence. At the very least you would've fought her, held her back at the doorway, maybe asked for a kiss goodbye. But Ilsa was already gone.
Neither of you had slept well the morning of her departure. She had just cradled you, breathed in your smell, pressed tender kisses to your shoulder like she'd been pressing her mark there. Your steady breath echoing softly against her cheek, the shallowness of hers only registering dimly in your relaxed state. One last kiss to your lips, and another to your nose. Kisses to last a lifetime. Sleep caught you after all.
Waking up to the empty house was like walking into a room torn open by a bomb. Every trace of Ilsa remained on the walls, and yet the devastation sat in the absence of her presence. Dishes left in neat stacks in the cupboards, the game console organized and tidy. A folder labeled with merely your name. Every legal document, every scribble of her handwriting over white paper a reminder of the reality. After all, you'd never expected that she'd be the one to leave.
Her final letter sat next to the photo. You had read it a thousand times, knew the words by heart. And even still, as you fought against another wave of sorrow, you traced over the lines.
Beloved,
I make one promise to you. Not as a soldier, or a civilian, or as an ex or a lover. I promise as a woman, as the echo of a girl once like you, that I will never let them find you. Everything you need is in the folder. I have everything arranged, a road map of the best places in Europe for you to explore. Go on a journey for me, sweetheart. Travel for a few years. Fall in love with the world, let the world fall in love with you. God knows it's easy.
My sweet girl, I am forever in your debt.
Ilsa
Dilegua o notte!
Tramontate stelle!
Tramontate stelle!
All'alba vincero!
VIncero!
Vincero!
You sat studying yourself at your vanity. Set against the retaining wall of the kitchen trailer, the little antique rescue was one of the many finds you'd picked up since leaving Spain. Your hair lay against your head, tamed for now. But in between your fingers you held a single white hair. Eyes that you'd seen all your life stared back. Your mother had plucked hers before she turned to dye. Ilsa's gray hairs had been the most beautiful feature of hers that you'd gravitated towards, before the end. There was no reason to pluck it, you decided.
"Mraow?" Bella called, pawing impatiently at your trailer door.
Spain had been your favorite. Italy was Bella's. The vineyards around you sparkled with yellow-gold leaves. Fall was bringing the changing seasons, and the winding hills of this country left the eye with much to feast on. And yet nothing could have prepared you for the serenity you faced in this place.
"Buon pommeriggio!" you called, waving at your host.
You smiled at the elderly man as he excitedly called the greeting back. The Italian countryside was rivaled by no other. The air seemed sweeter than Spain. It was the grapes, of course. And the wine was incomparable. At least in your opinion. Tender earth bent beneath your feet, tilled over the decades, perhaps centuries. Bella pranced beside you without a care in the world. You let her return to her trailer on her own, though your path strayed farther as the late afternoon called to your restless urge to walk. The Spanish siesta had been a tough habit to leave, but the reprieve of a long stroll before dinner suited you perfectly.
Every step you took through the brown, green and gold paradise left you with a pallette to call upon. You imagined the scenes you would paint at a later time, the richness of pigments you could mix to compliment the textures of this landscape. As your feet traversed farther, it was inevitable that they brought you to a bench. Fields sprawled around you, the sun gentle and warm on your skin as you rested. A gentle bossa nova played out from a speaker. A villa hidden by trees, you assumed. The ambience was tender, warm enough to close your eyes, to relax into the familiar sway of music.
An American singer bottoming out the low notes to one of your favorite opera songs, Aretha Franklin's memory played out across swaying vineyards, glittering under the eternal sun. Your eyes were only closed a moment before you were being shaken severely, two brown eyes staring down at you intently.
"Signora, signora." your host said, coaxing you to sit up once more.
"Si?" you answered, shaking your head, desperately trying to wake yourself from your sudden nap.
The man gesticulated rapidly, voice thick with concern as he did his best at making an explanation through his broken english.
"Signora, your kitty-cat, Bella, she is gone." he said, pointing from your camper a few hundred feet away and to the vineyards around it. "My granddaughter was playing with her, and, signora, the cat is gone."
←:→
Exhaustion seeped into your skin as you slumped into your bed, already weary from dinner, and the unfortunate fiasco before then. Your skin was hot from sunburn, stinging slightly as you adjusted beneath the linen sheet. The mind wandered in meandering circles, hinting at sleep without ever truly reaching rest. Anxiety churned in your belly as you contemplated the potential solutions for Bella's absence. The vineyards stretched across several square kilometers, but the fields beyond them were far more conspicuous. Unless she found her way back on her own, there was limited possibility of finding her.
The abandonment you felt shouldn't have been your first priority. Bella was your responsibility, your longest friend and your sole companion on this trek across Europe. If she didn't turn up there was limited hope of finding her, and to make matters worse there was no home for you to go back to, should the loss cripple you further. First Ilsa, and now your cat. But Ilsa left first, and so she was easier to blame.
It took three Benadryl and sheer will to fall asleep, even then you slept disturbed. The clock read 4:32 as you came to, though the green numbers meant little to you. The bed at your feet dipped, the sound of familiar snuffling rousing you. Twin orbs floated from the bottom of the bed, a familiar pink nose and a rotund shape filling your heart with sheer relief.
"Bella!"
"Maow?" she asked, hopping off the bed and waddling over to her (unfortunately) empty food dish.
Looking up from filling the bowl, you found your trailer distinctly shut, all windows and the door not only closed, but locked. You whirled in confusion, Bella couldn't have wormed her way into the trailer and hid all day and all night?! She would've meowed for food, would've asked for water or pets or…
"Princess." a voice came, back in the same direction of your bed.
A figure sat up slowly, dark black hair cropped short to her chin. It was artificially streaked with white, meant to make her look older. The roots were growing in regardless, making it seem more silly than genuine. But her face remained unchanged, though kissed by sun.
"Ilsa."
Two steps brought you back into the bed, leaning over the mattress until you were either going to kiss her or try to kill her. Weeks had elapsed, maybe months. It all blurred together in a grey haze between the then with Ilsa, and the now. Your knees gave out as they met the bed, and you let your body make the choice as you caved into her arms, slumping right back into the comfortable enclosure of her embrace.
"Easy." she whispered, pulling the blankets tight around you.
"You broke your promise." you whispered, fighting back tears as you felt her again, truly smelled her and breathed her in like you'd yearned to.
"I know. I couldn't-" Ilsa faltered, letting out a shaky laugh. "I made a promise under false circumstances. I never could've kept it, even if I did my damnedest to make it difficult to find you."
The foreign sim cards, the registration you had to undergo for the vehicle… Ilsa had sent you into Europe simply to keep you as untraceable as she could. Not for others, not really. But for herself. But you were sure it wasn't enough, not for her, not for her talents.
"Where have you been?" you asked, tracing her jaw.
"All over. The southeast Asia, northern Africa, Venice…" she whispered, kissing the bridge of your nose gently. "I'm done now. No more traveling for me, not for a long time, unless it's with you."
She looked beyond fatigued, the sallow tint to her skin more recognizable now that the shock of seeing her was over. Not just sun, but sickness, paleness and the chapped state of her lips…
"Ilsa, you're not feeling well." you said, turning on the bedside lamp and attempting to take a look at her.
"I'll get better, shh, shh. I have an IV in the bag, don't worry." Ilsa tried, smiling quickly. "Just-"
"An IV? Ilsa…" you whispered, your brow pinched with worry.
An embarrassed flush made pink her otherwise yellow cheeks, though it was only faint. You could tell she'd been through the ringer, especially with the added light. The duffel at the foot of your bed was poorly packed, gear and clothes strewn about. You grabbed the bag in question, along with several vials of liquid.
"Okay… So I'm not a nurse."
"I know, darling. I'll put the needle in myself." Ilsa smiled weakly.
Her breathing was unnaturally shallow, and the sight of her so weak brought a fresh surge of fear to you. The IV bag was more difficult to handle than you thought, especially with the state of your lover bringing fresh anxiety.
"Tell me how to do it, guide my hand, something." you trembled, staring at her softly.
"It's better if I do it, just let me-"
"No I can do it, just show me how." you insisted, pinching the needle between two fingers.
"Don't be difficult." Ilsa huffed, staring down at you with a frightening amount of condescension.
You stared at her, frustration bubbling in your chest as you processed.
"Pardon?" you said, giving her an opportunity to back pedal.
"Sweetheart, you're more hurt than help. Just let me put in the needle."
For as weak as she looked, you knew when you were beat. Only the low call of your cat brought you out of your spiraling thoughts, the sinking humiliation in your stomach. You watched her fiddle with the needle, her hand shaking as she struggled to line it up with the vein. The first press failed, the second released a stream of blood down her arm.
"Shit." Ilsa swore, pulling the needle out and fumbling for gauze.
"You blew the vein?"
"Shut up." she snapped, lower lip curling up as she struggled to maintain her composure.
Ilsa had teeth, sharp and visible only when she was pushed too far, when your teasing was too much or too close to a nerve. It surprised you, just how quickly she could snap. And other times you were amazed that she'd held it back sooner. But you'd seen them enough to not be afraid of getting bit.
"Ilsa honey, let's get a new needle and try inserting it in another vein."
"There is no other needle, and I can't do it right handed!" Ilsa yelled, face growing splotchy with anger.
"I could try putting it in one of your hand veins." you gently answered, ignoring the volume of her voice with practiced ease.
The lack of response was answer enough, so you made a gentle start at cleaning the needle with gauze, preparing another sterilizing wipe.
"Which hand would you prefer?"
"You don't know how to do it, stop."
A simple shake of your head was all the argument you gave, gently taking her right hand in your own.
"Can you search up a tutorial for me?"
Ilsa scoffed, shaking her head in anger.
"No, I can tell you what to do."
"Alright then, I'm going to clean the back of your hand."
Small cuts covered her hand, the dryness of her skin apparent as you gently cleaned away the area.
"Okay, you need to get my veins to press out of my hand." she sighed, pained face more concerning than her aggression.
You squeezed with gentle pulses, warming her cold hand in yours. Gentle massages, using the light from your bedside lamp to gauge the swelling of her veins.
"It's a butterfly needle, they're tricky." she advised, "You have to slide the needle parallel into the vein, not too sharp of an angle or you'll push through the vein."
A spasm of anxiety slid through your abdomen, coiling like a snake as you considered her words. The needle in between your fingers felt so flimsy, and you wiggled it between them until it was secure.
"Which vein should I use?"
"The big one, sitting on top of the bone connected to my middle finger."
Lining the needle up, you carefully practiced the angle in the air, visualizing how you would slip it in.
"Even more horizontal than that." Ilsa instructed.
Nodding once, you wordlessly placed the needle against her skin.
"Exhale, and press."
Slowly, as carefully and considerately as you could, you slid the needle in, watching in amazement as fluid from the bag began to move.
"I did it."
"Tape the needle to my skin." Ilsa sighed, face relaxing in relief.
Her bag was packed in a terribly appalling manner, but the bright red cross on the first aid kit was your indicator. By the time you returned to Ilsa's side with medical tape, her eyes were closed, face the closest to being relaxed you'd seen it.
"Let's get some fluids in you too." you murmured, grabbing a packet of electrolyte powder from a drawer as you milled about in the kitchen.
Cup, powder, water, mix. Each step of the procedure you found yourself anxiously turning your head, checking that she was still there, still breathing, still real. Her skin was still cool under your fingers as you gently fed her sips of the water, watching the tilt of her jaw, the flutter of pale lashes. Your eyes traveled down, memorizing every detail anew, ignoring the smell of BO to pick up on the strawberry of her shampoo.
The thin tank top she wore did little to conceal her cleavage, but it wasn't what drew your eyes. Sitting between her breasts, cut jagged and hard into her sternum was a wound.
"No." you whispered, holding her a little tighter, setting the cup down to examine closer, even as she tried to shoulder you away.
The scar was deep, two inches long and straight. From the stitches you could tell that she'd done it herself, hand shaking enough that they were uneven. But that wasn't what worried you. It was so fresh, so puffy. It didn't smell right, a sour odor coming off of the wound. Infection.
"Ilsa…"
She winced, staring to the side as you took in the state of her body. Bruises, cuts, the fever that you'd clocked earlier. She needed medical attention, and not the kind she could manage for herself.
"I didn't want you to worry. Please don't worry, I'll be fine." she pleaded, turning away from you as best as she could in the bed.
"No, hey, hey." you whispered, reaching for her face and cupping it in between your sweaty palms. "You let me worry. Let me take care of you,"
She stared up at you, guilty eyes slowly filling with exhausted tears. This wasn't Ilsa at her best, in fact it would be the closest thing to her worst you'd ever see. And you knew that it wasn't in her nature to feel comfortable being vulnerable, to feel anything other than shame and anxiety. She'd push away, pull away and fight. But there wasn't anywhere for her to go.
"N…" she whimpered, pleading your name.
"Shh, let me take care of you, honey." you repeated, stroking her sweaty face as her face crumpled.
←:→
Night slowly bled into dawn, birds chirping merrily as you watched careful hands attend to Ilsa's wound. She'd fought against you in the beginning, threatening to tie you down as you left to find your host, but she was too tired, to weary to try anything when her savior arrived, a retired nurse toddling towards the bed with warm cloths and a sweet voice.
You sat beside her, holding her hand as her eyes slipped closed, unable to fight the medication of the IV any longer. Little freckles dotted her nose, eyebrows soft and relaxed. Your gentle hand in hers, a pink nose poking out from black and white fur two feet away.
FUCK ICE! FUCK TRUMP! FUCK ANYONE AND EVERYONE WHO SUPPORTS THIS AGENDA!
It was never about criminals, it was never about the “safety” of Americans, it was never about the things that matter.
There is so much wrong with this place rn so stand up! Obviously, we are bombarded by so much information every minute of every day so please take the time to stay safe and protect your peace. But if you believe that this is not your fight or does not affect you…WRONG! (Specifically Americans but like shout out to the other countries who speak out for us too) This affects all of us, immigrant or not, person of color or not! So please be safe, be proactive, be aware and spread compassion.
If you support ice, Trump or anything of the sorts, please remove yourself from this page. This is NOT a safe space for you.
Obviously, it is tough for a lot of us (especially economically speaking…me fr) but learning and sharing resources is free! Here is a link for a program I have worked with in the past, specifically for California (sorry my non California readers). They do great work to make sure families, especially immigrant families are fed in these harsh times.
If you read this much, thank you! Apologies for using the katseyexreader tag but more people should be aware of things like this and I fear people turn a blind eye. I know blogs are often an escape for people so I will continue to post fics and not many rants like this but I will also continue to post resources for anyone out there who might need it🫶
With lots of love,
Artemis ❤️
Building a “Food for All” California Immigrant Californians are our friends, neighbors, colleagues, and family. California is home to more t
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Hear me out: what if all tumblr users harass their admin to give us an update where we can search for specific liked posts? I hate having to scroll through my liked posts to find the one I’m looking for bc it takes soooo long.
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