Hi everyone, I hate to be too serious but it’s really important.
I received a request for Stray Kids a while ago but we need to talk about it first. The set is finished, however in light of events happening in South Korea I am hesitant to post it.
For anyone that doesn’t know, there is a very serious issue with a telegram channel (and other platforms) with, to put it in “friendly” terms, nonconsensually filmed and deepfake adult content and it’s been alleged that famous idols and members of boy bands are involved in the channel and/or consuming that content.
I also don’t want anyone to think I’m blaming, discriminating or bringing negativity to all Korean men. I’m only going off of the stuff I’ve unfortunately seen so far and information from victims/survivors. I believe victims. Always.
I am a fan of Stray Kids, I love K-pop and I’m not making an accusation against any specific individual or group; but until there’s more information I feel hesitant platforming anyone that could potentially be involved. It’s always disheartening seeing people who are largely admired potentially being involved in something so awful.
I have gone back and forth on the matter but I’m struggling, because we don’t have any confirmation yet but I’m cautious and I want to respect and listen to what Korean women are saying and telling their stories of trauma and exploitation. So I want to take a vote.
Post it or wait for more information?
Post it
Wait for more information
Post and delete it later if evidence is found
Voting ended onAug 30, 2024
Additionally, the anon who sent the request was very kind, and I believe it was before the large telegram channel was exposed. To that anon: I’m genuinely very sorry and I hope you understand the dilemma I’m having.
I absolutely loathe my autistic overreactions to serious conversations because like, I know I'm in the wrong, but also this is causing me to meltdown and it's rapidly damaging my mental health
But also, you are not allowed to feel bad for the sin of... telling me you are uncomfortable or the heinous crime of... trying to set boundaries for your own mental well being
Mickey stiffens next to him, pulls away to put a little space between them on the bed. Ian's arm, previously draped over Mickey's chest, falls onto the cheap cotton sheets.
"The fuck kind of question is that?" Mickey asks, voice unusually high.
Ian shrugs, and rolls over to stare at the ceiling. "Just figure its something I oughta know about my fiance."
From the corner of his eye, he can see Mickey soften just a touch, those expressive eyebrows falling from "wtf" level to something nearer to exasperated affection.
"We really gotta talk about this now?" Mickey demands.
Ian twists onto his side and props up on an elbow, deliberately towering over him. "Got a better time in mind?" he challenges, and Mickey snorts.
"Oh, I dunno," he drawls out slowly. "Maybe when my ass isn't leavin' a fuckin' wet spot on the damn bed?"
Ian grins, suppresses a decidedly adolescent giggle. "Doesn't leave a lot of options," he quips, and ignores Mickey's disgusted glare.
He manages to drag Mickey back in with the arm not holding himself up, the other man grumbling but letting himself get tucked into Ian's side all the same. They lay there for moment, just existing, and Mickey’s eyes are slipping closed when Ian speaks again.
“But have you, though?” he asks softly.
Mickey groans, presses his face into Ian’s neck. “Are you serious right now?” he whines. “Just let me enjoy the fuckin’ afterglow, jesus.”
Ian just strokes Mickey’s bare arm, and waits. Eventually, Mickey huffs, and relents.
“No,” he forces out. “No, I haven’t fuckin’ killed anyone, you moron.”
Ian shifts to look into Mickey’s face, knowing his own shows some level of surprise. Mickey rolls his eyes at him, lifts an arm to shove Ian’s head back onto the pillow before draping it over his waist.
“Seen Terry do it,” he admits matter-of-factly. “Seen some other guys go down, in prison. In Mexico.” He pauses, then adds, “didn’t stop it or nothin’.”
Ian stops himself from responding, and instead holds Mickey a little closer.
“Ok,” he acknowledges after a moment. “Thanks.”
Mickey huffs a quiet laugh. “Thanks for not killin’ anybody? You got a low fuckin’ bar, man.”
Ian tilts to kiss Mickey’s hair, leaves his face close to breath in the scent of shampoo and sweat.
“No,” he says. “Thanks for telling me.”
Mickey says nothing for a long minute, then sighs, and melts into him. “Whatever,” he grunts. “Go the fuck to sleep.”
23.4 Ashamed - Kolby brings something to Asia's attention which makes her feel very ashamed.
Ever since Kaiden began working, Asia enjoyed an empty house on her off days. Being a social butterfly, she expected to be bored and frustrated by the silence. But, after a week, she came to enjoy the solitude. It made her realize how crowded and loud her life was even though she wouldn’t trade it for anything. The best part about being home alone was heading down to the basement for movie…
[Overwatch] Hold your tongue (T, Akande/Lucio, 1.7k)
The first of my fills for the writing prompts, wherein I again fail to respond to a prompt in under 1k words. I’ll just accept my handicap with grace.
Hold your tongue (Can also be read on AO3) for @slavewhotouchedastar
Doomfist | Akande Ogundimu / Lúcio Correia dos Santos (M)
Chapters 1 / 2 / 3 | Ceasefire Masterlist
Angst #21: “I wish I didn’t have these feelings, but I do.”
Lúcio shouldn’t say anything.
He shouldn’t.
His arms cross tightly over his chest and he huffs a breath when strong hands stroke down his arms in what might be an attempt of comfort.
Comfort. Here.
That’s a laugh.
He tries not to shy from the familiar touch of those calloused palms, stomach tightening, but fingers tip his chin up, and then Lúcio has to look on the face of his complication.
Not for the first time, its occurs to him that Akande is really handsome. And his eyes are gorgeous, even if he often stares a little too long and makes people uncomfortable. He’s not afraid to study people. Right now, the full intensity of that focus is narrowed on him in a careful frown, and he resists the urge to look away.
Lúcio adores the strength of his features, bold and broad unlike his own straighter face, and a form he conditioned for speed. Akande was built to brawl while Lúcio trained himself to evade the need for it altogether. Not today. No more running.
“Ìfẹ́-ọkàn mi….” Akande smooths a thumb over his lower lip and Lúcio almost turns his face towards that palm on instinct. “You are thinking very loudly.”
Don’t say anything.
Before him in their secreted Illios motel room, early morning slants across Akande’s face. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, drawing Lúcio to follow so the shorter man doesn’t have to crane his neck to meet his eye.
They are both dressed, the work of a few minutes though it took even less than that to get them off last night. Lúcio spent most of his time this morning looking for where Akande threw his gloves and eventually found them behind the television.
At his back, the news anchor reports concerns of local unrest in the wake of tensions in Egypt. Is Talon behind that, too?
The story eclipses to silence as Akande turns off the television, giving Lúcio his full attention.
“I’m just… worried. For you,” Lúcio murmurs, drinking in Akande’s open body language, the hands he props on his knee, head tilted to listen attentively.
The bark of laughter is expected.
“You, worry? For me?” Akande smiles, squinting at Lúcio as though he will see the truth behind the joke if only he looks close enough. Lúcio’s face burns, an emotion tightening in his chest he’s not willing to study too closely as Akande laughs again, shaking his head. “And what cause have I given you for this concern?”
People are not all good or all bad.
Lúcio knows what he’s read, like everyone else: Akande Ogundimu is brilliant, aggressively forward-thinking, and persuasive. It’s these qualities that make him dangerous, more than his stolen gauntlet, more than the body count that climbs with each appearance of his name in the news. More ruthless than his own violence is the carnage Lúcio has witnessed him inspire in others: hangars of armoured Talon agents, guns raised, baying like slavering hounds for Doomfist’s glorious vision of a better world.
But Lúcio can’t ignore the other things he’s learned: the schools Akande’s subsidiaries established in his home country, the scholarships and medical care reconnecting and sustaining families still scarred decades after the events of the Omnic Crisis. The dangerous men he has recruited to his side so he can keep a close eye, and put down the worst of them himself.
The math is simple: the lives Akande has saved far outnumber those lost in his wake. That they know of. And still….
Lúcio closes his eyes with a small sigh, biting his tongue.
“I know you believe in what you’re doing, man, through and through. But….” He shakes his head, arms falling to his sides. “I want to ask you not to anyway.”
Akande doesn’t hesitate. “Then ask.”
“Don’t,” Lúcio fires back at Akande’s amused smile. “Please don’t.”
Akande stills, his smile softening into a calculated line and it’s like watching a film of ice pass over his eyes the moment he understands they have finally come to this conversation, after these three long months.
The shift from Akande to Doomfist is disturbingly seamless. A ripple seems to pass beneath Akande’s skin, every feature relaxing at the surface, but Lúcio feels the man’s strength coiling at the ready, electrifying the air with tension. And as that electricity builds, the easy comfort of the shield they erected around themselves over all these months begins to slowly and irreversibly fracture.
Lúcio doesn’t know why the break seems to start in his chest.
What would his family or friends say if they knew how long he had let this go on? That he let it happen at all?
“Years of planning,” Akande says. His voice has smoothed with a disquietingly familiar charm that gives Lúcio the chills.
“Don’t do that.”
It makes his stomach roll to hear that voice used on him, and in the sanctum of… whatever this is. He shakes his head, feeling the illusion fracture further. He stops himself from pushing the heel of his hand against the sudden pang in his chest.
Akande continues, and Lúcio’s attention is drawn to the slow, intent gesture of his hand. “Every conflict, every war makes us stronger. With our work, humanity will bear more like you who rise up and lead us forward.”
Lúcio stares at the man in disbelief. Is he for real? What exactly is he trying to start?
“And how many will die? How many who never had the means or the chance to protect themselves?” Lúcio thrusts a hand at the window to the world Akande thinks himself fit to reshape, voice rising. “Your way, Akande– it raises those you favour, and the privileged even higher. Don’t use me as a poster child for your war mongering. It could have been anyone else in Rio, but it’s dumb luck that I’m the one who stole that technology first.”
“No,” Akande rises to his feet, voice hushed with an intense passion, eyes alight. “You survived because you were the strongest, Lúcio!”
Lúcio takes a step back, unafraid, but unwilling to let the other man close the distance. “We didn’t want to fight. People were disappearing. They were being beaten in the streets. Thrown into jail without charge or sufficient cause. A building exploded and they pretended it wasn’t their fault. That was your people.”
Akande shakes his head immediately. “Not mine.” His lip curls in an ugly scowl, voice hardening. “There is nothing more cowardly than a bomb.”
Oh, right. Akande doesn’t know that Lúcio has learned Vishkar sit at his table. Which just makes everything the two of them have been doing even worse.
He swallows thickly, taking another step back when Akande reaches for him. It physically pains Lúcio not to let him. When the hell did they get so far?
Lúcio tries to swallow some moisture down his throat, even that is difficult. His body is wound so tight, trembling. It forces his words out quiet and unsteady.
“People died, and they didn’t have to. I fight so nobody has to live through that again. We just want to live. How many in places like mine, do you think would survive a war? A real war?” He tilts his head, studying Akande’s face intently, but he’s not as good at this as Akande, and Akande’s expression is stone. “Why do you get to decide that for us?”
“A war is coming, Lúcio, with or without me. But with me, we can steer its machine.” With a blink, something softens in his expression. Akande sighs, straightening. His shoulders relax and Lúcio feels some of the tension leave his own body. “You can still leave. Do not make the quarrel between us today.”
Lúcio smiles wryly, shrugging and throwing his hands up. “It was always between us. But this only worked when we pretended otherwise, huh? Listen.” He leans his hands on his hips, and watches Akande’s expression light up further when Lúcio steps in, voice gentle. “Would be easier if I didn’t, but I care about you. I wish–” His heart hammers, but he forces the words out past tight lungs and his throat closing, he has to now or he never will, “I wish I didn’t have these feelings, but I do. And I gotta fight for those people who can’t fight for themselves. You know?”
Akande is quiet, dark eyes searching Lúcio’s face long enough for Lúcio to see that he understands. He understands and it’s not relief or joy that Lúcio sees in his face, but he never expected that.
He never expected this to go for more than one night, all those months ago in Numbani.
“You won’t get the answer you want from me,” Akande says, in a strange tone that Lúcio doesn’t understand. The man doesn’t even have the decency to make it sound like an apology.
Lúcio nods, gaze dropping to the floor, adjusting his stance. He anticipated that. He just hopes Akande can’t tell he’s shaking.
Glancing to the door at his back, the silence is heavy and brings the realisation crashing down that he only has seconds before those targets return to their backs and they’ll need to raise their weapons.
Against each other? Fuck.
“… Would you do it yourself?” Lúcio asks, unable to look Akande in the face, doesn’t even consider that Akande might not understand.
He feels a huff of air on his temple a moment before a hand turns his face, and then Akande is kissing him. Deeply. A tongue slides between his lips, a gentle hand cups the back of his head, and Lúcio’s whole body gives up the fight, bowing towards Akande as it releases the tension of the last five minutes. His heart is thundering in his chest, his eyes sting – no, fuck, he’s not going to lose it –
Akande pulls back before Lúcio is ready, a sharp, wet break of sound, and Lúcio whimpers despite himself, body leaning in to follow him.
Fuck.
Akande’s eyes are dark and pupils blown. He swallows audibly, glancing from Lúcio’s lips to meet his gaze. His hands fall away. “If I see you on the field. Go the other way.”
Metal scrapes on wood as Akande swipes his earpieces from the table and when the door swings shut behind his back, Lúcio’s ears ring in the silence.
And he can’t escape the feeling that there’s something else he should have said.
