#'this is a good and normal place for health treatments. why would you assume we shut people away in there. anyway it's called Forgotten'

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

addendum: this campaign is the first time i have ever seen accents and foreign mother tongues handled in the way i always thought would make most sense and I am SO excited about it!

Yes, Caleb would have an accent, because he's not speaking his native language. he wouldn't have an accent when speaking his native language. and this show recognises that while they can't actually switch to German/Zemnian, they can just say "for this scene, imagine our actors, who are speaking English, are really speaking Zemnian" AND THEN EVERYONE DROPS THE ACCENT

it makes so much sense! it's such a simple, smooth way to go, they're now speaking their native tongue. it makes the scene feel that much more intimate and separate from other scenes without taking you out of it, and with voice actors of that caliber they know that they can simply trust their audience to understand that these are still the same characters, they're just codeswitching.

it's so neat, i've almost forgiven Matt for the goofy names

watching Liam O'Brien do a spectacular fantasy!German for dozens of episodes has impressed me so much and yet nothing could have possibly prepared me for the man starting to sing, of all the songs, "Laurentia, liebe Laurentia mein"

the immersion! if you reached to the very back of my memory there'd be like ten folk songs there and this one, which we used to have to sing at 7:00 in the morning on choir retreats while doing squats for all the weekdays, would definitely be there. it's a silly ditty you've heard somehow exclusively in childhood, it's a little game song for children. If all else was tainted by your later life that song would probably survive, it's perfect

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

I suspect quite a few people on this site don’t realize they are struggling with the effects of chronic trauma. In particular I think more people need to learn about the symptoms of C-PTSD.

Distinct from general PTSD, Complex PTSD is caused by prolonged, recurring stress and trauma, often occurring in childhood & adolescence over an extended period of time. There are many risk factors, including: abusive/negligent caregivers, dysfunctional family life, untreated mental/chronic illness, and being the target of bullying/social alienation.

I’m not a mental health professional and I’m not qualified to diagnose anyone, I just remember a million watt light bulb going off in my head when I first learned about C-PTSD. It was a huge OH MY FUCKING WORD eureka moment for me—it explained all these problems I was confused and angry at myself for having. The symptoms that really stood out to me were:

Negative self-perception: deep-seated feelings of shame, guilt, worthlessness, helplessness, and stigma. Feeling like you are different from everyone else, like something is fundamentally ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’ with you.

Emotional avoidance of topics, people, relationships, activities, places, things etc that might cause uncomfortable emotions such as shame, fear, or sadness. Can lead to self-isolation.

Learned helplessness: a pervasive sense of powerlessness, often combined with feelings of desensitization, wherein you gradually stop trying to escape or prevent your own suffering, even when opportunities exist. May manifest as self-neglect or self-sabotage. (I remember watching myself make bad choices and neglect my responsibilities, and having no idea why I was doing it, or how to stop myself. Eventually I just stopped caring, which led to more self-neglect.)

Hyper-vigilance: always feeling “on edge,” alert, unable to relax even in spaces that should feel safe. May be combined with an elevated “flight” response, or feelings of always being prepared to flee. (I used to hide important documents and possessions in a sort of emergency go bag, even when I was living alone and there was no logical reason other than it made me feel “prepared.”)

Difficulty regulating emotions: may include mood swings, persistent numbness, sadness, suicidal idealization, explosive anger (or inability to feel anger and other strong emotions), inability to control your emotions, confusion about why you react the way you do.

Sense of foreshortened future: assuming or feeling that you will die young. Recurring thoughts that "I'll be dead before the age of 30/40/18/21 etc." As a teenager I used to joke darkly that I didn't plan to live past 30—not because I planned to end my life, but because I simply couldn't imagine myself alive and happy in the long-term. I couldn't imagine a meaningful future where I wasn't suffering.

Emotional flashbacks: finding yourself suddenly re-experiencing feelings of helplessness, panic, despair, or anger etc, often without understanding what has triggered these feelings. Often these flashbacks don’t clearly relate to the memory of a single event (since C-PTSD is caused by repetitive events, which can blur together), making them harder to identify as flashbacks—especially if you’ve never heard the phrase “emotional flashback” and don’t know what to look for. For years I just filed it under “sometimes I overreact/freak out randomly for no reason, probably bc I am just a terrible human being.” (It turns out there was very much a reason, it was just hidden in the past. I have since learned to be kinder and less judgemental towards myself.)

There are other symptoms too, here are more links with good info.

I’ve been meaning to write this post for awhile, because I’ve noticed that a lot of the people I interact with online have risk factors and experiences similar to mine. These include:

growing up in a dysfunctional household

having caregivers who do not fulfill basic emotional needs (do not provide consistent positive attention, encouragement, support, acceptance, communication, a sense of safety and security)

on a very related note, experiencing neglect or abuse at the hand of caregivers or other adults. I also want to emphasize the significance of emotional abuse, since it is hard to recognize, easy to ignore, and utterly rampant in so many communities. In general, family dysfunction, abuse & neglect are quite difficult to identify when you are a child/teen and that is the only “normal” you have known.

(For example, in my family it manifested as an emotionally absent father I was vaguely frightened of, constant nagging from a hypercritical mother, and a house full of people who yelled and screamed at each other. It took me years to realize I grew up in an abusive environment, because there was no physical violence, because I participated in the fighting, and because my behavioral problems made me the family scapegoat. And I internalized that guilt: I thought I was the problem. But no—I was a child, and I deserved not to grow up in a household full of anger and fear and negativity. You deserved that too. You deserved to grow up safe and loved and treated with kindness.) 

anyway back to more risk factors:

being neurodivergent or chronically ill (especially without receiving proper treatment/support/accommodation)

being queer (especially in a conservative or undiverse community, or without the support and acceptance of family & friends)

being the target of bullying or harassment (from peers, teachers, authority figures, irl, online, etc)

being isolated or alienated from peers, from family, from your wider community.

growing up with chronic anxiety, discomfort, pain, fear, or distress caused by any of the above and more.

There are many other experiences that can cause chronic trauma, but these are some particularly common ones I see people in my own community struggling with. And I want more people to be aware of this, because we’ve been taught to ignore and second-guess the significance of our traumatic experiences. We’ve been taught to feel guilty for our own pain, because “other people aren’t struggling, so I shouldn’t either” or (contradictorily) “other people have it worse, so I shouldn’t complain.” But that’s not how it works—you are not other people, and you deserve to have it better. We all deserve better. We deserve to be happy. We deserve not to be in pain.

I used to think I couldn’t have a trauma disorder because (I argued in my head) the things that happened to me weren’t that bad. And then I spent five years in therapy learning to accept the full extent of my issues. I’ve since learned that trauma comes in many forms, and can happen quietly, invisibly, silently, chronically, and usually without the survivor being aware of the long-term repercussions of what they are surviving. That revelation comes later, after you have survived and must instead learn to live.

Finally, no single type of trauma is more real or harmful than any other. Severity is measured by the way the individual is affected, and the same situations affect different people in different ways. Because no one gets to choose how their brain reacts to trauma. No one gets to choose their hurt—otherwise there would be a hell of a lot less hurting in the world.

We can, however, choose to seek help. We can learn to recognize when something is wrong, we can learn when to reach out to professionals, and we can learn to educate ourselves on our injuries.

And gradually, we can learn to heal.

(posts like this brought to you by ko-fi supporters)

[1kook]

youtube & use lube

part 7 of my netflix and chill collection!

summary: You can’t believe this is Jungkook’s preferred sick day treatment; YouTube, cuddles, and an ugly amount of lube.  warnings: smut in the forms of nipple play, handjobs, spit kink, face riding, unprotected, flavored warming lube, riding, praise kink, soft femdom, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, tit sucking, more jk has an impreg kink, oh and this is all subby kook rating: mature (18+) miscellaneous: domesticity baby!! fluff, soft scenes /.\, jk is sick:((, doyeon is A Doctor, yn sees an opportunity and she grabs it, surprise ending <3  word count: 8.7k  

notes: finally…. 7 parts later and we get ~✨💓sub kook💓✨~ this was honestly my fave to write I think because I was obSESSEDDD with his softness and yn leading hehe /.\ also yeah we time jumped 6 months bc uhmmm 😎 story progression also here’s [ THE KOOK U SHOULD IMAGINE FOR THIS 😡 ] also if see a typo ummm no u didn't .

let me know what u think! a simple ask goes a long way <3

Despite what past experiences may dictate, Jungkook’s body is actually quite resilient. It’s due in part to his obnoxiously healthy lifestyle; avocado breakfasts, gym rat tendencies, and a normal person’s circadian rhythm (you could never relate). He lives the life health professionals can only dream of writing down in their notes, so careful of his well-being that it’s almost annoying. Of all the habits you help him break, the rituals he sometimes forgets, his health is never one and it’s actually one he ropes you into quite often. The ladder accident last summer had truly been an odd occurrence, and for a while after, you doubt anything else will ever happen to him. 

And then winter comes. 

Now, Jungkook, with all his superior bodily systems and strict lifestyle, is still not immune to the common cold. So when he comes down with a stuffy nose, a saggy frame, you’re not too surprised. It’s right after New Year’s, which you had spent it at one of Taehyung’s classic overcrowded parties this year, shivering on a rooftop as he kissed you silly under the fireworks, so one of you was bound to get sick. And you were sick for Halloween, so it’s only the universe’s way of leveling the playing field when he gets sick after New Years. 

What does surprise you is when he doesn’t bounce back right away. Usually, Jungkook’s high caliber immune system has him in tip top shape about two days later. But this time around, it takes a while. In fact, it takes longer than usual, and you don’t realize until you’re coming over on a Friday night, met with an unusual silence at the Jeon household. 

As you slowly grew accustomed to your life out of school, you and Jungkook accepted that you didn’t really have time to be glued to each other’s hips at all hours of the day. It was only natural that sometimes you had too much work, were too tired, or were just not in the mood to visit each other. That was fine, and you’ve come to quite appreciate this new routine, because it only made your heart flutter faster than before when you did see him next. You don’t have to see each other everyday, and that was fine; it was part of growing up together (and growing old together, your sappy heart says).

But today, this separation ends up being your downfall. Jungkook first showed signs of a cold on Monday, and now it was Friday and you hadn’t heard from him in two days. You’re beginning to suspect he’s come down with something severe— maybe that strain of the flu that he forgot to get vaccinated for this year —or even worse, dead.

Luckily, Jungkook isn’t dead, just sadly slumped across the end of his bed, nose a bright red and hair a tangled mess. “Oh no,” you frown, but there’s not an ounce of distress in your voice, because boy, was he cute. 

He groans at the sight of you. “Don’t look at me,” he whimpers, hands fisting the sheets. “I’m ugly.”

You bite down on a smile, hang your bag on the hook behind his bedroom door. He’s barely making an effort to stay on the bed, clinging to the side with such powerless hands. “Absolutely hideous,” you play along, arms wrapping around his middle. Registering your touch, your support, he immediately releases what little grip he had and almost sends the two of you tumbling to the ground. “My poor baby,” you croon, manhandling him back into the comfort of his sheets. 

Perhaps the reason you believed Jungkook was so immune was because, well, he never let you see him sick. 

He was picky about his presentation to the world, always wanting to show his best side. And well, you were in that world. Hell, you were probably the main person he wanted to show off for (not to toot your own horn), so he avidly avoided showing you his unpleasant sides. Even in college, when you had been practically stuck to his side, he had always made a big deal of pushing you away when he was sick, calling off dates and hiding away at his house. 

You sort of knew why. Namjoon had told you once that Jungkook when drunk was the equivalent of a needy, whiny baby. You could attest to that because wine drunk Jungkook and vodka drunk Jungkook were quite the experiences to haul home. And apparently Jungkook when sick was more or less the same. He was all doe eyes and pouty lips, magnified by his weakened appearance. He was adorable. 

He’s wearing a lot of layers, but it’s still winter so you don’t think too much of it. Dark long sleeve sweatshirt, the front tucked into some cute brown and black checkered pants. You see it as just some casual at home attire until you reach for his covers, hand brushing his hair from his face, only to find it ice cold. 

“Oh, you’re freezing, honey,” you frown, for real this time. Jungkook whimpers, snuggles into the sheets you pull up to his chin. He dozes off soon after, pouty lips chapped to hell and back. You reach for your chapstick, deciding to get one good use of it on your own lips before contaminating it with Jungkook’s sick germs. Even in his sleep he’s a good boy, rolling his lips together after you’ve applied it on him. 

With Jungkook knocked out, you pad back downstairs and into his kitchen. You can more or less infer that he’s come down with something a little more intense than a cold. His skin was cold, and his nose was runny, but, oddly enough, he wasn’t sweating. You decide to consult a professional. 

“The little gremlin is sick?” Doyeon repeats, a comforting buzz in your ear as you get to work making Jungkook your famous Get Better Soon Soup, idly waiting for the water to boil over. You confirm. Doyeon, legend that she was, accidentally sat an entire physiology class one semester (and passed), so this is the closest you’ll get to a doctor friend. “Hm,” she says, “what’re his symptoms?”

You press your phone between your ear and shoulder, clattering around Jungkook’s kitchen for ingredients. “Runny nose and colder than your ass that one time you passed out in the snow,” you supply. “Oh, but not sweating.”

Doyeon hums over the line, tells you to give her a second, and disappears. “WebMD is saying fever, but you said he’s not sweating?” You confirm again. “Throw him in front of the heater and make him sweat then. He has to burn it out somehow.”

“I can’t do that,” you sigh, pausing when you hear some vague sound from around the house. It’s not Jungkook, so you return to your call. Anyway, Jungkook’s house is, like, perfect. Always warm when need be and always cold as well. You don’t even think he knows what a space heater is. “He’s sick sick. Like, can barely hold himself up sick.” 

She scoffs. “And I care why?” You huff, go to scold her for their weird rivalry, but then she’s moving on. “Babe, just give him some pain relief and call it a day.”

“Fine,” you mumble. “Wait, can you look something else up for me?”

Anyway, Jungkook probably has a fever, except it’s weird because he’s not sweating it out. He wakes up about an hour later, but this time he’s more self aware. He eats his soup and takes the medicine you offer him. Afterwards, he can’t go back to sleep so he huffily asks for his iPad and begins watching some weirdly specific YouTube videos you don’t think you’ve ever seen him watch before. 

You have absolutely no idea what he’s watching, some niche videos of guys in Singapore turning random forest areas into underwater pools? You don’t know. Jungkook seems interested, though, for all of ten minutes until he falls asleep again. 

He’s still cold, poor baby, nose like an ice cube that just won’t melt. You find a heating pad you left over in his closet and place it on his chest. Your thought process is that if his heart, the source of all energy, was warm, then certainly the rest of him will warm up soon enough. Yeah, you missed the last three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy; you were a little rusty. 

So with Jungkook fast asleep and nothing else to do, you assume the age-old, patriarchal task of cleaning around the house. 

His house was usually neat and tidy, mostly as a result of Jungkook’s virgo manifestations, but even those varied. His living room tended to be spotless, but his personal office was a different story. But with him having been out of it this past week, the entire house is littered in tiny garbage that would make Normal Jungkook burst a blood vessel.

There’s a pile of Reese’s wrappers in the downstairs bathroom, on the sink next to his toothbrush. The sight makes you sad, because your poor boy must have been struggling if he was eating candy in the bathroom, where he… uses the bathroom. And then that thought makes you even sadder, thinking back to all the times he was sick and alone, fending for himself out of his weird embarrassment of showing normal body functions. 

You had thought he was cute when you first arrived— he still was —but he was also so weak and frail, bulky muscles rendered useless by whatever bacteria was attacking his body, making him sleepy and in pain for god knows how long. With a resolute nod, you sweep all the wrappers into the trash and decide to do your very best at helping Jungkook get through this sickness and bounce back better than ever. 

Before leaving his bathroom, you ransack his cabinets, deciding he probably keeps most of his antibiotics here. It’s a spot you never really snoop around, because Jungkook always keeps a fully stocked basket in his closet filled with your typical necessities— from conditioner to pads to nail polish remover, he kept it all. And furthermore, you always tended to use his upstairs bathroom anyway, so that’s where your toothbrush and the like were kept. There was really no need for you to ever look through the downstairs bathroom’s cabinet. So the downstairs bathroom cabinet is practically the other side of the world to you, a culture shock so strong it has you plopping down in front of it to thoroughly sift through. 

He’s got a disgusting amount of hair products, none of which you actually think you’ve ever seen him use, and a maniacal amount of tooth stuff. Now, you were quite possibly the biggest proponent for dental care, but this was ridiculous. Four packs of floss on reserve, and about three cases of those dental picks. A whole family pack of toothbrushes and one of those cute little cases for his retainer you’ve seen a few times. 

So overwhelmed with his ungodly stash of dental hygiene utilities, you almost miss the pretty pink tube hidden in the very back corner. 

You’re thinking it’s some makeup primer you left before that he mistook for moisturizer, probably dumped it with all his other things, only to find out you are very, very wrong. 

Sensation Warming Lubricant: NOW! in strawberry flavor 

You blink. 

Lubricant? Jungkook was using lubricant? Strawberry, sensation warming lubricant?!

Somewhere in your mind you had convinced yourself that Jungkook was a simple man, a lotion at his bedside drawer type of man. He had you for the last one and half year, and you two fucked like rabbits, so you hardly doubt he was jacking it alone these days. And even if he was, why on earth was he so specific about the type of lube he uses?

You turn the bottle around, eyes scanning for an expiration date or something of the like, only to find that the copyright symbol was under this current year. The year that had just started, like, two weeks ago. 

Oh, so this was new. 

You turn it over, eyes scanning over the warnings like it’ll tell you something about your boyfriend you don’t know yet, some other hidden secret that he’s maybe held from you. Granted, owning lube isn’t really a big deal, but the fact he’s got it so hidden away (not really, it was casually sitting beside his sunscreen) was definitely something to zero in on. 

Strawberry flavored, you read again, warming, stimulating, edible? Forget his weirdly extensive floss collection, you had stumbled upon something amazing in here, the goddamn Hope Diamond among snooping girlfriend finds. You’ll confront him about this later, you decide, when he’s back to normal and not whiningly calling your name from upstairs. You pocket it for now, tucking it into your cardigan pockets for said later interrogation, and bound up the stairs to him again. 

He’s sitting up in bed like a very angry and confused toddler, brows furrowed sharply like he’s mad. Actually, he just can’t see, the light from the hallway blinding him, so you shut the door and flick on his bedside lamp for him instead. “Hi, honey,” you coo, sitting down on the edge beside him. He’s still waking up, leaning a little too heavily into your palm when you cup his face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Terrible,” he rasps out, but he’s definitely looking better than before. You don’t know if you imagine it, but there’s this slowly accumulating sweat that forms along the base of his neck. “Please don’t leave again,” he says softly, droopy eyes glassy. 

Something shoots straight to your heart— an arrow from Cupid himself! —that makes you stroke his cheek tenderly until his eyelids are fluttering shut again. “I won’t,” you promise, feeling around for his iPad. He doesn’t seem like he’ll fall back asleep, sitting up with more strength than he had that morning. 

You end up climbing behind him, let him be the little spoon you know he secretly craves to be, as he watches his weird YouTube videos again. His body is so warm against yours, but his skin is still so cold. If what Doyeon had said was true, it’s no wonder he’s kept the same sickness all week. The rhythmic sound of machetes hacking at the earth and water trickling through bamboo pipes grows on you, makes you fall into a sense of comfort behind him, arms tracing circles over his chest. 

It’s a mindless habit, one you actually do a lot. Most of the time, it’s when he’s at his desk and stressed out, your masseuse hands making an appearance to soothe the muscles in his neck and chest from being hunched over for so long. Even now, your fingers unconsciously press into the fabric over his pecks, tickle up his sternum until he’s melting against you. 

It takes one quiet whimper from him to let you know exactly how he’s feeling. “Everything alright?” you inquire, halting your movements over his chest. Jungkook nods shakily, head lolling forward. The nape of his neck calls to you, whispers for a kiss that you tenderly bestow upon it. It makes Jungkook jolt, another pretty sound leaving his lips at the press of your warm lips against his sensitive neck. 

“No more,” he mumbles, rolls his head around until it’s resting against your shoulder, giving you a clear view down his chest. You slide your hands back up from where they’d gone stiff just around his ribs, let them palm over his pecs. Jungkook’s hips buck, a minuscule movement you almost miss. 

His heart thunders like the inside of a horse race track beneath your palm, breath picking up just from the simple motion of your hands on his chest. It’s on the fourth circle around his pecs that you feel your pinky briefly catch on something. “Poor thing,” you sigh, running the pad of your pointer finger over the hardened nipple that peaks beneath his sweatshirt. “Is this what was bothering you?” 

A shaky exhale in response, hands tightly clutching at his iPad and beloved YouTube video genre. “N-No,” he denies, but you chance a peak at his face, where his lips are bitten a rosy pink color, its slightly muted sister rushing down his cheeks, over his neck. 

You press the lightest of kisses to the side of his neck, and he shivers. “Need me to take care of you?” you purr, trail your hands down his chest towards where the hem of his sweater sits. You run your finger over it twice, before moving to slip your hand beneath. Your fingers brush along his abs, contracted tightly at your touch, and slowly make their way back up his chest. 

Fingers find his pebbled nipples, a gasp escaping his lips. “Does this feel good?” you ask softly, pinching the swollen nubs between your fingers. Jungkook groans, body arching just the slightest as you rub his nipples, tug and twist them until he’s a whining mess. “Need you to tell me, honey,” you encourage, lips ghosting over his neck. 

The second kiss has him flinching as well, head rapidly turning the other way as you slowly kiss over his neck. “___, please,” he pants, knuckles pale on the sides of the iPad. You're afraid it’ll snap, if not from his grip then from the way he pushes at it, like he’s breaking a wooden board over his knee. It’s still on YouTube, playing another video from the same collection, volume competing with Jungkook’s tiny sounds. 

Pressing your lips to his neck, you kiss along it slowly, reveling in the lovely noises that Jungkook produces the more you rub his nipples, lower body squirming animatedly before you. Your kisses grow wet for a short period, suck purple blossoms across his skin until Jungkook is quivering like a leaf. “E-Enough,” he begs, voice a wobbly mess that is so light and airy. 

You grin, giving his rockhard nipples one last flick before sliding your hands down his chest, over his stomach to toy with the elastic of his pants. He inhales sharply, iPad nearly snapped in half mid video. Ready to play with him some more (and slightly afraid for the future of his tablet), you reach out a hand to move it away, set it off to the side. 

But Jungkook doesn’t release it. In fact, he clings to the damn piece of tech tighter than before. “Hmm?” you murmur, bottom lip brushing against his neck once more. “Not letting go, sweetheart?” 

He shakes his head, soft crown of curls bouncing from the movement. “Can’t, can’t,” he shivers. His knees shift back and forth, move between being casually spread and flush together. Like he’s hiding something, using the iPad and the videos on screen as cover. You tug at his wrist and Jungkook shakes his head again. 

You change tactics, hand sliding around his wrist instead. The other travels up, up, up, comes curling around the base of his neck. Jungkook whimpers, tilts his head back for you cutely at the first brush of your fingers against his Adam’s apple. “Thought you were my good boy?” you ask, eyes zeroed in on the tremble of his lower lip. 

Jungkook exhales shakily, a rather torn expression crossing his features. “I am,” he insists, fingers still tight “I am your good boy.”

You smile, stroking the front of his neck softly as you lean down to press a kiss against his cheek. “You are, aren’t you?” He whimpers. “Then let go, honey,” you murmur, hand on his wrist giving another experimental tug. Still, his grip remains solid. “Jungkook,” you snap, “let go.”

“Y-You’ll laugh,” he cries, yet his grip slowly weakens. It’s with a swift tug that the iPad tumbles to his side, presses against his hip, and shows you the raging hard-on that stirs beneath the front of his cotton pants. Pressed nearly beside your ear, Jungkook shivers. 

Ever so slowly, your hands return to their place around his waist. “Why would I laugh, sweetheart?” you mumble, marveling at the way his cock twitches and jumps beneath his pants before you can even touch it. His shirt is hiked up just above his abs, your hands tenderly stroking over the skin beneath his navel, but it’s got Jungkook writhing. “Hips up for me,” you instruct. 

He shakes even when he pushes himself up, knees wobbling as you slip your hands beneath his waistband and tug them down his thighs. Afterwards, his legs flop forward flatly, spread out with his beautiful swollen cock on display against his hip. 

You trap it at the base and Jungkook mewls, hands fisting the sheets now that his beloved iPad has been snatched away. It’s still playing his videos, interrupting his saccharine moans with corny ads every few minutes. A hand snaps up to join, opposite of yours, until your fingers are entwined around his dick. How romantic, you think, discreetly rolling your hips back against the mattress. “Gonna help me make you cum?” you ask instead, give him a light squeeze that makes him jolt. 

“Uh huh,” he responds, feathery. 

You reward him with a kiss to his cheek, reaching up to brush away the hair that’s begun sticking to his forehead. In the very back of your head you recognize this as being good for his fever, but the rest of you is more concerned with the pretty pout on his lips. “Hold tight for me,” you smile, releasing his cock to press your finger against the very tip of his cock where a pearly drop of precum has begun forming. “So pretty, Jungkookie,” you praise, teasing the length of your finger over the slit on his head. It has that juicy droplet coating your finger, gliding seamlessly over and over again. 

The simple touch makes him buck, has him blindly wrapping an arm around your bent knee that was pressed to his side this whole time. He squeezes around you rather weakly, the majority of his strength going to holding his cock tightly like you’d instructed. He’s such a good boy for you, trying his absolute best, even when you’re very obviously overwhelming him. 

You roll the flat side of your finger over him, his mushroom tip slowly growing more and more slick as he produces more precum. It’s shiny, fits perfectly between your clasped fingers when you squeeze around his head. Jungkook’s breath turns labored. 

He’s always so well kept down there, skin so smooth and free of hairs, and you know he does it because he wants to impress you. “So pretty, baby,” you hum, acknowledging his efforts. Your praise makes Jungkook moan, suddenly fucking up into his hand. It’s accidental, because he hisses at the drag of his dry palm around his relatively dry dick immediately. 

“Hurts, hurts,” he whimpers prettily, lower lip caught between his teeth. 

You frown, slide your wet fingers down the base of his cock until they’re wrapping around his and Jungkook’s little gasps even out. “I’m sorry, baby, you gotta be patie—“

Something presses against your hip, something distinctly hard that you had hastily picked up from his bathroom cabinet earlier, and a whole new door opens before your eyes. “Hold still for me,” you tell him quickly as you release your grip around his cock. Jungkook wails at the separation, but you’re more concerned with wrestling the tube out of your pocket with one hand. It’s heavy in your palm, turning over until that big fat label on front comes into view again. 

Jungkook explodes at the sight. “Wh— Where did you find that?” he stammers, cheeks ablaze. “I-I don’t know where that came fro—“

You ignore him, hold the bottle of lubricant over his stomach as you uncap it, a gooey pink substance spilling over into your hands the moment the lid pops off. Jungkook is still rambling away about the origins of the bottle, as if you care. You set the bottle on his tummy, the cold plastic makes him shiver. But you know what’s not cold? The warming lube in your hands that only takes three rubs of your palms to activate. 

You latch down like a crazed animal around his cock. With both your hands fighting to grip at his cock, you’re pressed closer against Jungkook, lips against the shell of his ear. 

The initial touch makes him sob, back arching and legs kicking at the sheets piled at the foot of the bed as your slick hands track the lube over his dick. “No!” he cries, hands wildly reaching out to grab whatever he can as you slowly get to work pulling him off. “I-I can’t, __, I can’t.”

“You can,” you coo, watching the translucent pink substance coat his cock, join his sticky precum. 

Maybe you get overexcited in your efforts, forget Jungkook is the way he is right now because he was still a little weak from his fever, but you go crazy on stroking his cock. One hand lingers around the base, squeezing and rolling over his balls, palm pressing against the hardened sac and squeezing there too. The other focuses at the tip, does most of the actual stroking over his cock. His head is leaking precum now, every stroke and squeeze making him shudder and push out another drop, until it’s mixing with the lube to form a sticky sweet substance that you wanna lick at so bad. 

So you do. 

You release one hand to curiously bring it up to your face, turning it over and around as you examine the stickiness on your fingers, the fat drop that unintentionally drips onto the front of Jungkook’s sweatshirt. He sobs at the sight of your lips around your fingers, squirms and bucks into the hand still on his cock until he’s embarrassingly coming. “I’m sorry,” he wails, hands fisting the sheets, fucking into your hand like a virgin. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to.” 

You draw your hand away, watching in slow motion the cum that just spurted from his cock come dribbling down the slowly softening length now. “Oh, sweetheart,” you croon, hands on his tummy. The bottle of lube slips to the side, meets the still playing iPad at his hip. It’s sticky and gross to touch him like this, especially when you know Jungkook hates being unnecessarily dirty, but you can’t stop yourself from softly caressing him, soothe him after such a hard-hitting orgasm. 

Honestly you had thought he would hold up a little more, let you get in a few more strokes, but he must’ve been more sensitive than you thought. “I’m sorry,” he cries again, head lolling to the side to meet your gaze with watery eyes. 

You tilt his head to the side, angle him just right for you to bestow your first kiss of the night against his little pout. Jungkook hiccups, melts against you as you slowly guide him through the kiss. He’s sloppy and shy, moves nothing like your normal Jungkook, and that fact alone has you slipping your tongue past his lips. He doesn’t fight back, just lets you play with him and sighs all delicately against your mouth. 

There’s something about this, his soft and submissive attitude, that has you pulling away to look at him. Big brown eyes, glassed over with unshed tears, and plush lips that call your name. And yet. 

“Open,” you murmur, hypnotized by the way that tiny mouth moves. 

“Huh?” Jungkook flushes, but he’s so good, he’s your good boy, and does so anyway. Lower lip quivers as he parts his lips, stuttering exhales creeping through as you purse your lips, let the saliva collect on your mouth, before rudely spitting into his. He flinches, whimpers softly, and swallows. He looks at you with these expectant eyes, like he wants to hear how much of a good boy he is, so you do exactly that. 

You brush his bangs away lovingly. “Aren’t you just so good for me,” you purr, revel in the way his eyes flutter shut at your touch, like you could never hurt him, and you won’t. 

As sweet as the moment is, there’s a raging fire in your core begging to be stroked, and your hyperfixation on Jungkook’s mouth lets you know there’s only one way to chase the feeling. “Up,” you tell Jungkook, who whimpers sadly when you finally escape from behind him. 

But you don’t get too far, settling beside him on the bed until you’re looking at the damage you’ve caused from the front. His skin is sticky in some places, pink sheen of the lube decorating him from your incessant touching. Pants around his thighs, shirt against his chest. His face is flushed, all the way down to his chest and up to his ears, so rosy and pink all for you. He shies away under your gaze, drops his head to his chin bashfully. 

You grin, shuffle forward to turn those pretty eyes back towards you. “Messy little thing,” you tease, slotting your mouths together again. Jungkook moans this time, lazily kissing you back. His lips move in slow motion, trembling hands reaching for your face to cup, your name falling from his lips when you pull away slightly. “Need you to help me out now,” you murmur, hand on his jaw. “Can you do that, honey?” Jungkook nods hurriedly, eyes foggy and on your mouth. “Lay back.”

He does so, rushes to lay against the pillows until he’s flat on his back. You get to work on your clothes, shed your cardigan and languidly tug your top over your head in the way you know makes your breasts bounce. Beneath you, Jungkook whines at the sight. “You too,” you remind him, wiggling out of your jeans. At your instruction, he begins fumbling with his clothes, pants and underwear haphazardly thrown over the edge of the bed. 

By the time you’re naked, you’re met with a rather amusing sight. 

In his haste to take his clothing off, Jungkook seems to have gotten himself tangled in his long sleeves, shirt awkwardly bunched up around his wrists and twisted over some. You chuckle. “Help please,” he asks so politely, shaking his arms back and forth above his head. But you’re genuinely confused as to what he did, because one of the sleeves wraps around the other, pins the bulk of the fabric to his skin, and then the other wraps around that. A mess you don’t bother dissecting, simply climbing over him. He complains, of course, soft huffs you wave off. 

“Don’t need them anyway,” you shrug, can’t help the lovesick look you send him when you brush his hair away for the umpteenth time. Jungkook leans into the touch sweetly, rosy cheek pressed against your palm. “Lemme see your pretty little tongue,” you order, pussy clenching when he does as told and rolls his tongue out for you, tip pressed against his bottom lip. “Good boy.”

A soft whimper, and then you’re shuffling over him, pretty doe eyes watching with amazement when you finally hover over his face. “For me?” he asks so softly, so sweetly. 

It’s a question you’ve heard him utter countless times before in similar settings, always with a cocky grin and mean eyes, ready to send you to hell and back with his tongue or his cock. But it’s different now, big shiny eyes looking at you like you’re the greatest thing to ever happen in his life, so pliant and demure beneath your touch like he lived to serve you. 

“All for you,” you assure him, get comfortable, and slowly lower your pussy over his face. His eyes flutter shut immediately, pink tongue ready for you by the time your dripping cunt nears his face. 

You can’t help the moan that tears itself from your throat, a soft cry as he begins lapping against your folds. He’s so tender, so careful. It drives you crazy. Hands above his head squirming as you slowly grind your pussy over his face, more mindful than usual because he was so delicate tonight, like a baby bird that shivers with the simplest touch. 

His tongue is smooth, circles around your clit. He nudges your bundle of nerves back and forth a few times, sends an initial wave of tingles down your spine, before taking it between puckered lips. His slurps it into his mouth, where it’s so hot and wet, it makes your grind stutter. “Oh,” you pant, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair. “P-Perfect,” you mumble. 

The praise makes his features twist up cutely, mouth desperate to get more out of you. “You like that?” you gasp, holding his head still as he runs his tongue along your folds. Jungkook nods, eyes glazed over as he messily begins eating you out. “Like when I tell you you’re a good boy, Jungkookie?” 

He lets out a broken whine, the vibrations shooting up your spine and making you shiver. Tongue pressed in at your entrance, prods gently like it’s his first time (it’s not) and he’s gauging your reactions. “Oh baby,” you shudder, fingers tightening in his curls. 

He looks like an angel beneath you like this, halo of curls artfully splayed across the sheets, arms knotted above his head. Big pretty eyes that make you want to lay down and be his bitch instead, their power just so strong even when he’s whining and whimpering against your pussy like this. His tongue dips into your cunt, makes you buck against him by accident. “I’m sorry, angel,” you breathe, so caught up in your thoughts that the name just slips. It makes Jungkook’s cheeks flush a pretty pink, arms tug at their makeshift restraints. But his brain is scattered, torn between releasing himself, eating you out, and being shy. 

He settles soon enough, ends up just sticking his tongue out flat for you to grind against, using the grip in his curls to drag your pussy over his face. His scalp feels warm, sweat clinging to his hairline. He sighs endearingly against you, and it’s that final puff of warm air against your folds that has you coming, cum dripping over his lips and chin sinfully. 

When you finish, you quickly get off of him, lay down beside him. Jungkook is panting softly, tongue peeking out to taste the cum that splattered against the corner of his lips. “You were so good for me,” you praise, idly dragging your finger across his skin, collecting your cum on the tip. 

Jungkook looks at you with a heavy gaze, knotted wrists slowly returning to rest over his abdomen. “Can you… Can you call me that again?” he asks hesitantly, so shy and polite. 

“Hm?” you ask. “Angel?” His lips part, an awfully aroused look crossing his features. You smile, press your cum loaded finger against his lips and he opens, sucks around your finger and moans. “My pretty little angel,” you purr, slowly thrusting your finger in and out of his mouth. Before you can stop yourself, you’re leaning over to kiss him again, swallowing his cries in your desperate need to taste yourself on his tongue. Jungkook is more active this time around, daringly challenging your tongue with his before ultimately giving up, languidly following the pace you set for the kiss. You pull off with a pop, leave him dazed and trailing after your mouth cutely. 

You pat his cheek once, offer him a tender smile, before moving to get up and clean up. Jungkook whines at your departure, and it’s only once you’ve sat up that you realize why. 

Half hard cock at his hip, fattening slowly but surely. Instantly, it’s like the post-orgasm fatigue is yanked away, pussy throbbing at the sight of your angel and his cock, swelling from eating you out and kissing. He was too good to be true. 

“Oh, you poor thing,” you sigh dramatically, shifting onto your knees at his hip to look at him. Something pokes your leg; it’s the stupid iPad playing his dorky YouTube videos that you click off and chuck to the other side of the bed. You had had enough of that by now. 

He’s not at full mast yet, and he’s not getting there quick enough for your liking. So you take matters into your own hands. (Besides, what was stopping you tonight? Certainly not this soft, pliant Jungkook.)

Kneeling between his legs, you reach for the forgotten bottle of lube, squirt a fat glob into your hands, then decide that isn’t enough and squirt it directly onto your chest. Jungkook watches with wide eyes, lower lip caught between his teeth. “What— What’re you doing?” he stammers, can’t even sit up with his hands held together. “__, y-you don’t have—“

Squeezing your breasts together, you slip his cock between the crevice, watch as his angry head comes out on the other side so easily, so slippery. Oh, this was gonna be post-work, shower-time, spank bank material for months. 

Jungkook sobs, loud and unfiltered at the sight, expression torn as he watches you slowly work your tightened breasts down his quickly hardening member. “T-Too much, too much,” he cries, squirming and bucking beneath you. “I-I’ll come—” 

“Don’t,” you snap, stilling your moments to flick your eyes back to him. His head is rolled back, jaw strained, but when he manages to lift it up and look down at you, there’s tears that streak his cute face, trails that glisten when the lowlight of the lamp hits him just right. “Don’t fucking come yet, Jungkook.”

He sniffles weakly, more tears spilling from his eyes. “But I— it feels,” he blubbers, knotted hands reaching down for the base of his cock. You slap it away. “___, please,” he wails, face flushed from all his conflicting emotions. 

Ignoring his cries, you get back to work, moving your upper body to and fro to simulate the thrusting motion he is too weak to do himself. He whimpers pitifully, more tears leaving his eyes when you lean down and spit on the head of his cock when it emerges next, make it join the rest of the ungodly fluids painting your chest. Honestly, you’re certain it’s that damned strawberry flavored, sensation warming, edible lube that makes this experience so enjoyable, so mind-blowing. 

Jungkook seems to agree, stuttering out a messy whine. “Feels weird,” he snivels, only to be cut off when you release him from in between your tits. Immediately, he begins lamenting the loss. 

Slowly, you ease him back in. You’re beginning to understand the intensity of that damned warming lube, because with each glide of his cock between your breasts, it’s like a tingle of nerves sparks within you, insides folding in on themselves as they channel all their energy to that one area of hastily spread lube. It feels so good and wet and messy, Jungkook’s whiny sniffles only fueling the experience. His cock twitches dangerously, and you flash him a glare. “Jungkook,” you warn. 

“I’m sorry,” he weeps, thrashing back and forth as if that makes it any easier. “I just— I want,” he chokes, hips bucking into the suction you’ve created between your boobs. Tentatively, you stick your tongue out, let his tip brush against it on the next thrust. Jungkook curses, a feral groan escaping his lips. “Wanna fuck,” he seethes, “now.”

It’s but a slight peek into his regular personality, his normal mannerisms. But something about it now annoys you. In fact, it pisses you off, seeing him be so complacent and sweet just to try and overthrow you at the last second. And it’s with this same train of thought that you release him, climb over him like a crazed sex demon, and press your hand to his throat. 

“You're supposed to be good,” you spit, scowl turned on him and it immediately has Jungkook drawing back with his tail tucked, falling into line as he should. “You’re supposed to be my angel tonight, remember?”

Jungkook nods, big round eyes looking at you like you’re insane, but the cock that presses against your ass tells you that he likes it. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, shrinking back into the mattress. Sticky hands around his throat, probably make him warm and tingly, but all you can think about is those pretty eyes. Sensing your wavering emotions, he takes advantage by tilting his chin forward for you cutely, pink lips trembling as he silently asks for a kiss. 

You release him.

“Stupid angel,” you huff, mouth against his. “Gonna make me mad if you don’t act right,” you remind him, pushing his sweaty curls away from his face. He whimpers against your mouth, let’s you play with his hair as you calm down. He’s a blushing mess beneath you, every inch of him flushed and warm and sweaty. 

You shift back and are met with his still rock hard member against your ass. You touch him appreciatively, reaching back to stroke him with a half-assed grip. It makes him moan nonetheless, pulling away from your lips to mewl against your shoulder. “Wanna fuck?” you hum, curling your hand over the tip like he likes, watching his head roll back against his pillow at the sensation. Jungkook groans, doesn’t seem to hear you now. You try again. “Wanna fuck my pussy, baby?”

“Yes,” he gasps this time, jolts when you press the tip of your finger against the slit on his head, plug his cock from releasing any more precum. “Please, please,” he begs, the hands on his chest straining against the shirt he still hasn’t managed to shake off. 

One last kiss is delivered to him, a chaste one against his pout that makes him whine. “Whatever you want,” you purr, line him up. 

Your hands are still sticky with the lube and so is his cock. Everything is sticky; his cock, you folds, your tits, his neck. It’s a big sticky, slippery mess, but you can’t even be annoyed because everything feels so good. Your tits tingle from whatever they put in that damn lube, nipples rock hard and extra swollen today, like if you don’t touch them you’ll die. You sink back into Jungkook’s throbbing cock, and the second his cock spreads the lube along your walls, you’re jolting because it just feels so damn good. 

You can’t believe this is Jungkook’s preferred sick day treatment; YouTube, cuddles, and an ugly amount of lube. 

His cock pushes past your folds, fits snugly inside of you just like it belongs. It still feels like the first time, feels like your first day where he was so perfect and sweet. Part of you wonders what would have become of you two if he had reacted like this that day, soft and whiny, when you first prepositioned him. Maybe the sexual aspect of your relationship would be entirely different today, maybe you’d be one the always leading. 

But… you’re not sure if you’d want that. Leading is fun— hell, you’re certain this moment will be what you get engraved on your tombstone —but you were a pillow princess at heart with occasional dominant tendencies. You drool over this moment now, but if he asks for this again tomorrow you might actually bend over and die. It was a lot of work, keeping the energy going, and you find yourself having this newfound sense of respect for Jungkook as his cock slips past your folds. 

Anyway, when you sit on his cock, fingers teasingly tightening around his throat, Jungkook’s eyes are weirdly focused on your tits. He’s been doing that a lot lately, losing his mind by just staring at your tits. On some occasions he puts them in his mouth, gets possessed by some titty loving monster and sucks on them until you’re trembling. It’s fine because it’s quite frankly a huge ego boost, but something him now makes you want to pick at him for it. 

“They’re yours to taste, angel,” you hum, slowly rolling your hips over his fat cock. Jungkook whimpers, softly ruts up into your heat the next time you press down. “Tell me what you want,” you exhale, a breathy moan. 

He doesn’t say anything, just drops his mouth open for you with a trembling lower lip. Tongue peeks out, eyes glazed over in his lust, looking every bit like those hentai ads he hates so much. But you fulfill his wishes, help him sit up until he’s flush against your chest. His awkwardly bound hands get squished in the middle, and he says, “m-my hands...” 

“I’ve got you,” you soothe, undo his self-made restraints and toss them to the side. Immediately, he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him to latch his lips around your breasts. “S-Slow down,” you whine, hands on his biceps as he sucks your tit into his mouth, twirls his tongue around your nipple. He’s good with his tongue even when he’s sick. 

He pulls off with a pop, ragged breathing only making you more sensitive as it fans over the thin layer of saliva he leaves on your tits. “Tastes like strawberries,” he groans wondrously, head against your chest. You use the lull to get back to fucking yourself on him, but Jungkook’s got other plans. He rolls the two of you over, pins you beneath him with his hot and sweaty body. “I’m sorry,” he moans as he begins jackhammering his thrusts into you. 

Your back arches, legs thrown around his waist as the sudden change of events. “Fffuck,” you heave, “harder, angel— gotta fuck like you mean it.”

Jungkook shudders, hands looped around the small of your back. His cock rams into you over and over, each glide of it against the walls of your pussy making you unravel in his arms. His lips latch around your other boob, suck and suck like he’s expecting something to come out.

That’s when it hits you. 

“N-Nothing there,” you tell him, arms wrapped around his shoulders. His lashes are wet, eyes pinching tighter at your reminder. He pulls away almost to protest, but then you’re guiding him up to your face, hot breath mingling with yours. “Nothing there because you haven’t given me a baby yet,” you murmur darkly, watch the emotions flood his features as you tap into that taboo kink of his. 

He chokes, grinds his cock into you and holds it there. “I-I didn’t,” he sniffs, “we never— you never said,” he whines, “...you wanted one.”

You cup his face in his hands, feel slightly mean for the pride you get from his tear stricken appearance. “I do,” you purr, lazily kissing him. “Want one if it’s from you. Don’t you?” He nods like an antsy puppy, quivering against you as he slowly and shallowly ruts into you. “Don’t you wanna see me like that, angel?” you egg on, hands looping behind his neck, idly playing with stray waves and curls. “Tummy so big and swollen because you did something bad, because you couldn’t pull out.” 

Jungkook sobs, pulls you impossibly closer until the head of his cock is missing your cervix repeatedly. One of your legs is pressed nearly to your chest, hip tight from the force in which he holds you. “I-I want,” he agrees, more tears spilling down his cheeks. 

You smirk evilly, kissing the corner of his mouth gently as he slowly picks up the pace of his thrusts. “Then fuck me hard, Jungkookie,” you demand, “fuck me full of your cum.”

Jungkook nods with a sniffle against your shoulder, fingers tightening against your skin as he slowly but surely begins nailing you into the mattress. He’s a good boy, always, because he does exactly what you tell him to. Uses those bulky muscles to hold you down, makes it impossible for you to move as he pistons his hips, cock sheathing itself inside your cunt. 

Every drag makes you unconsciously clench, the raw feeling consuming your thoughts. His cock is so big and wet today, certainly due to that stupid lube from beneath his cabinet. Your entire pussy feels like it’s on ecstasy, stupidly geeked up by that lube, and you’re sure Jungkook’s cock feels the same. It makes the glide so much better, so much easier, each ram of his cock feeling so easy. “Oh, fuck,” you whimper, nails digging down his spine. Jungkook is a sobbing, sniffling mess against the crook of your neck, absolute gibberish falling from his lips. 

But you’re no better, tongue seemingly set on a chaotic rampage to validate every single one of his fantasies. “Gonna fuck me while I’m pregnant?” you pant against his ear, fingers tugging at his hair. He doesn’t offer more than a strained cry, thrusts momentarily falling out of rhythm. “You would like that, huh? Fucking me when you’re not supposed to. You’re so bad, Kook-ah,”  you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Only pretend to be an angel but really you’re just a dirty, little pervert.” 

He wails loudly, slams his hips so hard into you that it makes you sob as well. “N-No,” he blubbers, tears against your skin. “I’m good— I’m a good boy,” he stresses, fingers bruising their prints into your skin. 

He presses so close, cock practically making your stomach bulge, but neither of you see. “Dirty angel,” you spit, yank his hair back roughly until he’s forced to look at you with that watery gaze. “So horny you’re willing to get me pregnant.”

Jungkook cries out, snaps his cock into you like he’s trying to break you in half. “No,” he heaves, tears dripping down his cheeks and onto yours. “I-I-I’d do it right,” he defends weakly, hips losing their demonic pace as his orgasm sneaks up on him. “Ma— Marry first… then, b— ba— bab—“

You swallow his words with your lips, kiss him like you’re on the verge of death in a desperate attempt to hide your tears from him. They paint your cheeks in stark strokes, trail down your skin and make everything blurry, but so does your orgasm. 

You come first, heart and body trembling at his unexpectedly sweet words, as you become a whimpering, teary mess beneath him. Jungkook follows, cries out your name one last time as he busts inside of you. 

Sticky and gross, he falls onto the pillow beside you. Poor baby is so tired, curls covering half of his face, but lips cutely puckered against the pillow. He’s sweaty as hell though, which you now vaguely remember was your original goal with all of this so you count this as a success. 

You think he’s fallen asleep, sitting up slowly and reaching for that t-shirt that bound him together earlier to clean up. He shudders when you run it against his skin, obviously still overwhelmed. You shift around the bed in search of today’s MVP. “Where’s the lube?” you mutter to yourself. 

Jungkook groans. “YouTube?” he asks, voice dry as all hell. 

“No, honey, the lube we used,” you respond, running your hands over the sheets for any signs of the pink bottle. 

“Want YouTube,” he mumbles, lets you swaddle him up in the blanket again. You roll your eyes and reach for the forgotten iPad that had long since tumbled to the floor. When it turns on, that same video from before is on pause so you don’t bother changing it as you hand it back to Jungkook. “Nice,” he murmurs, “underground water slide.”

You snort. “Weirdo.” He glares cutely, eyes barely open at this point. “Watch your YouTube.”

“Use your lube,” he sasses back softly, nonsensically, and then rather anticlimactically passes out. 

There’s something soft in your chest, something so big and overwhelming, that has you bending over his sleeping figure, mouth brushing against his. “Hurry and get better, angel,” you whisper, wish on it with all your heart. 

 To no one’s surprise, you get sick two days later. Doyeon laughs and laughs for hours about it, tells you that’s what you get for using sex as medicine. But Jungkook’s back to normal, which means he stays over and coddles you to death. 

“Hurry and get better,” he says, spoon feeding you your famous Get Better Soon Soup that you passed on to him. “I have a question to ask you.”

There’s a little black box in his downstairs bathroom cabinet that you swear you’ve never seen, but Jungkook knows you’re lying. 

It fits perfectly. 

epilogue

She scoffs. “And I care why?” You huff, go to scold her for their weird rivalry, but then she’s moving on. “Babe, just give him some pain relief and call it a day.”

“Fine,” you mumble. “Wait, can you look something else up for me?”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

[babyspacebatclone]

Quotes from your previous post.

Italicized and bold emphasis mine.

How is strong legs and a good posture the same as surgery and hormones? As long as you didnt suffer an injury or fall into an eating disorder; what would be inherently regretful about the physical changes ballet has on one's body? Nothing.

Being a dancer or sportsperson has physical effects. Those are effects, yes. Everything has effects! But the severity and negativity of those effects force us to weight up opinions about whether the action is worth the effects, and whether we should allow the action to take place freely.

Ballet's effects are not harmful and so not disputed.

My list of articles was intended to highlight that one of the positions you portrayed - that the original article is incorrect in stating “If I wanted to be a professional dancer, my normal ass joints were a ticking time bomb.”

Now, let’s take a look at current research into Gender Affirming Care by age.

Oh, wait, first, let’s define that, shall we?

“Gender-affirming care, at its most basic level, is about validating and supporting children and loving them for who they are as they explore their gender identity,” says Dr. Chang, who specializes in adolescent medicine.

(Note: These two additional quotes were edited in after initial posting, as I feel they provide context for the direction I chose to go after reviewing the below articles. These quotes are presented in reverse order from where they appear in the linked article, an emphasis decided by me.)

“People may assume that gender care means that you’re going to do surgery, or you’re going to put them on hormones. While that might be part of it, that’s really not the focus,” says Dr. Chang. “It’s a lot of continual checking in and seeing where the child is on their journey. It’s about love and support and affirmation.”

“Patients under the age of 18 who are seeking medical intervention will need parental consent,” says Dr. Chang. “If they do start medical interventions, such as hormones, they are followed carefully by a pediatric endocrinologist. A comprehensive gender-affirming program, such as Compass, provides families with access to a team that includes a pediatrician, endocrinologist, mental health professional, and social worker.”

Quotes from the first linked article.

Information found by searching the phrase “Impact of Gender Affirming Care on Children.”

I’m going to quote the last article of this three, and provide a direct link to the study referenced. Again, italicized and bolded emphasis is mine.

The study — led by senior authors Drs. Kym Ahrens and David Inwards-Breland at Seattle Children's Gender Clinic — found that having access to hormones and puberty blockers for youth ages 13 to 20 was associated with a 60% lower odds of moderate to severe depression and a 73% lower odds of self-harm or suicidal thoughts compared to youth who did not receive these medications over a 12-month period. This adds short-term insight into what was already known about the long-term benefits of gender-affirming care.

So, um, yeah, we actually do know what the risks are for allowing youths access to hormone treatment, including puberty blockers.

The risk of less depression, less self-harm, and less suicide ideation.

Horrible.

Edit: In the interest if fairness, as I did stray away from the initial point, here’s a good summary of the known physical impacts and concerns of puberty blockers and cross hormonal treatment in youths.

This post is not about ballet.

[tobiosmilktea]

red ink — semi eita

2.5k words | genre/s: tattoo shop!au, friends with benefits, smut | warning/s: uhh badly written nsfw | pairing: musician!semi x tattoo artist!reader

↪︎ in which famous musician, semi eita is a regular at your tattoo parlor and only gets work done from you and you only. the only catch is that fans only know that much and definitely not the fact that you and him are friends with benefits.

a/n: happy belated bday for my good friend @kitsunetea. here’s my shameless second (third?) attempt at writing smut as a late bday gift bc fuck it, amirite haha ✋🏻😔

please take it easy on this one,, this is singlehandedly one of the worst nsfw pieces i’ve ever written and i just want to apologize in advance...

semi had forgotten the tingling feeling of a tattoo gun striking away at his skin. he liked how each indent of minuscule pinpricks would leave a mark on him forever. the pain, though not enough to make him grit his teeth like the first time around when he impulsively got one on the side of his ribcage, was actually quite nice. the sensation was almost addictive, however, it wasn’t as nearly as addictive as you.

it was no shock nor surprise that each reveal of his newest tattoo was always done by you. most would understand the practicality of going to one tattoo artist consistently. if anything, most of his fans would come to believe that he simply just liked your style of tattooing and artistry, but no one would even claim to think that you two had even a pinch of something going on behind the scenes. it wasn’t like he would always stop by your shop all disguised and covered up in a black cap and a face mask just in case there were any hidden onlookers that would blatantly assume the worst.

the worst being that semi eita, the nation’s current rockstar heartthrob, was hooking up with some obscure, back alley tattoo artist.

but it was safe to say he was as addicted to you as he was addicted to the infamous pain of receiving a tattoo.

it had been ages since his last tattoo. this one especially was placed on his right forearm of a snake that spiraled up and around his wrist in red ink.

times like these—here, where your eyes are focused and locked onto his skin, making sure to capture each intricate detail, brows drawing together in concentration as you made swift and accurate runs over his skin—came to realize how much he missed the feeling of getting tattooed. but most importantly, he missed the feeling of you. the warmth of your skin, body blazing underneath him as your breath tickled at the nape of his neck.

at moments like these where he could just stare at your entirety for an hour and a half, admiring how the low lights cast shadows upon each and every curve of your body was enough to keep him occupied through the process.

you lifted your tattoo gun up as your other gloved hand wiped the area clean from any residual ink. you took one last look at your work, clean and well-done.

it was pretty good if you could say so yourself. the linework was easily one of your best, and the shading was even better. no wonder semi liked getting work done by you so much (other than the fact that you two are friends with benefits—he would joke, “i’ll give you the best night of your life and you can give me a free tattoo in return.”)

you’ve never seen that man back out of a joke that quickly in your life. regardless, you still found yourself taking him up on that offer, still paying for his tattoos as a good customer should. support local businesses as they always say.

“alright,” you say, breaking the last ten minutes of silence as you cleaned him up. “you already know the drill–gently wash it with warm soap and water at least twice a day, pat dry, and then apply ointment.”

semi looked up at you once you stood up to grab a box of saniderm from another station. he stands up, making his way to one of the large mirrors on the wall to inspect his tattoo as a smile crept onto his lips.

“how is it?”

“it’s perfect,” he says, “as always.”

“well, you shouldn’t expect anything less from me.”

“you know, you don’t have to be so professional all the time. the shop’s already closed and no one else is here but us.”

you give him a pointed look as you take out a strip of saniderm large enough to cover the circumference of his forearm. you press the thin plasticine carefully around his freshly bruised skin, peeling the protective backing off of the clear bandage. “technically, you’re still a customer. can’t really give you any more special treatment.”

“says the girl who literally gives me tattoos after the shop closes,” semi fires back.

“or you could actually come in during normal hours to get one instead of coming a minute before we close just so we can hook up,” you deadpan, ignoring the look he gave you as you turn around and made your way towards the front desk.

semi doesn’t miss a single beat in following right behind you, stopping in front of the counter as you were on the other side with the cash register.

“well if you didn’t want to fuck in the back room anymore, you could’ve just told me,” says semi as you tap away at the screen in front of you, “we can go to my apartment instead.”

“paying with card again?” you ask, completely ignoring the way your body heated up all of a sudden.

the musician in front of you nods, handing you his card quickly. you take the thin plastic out of his hand and swiped it in one quick motion, handing it to him once the machine properly reads his card. within seconds, the receipt comes out of the printer. you snatch it from the opening before shoving it into semi’s chest.

“so what do you say?” he presses, continuing to follow you around like a dog as you serpentine your way back to your station.

you let out a sigh, huffing as you start cleaning up, “about what?”

“about me taking you home. maybe spend the night?”

you swerve around to face him, a spray bottle of disinfectant in one hand and paper towels in the other. you give him a coy smile, “you’re funny,” you huff before pushing past him to spray the chair then wiping it down.

“come on, (y/n), it’s been a while since we’ve last done anything together.” semi gives you a mischievous pout, “don’t you miss me?”

his words immediately flush out your cheeks as you recalled the memory so vividly, it was like you could almost feel semi’s large hands exploring every inch of your body, memorizing every dip and curve like it was second nature. to think that all happened in the storage closet while there were people still in the shop. the simple thought of your last rendezvous with him went straight to your heat.

no wonder you haven’t done anything with semi in a while after that little stunt he pulled almost a month ago.

in order for a tattoo shop to run properly, it needed to be completely sanitary to prevent any health complications considering your job was to literally puncture tattoo ink deep into people’s skin, the risk of infection runs high in situations like these. so by law, fucking in a tattoo shop, regardless if it was in the backroom, was completely out of regulations. not to mention the scandals to potentially spread like wildfire that one of the world’s favorite musicians being at the root of all this.

those poor fangirls, you thought. drama was the last thing you wanted.

“so?” you say, trying to pull yourself together as you finish sanitizing the chair. you turn to face him, hoping that he couldn’t see the way your cheeks were burning up knowing he would only keep up the teasing. “why don’t you just fuck one of you groupies or something?”

semi scoffs, “i’d never stoop that low. besides, you’re the only one i’ve been with ever since this started happening between us.”

“good for you for not being a whore, i guess?”

you brush past him again, this time cleaning up the mess on your table. placing the spray bottle of water, rolls of paper towels, bottles of red ink, and your gloves away–you discard anything else in the bin.

“don’t be like that,” he sighs as he comes and wraps a strong arm around your waist. he rests his chin on your shoulder, the tip of his nose tickling at your skin as his mouth latches onto your neck. “i for sure missed you.”

“eita,” you say, attempting to hold back a moan as he nipped at the sweet spot on your neck. despite your efforts, quiet mewls escape your lips as his thumbs rubbed circles over your hips. “i-i still have to clean up. let me finish and then maybe we could—”

without another word, semi lets go of you and immediately starts getting to work, gathering up all the one-time-use disposable items and dumping them all in the trash. he moves quickly, rubbing down every nook and cranny of your station until it’s squeaky clean. your eyes widen at his state. it was clear he wanted to get this over with as fast as possible so he can finally have you all to himself.

did he really yearn for you this much?

in just a few minutes, the job is already done. clean and spotless and ready for tomorrow’s workday as semi gives you a hopeful look. “is that all?”

you hold back a smile as you motion towards the boxes stacked up near the entrance of the backroom, “i still have to put those away and then we’re all done for the day.”

the man doesn’t even let you finish as he’s already making his way down the hallway. There was no sign of hesitancy in his actions as he grabbed two of the boxes, one stacked on top of the other as he barged into the backroom. you follow him in with only one box in your hand as you placed them in their respective places on the large industrial shelving.

you let out a grunt as you picked up the last box and inserting it into its spot. you sigh, dusting your hands as you turn around to face semi, “alright, we’re all d—”

semi doesn’t hesitate for a second to push you up against the wall, his lips crashing into yours with such desperation and fervor. he had been anticipating this for the past two hours. from the moment he walked in, to the moment you finished tattooing him; all he wanted was you.

you moan into his lips, his hand cupping your jaw while the fingers of the other were already working their magic. his touch greatly juxtaposed the zeal in the way he kissed you deeply, dipping his tongue between your soft lips as his finger, slightly calloused from years of guitar playing, gently trailed their way up your shirt.

there was a brief moment where you had to pull away from him in order to catch your breath. chest rising and falling rapidly along with the quickening beat of your heart, semi dived down to your neck, marking you with dark red bruising to anywhere he had access to. his large palms rubbed your sides before squeezing at your breasts to elicit a pleasurable groan from you. the pent-up heat within you only built the more he played with your body, fingers flicking at your nipples.

“what happened to taking me back to your place?” you asked breathlessly.

“i couldn’t wait any longer,” he mutters on your warm skin, feeling his soft lips twitch into a lopsided grin as before you knew it, he was already tugging your shirt over your head. “jump,” he says and you don’t miss a beat.

he catches you quickly, hands palming your ass as he steers you towards one of the supply tables. pushing away loose items and paperwork off to the sides.

semi’s lips meet yours again as he fiddles with the button and zipper of your jeans, diving his hand inside. he palms your sex, the pads of his fingers teasing up and down your slit as his thumb rubs circular motions around your clit. your moan muffles into his shoulder, breathe heavy and uneven.

you couldn’t seem to catch your breath as he dipped two fingers into you, pumping them in and out slowly. it was a nice change of pace from earlier, and yet you couldn’t help but let out mewls of impatience as you ground your hips into his hand, desperate for more.

semi knew what the hell he was doing.

he was a musician after all. his entire career was literally built off of his innate ability to play the guitar that each expertly placed finger and movement that accompanied it was guaranteed to send waves of pleasure throughout your entire body. he was good at what he did and he knew it. he didn’t need to see the way you were shaking under him, coating his hand with your juices, or have to hear your addicting moans to know you felt so, so good.

“eugh, eita–” your breath hitches when he curls his fingers inside you, rubbing the spongy spot deep within you in the best way possible. you curse under your breath, savoring the pleasure as you felt your release coiling in your abdomen.

“you’re close aren’t you?” semi didn’t even have to ask to know as your walls tightened around him. you nod hastily, eyes coating in lust and the desire to feel the release as you look at him.

the look that you gave him as enough to send him over the edge, his thoughts blurring once he quickens his pace, his middle and ring finger pistoning in and out of you.

you let out a cry, practically trembling under him. “oh my god, oh my god.”

with his other hand, he finds your clit again, rubbing you over the edge. it was all too much. from the mixing cacophony of the most obscene and vulgar sounds of sex emanating from the backroom to the absolute thrill of how good semi was making you feel—you were ready to feel that euphoric glow.

“fuck,” you clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. “shit, baby, i’m gonna—”

semi doesn’t mind the sting of your scratches at his body as he was too busy paying mind to you cumming all over his hand. gushing fluid escapes from you in waves as semi continues pumping his fingers in and out of you, his pace matching with the way your walls pulsated around him.

as you came down from your high, your arms that rested on the table to hold you up felt weak. almost immediately, your body slumps onto semi as he licks your pleasure off his fingers. you bury your face into the crook of his neck as you both stayed there for a few beats to catch your breaths, savoring the unique afterglow whenever you were with semi.

perhaps it wasn’t so bad doing this type of thing with him a bit more often. you didn’t mind what you had with him right now even if you two were just friends with benefits. you liked what you had now and asking for more would certainly cause a strain you don’t want to happen so soon.

your hand reaches up to run through his soft hair.

“hey,” you softly say. he only responds with a hum, “what about you?” you ask as your eyes cast down to the straining tent in his jeans.

he doesn’t answer. instead, he places a few kisses on your cheek and down to your neck before placing one of your lips. “let’s continue this at home, i have a surprise for you.”

general taglist: @yongboxerrr @rosepetalhaven @tvwhoresblog @tanakaslastbraincell @kellesvt @kitsunetea @anejuuuuoy

[starlightrows]

In The Eye Of The Beholder

Chapter 1

Next →

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x reader

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: brief description and mildly graphic medical jargon about losing an eye and having a prosthetic implant placed

Summary: Shortly after the events of the Battle of Khorm, the Kaminoans don’t see the value in moving forward with treatment for Commander Wolffe... you, the GAR doctor on the Coruscant disagree

“I don’t remember asking for your goddamn opinion ambassador!” you shout up at the pale long necked Kaminoan, who’s been passively berating you in an attempt to get your patient taken off life support. Your communicator goes off loudly, and you feel no shame in looking at it instead of listening to the Kaminoan ambassadors retort.

“I’m sorry ambassador, but this discussion is over. The requisition for the cybernetic prosthesis has gone through and whether you like it or not, I am going to give that man a fighting chance. He didn’t lay down his life to be tossed out with the garbage. Now get out of my med bay,” your turn on your heel, and begin speaking into your comlink to arrange for the surgery to get underway immediately.

The procedure took nine grueling hours to fully clear out the wound, put in the prosthetic eye and reconstruct the damage to the soldier's facial structure. He stood a good chance of making a full recovery if the cybernetic innervations healed correctly. Now it was just a matter of letting him rest and wake up in his own time.

Most clone troopers in the GAR hospital didn’t get many visitors, most didn’t stay long enough to need visitors though the ones that lived through their ordeals usually recovered on transports back to the front line. But this trooper had a frequent visitor, a Jedi.

“He must be a very good commander for you to check in on him so often,” you comment one afternoon, standing by the door. The tall Kel Dor turned to face you.

“He is. A dutiful, loyal, hardworking commander. But that is not why I come to see him,” he says

“Why then? Certainly a Jedi Master and a General in the Grand Army of the Republic has many duties and responsibilities to see to,” you approach the bed with your tray of fresh wound dressings for his eye.

“The same reason you advocated for him when the Kaminoans wanted to let him die. He is a person. An individual. He is a good man. And he is a member of my team,” he explains while you work to remove the bandages that keep the stitches and cybernetics clean.

“You care for him,” you say with a smile, applying a layer of bacta gel to the stitches with a cotton bud.

“Indeed. I care for him, and all of his brothers that serve under my command. I am not the only one who worries after his health,” The jedi steps around you, trying not to be in the way.

“Well that makes two of us. I don’t even know him, but I want him to live. And not just to keep serving the republic,” you finish applying the bacta gel and begin rewrapping his head with clean bandages.

“You have a good heart doctor, and better view of the troopers than most. I think he’ll like you when he has the chance to formally meet you,” the jedi says

“I should hope so, he’ll have to come back fairly regularly for check ups and case study updates. He’s the first living being with this particular model of prosthesis. If he doesn’t like me, it’ll be a very unpleasant couple months until the study is complete,” you’ve finished wrapping his head, but find you can’t stop looking at his handsome face. True you’ve seen thousands exactly like his before, but right now it’s as if you’ve never seen anyone like him.

“I’ll be the first to admit, he’s stubborn and a bit gruff. But he’s not so bad once you get to know him, he’s fiercely protective and hates to feel weak. This will be a difficult recovery for him, but I have confidence in him. And in you doctor,” you tear your gaze away from the commander and smile at the jedi.

“Thank you master jedi,” you give him a small bow of your head out of respect.

“Plo,” he says “No need for such formalities,” you wonder briefly if he is smiling beneath his deoxygenator, it certainly sounds like it.

“And him? They don’t include their chosen names in their identification codes, just CC and CT numbers. I doubt he goes by his CC number day to day,” you pack away your equipment, unfortunately other patients are waiting, as much as you would love to stay and chat with the kind jedi master. Plo tracks your movements, he senses your rising anxieties about having to leave and attend to other matters in the hospital. Just as you’re about to leave without getting an answer, Plo speaks up.

“His name is Wolffe”

—

Much to your delight, Commander Wolffe does wake up within a few days. And he’s every bit the stubborn, defensive, and unwilling patient Master Plo promised he would be. He keeps getting up and trying to leave despite obviously being in immense physical pain, he’s already ripped his stitches once, and he’s down right refusing to let you get near him to check the wound and change the dressing.

“Commander Wolffe I am at my wits end here. I’m going to step out to allow you a visitor, and when I come back you will be laying on that bed, I am changing those dressings, you are taking your medication. Is that that clear?” You bark at him. He glares at you with his one amber eye but does not respond.

You push the door open and see Master Plo waiting on the other side.

“He’s all yours General, talk some sense into him if you can,” you toss the comment over your shoulder as you head down to the nurses station for a cup of water.

Master Plo enters the patient room, and finds Wolffe pacing against the far wall. His head snaps up, and he visibly struggles to bring the newcomer into his field of vision.

“General!” Wolffe says in surprise, straightening his posture

“Wolffe, your doctor tells me you’re refusing care,” Plo closes the door behind him.

“I should be out there,” Wolffe growls “Kriff… I shouldn’t even be alive right now. They’re keeping me alive to keep me in a box!”

Plo senses that there is something more, something he’s holding back, beyond wanting to be released from med bay.

“You know better than most that withholding the truth can be the determining factor between life and death,” Master Plo says carefully, approaching Wolffe with slow movements “but this truth is one that needs to be shared,”

Wolffe’s shoulders drop and what little color he’s managed to regain drains from his face. His knees give out and he sinks down onto the floor, tears stain both his good cheek and the bandage. Master Plo moves to join him on the floor.

“Good soldiers don’t lay around in hospital beds and weep over superficial pain,” Wolffe says weakly “Soldiers that don’t recover quickly… get decommissioned and sent back to Kamino in a box,”

“You are already recovering quickly, and your doctor can give you something for the pain so you can heal faster,” Plo says cooly “You are not being sent back to Kamino. Your doctor made sure of that,”

“What?” Wolffe was surprised to hear this, up to this point all of his conscious interactions with you had been rather gruff and none too friendly, he can’t imagine why you weren’t doing everything in your power to get him out of your hospital and out of your way.

“A Kaminoan ambassador came to assess treatment at this hospital and saw your condition, they incorrectly assumed that it would be more beneficial to cease all treatment. Your doctor, shall we say, violently disagreed,”

“Violently sir?”

“They were furious she went ahead with the surgery. Believe me, if someone had recorded it on a holo I would show it to you. It was quite the spectacle,” Master Plo laughs “She was adamant that you deserved a fighting chance,”

—

Later that evening after General Plo had left, you returned to Wolffe’s room with a tray of equipment to change his dressings, and medicine to help with the pain.

“Commander Wolffe if I come into this room and you throw something or scream at me, I will have you physically restrained,” you say sharply before fully entering the room. He’s sitting on the bed facing away from the door.

“I won’t yell,” he replies quietly without turning around, his tone is decidedly gentler than before. Whatever the General said to him must have done the trick. You approach him cautiously, rounding the end of his bed so you could get a good look at him. His face is set in a harsh grimace.

“Are you in pain?” You ask. He nods but doesn’t reply. “I am going to change those dressings and we’re gonna test out that new eye. I think with a good dose of anti inflammatory medication, and some intraocular movement you’ll feel better,”

He nods again, you drag a chair over and sit in front of him, he doesn’t bat your hand away when you move to unwrap his bandages. The silvery white cybernetic eye under the protective padding is downcast to match its whiskey gold twin. The stitches are finally healing up with the help of the bacta gel.

“Good news Commander I think you’re healed enough you won’t need a fresh bandage. Now let’s see how well this prosthesis works. Can you look at my nose?” You remove a penlight from your pocket and shine it in each of his eyes.

You run through a series of tests asking him to stare straight ahead at you, follow the light with his eyes, and tell you when he can or can’t see you moving the end of the pen out of his vision. Pressure and tightness on his left side subsides he continues moving his eye around.

“Your reactions look normal, how does it feel?” you click off your penlight and tuck it away.

“Hurts a bit less,” he quietly admits “I’m sorry about before,”

His change in demeanor is a surprise but a welcome one, far better than him trying to escape or aggressively get away from you. You give him a small cup with the anti inflammatory medicine in it, and second small cup with water. He takes the pills without complaint. You remain seated in front of him, to maintain this comfortable closeness.

“It’s okay. I know this isn’t easy,” you give him a sympathetic look.

“General Plo mentioned that you advocated for me, I would be dead if it wasn’t for you…” he falters “thank you,”

That familiar feeling you had before when he was still on life support crept back up on you. Heartbreak for how much he and his brothers have to sacrifice, longing to show him the appreciation he deserves, and something else, something you can’t place.

“This war won’t last forever. You deserve the chance to live in the freedom and peace you fight so hard to protect,”

He’s a bit stunned. Sure he’s heard a handful of politicians advocating for clone rights, but he’s never heard anyone say something like this. He can tell your words are genuine and heartfelt.

“Is there any way I can repay you, or thank you for sticking your neck out for me?” He asks “It takes guts to stand up to those soulless bastards,”

“Well ah… don’t thank me too fast. I know you didn’t exactly sign up for this but your prosthetic is a brand new top of the line prototype. By default you’re a participant in the longitudinal study of its effectiveness,” you admit sheepishly. He raises an eyebrow and peers at you. “On the positive side, you’ll get a bit more shore leave to come in for appointments,”

“Well that’s certainly nothing to complain about. My offer still stands, can I take you out as a thank you?”

You smile warmly and quirk up a brow to match him. “Take me out? Hm… I get off in a couple hours and you’re being discharged from med bay today, I’m game if you give me a chance to run home and ditch my scrubs,”

“It’s a deal,”

[chocoholicannanymous]

Concepts in Action (Glee)

Follow-up to Concepts of Insanity, spawned by a talk with @jwmelmoth

Slighty different mood than that one, but same base principle.

Returning to the loft after skating should be a relief after the awkwardness of doing such a loaded activity with his ex. Except it doesn't feel that good, and he's got some uncomfortable suspicions regarding Blaine's backpack.

“So, dad. You brought Blaine. Exactly when's his ticket back?”

“Day after tomorrow, same as mine.”

“Right. And where is he staying?”

“Well...” His dad's facial expression answers that question in a way that makes Kurt's heart sink.

Fan.Tast.Ic.

“So when you said I could return my present if I wanted to, exactly how was that supposed to work? It isn't, is it? I'm stuck with him whether I want to or not.”

“Kurt!”

His dad's voice is full of surprise and a bit of censor, but Kurt isn't going to let that influence him. His dad's crossed a line, and Kurt's not going to pretend otherwise.

“Remember the first Christmas after mom passed away? How you sat me down and apologized for my presents, before I'd even opened them, because you just weren't good at buying gifts? And remember how I told you that anything you'd gotten me would be perfect, because it was from you and I loved you? Yes?

“Okay. I still love you, but I'm taking the rest of that back. You coming here to tell me you have cancer was bad enough. Finding out you consider my ex an acceptable 'gift' for Christmas goes from bad to really shitty, and I don't know what you were thinking. Especially seeing as apparently you felt it was okay to tell him about your cancer before telling me.”

“I didn't want you to be alone.”

Kurt just stares, unable to process.

“I have cancer, and I knew you'd have a hard time to deal. I brought Blaine because I figured you'd need the support, the comfort.”

“And you brought my ex for that?”

Then again, support wasn't Blaine's strongest suit even when we were together, was it?

“Hey, you're the one who told me he wasn't just your boyfriend, he was your best friend too.”

“Yes, but that was before” he cheated on me “we broke up.”

His dad still doesn't seem to get it and Kurt can't take it.

“You know what, I need some air. I'm going to take a walk. You stay here, make sure Blaine stays out of my bedroom.”

Kurt starts out with going around the block, but he's still upset after and takes another loop, this time longer. It takes half an hour for him to feel ready to go back inside and deal.

Sitting on the couch with his dad and Blaine as they watch baseball is annoying as hell. Any other time, he'd take the closeness and read Vogue, especially now that his dad has admitted to knowing about it. But with Blaine actually watching and interacting with his dad about the game Kurt feels uncomfortable not doing the same. So he tries. Once he gives up and reaches for his magazine he heard his dad and Blaine joke about having bet about how long he'd hold out.

And then the next hit comes.

“So, Kurt, I know that this might be a bit weird for you, and you can totally say no if you want to,” sure, just like I could return the 'gift' of your presence, “ but I'm applying to NYADA for next year.”

Kurt sighs silently. Of course he is. The thing is, he can see it, the way Blaine probably assumes it'll play out. Blaine moving to New York, going to NYADA, buddying up to Rachel just like in high school... Kurt being expected to just take it, regardless of if he had been accepted or not. Any contacts Kurt might have gotten supposed to be at Blaine's beck and call, Blaine talking his way into Kurt's classes trying to replace him, like he had in Glee and with Cheerios... Kurt bending over backwards to make Blaine happy, just like in high school.

Because there would never be a chance of him being allowed to continue to say no to Blaine with them at the same school.

Thank god that's not going to happen.

And really, what was Blaine trying to do here? Pretending that Kurt's opinion mattered? The time for that would have been months ago, before applying.

“Oh really? You know what, I think NYADA might be perfect for you.” Not in terms of actual schooling, maybe, as Kurt's had the blinds torn off regarding Blaine's talent, but for the rest... He imagines Carmen Tibideaux subjecting Blaine to some of her special treatment. The definition of Karma, surely.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. From everything I've heard you'd get along really well with the dean, and well, Rachel seems to thrive. Good luck.”

With no encouragement to keep talking about NYADA Blaine wanders off to grab something to drink and Kurt refocuses on his dad, trying to squeeze out as much of this visit as possible.

“Hey Kurt? What does NUY want with you?”

Kurt turns his head so fast it feels like he's in danger of whiplash.

“Are you going through my mail? Stop it!”

The words come out hard and he can see both his dad and Blaine react. He doesn't care though.

“You know, you going through my personal things wasn't cute when we dated either. Back then I just cared more about keeping the peace than about keeping my privacy. Since that's not a problem anymore, let me just be clear. I might be allowing you to stay here, but that's not an invitation in any way. Not to snooping, not to feeling at home, and not to getting back together.

“This is my home, and you are – putting it kindly – a guest. Behave with the decency I know your mom expects of you. If you can't do that then leave.”

He wishes Blaine would, but knows it's not likely.

“Buddy...”

“Kurt! You can't mean that you'd throw me out. Where would I go?”

Blaine looks like Kurt has done the verbal equivalent of throwing a bucket of ice water in his face. It has no effect on Kurt's resolve though.

“I neither know nor care. You either respect my home or you don't stay in it. This is New York. There are thousands of hotels and hostels.”

His dad just stares at him, as if he doesn't know who Kurt is anymore, and it hurts. Out of all the people liking Blaine better than him Kurt had never figured his dad would be one. And yet here he was, feeling the same way as he'd once felt with Finn.

“Buddy, you're being a bit harsh here, don't you think? Yes, I'll admit that maybe bringing Blaine without warning you was a little...impulsive, but why are you so angry? And don't be so hardnosed about getting back together, for your own sake.

“Like I said earlier, love's important. Holding on to love is important. I don't want you to throw away what you and Blaine have, not when you never know what will happen, or how long you'll have that opportunity. It's a cruel world, Kurt, but having someone to share with makes it better.”

Kurt takes a deep breath and tries, really really tries to keep his bitterness in. He's not doing that great a job.

“Holding on to love is important, sure. But there's such a thing as holding on too long and too hard. Blaine and I broke up for good reasons, and I wish you'd respect that.”

It's like his dad isn't even hearing him though.

“You know, your mom and I found it hard being apart too.”

Kurt did know. As a kid he'd loved hearing about his mom's semester in France, and he'd been told enough to know that it'd been tough. He'd read some of their letters to each other though, and he doubts either of them dealt the way Blaine did.

“So? Yes, being apart is hard. But that isn't an excuse for everything. I didn't want to get you involved in all of this, but since that's obviously not going to be an option anymore, fine. Blaine cheated. He felt I didn't pay enough attention to him, you know, between finding a job and a place to stay, and making enough money to pay the bills, and generally trying to make myself a life here after he practically pushed me to go here.

“And so he went and found someone else to give him that attention.”

He practically spits out the last sentence. It feels good to finally allow himself to say it, but the look on his dad's face doesn't feel as good.

If he was less angry maybe he'd be able to stop himself, worry about his dad's heart. But the anger's been simmering too long for that.

“That's why we broke up, and that's why I find the idea of getting back together objectionable. And you can talk about holding on to love until you're blue in the face, but I'm not the one who needs that lecture.”

He swallows down the lump in his throat, but goes on.

“As for the rest of it, are you seriously suggesting I take back my cheating boyfriend because that's better than being alone? Or because I don't know how long I'll live? Because if you are... What's next, dad? Telling me I should marry him because you and mom didn't get enough time together?

“If any of those things are going through your head you are also welcome to leave. I'll never not welcome you in my home, dad, but I need you to respect me. I need you to not act like you're putting someone else's son above yours.”

That's a warning that hits the target, and it's obvious that Burt Hummel remembers a row of uncomfortable talks about Finn. He deflects by turning on Blaine though.

“You...”

“No, dad. It is over and done with. Leave him be. Just... Just leave it alone. I don't want to take anymore fighting. Please?”

They stare at each other and for a while Kurt wonders if he should have done as he normally does and just backed down. Swallowed down his hurt and anger and frustration, kept quiet about the injustices done to him, and just pretended to be okay. Tried to not upset his dad, and risk his health.

Except he's done that for years, and it's clearly not working. His dad's health has failed again, with the cancer – and no matter how good the prognosis, or the treatments available, a cancer diagnosis is a health failure. Plus his dad is trying to fix him and Blaine, out of some misguided idea that they're going to be the next Burt-and-Lizzie, and he never would have done that if Kurt'd been honest about the cheating instead of blaming distance.

At least Kurt hopes he wouldn't.

“Sometimes, dad, first loves end. They end because of death, or because they're not meant to last, or because of something else. And then you meet someone else, and they make your life amazing. I'm not going to deprive myself of that by holding on to something that's ended. Just like you didn't. You found love again. I will too.

“I just need to be allowed to do so.”

They keep staring at each other, and then his dad nods. Kurt can't help it, he throws himself in his dad's arms, with tears already beginning to fall.

As they hug Kurt hear Blaine muttering in the background about finding a hotel, but he doesn't care. The door to the loft closing feels like it's closing on him and Blaine too, and it's such a relief.

After several minutes they let go. Both need to remove traces of crying, but that's good.

Once they're seated again Kurt searches for something to talk about, but his dad beats him to it.

“So, NYU? Or should I pretend I didn't hear that?”

“No! I have been thinking about things, about school, and I was an idiot for not applying to more schools last year. So, I did some research and then I did something about it. I've applied to half a dozen schools, and I've already been accepted to one for the fall semester. I don't know if there's any school willing to take me for the spring, but if there's not I'll just keep working and try to save up money.”

“And what about NYADA?”

There's no judgment in his dad's voice, and Kurt smiles as he tries to describe the situation diplomatically.

“It's...not looking as good in my research as I thought, so while I did reapply there I'm not sure I want to go there. I really shouldn't have listened to Rachel last year, because as it turns out? NYADA actually isn't the most prestigious school for performing arts, and it's probably not even the best for me. I guess we were both a little starstruck, you know?”

The game is back on, but they ignore it and talk, and it's everything Kurt would have wanted.

O--o---o--O

Months later as classes start up Kurt receives voicemail after voicemail about Blaine starting at NYADA, about how bad it is that Kurt's not been accepted, about them meeting up. Kurt ignores them as he did the calls and walks into vogue.com with a smile.

He doesn't feel the least bad about not getting in. Hell, he didn't even apply for the fall semester.

No, Kurt's happy where he is, with his job at vogue.com, a spot at the New School and a couple of scholarships helping pay the way. Oh, and a new boyfriend, which also contributes to his happiness.

Turns out? Acting in new ways can get you new and rewarding results. All you got to do is try.

[realtacuardach]

Risk and Resolve

Here’s my entry for the final round of Obiyuki Trope Madness 2021, hosted by @snowwhite-andtheknight : Roaring Rampage of Rescue. And because I thought this would be clever, I decided to include the two tropes that didn’t make it out of the semi-finals, Anguished Declaration of Love and Almost Kiss. (Hopefully it worked...) It turned out a lot longer than I intended, 😅. I hope you enjoy!

...

Shirayuki kept her polite, professional smile firmly in place until the door closed with a distinct click behind her, then allowed herself to sag against the wood with an exhale.

A warm chuckle rumbled beside her. “Rough patient, Miss?” Obi was leaning against the wall with his usual coiled grace, smirking down at her.

Her smirk was ready as his, although probably a great deal more wearied. “No more than he has been for the past...month?”

“Five weeks, four days, and ten hours,” Obi replied glibly. “But who’s counting?”

He bent towards her to grab some sachets that were about to slip from her arms to the ground, and she took the chance to shove back the hair that had curved and matted against her sweaty forehead. “It shouldn’t be too much longer though, he’s through the worst of it.”

Not much could have wrested Shirayuki from her current work at Lyrias, but there was no way of refusing the summons of yet another minor lord who had insisted emphatically that his son needed the very best of care to recover from a sword wound that had nearly killed him twice - once from the initial blood loss, and then from the intense infection that had taken root in his exposed flesh. The infection had progressed to almost shutting down several of the young man’s organs, and Shirayuki had to admit that she had had intense pity for the man.

She would have had trouble refusing someone help in such a condition in any case, and Izana’s calculatedly casual comment that it would be good to keep this particular lord appeased sealed her decision.

“So far away, surrounded by dense forest, far from the cities,” he’d mused aloud. “It can be difficult to get decent medical care; it would be a shame to force Lord Shikaku to seek it elsewhere.”

Shirayuki’s sense of politics was developing, although a bit unpolished still, but she roughly translated that to mean, “He’s got a lot of land and he’s far from the capital where I can keep an eye on him. Better to have a favor binding me to him than risk him changing alliances.”

She’d mentioned that to Obi on their journey over, and he’d snorted and grinned at her. So she assumed that he agreed.

“How much more care do you think he’ll need, Miss?”

Shirayuki clicked her tongue in thought as she turned toward the wing where she and Obi had been given rooms. “Not more than a week, I’d say. Probably less. He’s able to walk now and his temperature has been mostly normal. He needs regular bouts of rest and exercise now, but probably not an herbalist.”

Obi glided into step beside her easily, and they made their way to their bedrooms in companionable silence. They were nearly at Shirayuki’s door when Obi spoke up. “Do you think they’ll let you leave without a fight?”

It was said almost as a joke, but Shirayuki heard the knowing tone in it and flushed. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Obi raised a brow, looking unimpressed and so similar to Kiki in that moment that Shirayuki wondered if he’d been taking lessons from her. “Miss,” he stated plainly, “you’ve seen how the...invalid...has reacted to you.”

Yes, she had. She wasn’t sure when the flushes of fever had begun to be replaced by blushes as she’d leaned over young Lord Gaki to check his pulse or examine his stitches. The glaze of fever in his eyes had given way to a more speculative glimmer that lingered too long where it shouldn’t. “It’s common enough,” she replied, almost more to herself than to Obi, “for patients to develop attachment-”

Obi coughed something that sounded a lot like attraction.

Shirayuki ignored it. “Attachments to the people who nurse them back to health. I’m sure it’s harmless.”

Obi exhaled heavily through his nose. “If you say so, Miss.” He popped his shoulder and groaned appreciatively.

“And I’m sure he won’t touch me ag-”

She had meant it to be a murmur under her breath, a simple release of frustration from having to keep a professional mask plastered on her face all day around a young lord who was getting increasingly tactile. She hadn’t meant for Obi to hear her, expecting her voice to be lost in the popping of joints and creaking of leather.

She should have known better.

“He did what?”

“He touched,” she swallowed hard. Now that he knew, it was better to just get it over with. Obi was not likely to be distracted or dissuaded once he was on the track of something, “my hair. And my cheek, a little bit? But mostly my hair.”

“With your permission?” Obi gritted out in the tone of someone who already knew the answer.

“No.” Shirayuki sighed. “But it was a little thing, Obi, nothing to worry about.”

“Respectfully disagree, Miss,” he growled in response. “And Master would agree-”

He froze, a sheepish look overtaking his righteous indignation.

“It’s been almost a year,” she soothed. “You don’t need to get defensive on my behalf, Obi. You know that we both agreed that it was for the best - Zen and I are better as friends.”

Obi snorted. “He still wouldn’t like it, Miss. And what’s more, you clearly don’t.”

Shirayuki glared down at where her hands trembled and stilled them. “I can handle it.”

It looked like Obi wanted to argue the point, but then she yawned despite herself and he seemed to settle for pinching the bridge of his nose instead. “You can, but you shouldn’t have to.”

“Just a week more, if not sooner.” She smiled, hoping to reassure him.

He didn’t smile back, but his eyes softened and she took what small victory she could from that. “Just promise to tell me if he tries anything else. Please.”

“Of course!”

In the end, she didn’t have to tell him anything. Because he was there to witness everything.

…

Since the young lord’s wound had completely healed, and she was only treating its aftereffects, Shirayuki had taken to bringing Obi along with her during treatments. The man hadn’t touched her again, although he had made several attempts that she’d managed to artfully dodge. She already felt uneasy around him, and when she found the hot water bottle he’d squirreled away beneath his pillow to simulate fever, she knew it was far past time to go.

Obi had been silent as a statue behind her during the sessions where he was present, only speaking when prompted. But his presence had been enough to curtail any more...impertinences...from the young lord. Gaki had originally protested at the inclusion of another person during his treatments, but something in Obi’s expression had stuck him and he had conceded with ill grace.

When she pushed open the door for what she had insisted was the final session before she and Obi needed to return to Lyrias, she expected to find Gaki lounging in bed, sulking and flushed with indignation, as had become his custom. She had not expected for him to be out of bed and seated at his desk. She had not expected the bouquet of flowers placed in front of him. 

His father being there was also a surprise.

After the triple shock, the marriage proposal came almost as an afterthought. 

The situation was so absurd, she would have laughed if it wouldn’t have incited some sort of incident.

“I’m honored by your proposal, my lord,” Shirayuki began, having learned that nobles found sweet lies more palatable than bitter truths, “but I’m afraid I cannot accept it. I am needed back home.”

“Nonsense.” Gaki waved his hand in a way that infuriated her. “What could be more important than finding a good match?”

“My work,” Shirayuki replied, more flatly than intended. “I have responsibilities and people who need me back home. I again thank you for your proposal but must decline. I can’t marry you.”

“Why?” Gaki nearly yelped. “It is not as though you have any better prospects, now that the prince has thrown you over.”

That struck at a rawness still healing within her, even if it had been a mutual agreement between them rather than her being simply rejected. She did not mourn the lack of romance, she was herself with or without a man, but she did grieve the friendship that had once been so easy that was now in the tentative stages of repair.

She had half a mind to retort that someone like him could hardly desire a prince’s discarded plaything, but he would probably mistake her contempt for agreement.

Obi loomed closer to her then, his presence at her shoulder grounding her; warming, steadying, assuring. He picked up the conversation with a practiced courtly air. “We must take our leave, my lords. We have much to prepare for tomorrow.” He leaned down towards her, and she could see the concern glinting through his eyes. “If we may, milady.”

And maybe it was the reminder that her attachment to Zen, an attachment that had developed from a sturdy string connecting them to a ball and chain before it eventually broke down into pieces that she was still picking up, was no more. Maybe it was the relief of having Obi close by, as always. Or maybe it was how her traitorous heart skipped a beat as Obi’s breath curled over her ear as he leaned towards Lord Gaki.

Shirayuki could not pinpoint the cause, she could only hear how her breath hitched in the stifling silence.

Gaki’s eyes narrowed over his steepled fingers. “I see.”

Shirayuki’s heart stuttered. She had a feeling that the lords had indeed both seen too much.

…

The moon gleamed through her bedroom window as she awoke to the heavy pounding on her door. Years of caring for sick and injured patients had made her a light sleeper, and she slid out of bed and grabbed for her robe even before she was fully awake.

“Yes?” She croaked, pushing the door open to see a stony-faced guard.

“You are needed, Lady Shirayuki. Lord Shikaku says it’s quite urgent.”

Shirayuki frowned. This wouldn’t be the first time that his son had needed tending late at night, but that had been much earlier in his recovery. He had seemed well earlier, albeit ill-tempered.

Still, the guard’s stance brooked no argument, and Shirayuki followed in step behind him. Her sleep-dazed mind wondered where Obi was.

She was still surreptitiously blinking sleep out of her eyes as they arrived at the lord’s quarters. She found the lord and his son much as they had been earlier that day, although their smiles were distinctly less friendly.

“Yes, Lord Gaki? How can I help you?”

“Marry me.”

So much for flowery courtship, then. He’d discarded the more eloquent language of court and civility to come down to brass tacks. Typically, she preferred a more straightforward approach, but this only irritated her.

“No, I can’t.” She bit back the instinctive sorry that she didn’t mean. If he was struggling this much with simple responses, she’d stick to monosyllables from here on out. 

They would probably have to leave immediately now. She would feel more guilty about rousing Obi out of bed and getting them going far earlier than they’d planned, but she knew he was as eager to leave as she was if not more so.

Her eyes swept to the side. Where was Obi?

The lordling looked sour, and on the brink of spitting at her, when his father brandished an imperious hand to silence him. “Enough,” Lord Shikaku rumbled, “this is going nowhere.”

Shirayuki’s heart leapt at the prospect of someone in this place being sensible, but it quickly sank as the lord looked to the side and snapped his fingers.

A group of four guards came in from a side door, bearing someone between them who, despite being bound hand and foot, was giving them a hard time. They forced the figure into a kneeling position on the ground, and Shirayuki winced at the sharp crack of knees on the marble floor.

“Now, now,” Lord Shikaku crooned as he stepped closer to the kneeling figure, “is that really how you want your mistress to see you? Are you trying to make this more difficult?”

He wrenched off the hood covering the figure’s head and sneered down at him.

Obi shot him a searing glare.

…

The ill feeling Obi had been experiencing over the past week had only intensified after their supposedly final meeting with the lord and his son. Miss already knew his misgivings, and had shared she had some as well, so he hadn’t seen the point in alarming her with how strong they had become. But his instincts had been honed by years on the streets among mercenaries, on the battlefield among knights, and through navigating the tenuous, poisonous affairs of the cutthroat nobles at court. He had only ever ignored them at his peril, and it would be a fool’s move to do so now.

Still, arousing suspicion by making his own suspicion obvious would do Miss no good. So he played along with the guards when they summoned him later that evening for an impromptu meeting to discuss security measures. They had had meetings of the like before, especially when the brat noble was too busy being unconscious to harass his Miss and he’d had nothing better to do than stand around looking intimidating. 

But, given the currently icy state of affairs, the timing of the meeting was...unfortunate.

So he decided to go, but with both eyes wide open.

That they were going to a different room than they had for previous meetings was bad news. The fact that he was being almost shepherded along by the soldiers behind him was worse. But when the door was opened to reveal nothing but blackness, Obi knew he was in trouble. His eyes swept from side to side to assess what he could see, and he was able to react in time to block the attack from the soldier to his right. But that left him exposed to the blow to the back of his neck from the soldier on his left, and he stumbled into the darkness.

He was a top notch hand in a fair fight. He was even better when it came to an unfair fight, because he wasn’t afraid to fight dirty. But the lord here clearly wasn’t afraid to fight dirty either.

Even if he could see it would have been difficult- there were too many bodies, too little space, and his weapons had been yanked away from him after the first blow. He knew he wasn’t making it out of the room in one piece, so he resolved to take out as many as he could in the meantime.

They swarmed him in one great mob, which was unoriginal but effective. He kicked and swung and ducked and darted, sneering with satisfaction at the cries of pain as he connected with faces and limbs. They were cowards, just as much as their boss was a coward, and he felt no remorse.

He put up a good enough fight, but the sheer numbers on the enemy’s side eventually overcame his superior but solitary skill. The captor leading the way lit a lamp once Obi had been thoroughly trussed up, and Obi noted with grim satisfaction those sprawled on the ground who were clutching their wounds and groaning, at least until they covered his head with the hood.

These nobles are idiots, he thought to himself. Everyone here is crazy. Miss was in a relationship with one prince, she has a title granted her personally by another, and her skill is openly acknowledged by a king; so that’s three reasons to assume that someone would come looking for Miss. Or for me, he added sardonically. But we are far from the castle out here, and it would take a while for us to go for help. Besides, who knows what could happen between now and then…

He was being dragged into another room, and he could hear what sounded like his Miss. She sounded exasperated and irritated, but not fearful or in distress, which was reassuring.

He heard a snap, and his captors trotted forward like the obedient dogs they were. His knees crashed into the marble floor hard as they forced him to kneel, and he felt the reverberations lance through his legs. At least the pain was a temporary distraction from the lord’s ramblings.

Lord Shikaku flung the hood off Obi’s head with an almost theatrical flair, which would have made him roll his eyes if he wasn’t so busy glaring. Who is all the theatrical posing for? There’s no one to applaud you, you pompous-

“Let him go!”

Ah, right. That’s who you’re performing for.

Obi looked over in Miss’ direction and almost wished that he hadn’t. She looked horrified and furious and desperate. That look didn’t bode well for her, or for his ability to focus on the situation at hand. He blinked down the surge of highly distracting apprehension and glared up at the windbag.

“Please!”

Don’t try appealing to his better nature, Miss. He doesn’t have one.

“I’m sorry, Lady Shirayuki,” Shikaku leered. “But I can’t. This guard of yours took out twelve of my personal soldiers-”

-That was gratifying, he thought it had only been nine-

“-and so I can do with him as I like.”

Obi was pretty sure that legally, the lord didn’t have much of a leg to stand on with that point, given that the soldiers had ambushed him. But the man didn’t seem too interested in bothering with legal quibbles. Here, his word was law.

At least until Elder Highness finds out what he’s been up to and rips him a new one.

Izana didn’t have any patience for lords who thought they were above their station. Especially when his Miss got involved, much as the king had endeavored to keep that out of public knowledge.

Miss’ eyes swept over him briefly before returning to the lord, her gaze steely. “What do you want?”

Shikaku laughed. “I would think that is obvious. Marry my son, and your knave goes free. Refuse and, well…” He shrugged delicately.

Don’t do it, Miss. I’m not worth it.

She had to know that the lord wasn’t going to let him go regardless. If he let him go and kicked him out of the fortress, Obi would be able to go for help or storm the castle himself. And if he was free and allowed to remain, he would not hesitate to wreck everything in his path.

In the long run, this would not work out for the lord. But the damage wreaked in the short term could be devastating.

Looking up towards Miss, he could see the gears spinning and turning in her mind as she deliberated what she should do. She had to know that the situation was ridiculously, hopelessly skewed in the lord’s favor, but she also wouldn’t take the risk of putting someone in harm’s way.

Obi stared into her emerald eyes with all his strength. They’re not going to let me go, Miss. No matter what you do. Say no - it’ll buy you some more time -

“Fine.”

He wanted to sag in his bonds, but didn’t want to give the lord any satisfaction.

I’m so sorry, Miss. I’m going to make my escape, and then I’m getting you out of here.

…

Brushing her hands down the ridiculously puffy, ornate skirt of her dress, Shirayuki looked at herself in the mirror and made a moue of distaste. She looked farcical, like a tiny red cherry amidst clouds of filmy fabric.

Surprisingly, forcing a woman who did not want to get married into a wedding dress did not instantly make her change her mind. Shirayuki glared at the veil anchored to her head as though it had personally offended her, before forcing herself to focus on the real mission at hand. Rescuing Obi.

She hadn’t seen him since the ultimatum she’d been given a week ago, but she knew he was still alive. She had insisted on getting daily messages from him to ensure that the lord kept his end of their bargain, and his dry comments that hid bits of crucial information about the situation as it stood brought her the only joy she’d felt the whole week.

He’d smeared a little dirt on the second letter, which smelled faintly of iron and rock and staleness - so he was probably in the dungeons. He’d taken to nicknaming the guards who stayed with him, so she was pretty sure he was only being flanked by two guards at a time. With only two, they clearly didn’t know who they were dealing with, but she wasn’t complaining.

Sitting down at her vanity, Shirayuki began to systematically tear her veil into strips and wad them up. There are three floors to this castle, she reminded herself, and then the dungeon. I’m in the tower, because of course I am. So that’s four floors to go down. He’s sent most of the guards away to drum up local attendance for the wedding, so there’s less of them to deal with.

She started tearing the surplus skirts from the dress, and her hands fell into an almost soothing rhythm as she strengthened her resolve. Tear, wad, tie, set aside. When the bundles of cloth on her vanity were stacked nearly to the top of the mirror, she opened the vanity drawer where she had stored the mixture of opium, lard and disinfectant she had been using on the lordling, now laced with a healthy dose of arsenic. Smearing the mixture on the bolts of cloth, she grinned to herself. Really, they should have confiscated her herbs and ointments - but they had been systematically underestimating her from the start. They had thought that she would sit like a pretty doll until the lordling came to retrieve his new ornament. They thought that they could restrain Obi with just a handful of thugs. They thought that she would just cry pitifully in her hands, having been thwarted by masculine minds.

It would be almost a pleasure to show them how wrong they were.

Footsteps clicked just outside her door as she stuffed the last of her bundles into her bag. Tying the bag securely around her waist, she crept behind her closet door and listened.

The footsteps were coming closer.

“Ow!” She cried piteously. “My ankle!”

There was an oath and a frantic jangling of keys. A guard flung himself into the room, his eyes scanning the area desperately for his charge that had somehow gotten injured under his watch.

Shirayuki allowed herself a smirk as he walked past the closet, looking for her.

And then she pounced.

…

The guard outside the dungeon fell to his knees with a muffled sound, snoring before he even hit the ground. Shirayuki took a quick glimpse of the rag in her hand. Finally, she’d hit upon the perfect amount of sedative; some of the knights she’d left snoozing behind her had taken more than one bundle to subdue them, and others she’d had to check to make sure she hadn’t sent them into more permanent sleep.

She wondered if the lordling would appreciate the hallways full of unconscious knights she’d left as a wedding present. She doubted it.

Creeping through the dungeon, she could see light spilling through the bars of only one cell. She closed her hands around the next bundle of cloth and moved to peek through the bars.

Only Obi could look so unperturbed while being held by two guards who were clearly out for blood. Heaven only knew what he’d been saying to them for the past week. Only his eyes, which were clearly calculating, assessing, and planning, gave him away, and only because she knew him so well. She suspected that his guards were too oblivious to notice anything.

She bit the corner of her mouth in thought. The guard on the left appeared to be favoring his ankle. If she threw herself into his knee, that would probably be enough to give Obi the opportunity he -

“Hello, my lady.”

Her blood ran cold at the croak in her ear, and then her arms were forced behind her. She cursed herself.

Missed one.

“Looks like you have a visitor,” her captor creaked as he forced her into the cell.

For the first time, Obi looked genuinely worried and Shirayuki flinched. Guilt flooded her for a moment, along with an apology to Obi for getting them into this mess when they should have left the moment he started having suspicions. But she shoved it down for later, and began struggling in her captor’s hold.

Obi followed suit, straining to get to her, his face shuttering into a professional blankness as he pulled at his guards’ grip.

This is our only chance, she reminded herself as she twisted desperately. They’re not going to fall for it a second ti-

She heard a muffled curse behind her before a dull pain exploded at the back of her head, and then there was no more.

…

Being a damsel in distress was overrated, Obi had decided. His minders were boring, although fun to mess with, and the accommodations left something to be desired. With nothing else to do, he amused himself over the week by setting personal challenges on how quickly he could irritate Dumb and Dumber into leaving him alone. Yesterday, he’d reached a personal best of five minutes.

Besides that he’d just been busy observing. The guard shift changes stayed consistent and predictable - if he’d been sincere during any of their security meetings, he would have raised the issue a long time ago. Now, however, it worked to his advantage.

There were less guards today. Thanks to his usual shadows being gossipy old hens, he knew that the guard was lighter today since they were sending men out to draw people in for the wedding. It figured that the lordling would have so few friends that they’d have to drum up stand-ins; he wondered if news had already got back to Wistal. Elder Highness did have ears everywhere.

Which explains why they’re rushing this so much. Lord has some sense, I guess.

He craned to gauge the brightness of the light streaming through the cracks of the dungeon wall. Judging by the light, it would be about an hour before the next shift change, and the one guard with the limited vision in his left eye would be in charge. It would be the best time to get away. Then there would be only four floors between he and his Miss - they could probably get out through the window before the others figured out what happened, giving them enough of a head start to -

Two sets of hands grabbed him by the arms and hoisted him up, jarring his old shoulder injury. “Really, boys,” he dryly remarked, “if you wanted to hold me, all you had to do was ask.”

“Shut up.” Dumb growled. “You talk too much.”

“Such sweet words,” Obi sighed, batting his eyes and placing a hand to his heart, the manacles dully clanking, “you’ll turn a man’s head talking like that.”

Dumber made a disgusted noise at the back of his throat. “Just come on.”

“Where?”

“Going to give your lady some encouragement,” he grunted. “She’s shown signs of not following through with the deal.”

Obi’s mind clicked into higher gear. “And you’ll carry me to my lady? How gallant of you!”

Dumber managed to look even more disgusted. “Carry you?”

“You think I can walk up there like this?” Obi tilted his head towards his bound legs. “I’m good, but not that good. I’m flattered that you think so, though.”

In all actuality, he was that good, but they didn’t need to know that.

Dumb looked skeptical, but Dumber shrugged. “Fine. Don’t try anything funny.”

“Perish the thought.”

He would probably be laughing, but he could pretty much guarantee that they wouldn’t find it funny.

The key clicked, and he could feel the manacles falling from his ankles. There. So far, so good-

All three men turned towards where there was a scuffling outside the cell door. Obi frowned, that didn’t sound like the next guard. It sounded like - 

“Looks like you have a visitor,” a new guard croaked, and Obi’s blood froze as the familiar form of his Miss was manhandled into the cell.

He let his blood run hot for a moment in rage for her before rapidly discarding Escape Plans A and B from his mind. At this rate, they would have probably have to run with Plan F, which hadn’t been nearly as planned out as he would have liked.

Miss looked apologetic for a moment and then began struggling in earnest to get loose. Her captor looked dumbfounded at the fight in his spitfire Miss, and Obi let his pride in her spur his own attempts to break free, coiling like a spring, looking for weaknesses in their grip, planning to use his leg to sweep Dumb off his feet…

But then Miss’ guard made a mistake. He grunted out a curse in exasperation, reached for his sheathed sword, and slammed the hilt into the back of her head.

She slumped to the ground in a heap, and Obi saw red.

“Should you have done that?” One of the idiots holding him said, he didn’t care which. “Lord Shikaku will be mad at you for damaging-”

Through the wind rushing through Obi’s ears, he could just make out the bastard scoffing, “Her hair will cover it, he won’t even see the bruise.”

He hadn’t thought he could have been more angry. He was wrong.

The redness engulfed everything, and he feel more than hear his own bellow of rage as he dropped all the skills he’d honed over the years in favor of pure feral, animalistic fury.

He slammed Dumber into the ground, elbowing him sharply in the nose and feeling the break with satisfaction. Dumb squawked as Obi’s legs swept underneath him, only going silent when Obi shoved him into the wall. Free of two problems, Obi turned with fire in his eyes to the worst offender, who looked like he was finally realizing what hell he had just brought upon himself.

Obi leapt onto him like a panther, not feeling or caring how his prey clawed and scraped at his arms and side. He brought his arms which they had so thoughtfully left shackled around the scum’s neck, twisted the chain around his throat, and pulled. It was gratifying to see the redness darken to purple as the bastard went slack beneath him. He almost wanted to see if it was more gratifying to see him to go pale and lifeless, but stopped himself. He had more important things to worry about.

He pulled the discarded sword from the scabbard and slammed the links of his shackles against the blade until they gave way. Placing two fingers that trembled traitorously against her throat, he nearly cried when he felt her pulse. He scooped her up, held her close, and allowed himself a moment of weakness to feel her breath against his neck. Then he shifted her over his shoulders and began running.

He would have to applaud his Miss later for how efficiently she’d disposed of all the knights, he thought as he ran past the huddled bodies lining the corridor. None showed signs of waking yet, which meant he didn’t have to waste time being sneaky and lurking in the shadows.

They remained uninterrupted all the way through the castle and even out to the stables. The stablemaster was snoring heavily, his customary bottle of liquor empty beside him, and Obi deliberated whether or not he should take his horse. It would make the trek faster, but there was a limit to how quiet one could be when a horse’s hooves were involved.

It’s a shame, he thought as he watched his horse ride off, spurred by the sharp slap he’d given its flank, I really liked that horse. But it was too recognizable to ride, and would serve them better as a wild goose chase rather than as a means of escape.

He shifted her into a more secure place on his back and started his trek into the forest.

…

Obi made his way steadily but slowly through the trees, passing every now and then to listen if anyone had followed them. He hadn’t lost the ability to step lightly through the underbrush, for all that he felt that the good life at the castle had softened him. Even so, he didn’t want to take any more chances than they already had.

He also stopped from time to time to lie Miss down and check on her, to scavenge sustenance that they would eventually need from the trees, or to unearth bundles of supplies he’d paused to squirrel away as they had traveled to the lord’s estate the month before. The memory of the streets and the constant apprehension of when an open handshake could become a knife in the back had never left him, and so he liked to be ready, even now.

Miss had sometimes looked somber when he’d done this, but she never questioned it.

The sunlight streaming through the branches faded steadily as he trekked along, finally succumbing to the silver glow of the moon above. He settled somewhat, feeling more attuned to the night than the day, and he let his muscles loosen and savored the warmth soaking into his back from where his Miss was resting.

The moon was high above them when he felt her begin to stir. He stopped to place her against a tree, using her bag to pillow her head against the trunk.

“Obi?” She groaned, her hand reaching back to her bruise and wincing.

“Good to see you, Miss.”

“How long have I been out?”

Obi clicked his tongue in thought, leaning back on his haunches. “Ten, twelve hours. I wondered if you were ever going to wake up.”

He’d meant the tone to be teasing but he failed, given that her gaze went liquid and sad and soft. His heart throbbed in a way that was not helpful when he needed to remain focused.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what, Miss?” Obi smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “It’s not your fault that others find you so irresistible. Or that they don’t know the meaning of no.”

His jaw twinged in pain, and he’d realized his teeth were clenched. It never ceased to incense him how people would treat his Miss - like she was a trinket or a doll that didn’t have any feelings or dreams or desires of her own. She was more than that, so much more, so much that it made him hurt with awe, and -

The adrenaline was definitely fading, along with his focus.

“No,” Miss breathed, her fingers tracing the bruising along his wrists. “I’m sorry I got caught - I was so sure I’d done everything I could to pick the best time, but -”

“You did good, Miss,” he hastened to assure her. “I was thinking along the same lines - you just got a few hours’ lead on me. Don’t think I didn’t see your handiwork on the way out.”

She blushed, and he grinned. “That was impressive, Miss. That last guy was a surprise we both didn’t see coming.” He took a deep breath. “It’s not that much further to the main road, Miss, but we’re about to lose night cover. I don’t think we’ve been followed, but there’s a chance they’ll pick up the search in the morning.”

A look of determination spread across Miss’ face and she stood up, wobbling a little on her feet before bracing herself on the trunk. “We should get going, then.”

Obi popped his shoulders before standing up too. “Follow me, Miss.”

…

The dull pounding at the back of her neck didn’t show signs of going away soon, but Shirayuki didn’t have time to dwell on it. As they walked, she grew accustomed to how her vision would somehow double, twin Obis nearly colliding in front of her, and how the ground would occasionally tilt beneath her. She could steady herself, most of the time, and when she couldn’t, Obi would press an arm against her waist until she was ready once more. He’d asked her once if he wanted him to carry her, and saw enough in her expression to not ask again.

They were passing into a clearing as the sun rose over the trees, the light striking the river in front of them and dazzling her eyes almost painfully. She squinted and shielded her eyes, and nearly bumped into Obi, who had stopped in his tracks, tilting his head and narrowing his gaze.

She was about to ask what was the matter when he let out a low string of curses.

Then she heard it too, the sound growing louder and clearer.

Dogs.

“Of course, he’d be the kind of lord who has hunting dogs,” Obi gritted before indulging in another low oath. “Come on, Miss,” he said grimly. “We have to go.”

He scooped her up and ran along the banks of the river, craning his head in search of something. Shirayuki looked from side to side, ignoring how it made her head spin.

“What are you looking for?”

“Waterfall,” he grunted, preoccupied. “It should be right about -” He stopped, a satisfied smirk creasing his face. “There.”

Shirayuki followed his gaze to see the waterfall in question, a few hundred yards away. She held tight to his neck as he sprinted, nimbly avoiding the muddy parts of the bank. Once he got to the base of the waterfall, he splashed them both through the spray, Shirayuki only just managing to bite her lip to keep from yelping in shock from the cold water.

“Sorry, Miss,” he apologized, “but the water-”

She nodded. Will keep the dogs from following our scent. She remembered as much from his lessons.

Obi began making his way up the damp, rocky incline, shielded from view by the torrential spray of the water. Shirayuki gently pushed at his chest. “Put me down.”

Obi frowned at her as he obliged. “What?”

“It’ll be easier for you to lead the way if you don’t have to worry about dropping me.”

“I always worry about you, Miss.”

And if that didn’t just do things to her heart that she wished she had the luxury to savor, but were too distracting at the moment. She placed her hand on his elbow. “I’m fine, lead the way.”

Obi’s shoulders tensed, then released, before he started his way up the glistening rock face. They climbed higher and higher, hands and feet seeking purchase on the damp stone. The ache at the back of her neck grew, augmented by the brightness of the sun on the water, and the relentless pounding of the falls as they met the river.

Obi glanced back at her, his expression at once relieved and sympathetic. He tapped her shoulder twice, and then pointed to a wide shelf of rock jutting further out from the cliff face, although it was still shielded by the waterfall. He guided her up to the shelf before helping her ease down into a seated position leaning against the stone.

She must have looked like she was about to say something, because he placed a finger on his lips before curving his hand around his ear. Shirayuki leaned forward a little, straining to hear. With effort, she could hear the yells of men spurring the dogs on, the dogs barking and baying, the sounds of riding crops striking horseflesh.

Leaning against the rocks, she shivered despite herself, and Obi knelt beside her, craning to listen even as he dropped an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder. Shirayuki curled into the warmth bracing her, and felt Obi’s breath hitch as he continued to stare out beyond the water.

After what felt like eons, the sounds of the hunt faded into nothing and left the two of them with just the sound of plummeting water and the thrum of Obi’s heart beneath her fingers. More eons passed before Obi finally relaxed, smoothly sliding from kneeling to sitting without letting go of her shoulders.

They sat there together for a long time, until the sky began to darken. Obi let out a deep breath and stood up. “Come on, Miss,” he beckoned. “I think they’ve given up for now. And it’s going to get cold soon. The sooner we get to the shelter of the trees, the better it will be for you.”

Shirayuki took the proffered hand and pulled herself up. The world spun for a moment, and she grinned to hide it. “Lead the way.”

Obi gave her a reassuring smile and turned to lead the way.

What happened next happened in a blur. She couldn’t tell if it was the dizziness, her muscles still unknotting from sitting for so long, the muddiness of her boots, or the slickness of the stone.

But suddenly she was slipping, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“No!”

One moment she was canting to the side, too close to the rush of the water and the brink of oblivion. The next she felt a vice-like grip on both of her shoulders before she was flung bodily away from the edge, just missing the rock face. Gasping to regain her breath, she looked around. Obi was gone.

“Obi!” She barely managed to keep from running to look over the side of the ledge. There Obi was, holding onto the rocks that were slippery with water and blood from his scraped palms. She looked into his eyes and saw a resignation there that terrified her to her core.

She flung herself onto the floor and seized both his wrists. Obi tried to pull himself up, but the week of malnutrition and injuries was finally catching up with him, along with the fatigue and lack of sleep since their escape. His grip faltered.

Hers tightened.

Obi tried to push up with his feet but any rocks that could have helped were too far away. He looked up at her. “You have to let go!”

“No!” The fall was too far, the impact of the water could kill him.

“Miss! Now!”

She squeezed his wrists.

He exhaled. “Miss, I left a bag by those gnarled rocks, the ones that look like Lord Haruka on a bad day - so, everyday.”

Shirayuki giggled despite herself, a traitorous giggle that dissolved into a sob.

“The bag has strips of cloth in it. When it’s safe, go to the north,” he craned his neck to the side, “that way. The road should be about a half-mile away from here. Put a stake in the ground-”

“Obi!” He was talking like he was saying goodbye.

He continued over her. “Tie three strips around it, braid them. Then come back into the forest. Tie a strip to the second lowest branch of every third tree until you stop where you want to rest. The royal guard will know what to do, they should be passing by soon."

“Obi!”

“Don’t move until the ripples stop. The lord’s men should be far away now, but don’t take risks. At least no more than you’ve already taken.” He began twisting his wrists in her grip.

She held tighter. “You’re one to talk.”

Obi’s grin was barely visible through her tears. “They were all worth it, Miss.” The twisting intensified.

“Why?” She was crying in earnest now, her whole world narrowed to her white-knuckling grip and the man she was holding onto. “Why do you think it’s worth risking your life?”

“Because,” he swallowed hard, his face crumpling into a rawness she had never seen before, “I love you, Miss. I think I always have.”

Shirayuki pushed herself forward, grip resolute, and ignored the growing burn in her muscles. “You...love me?”

Obi sighed almost as if in relief, lassitude making his body limp in her grip. “More than life itself.”

Her heart was full of terror and exhilaration and anxiety and joy and a feeling like coming home. She craned her head towards his, feeling his gasps of air across her face as she moved closer.

She could feel his breath across her lips now. She leaned towards him.

And then he slipped through her fingers and was gone.

Despite every instinct screaming in protest, Shirayuki followed Obi’s instructions and waited for the ripples to stop. She probably wouldn’t have managed to do so if his body hadn’t resurfaced almost immediately after plunging beneath the water, his face mercifully turned upwards towards the sky. She clambered down the rocks until she couldn’t bear it any longer and dove into the water.

She swam quickly towards him, snagging his belt loops with her hands and pulling him along with her. Her muscles screamed for rest, but she ignored them as she inched the two of them closer to shore. 

Eventually, her feet scraped against the riverbed, and she was able to stand up and drag him onto the muddy bank. She wanted nothing more than to flop down beside him and sleep for years, but she stooped over him to check his pulse.

No pulse. No breaths.

Shirayuki almost couldn’t breathe herself.

Mechanically, she started compressions, the rhythm even and deep and punctuated with the plea please let it not be too late please let it not be too late.

She gave two breaths, wondering how the lips that had breathed out such warmth could be so cold now.

Please don’t die, she begged as she pounded his chest. Not now. Not ever. Especially not before I can tell you-

“I love you too,” she grunted with desperation and exertion before leaning down for two more breaths.

She was halfway through the compressions when he jerked to the side, water pouring from his mouth before he started coughing himself hoarse.

“Miss?” He was looking at her in wonder.

“You’re alive.” It was simultaneously the most obvious and most wonderful thing she had ever said. She would have flung herself about him, but he was clearly struggling to breathe. She settled for simply holding him close but gently.

“Miss?” He whispered hoarsely.

“I’m here. We’re safe, for now.”

He coughed. “Ribbons?”

“In a moment.” She held him tighter.

“Miss.” He sounded exasperated and tired. “The royal guard can’t find you and get you to safety if they don’t know -”

“Is that any way to talk to the woman you love?”

It felt good to tease. His tanned skin blanched, then flushed with a fury, then blanched again. He looked puzzled.

“But...you need to be safe, Mi-”

She placed a finger to his lips. “I do have a name, you know.”

He looked even more confused. She took pity on him, it had been a rough day. “Is 'Miss' really the way you want to address the woman you love?” His expression became apologetic and alarmed, which would not do. She bent down and brushed a kiss to his brow. “The woman who loves you too?”

Obi’s body went even more lax, a whirlwind of emotions blurring through his unguarded gaze before resolving into something like wonder. He reached up a shaky hand to curve around her cheek, and she placed her hand over his, rejoicing in its warmth and the pulse beating steadily through his wrist.

“Shirayuki.” It was a whisper, a promise, a pledge. It was everything.

She kissed his forehead ahead, a longer, lingering kiss. He looked awed, although the mischief she loved to see started to creep into his gaze. “You missed.”

Brushing aside the damp hair dripping into his face, she grinned. “When you’ve caught your breath.”

“You always leave me,” he coughed, “breathless, Miss.”

She tapped his nose. “Obi.”

He smirked, eyes already drooping with fatigue. “Shirayuki.”

Shirayuki curled around him, supporting his head in her lap. “Later, Obi,” she promised. “We have all the time in the world.”

Stubborn man that he was, he looked as though he wanted to continue to playfully protest, even as sleep pulled relentlessly at him. She gave him an affectionate look. “I love you.”

He melted. “I love you, too.”

And then fell asleep.

Shirayuki remained curled around him until his snores became deep and even. She left him alone only long enough to retrieve the bag and to tie the ribbons as he had instructed. But then she returned to his side, cuddling him close through the night and the morning, and she didn’t let go even when the royal guard found them.

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Religious Trauma Syndrome: How Some Organized Religion Leads to Mental Health Problems

By Valerie Tarico

Marlene Winell interviewed March 25, 2013

At age sixteen I began what would be a four year struggle with bulimia. When the symptoms started, I turned in desperation to adults who knew more than I did about how to stop shameful behavior—my Bible study leader and a visiting youth minister.  “If you ask anything in faith, believing,” they said. “It will be done.” I knew they were quoting [3] the Word of God. We prayed together, and I went home confident that God had heard my prayers. But my horrible compulsions didn’t go away. By the fall of my sophomore year in college, I was desperate and depressed enough that I made a suicide attempt. The problem wasn’t just the bulimia. I was convinced by then that I was a complete spiritual failure. My college counseling department had offered to get me real help (which they later did). But to my mind, at that point, such help couldn’t fix the core problem: I was a failure in the eyes of God. It would be years before I understood that my inability to heal bulimia through the mechanisms offered by biblical Christianity was not a function of my own spiritual deficiency but deficiencies in Evangelical religion itself.  

Dr. Marlene Winell is a human development consultant in the San Francisco Area. She is also the daughter of Pentecostal missionaries. This combination has given her work an unusual focus. For the past twenty years she has counseled men and women in recovery from various forms of fundamentalist religion including the Assemblies of God denomination in which she was raised. Winell is the author of Leaving the Fold – A Guide for Former Fundamentalists and Others Leaving their Religion [4], written during her years of private practice in psychology. Over the years, Winell has provided assistance to clients whose religious experiences were even more damaging than mine. Some of them are people whose psychological symptoms weren’t just exacerbated by their religion, but actually caused by it.  

Two years ago, Winell made waves by formally labeling what she calls “Religious Trauma Syndrome” (RTS) and beginning to write and speak on the subject for professional audiences. When the British Association of Behavioral and Cognitive Psychologists published a series of articles on the topic, members of a Christian counseling association protested what they called excessive attention to a “relatively niche topic.” One commenter said, “A religion, faith or book cannot be abuse but the people interpreting can make anything abusive.”

Is toxic religion simply misinterpretation? What is religious trauma? Why does Winell believe religious trauma merits its own diagnostic label?

Let’s start this interview with the basics. What exactly is religious trauma syndrome?

Winell: Religious trauma syndrome (RTS) is a set of symptoms and characteristics that tend to go together and which are related to harmful experiences with religion. They are the result of two things: immersion in a controlling religion and the secondary impact of leaving a religious group. The RTS label provides a name and description that affected people often recognize immediately. Many other people are surprised by the idea of RTS, because in our culture it is generally assumed that religion is benign or good for you. Just like telling kids about Santa Claus and letting them work out their beliefs later, people see no harm in teaching religion to children.

But in reality, religious teachings and practices sometimes cause serious mental health damage. The public is somewhat familiar with sexual and physical abuse in a religious context. As Journalist Janet Heimlich has documented in, Breaking Their Will, Bible-based religious groups that emphasize patriarchal authority in family structure and use harsh parenting methods can be destructive.

But the problem isn’t just physical and sexual abuse. Emotional and mental treatment in authoritarian religious groups also can be damaging because of 1) toxic teachings like eternal damnation or original sin 2) religious practices or mindset, such as punishment, black and white thinking, or sexual guilt, and 3) neglect that prevents a person from having the information or opportunities to develop normally.

Can you give me an example of RTS from your consulting practice?

Winell: I can give you many. One of the symptom clusters is around fear and anxiety. People indoctrinated into fundamentalist Christianity as small children sometimes have memories of being terrified by images of hell and apocalypse before their brains could begin to make sense of such ideas. Some survivors, who I prefer to call “reclaimers,” [8] have flashbacks, panic attacks, or nightmares in adulthood even when they intellectually no longer believe the theology. One client of mine, who during the day functioned well as a professional, struggled with intense fear many nights. She said,

“I was afraid I was going to hell. I was afraid I was doing something really wrong. I was completely out of control. I sometimes would wake up in the night and start screaming, thrashing my arms, trying to rid myself of what I was feeling. I’d walk around the house trying to think and calm myself down, in the middle of the night, trying to do some self-talk, but I felt like it was just something that – the fear and anxiety was taking over my life.” Or consider this comment, which refers to a film [9] used by evangelicals to warn about the horrors of the “end times” for nonbelievers.

“I was taken to see the film “A Thief In The Night”. WOW.  I am in shock to learn that many other people suffered the same traumas I lived with because of this film. A few days or weeks after the film viewing, I came into the house and mom wasn’t there. I stood there screaming in terror. When I stopped screaming, I began making my plan: Who my Christian neighbors were, who’s house to break into to get money and food. I was 12 years old and was preparing for Armageddon alone.”

In addition to anxiety, RTS can include depression, cognitive difficulties, and problems with social functioning. In fundamentalist Christianity, the individual is considered depraved and in need of salvation. A core message is “You are bad and wrong and deserve to die.” (The wages of sin is death [10].) This gets taught to millions of children through organizations like Child Evangelism Fellowship [11] and there is a group organized [12]  to oppose their incursion into public schools.  I’ve had clients who remember being distraught when given a vivid bloody image of Jesus paying the ultimate price for their sins. Decades later they sit telling me that they can’t manage to find any self-worth.

“After twenty-seven years of trying to live a perfect life, I failed. . . I was ashamed of myself all day long. My mind battling with itself with no relief. . . I always believed everything that I was taught but I thought that I was not approved by God. I thought that basically I, too, would die at Armageddon.

“I’ve spent literally years injuring myself, cutting and burning my arms, taking overdoses and starving myself, to punish myself so that God doesn’t have to punish me. It’s taken me years to feel deserving of anything good.”

Born-again Christianity and devout Catholicism [13] tell people they are weak and dependent, calling on phrases like “lean not unto your own understanding [14]” or “trust and obey [11].” People who internalize these messages can suffer from learned helplessness. I’ll give you an example from a client who had little decision-making ability after living his entire life devoted to following the “will of God.” The words here don’t convey the depth of his despair.

“I have an awful time making decisions in general. Like I can’t, you know, wake up in the morning, “What am I going to do today?” Like I don’t even know where to start. You know all the things I thought I might be doing are gone and I’m not sure I should even try to have a career; essentially I babysit my four-year-old all day.”

Authoritarian religious groups are subcultures where conformity is required in order to belong. Thus if you dare to leave the religion, you risk losing your entire support system as well.

“I lost all my friends. I lost my close ties to family. Now I’m losing my country. I’ve lost so much because of this malignant religion and I am angry and sad to my very core. . . I have tried hard to make new friends, but I have failed miserably. . . I am very lonely.”

Leaving a religion, after total immersion, can cause a complete upheaval of a person’s construction of reality, including the self, other people, life, and the future. People unfamiliar with this situation, including therapists, have trouble appreciating the sheer terror it can create.

“My form of religion was very strongly entrenched and anchored deeply in my heart. It is hard to describe how fully my religion informed, infused, and influenced my entire worldview. My first steps out of fundamentalism were profoundly frightening and I had frequent thoughts of suicide. Now I’m way past that but I still haven’t quite found “my place in the universe.”

Even for a person who was not so entrenched, leaving one’s religion can be a stressful and significant transition.

Many people seem to walk away from their religion easily, without really looking back. What is different about the clientele you work with?

Winell: Religious groups that are highly controlling, teach fear about the world, and keep members sheltered and ill-equipped to function in society are harder to leave easily. The difficulty seems to be greater if the person was born and raised in the religion rather than joining as an adult convert. This is because they have no frame of reference – no other “self” or way of “being in the world.” A common personality type is a person who is deeply emotional and thoughtful and who tends to throw themselves wholeheartedly into their endeavors. “True believers” who then lose their faith feel more anger and depression and grief than those who simply went to church on Sunday.

Aren’t these just people who would be depressed, anxious, or obsessive anyways?

Winell: Not at all. If my observation is correct, these are people who are intense and involved and caring. They hang on to the religion longer than those who simply “walk away” because they try to make it work even when they have doubts. Sometimes this is out of fear, but often it is out of devotion. These are people for whom ethics, integrity and compassion matter a great deal. I find that when they get better and rebuild their lives, they are wonderfully creative and energetic about new things.

In your mind, how is RTS different from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?

Winell: RTS is a specific set of symptoms and characteristics that are connected with harmful religious experience, not just any trauma. This is crucial to understanding the condition and any kind of self-help or treatment. (More details about this can be found on my Journey Free [15] website and discussed in my talk [16] at the Texas Freethought Convention.)

Another difference is the social context, which is extremely different from other traumas or forms of abuse. When someone is recovering from domestic abuse, for example, other people understand and support the need to leave and recover. They don’t question it as a matter of interpretation, and they don’t send the person back for more. But this is exactly what happens to many former believers who seek counseling. If a provider doesn’t understand the source of the symptoms, he or she may send a client for pastoral counseling, or to AA, or even to another church. One reclaimer expressed her frustration this way:

“Include physically-abusive parents who quote “Spare the rod and spoil the child” as literally as you can imagine and you have one fucked-up soul: an unloved, rejected, traumatized toddler in the body of an adult. I’m simply a broken spirit in an empty shell. But wait...That’s not enough!? There’s also the expectation by everyone in society that we victims should celebrate this with our perpetrators every Christmas and Easter!!”

Just like disorders such as autism or bulimia, giving RTS a real name has important advantages. People who are suffering find that having a label for their experience helps them feel less alone and guilty. Some have written to me to express their relief:

“There’s actually a name for it! I was brainwashed from birth and wasted 25 years of my life serving Him! I’ve since been out of my religion for several years now, but I cannot shake the haunting fear of hell and feel absolutely doomed. I’m now socially inept, unemployable, and the only way I can have sex is to pay for it.”

Labeling RTS encourages professionals to study it more carefully, develop treatments, and offer training. Hopefully, we can even work on prevention.

What do you see as the difference between religion that causes trauma and religion that doesn’t?

Winell: Religion causes trauma when it is highly controlling and prevents people from thinking for themselves and trusting their own feelings. Groups that demand obedience and conformity produce fear, not love and growth. With constant judgment of self and others, people become alienated from themselves, each other, and the world. Religion in its worst forms causes separation.

Conversely, groups that connect people and promote self-knowledge and personal growth can be said to be healthy. The book, Healthy Religion [17], describes these traits. Such groups put high value on respecting differences, and members feel empowered as individuals.  They provide social support, a place for events and rites of passage, exchange of ideas, inspiration, opportunities for service, and connection to social causes. They encourage spiritual practices that promote health like meditation or principles for living like the golden rule. More and more, non-theists are asking [18] how they can create similar spiritual communities without the supernaturalism. An atheist congregation [19] in London launched this year and has received over 200 inquiries from people wanting to replicate their model.

Some people say that terms like “recovery from religion” and “religious trauma syndrome” are just atheist attempts to pathologize religious belief.

Winell: Mental health professionals have enough to do without going out looking for new pathology. I never set out looking for a “niche topic,” and certainly not religious trauma syndrome. I originally wrote a paper for a conference of the American Psychological Association and thought that would be the end of it. Since then, I have tried to move on to other things several times, but this work has simply grown.

In my opinion, we are simply, as a culture, becoming aware of religious trauma. More and more people are leaving religion, as seen by polls [20] showing that the “religiously unaffiliated” have increased in the last five years from just over 15% to just under 20% of all U.S. adults. It’s no wonder the internet is exploding with websites for former believers from all religions, providing forums [21] for people to support each other. The huge population of people “leaving the fold” includes a subset at risk for RTS, and more people are talking about it and seeking help.  For example, there are thousands of former Mormons [22], and I was asked to speak about RTS at an Exmormon Foundation conference.  I facilitate an international support group online called Release and Reclaim [23]  which has monthly conference calls. An organization called Recovery from Religion, [24] helps people start self-help meet-up groups

Saying that someone is trying to pathologize authoritarian religion is like saying someone pathologized eating disorders by naming them. Before that, they were healthy? No, before that we weren’t noticing. People were suffering, thought they were alone, and blamed themselves.  Professionals had no awareness or training. This is the situation of RTS today. Authoritarian religion is already pathological, and leaving a high-control group can be traumatic. People are already suffering. They need to be recognized and helped. _______________________________

Statistics update:

Numbers of American ‘nones’ continues to rise

October 18, 2019

By David Crary – Associated Press

The portion of Americans with no religious affiliation is rising significantly, in tandem with a sharp drop in the percentage that identifies as Christians, according to new data from the Pew Research Center. …

Pew says all categories of the religiously unaffiliated population – often referred to as the “nones” grew in magnitude. Self-described atheists now account for 4% of U.S. adults, up from 2% in 2009; agnostics account for 5%, up from 3% a decade ago; and 17% of Americans now describe their religion as “nothing in particular,” up from 12% in 2009.

https://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Society/2019/1018/Numbers-of-American-nones-continues-to-rise

_______________________________

Marlene Winell interviewed by Valerie Tarico on recovering from religious trauma Uploaded on January 31, 2011

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fIfABmbqSMA

24:12

On Moral Politics, a TV program with host Dr. Valerie Tarico, Marlene Winell describes the trauma that can result from harmful experiences with religious indoctrination. Dr. Winell explains that mental health issues are widespread and need to be understood just as we understand PTSD. There are steps to recovery, treatment modalities, and resources available as well. She now refers to this as RTS or Religious Trauma Syndrome. _______________________________

Links:
 
[3] https://www.biblestudyonjesuschrist.com/pog/ask1.htm 
[4] https://marlenewinell.net/leaving-fold-former 
[8] https://journeyfree.org/article/reclaimers/ 
[9] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Thief_in_the_Night_%28film%29 
[10] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+6%3A23&version=KJV 
[11] https://valerietarico.com/2011/02/04/our-public-schools-their-mission-field/ 
[12] http://www.intrinsicdignity.com/ 
[13] https://www.maryjohnson.co/an-unquenchable-thirst/ 
[14] https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Proverbs+3%3A5-6&version=KJV [15] https://journeyfree.org/category/uncategorized/ [16] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qrE4pMBlis 
[17] https://www.amazon.com/Healthy-Religion-Psychological-Guide-Mature/dp/1425924166 [18] https://www.humanistchaplaincy.org/ [19] https://www.christianpost.com/news/london-atheist-church-model-looking-to-expand-worldwide-91516 [20] https://www.pewforum.org/2012/10/09/nones-on-the-rise/ 
[21] https://new.exchristian.net/ 
[22] https://www.exmormon.org/ 
[23] https://journeyfree.org/group-forum/ [24] https://www.recoveringfromreligion.org/

_____________________________________

Get God’s Self-Appointed Messengers Out of Your Head

Valerie Tarico Which buzz phrases from your past are stuck in your brain? “God’s messengers” were all real complicated people with biases, blind spots, favorite foods and morning breath. They were not gods and they are not you. So how can you get them out of your head or at least reduce them to muffled background noise?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ElfyYA420F0

[dramaticsnakes]

The Revived - Chapter 5: Domestic Peace

This is chapter 5 of the Dream SMP multichapter fic @rainbowbutterfrosting​ and I wrote together! I hope you’ll enjoy!

Also! We recently started up a discord server for the fic just for fun, so if anyone reading wants to come hang out with us and get updates on the writing and new chapters, here's a link!

Thank you to @ r0w3n-1n-d0ugh for beta-reading this chapter.

AO3

Read in order (on Tumblr)

Characters in this chapter: Wilbur, Ghostbur, Technoblade, Ranboo, Tubbo, Michael

Word count: 3651

Cw: medical treatment, pain, injuries, uncomfortableness, mentions of begging, mentions of burns, worry, cursing, implied anxiety, light discussions of food

Fic summary: Wilbur was alive, and it was such a magnificent feeling, that made his mind spark with anticipation. It didn’t take long, however, for Wilbur to realize that this new breath of life, was not just his own. An echo-y voice hides in the back of his mind, and before he knows it, the transparent version of him he saw at the endless train station, is a lot more ingrained than he’d expected him to be.

And Wilbur really shouldn’t care. Because he’d be damned, if he spent the life he’d awaited for so long, babysitting a lost cause of a ghost, stuck in the very same limbo Wilbur spent so long in. It was an even exchange, and one Wilbur wasn’t going to mess with. Why exactly he ends up setting out to get the ghost out of his mind, in order to save the both of them, however, is beyond him. And perhaps Wilbur’s past isn’t as easy to leave behind, as he’d hoped it would be.

If Wilbur had been asked to guess where he would be a few days after his revival, after thirteen and a half years in limbo at a train station,then sitting on the floor of a mansion, Technoblade looking right past him as he treated his burn wounds from the nether, would not have been his first thought. It was one of those experiences Wilbur had, where he felt as if maybe, he should’ve done more to avoid such a situation. Technoblade was holding Wilbur’s chin, barely having made eye contact with him at all. He was looking closely, as if Wilbur was not a person, but a broken table Techno had been considering putting out for a yard sale for years now.

Tubbo was still upstairs and had gone a little quieter since before Techno arrived. Ranboo was standing in the corner of the room as if he was trying his best not to be seen. A backpack stood beside Techno, and he rummaged through it, audible clicks of bottles coming from it. Techno poured some liquid on a piece of cloth and handed it to Wilbur silently. With a sharp exhale, Wilbur placed it against his burn. He heard Ghostbur hiss slightly but didn’t say anything himself.

“Why is everyone being so quiet?” Ghostbur asked, sudden desperation in his voice, “You- you didn’t leave, did you?”

Instead of responding, Wilbur placed his free hand against the floor and pressed down. Just as he’d suspected, he heard a relieved sigh from his mind.

“Did you say it was second-degree burns?” Techno asked, turning towards Ranboo.

“Ye- yeah!” Ranboo said, “From the nether.”

“Mhm.” Techno hummed, moving Wilbur’s hand away to get a good look at the burns. He rummaged through his bag once again and picked up a crimson red potion. He swirled it around, “I brought a potion.” he said, and while he didn’t look at Wilbur directly, it was the first time he had addressed him since he arrived, “But I’m not sure if you really need it.”

Wilbur scowled, though he wasn’t sure if Techno saw. It was an instant health potion, that Wilbur knew brought a great deal more pain than the ones of regeneration, that he knew for a fact Techno had at home too. He inhaled sharply, “Well,” every instinctual wording in his mind urged him to refuse, though the thoughts of Ghostbur’s screams once again plagued his mind. “I mean, it would be nice to have.”

Techno huffed, and added with precision: “I mean, after what you said this mornin’, I don’t think you really want it.”

Wilbur’s chest was burning with aggravation because he knew exactly what Techno was doing. Faint memories of the times, where playfulness would hide in Techno’s words, were present, though this was something different. This wasn’t just a game, but rather mocking. A spite that lingered in the air, leaving the tension unbroken. It would’ve been all the more reason to refuse Techno’s offer, if it wasn’t for the ghost, hearing every word.

“No! We do want it, right? It hurts still.” Ghostbur said the last part strained.

“...sorry,” Wilbur mumbled, barely audibly.

“What was that?” Techno asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I said fucking sorry,” Wilbur said darkly, and Ghostbur gasped.

“Could you repeat that?” Techno asked.

Wilbur breathed deeply with frustration, “I’m sorry, alright Technoblade? Is that what you want to hear?”

“Sure is a start,” Technoblade said, throwing the potion towards Wilbur, who barely managed to grab it in time. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of Ghostbur hearing the shrill sound of broken glass for the first time.

He uncapped the bottle, and took a sip from it, testing the level of pain he and Ghostbur would feel. It surprisingly wasn’t much, mainly a small pinch.

“If that’s how you’re gonna drink the potion then we’re gonna be here for a few years,” Techno began packing up the stuff into his backpack. 

Wilbur almost rolled his eyes but knew that maintaining a good relationship with Technoblade would be good in the long run. With that, he took a bigger sip, and once he swallowed he could feel the immediate burn of it going down his throat, where the pain transitioned into a pulsing feeling in his chin and hands. While Wilbur only winced, he could hear Ghostbur’s small pleas but tried to focus on anything that wasn’t him or the pain. He decided on the potion bottle itself. The glass bottle had some scratches on it that contrasted the red liquid inside that slightly sparkled. 

Once most of the pain was gone, Wilbur raised the bottle to his lips when Techno interrupted him, “Drinkin’ the whole thing at once will make it more effective.”

Wilbur knew Techno was right, but he didn’t want to admit it out loud. So instead he nodded in response, closed his eyes tight, and downed the whole thing. Wilbur regretted it immediately, closing his hand into a fist and punched the air, although it didn’t help much with his pain. 

What might’ve hurt more was Ghostbur’s cries from the almost burning sensation. “Wil- Wilbur, make it stop.” There was a sob at the end that painfully reminded Wilbur that Ghostbur had a lower pain tolerance than he did. “I- I know you can’t make it stop right now, but please do it soon.” Wilbur would have preferred Ghostbur to be angry at him for getting hurt in the first place over the apologies that he heard in his mind. They were quieter though, as it was a private conversation that Wilbur was never supposed to hear, but Ghostbur didn’t have anyone else to talk to so it must’ve been to him.

Most of the potion’s pain transitioned to his palms and his chin, the burning out of his throat now. A quiet, ‘fuck’ came out of Wilbur’s lips, tears threatening to spill out of his closed eyes. 

Techno stood up, grabbing his backpack and the bottle from Wilbur’s hand. He looked around the house, a confused look on his face, “Ranboo, isn’t this place a little big for a military base?”

Ranboo’s shoulders slightly went up, “Oh! It’s just uh- just in case we need to store more stuff.“

Techno walked towards the exit of the mansion, “That’s reasonable, but it’s three floors tall. I don’t think we really need that much space.”

Ranboo gave an apologetic glance towards Techno, avoiding looking in his eyes, “Well- I was thinking that we could mimic the look of a woodland mansion so that way people will be like ‘Oh that’s a woodland mansion, not a secret base!’ Y’know?”

Techno chuckled, “Alright, stay safe.” Although he looked at Ranboo when he said it, Wilbur could feel the words piercing through him. 

“We will!” Ghostbur cheered. Technoblade walked through the doors of the mansion and closed them behind him. 

Ranboo seemed to immediately relax, his posture becoming slightly looser than it was during his interaction with Techno. However, when Ranboo looked back at Wilbur some of his uncomfortableness returned. “So uh…” Anything Ranboo might have said died before it could reach Wilbur’s ears. 

A moment of silence stretched between the two before small thuds that sounded like quick steps littered the lack of sound between them. “What’s that?” Wilbur asked as he heard Ghostbur say it in unison.

Ghostbur gasped, “Jinx!”

Ranboo didn’t directly answer Wilbur’s question but muttered, “I should go check on Tubbo.” Wilbur nodded understandably, watching Ranboo go up the stairs two at a time. Seeing Ranboo walk so quickly reminded him that he had been sitting down for most of the exchange, and slowly stood up. However, black spots rippled his vision with his legs slightly shaking under him. He relied on the wall for support as it took seconds before everything felt normal to him again. He waited for anything from Ghostbur, but all he heard was the ghost humming a song to himself, which he took as a good thing. 

However, once he focused on the sound that he previously heard, he heard muffled snorts that he’d heard from Technoblade many times. 

“Is Techie still here? I thought he left.”

“I thought so too,” Wilbur whispered slowly. He walked up the stairs as quietly as he could, cringing when he heard one creak under him. As soon as he finished going up, he saw doors to his right labeled ‘Construction in Progress’ yet the noise seemed to be coming from behind there. He tiptoed next to the door, hearing muffled voices from the other side.

“We have to stop him before he runs off again.” The voice had a familiarity to it, Wilbur assumed it was Tubbo. However, the tone was clear with worry.

“I mean how would we even do it?” The voice was deeper than the previous one, yet it was laced with concern that mimicked the other. It was shakier than the other voice, but not by much. Only enough that Wilbur only noticed when he paid attention to it.

“I have this, but I’ve never tried it out before. I’ve just heard that it works.” 

Ranboo sighed, “Part of me feels like this is the wrong thing to do.” A strange melancholy was hidden behind it.

“It’s for his own good.” There was some kind of fabric rustle heard, two things softly colliding into each other.

“I know…” Wilbur could barely hear it, but he knew he needed to leave sooner rather than later.

“What were they talking about?” Wilbur resisted sighing at Ghostbur’s lack of understanding and settled on an eye roll. 

It had only been a matter of time, before someone would try such a thing, of course. Wilbur had had a big enough impact on history to be worth fighting, it seemed. And while he hadn’t expected it from someone like Tubbo, a lot could happen in thirteen and a half years. It was not the first time someone intended to target Wilbur with the strike of death, and being back for this long was perhaps an achievement on its own. Not that he was going to let them kill him, because he wasn’t easy to get rid of at all. Sneaking around by the door, he attempted to gain any information he could about it. Perhaps avoiding the strike, from one of his previous most trusted companions, was going to be exactly what he needed to regain his force and power. In fact, he was almost a little impressed and proud, that they had enough spine to attempt something so conclusive. That was the kind of certain drive and spirit, Tubbo had lacked back in L’Manberg.

But they weren’t in L’Manberg anymore. Tubbo kept his own secrets, or murder plans, behind closed doors. Wilbur couldn’t let Ranboo nor Tubbo know that he was listening. They were working together after all. He held his breath as he slowly walked down the stairs. Which step was the one that creaked? Wilbur cursed himself for not remembering, and gently pressed onto the step in front of him. He applied slightly more pressure, and finally, put his whole foot on it. He let out a breath when it didn’t creak, but felt it in his gut that the next one would make a sound. As Wilbur skipped the step directly in front of him, the step after that must have been the one that caused a creak as when he pressed most of his weight on it, it made a sound that wouldn’t have usually been loud. Yet, with most of the house remaining quiet it was the only thing to hear other than the whispers upstairs. Even then, those stopped when the sound played aloud. 

Wilbur flinched, as the door opened, Tubbo looking outside. He locked eyes with Wilbur, who wasn’t entirely sure what to do now. Perhaps his best call would’ve been to run, though running was such a dull way to solve anything. Then, despite the thousand reactions Wilbur would’ve expected, Tubbo gave a relieved sigh. “Oh! Hi again, Wilbur. I was a little jumpy there for a moment.”

Wilbur looked at Tubbo with disbelief. “Uh, well-” he said, still standing on the steps when he heard the same snorts from before, and soon, right behind Tubbo’s legs, Wilbur spotted a zombie piglin. And Wilbur truly didn’t have the slightest clue of what to say to that. Ranboo was standing awkwardly behind Tubbo, picking up the little zombie piglin, with a particular gentleness, Wilbur hadn’t quite expected either. “What?” he eventually ended up saying.

Tubbo chuckled nervously, playing with his hair. “I uh, I suppose I haven’t introduced you yet. Sorry for the secrecy we… We didn’t want Techno to… It’s a long story, but,” Tubbo gestured to Ranboo, who was holding the little one, “This is Michael!” Tubbo said, “Our… Our son!”

At the words, little Michael squealed with joy, as he jumped out of Ranboo’s hands rushing to the confused Wilbur, who managed to walk up the rest of the stairs right before the zombie piglin wrapped his arms around Wilbur’s leg. Wilbur stared at the child blankly for a few moments, blinking once or twice. Then, he started laughing, covering his face with his hands. He kept laughing, and as he looked up, he noticed Tubbo and Ranboo, looking at him confusedly.

“What was funny?” Ghostbur asked, interest in his voice, “Did someone tell a funny joke? Oh no, did I miss it? Also, was that Michael? I nearly forgot about the little guy!”

Those words just made Wilbur laugh harder, despite the staring. When he finally stopped, however, the zombie piglin child was looking at Wilbur expectedly. “Hello, Mi- haha- Michael,” Wilbur said, bending down slightly to pat the child on the head. 

“It looks like he likes you,” Ranboo said with a hesitant smile, his voice a little more confident than the other times Wilbur had heard him. 

Wilbur kneeled down while Michael was attached to his leg, but when the child saw the opportunity he ran into Wilbur’s open arms. Wilbur smiled as he reciprocated the hug and picked Michael up. The toddler wrapped his legs around Wilbur’s abdomen as much as he could while Wilbur held his back and bottom, resting his chin over Michael’s shoulder. The boy squeezed the back of Wilbur’s coat, but he couldn’t grab much due to his small hands. Wilbur realized in that moment that he would die for Michael if he had to.

“Aw, almost makes me wish I had a little brother growing up,” Wilbur softly said, hugging Michael to his chest.

Tubbo held a fondness in his eyes that Wilbur didn’t know if he’s seen before, “He’s our little angel.”

Ranboo quietly laughed to himself, “When he’s not trying to run away while we have guests that is.”

Tubbo chuckled, “I would drink to that if I legally could.” A look of realization came across Tubbo’s face, “Hey, little M, are you hungry?” He walked around so he was behind Wilbur and able to see Michael’s face. Part of him impulsively thought that Tubbo was going to stab him in the back, literally. Yet, he continued holding the boy, if he was going to kill him, he was going to go down holding Michael. 

When he felt Michael nod, Tubbo clapped his hands together. “Alright, how’s dinner gonna work tonight?”

“Well, you’re going to eat it, I swear- people can be so silly sometimes,” Ghostbur huffed in annoyance. Wilbur silently laughed knowing Ghostbur probably wasn’t making a joke.

Ranboo diverted his attention from Michael and brought it to Tubbo, “I’m guessing it’s going to be the usual routine of one of us cooking and the other taking care of Michael. We can bring out the steaks tonight since we’ve got a guest.”

Wilbur turned around so he could see Tubbo’s reaction, “Sounds good to me, I’ll get some carrots. Maybe cut a bit of steak for Michael...” Tubbo started to head down the stairs, “I better get started, you three have fun!”

Ghostbur gasped, “He’s finally including me!” 

Wilbur delicately broke the news of who the third person was, “So, Ranboo, is there anywhere Michael usually plays? Or runs around? I’m honestly not sure what kids do nowadays.”

Ranboo laughed, “We’ve got most of his stuff in the room we were just in, but he’s got a different room planned in the long-run.” Ranboo opened the door behind him, holding it open for Wilbur.

Wilbur smiled softly, “Thanks.” 

Wilbur looked inside the room and found a strange nostalgia in it despite it not being from his past at all. The walls were decorated in a mix of crimson and warped wood, some vines dangling from the ceiling, but few were low enough to grab. There was a small yellow bed in the corner of the room with blankets untucked and one of the pillows on the ground. There was a blue kids table in the center of the room, with some books and paper on it. Next to that, there were some wooden cabinets made out of birch. From one of the open drawers he saw a few toys that weren’t organized in any specific way.

Ranboo looked at Wilbur, a little calmer than before, yet he still seemed small. Wilbur had yet to talk to Ranboo alone, and he wondered exactly what kind of person had managed to get that close to Tubbo in all this time. That was not the first question on Wilbur’s mind however. “Before I came in,” he tried, “What were you discussing?”

Ranboo’s cheeks seemed to turn a faint red. “Oh.” he said, “Well, Michael kept running off, so we were uh, thinking about how to keep him near us. Just for his first couple of walks outside, you know?”

Wilbur had the urge to break out in laughter once again, though he managed to stick to a sudden huff and a smile. “Aha,” he said. So, the inevitable betrayal wasn’t coming from Tubbo and Ranboo. 

And Tubbo had a son. That was new. For a brief moment, the thoughts of his own son flashed across Wilbur’s mind. Though the more he let the thought linger, the more the bells of war seemed to ring through his mind, and he cut it off the second he could. Not now. 

Instead, he smiled contemplatively, “Is Techno your enemy?”

Ranboo looked surprised to have been asked such a question. “Huh?”

“Well, you seemed to hide something from him,” Wilbur said, raising his eyebrow, intrigued. His mind was buzzing with excitement, at learning more about the current political situation,  “You said this was a military base. Tubbo was clearly hiding boxes away.”

“Oh! Oh no no no.” Ranboo said quickly, moving his hands back and forth, to deny the claims, “I live with Techno actually, I… I trust him!”

Wilbur chuckled. “But not with the knowledge of your home?” he paused, another thought hitting him as he looked at Michael, “Or with your child?”

“No it’s-”

“Oooh!” Wilbur said, suddenly, perking up, “Unless it’s me, you’re hiding something from? Is it me?” he said, beginning to get a little excited.

Ranboo looked as if he’d been accused of something terrible. “No! It’s uh…” he took a deep breath as if he was calming himself, “It’s nothing like that, it’s just… We’ll tell him eventually, I mean, we have to, but…” he closed his eyes momentarily, and opened them again, “Snowchester is a bit of a government, you know? And Techno doesn’t quite… Like those?”

Oh. Now, that made sense perhaps. “So, he is your enemy?” Wilbur asked for clarification.

“No, we just… I don’t really have any enemies, per se…” Ranboo said quietly, “We just have to find the right way to tell him, is all. At uh…” He cringed, “At some point...”

“You don’t have-” Wilbur was baffled, and he started laughing again, “You don’t have enemies, you say?”

“No no, it’s more than that. Like-” Ranboo frustratedly sighed, “I don’t think enemies should be chosen because they’re on a different side. They should be chosen because they specifically hurt you or someone you care about. Like- Dream is an enemy.” Ranboo shrugged off the last sentence as if it was a universal concept that didn’t need an explanation.

Yet, that wouldn’t align with the facts. For one, that was a rather useless way to look at things. In a perfect world, choosing people would be possible, but this was anything but a perfect world. In truth, Wilbur wondered if Ranboo had the slightest idea what he’d believe in on his own, without the mutual enemy he could pretend was the only issue. And sure, Dream was against L’Manberg, but Wilbur had to admit that the man had proper reasons. He was wrong, but his reasons weren’t. Dream even brought Wilbur back to life despite all the trouble between them. “How can you just say that?” His tone quickly turned defensive as he didn’t realize that he was defending a man who wasn’t even in the room, “Dream revived me, is that something an enemy would do?”

A look of quiet shock came across Ranboo’s face that made him purse his lips and look towards Michael instead of Wilbur. However, this silence was returned back to him as Wilbur looked at him expectantly for an answer. After moments of thinking passed, Ranboo opened his mouth at the same time there were three knocks on the door. The door opened and Tubbo poked his head into the room and opened it, “Dinner’s ready!”

Michael snorted and wiggled out of Wilbur’s grasp. The toddler ran to Tubbo and tried to get past him and downstairs, making soft shoves that were ineffective, but the most he could do. The adorable scene almost distracted Wilbur from the fact that Ranboo didn’t answer him. 

Almost.

[scripttorture]

Can a parent who is a torturer teach his child to become a torturer since childhood, but not teaching it as torture, but the techniques involved, and well, violence and abuse. Is it normal that the child is not being abused himself?? Or would such a parent torture their child if they wanted the child to grow up to become a torturer and take their place one day.

Torturers ‘teach’ on the job. I’m not sure if it would be possible for them to teach these techniques without exposing someone to violence.

 And even if it was that isn’t what they do.

 They bring the people they want to ‘teach’ into the cells with them. They have potential-torturers witnessing torture (and encourage them to participate) from the first day.

 And here’s the thing: this makes sense. It makes sense because torture is functionally simple and because it applies social pressure to the potential-torturer. It makes it harder for them to refuse to torture and implies that they will be at risk of violence if they do.

 The scenario you’re suggesting fundamentally misunderstands torture and torturers. You’re assuming that this stuff is more complex then it is and that torturers are more patient, thoughtful and restrained then they are.

 All of those are common misconceptions that feed into torture apologia.

 It’s OK to be wrong. The important thing now is the next decision you make; where you go from here.

 Child torturers are rare. And while I have heard of cases where children were abusers or torturers I’ve never heard of a case where a parent tried to encourage their biological child to become a torturer.

 There’s quite a lot to unpack and explain there so bear with me while I break this down.

 Child torturers are rare because generally children are not put in positions of authority, and the torturer being in a position of authority is an essential part of the legal definition of torture. Children are not (usually) allowed to become police officers, soldiers, doctors, civil servants, teachers or any of the other professions torturers are drawn from.

 There are ethical reasons for that but there are also practical reasons for it. Children do not make good soldiers. They are typically weaker then adults, have more complex nutritional needs, have shorter attention spans, cope less well with sleep deprivation and are not as good at performing repetitive tasks without fault.

 They are harder to train as soldiers, less physically able to act as soldiers and harder to keep at a base standard of health in a warzone.

 I am not saying children are incapable of torture: I am saying that they are not given the opportunity.

 The cases that I’m aware of involving child torturers are uniformly child soldiers. Usually those children are kidnapped and enslaved. They are not the biological (or adopted) children of the other torturers.

 Sometimes these children are deliberately drawn from despised minority groups. For instance the Daesh use of kidnapped Yezidi boys on suicide missions was part of a wider campaign of genocide.

 Sometimes these children are encouraged to take part in torture as part of strategy to make these children feel like they can’t return home. They’re made to participate in violent criminal acts then told that they will never be forgiven by their society. This is part of how these groups coerce cooperation from their victims.

 So child torturers are rare and the children who are usually in a position where they could be classed as torturers are generally not valued by the groups using them.

 This makes me think that a valued, blood-related child would be less likely to be used as a torturer.

 There’s also the question of why a torturer would want their child to follow in their footsteps.

 Because torturers generally do not enjoy what they do. They report finding the experience distressing and exhausting.

 Some of them frame it as ‘necessary’ and genuinely seem to believe they were doing something helpful. (This is not true, torture does not work). Some of them frame it as a punishment their victims ‘deserved’. Some of them don’t really seem to have much justification at all, everyone else was doing it so they did too.

 But as a general rule torturers don’t report having a positive view of their own job. The typical relationship is more complex.

 They have an inflated sense of their own importance and the importance of their job. They often depict themselves as the ‘only ones doing the real work’ and talk/act as though they’re the most important part of the organisation they’re in.

 But they also report feeling consistently under-valued and overlooked by their organisations. They consistently describe a hugely stressful, pressurised working environment and an atmosphere of continued, unhealthy competition with everyone else.

 Torturers do not take enjoyment in their work. They report finding it physically exhausting, extremely stressful and the development of mental health problems associated with torture.

 They often feel as though they’re at risk of violence from their colleagues and superiors. And they’re not wrong. Looking over modern historical records of regimes like Soviet Russia show that torturers were regularly purged by the state. And the fracturing effect they have on organisations is sometimes enough for them to be attacked by other members of their organisation.

 When this doesn’t happen they burn out. They reach a point where their mental and physical health problems become so severe they can’t even pretend to do the job they were hired for. And then they’re dropped, or ‘encouraged’ to quit.

 They struggle to find any employment. Because by that point they typically have really severe mental illnesses and no useful skills. Plus the general aura of asshole that comes with an inflated sense of self importance and a tendency to lash out at anyone who doesn’t feed that ego. A lot of them end up dependant on other people.

 Basically- I don’t think any torturer would want someone they value to become a torturer.

 Even when torturers see their ‘work’ as essential they don’t see it as a good job. They’re acutely aware of the dangers and the toll it takes on them.

 If this character actually cares for their child at all they’d probably discourage them from being a torturer.

 I think that leaves two broad questions: ‘Do torturers abuse their families?’ and ‘Are torturers typically torture survivors themselves?’

 And neither of those questions have clear answers because of the lack of research on torturers.

 There are reports of torturers who abused their families. But there are so few reports by mental health professionals on torturers that it really is impossible to say if this is a trend. And there are also reports of torturers who never abused their families. Familial abuse by torturers could be in line with familial abuse in the general population.

 There is no evidence to suggest torturers are any more or less likely to abuse their families then anyone else.

 The second question is more complicated because of the assumptions underlying it: people who ask this generally seem to assume that someone who is tortured goes on to become a torturer and…. That isn’t exactly what we see these people reporting.

 Yes some torturers are also torture survivors. Because a lot of them are soldiers and sometimes captured soldiers are tortured.

The pattern I tend to see reported (this is anecdotal because of the lack of research on torturers-) is torturers getting captured after they’ve been torturers for a while. Either by their own side or an opposing side in the context of a conflict. Then they’re tortured.

 Or their area is invaded by an opposing side, they flee the conflict and get targeted with… exactly the same stuff everyone else fleeing the same situation is targeted with.

 The child soldiers I described earlier in the ask seem to be particularly vulnerable to torture and other ill treatment.

 We don’t have a way to measure how many torturers have also been tortured. By which I mean, no one has really done enough research to answer that question.

 The vast majority of torture survivors will never go on to become torturers, because they won’t be put in a position of authority. Mentally ill people are systematically barred from positions of authority in most places. And torture survivors seem to be particularly vulnerable to unemployment.

 So I think torture survivors are unlikely to be put in a position where they could become torturers.

 But, yes torturers are sometimes put in a position where they might become torture victims. We don’t know how often this happens. My impression is that it’s no where near the majority, may be not even a particularly significant minority (though it seems to be more common in some specific areas/circumstances then others).

 Wrapping up: I don’t think it’s a good idea to have a torturer also be a torture survivor in this sort of narrative. I think that’s an incredibly complicated thing to try and handle and I don’t think you’ve got the knowledge base to do it justice yet. I also don’t think it adds anything to the characters as you’ve described them.

 There is no ‘safe’ way to expose someone to torture. Torturers do not try to protect the people they ‘train’, they throw them in at the deep end and encourage them to participate almost straight away.

 But torturers also don’t necessarily see their jobs as ‘good jobs’. They don’t describe it as a legacy they want to pass on.

 Why is it important that this child is actively taught? Could they be exposed to or witness torture in another context? Is it even important that the torturer is their parent? Using another influential adult character would allow the child to keep a more-or-less positive relationship with their parent. And it could make the conflict between child and parent about ‘You allowed this torturer access to me and they showed me awful, traumatising things’ rather then ‘You exposed me to traumatising things and you hurt me’.

 Does familial abuse add to this narrative? Because I’d argue that exposing a child to torture is abusive and it creates another layer of complexity. On top of torture, and the peculiar mindset of torturers, and the mental health problems torture causes in survivors, torturers and witnesses.

 Think about those questions. Go back to the sources page. Read O’Mara’s Why Torture Doesn’t Work and the appendices to Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth. Read Alleg’s The Question.

 And consider whether these elements actually help you to tell the story.

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[uncloseted]

I hope to be better one day. I believe in only two genders because I believe science doesn’t care about your feelings and I feel trans people are really attention seeking and always seeking validation always need to be included always need to be reminding people. I was born female and I’m not always included in everything and I don’t turn around and call people sexist and transphobic, sometimes u get left out cos that’s called life. I’ve tried changing I cant. I just keep my opinion to myself and just agree publicly with what others say. I know I am not a bad person but just wonder what it is that I don’t get it, I honestly think this is just me.

Against my better judgement, I'm going to answer this ask. I'm not entirely convinced it's a question that's in good faith, and the fact that this ask is in my inbox at all suggests to me that you didn't really engage with the nearly 4,000 words I've already dedicated to this subject, so I don't know how much I'll be able to add to your thinking here. But I know a lot of people do genuinely have these questions or questions like these, and so I think it's important to take them seriously for anyone else who might read this answer. If you really hope to "be better" or to change your views, anon, maybe you'll get something from this, too.

Science Doesn't Care About Your Feelings

So, you start by saying that you "believe in only two genders because [you] believe science doesn’t care about your feelings". What exactly do you mean by this? Maybe science doesn't care about your feelings, but science also doesn't support the assertion that there are only two genders. The scientific community is in agreement that trans people exist. The scientific community created the term "gender dysphoria", and it appears as a medical diagnosis both in the DSM-5 and ICD-10 (and will appear in the ICD-11). The scientific community supports the use of medical and social transition to alleviate the stress and discomfort that trans people experience. The scientific community views social and medical transition as an important tool to reduce the number of trans people who will die by suicide. None of those positions are based on "feelings". They're based on scientific fact- on findings that are testable, observable, repeatable, universal, and measurable. If you want to dig into the scientific research that has been done on trans identities we can, but I have a feeling that's not really where you were going when you said "science doesn't care about your feelings."

Are you talking about "gender essentialism", where your gender is defined only by the sexual characteristics you have? In your previous ask, you yourself seemed to me to be unconvinced by biological essentialism. Are we just arguing over the proper use of the words, "sex" and "gender"? Science views sex and gender are fundamentally separate concepts that are often linked. For example, the World Health Organization, an international, scientific agency of the United Nations, says that, '[g]ender' refers to the socially constructed roles, behaviours, activities, and attributes that a given society considers appropriate for men and women" and that "'masculine' and 'feminine' are gender categories." The FDA, a federal, scientific agency of the US government, uses "sex" as a biological classification and defines "gender" as, "a person's self representation as male or female, or how that person is responded to by social institutions based on the individual's gender presentation."

But even if you were to take gender essentialism to be fact (and to be clear, I don't think we should), the idea that there are "two genders" is still incorrect. As many as 1.7% of people have at least one intersex trait, and there are many more who don't have all the sex characteristics we associate with being "a boy" or "a girl". As I mentioned in my previous post, some girls don’t have a menstrual cycle (due to menopause, hormonal birth control, low body weight, PCOS, etc), but they’re still "biological girls". Some girls don’t have a uterus (for example, if they’ve had a hysterectomy), but they’re still "biological girls". Some girls never develop breasts, but they’re still "biological girls". If you take gender essentialism to be fact, what is your definition of "a biological girl" or "a biological boy"? Could trans people who have transitioned be considered, perhaps, "a biological girl" or "a biological boy"? Why not? And where do intersex people fit into that paradigm? Would they, perhaps, be a third gender, if we take gender essentialism to be fact? And if not, why do intersex people get to be "a biological girl" or "a biological boy", but post-medical transition trans people don't?

Finally, there are very much times where science cares about your feelings. The entire scientific field of psychology is dedicated to caring about people's feelings and understanding what they mean. So is cognitive science, and psychiatry, and frequently, neuroscience. Behavioral economics and linguistics care about your feelings. Even the field of artificial intelligence and human/computer interaction cares about feelings. Feelings aren't a bad thing. They can help us to understand ourselves and others, and to create systems that work better for everyone. Feelings prompt us to ask the right questions so that science can answer them with facts. In this case, the feelings of gender dysphoria that trans people feel and a feeling of curiosity on the part of scientists led to scientific research about gender dysphoria and the development of scientifically supported treatments to alleviate that gender dysphoria.

Trans People Are Really Attention Seeking

"Trans people are really attention seeking and always seeking validation always need to be included always need to be reminding people" feels like a strawman argument to me. It's just something that can't really be proven or disproven. It's a feeling that you have, but not a scientific fact.

I think it's also an example of a "relevant logical fallacy", or what's more colloquially known as a "toupee fallacy." The toupee fallacy is a type of selection bias where a negative trait is obvious but neutral traits are not. Its nickname comes from the phrase, "all toupées look fake; I've never seen one that I couldn't tell was fake," which is an example of this fallacy. You've never seen a toupee that you can't tell was fake because you assume the ones that look real are just natural hair. The same applies to trans people. If a trans person passes, you may not know (or notice) that they're trans at all. Or if a trans person "acts normal", you may not notice because you're only looking for "toupees"- trans people who are, in your view, "acting inappropriately".

Which brings me to my second point, that this is also an example of the Baader-Meinhof (or "frequency" phenomenon. This is a phenomenon where, after you notice something for the first time, there's a tendency to notice it more often, especially if it's something that makes you react emotionally. Maybe it's not true that all "trans people are really attention seeking and always seeking validation always need to be included always need to be reminding people." Maybe it's that you're noticing it more frequently because it bothers you when this occurs, but you're not noticing all of the trans people who are just quietly living their lives.

Finally, I suspect that if we were more inclusive as a society, trans people would have to talk about their transness less frequently. If people are consistently calling trans people by their deadname or using incorrect pronouns for them, of course they're going to always be reminding people that they're trans. If people are consistently excluding them, of course they're going to be seeking inclusion. This is anecdotal, but one of my best friends is trans, and she never really talks about it unless it's directly relevant. And I think she can do that because she's always respected, included, and just generally treated like "one of the girls" (because she is just one of the girls). I said this in my last post, but I think it bears repeating- the people who are most insistent on their identity being respected tend to be the people who have been the most hurt by people not respecting who they are. Being insistent about who they are is the only way they feel they can be recognized or seen. They're operating from a place of pain. And isn't that sad more than it is annoying? It certainly is to me.

But even if we accept the (incorrect) premise that "trans people are really attention seeking and always seeking validation always need to be included always need to be reminding people".... so what? Does being attention seeking and validation seeking mean that a person's rights should be taken away from them? Because if it does, a whole lot of Instagram influencers are about to lose their rights. Does wanting to be included mean you should be ostracized from society? I think we all want to be included in one way or another. We all want to be part of a community that's bigger than we are. Does always reminding people of you are warrant people rejecting your identity? If you believe that, you should never correct that one person you know who always gets your name wrong and just accept that that's your new name now. You don't have to like people who you find annoying, but you can't just take away their rights or deny them rights because of it.

I Was Born Female and I'm Not Always Included

"I was born female and I’m not always included in everything and I don’t turn around and call people sexist and transphobic, sometimes u get left out cos that’s called life." Isn't that a bad thing, though? Don't you want to be included in spaces that you're excluded from right now? Don't you want people to be less sexist towards you? Don't you want the same rights that men have? I certainly do, and I think it's important to fight for those rights. It sucks to be left out, but more importantly, it's damaging to be left out. Being excluded from spaces has very tangible financial impacts on people, even if you don't care about the very real emotional impact it has. I don't want that exclusion to happen to me, and I don't want that to happen to the next generation of girls. Whatever I can do to make sure that stops, I'm going to do it. And yes, that includes calling people out on sexist behavior. It sucks to have to do that work, but if we don't advocate for ourselves, nobody will advocate for us. And I'm lucky that I'm in a position where I can try to be an ally to the trans community and use some of the privilege I have as a cis person to fight for them so they don't have to do it all themselves. I know how much I would love for men to use their privilege to advocate for women in spaces where we can't, and I hope I can do that for trans people in spaces where they can't advocate for themselves.

Final Thoughts

So once again, this brings me to my final thoughts, and a few questions I would encourage you to think about. What are you really worried about here? Are you worried that including trans women in women's spaces will make it more difficult to talk about issues that people with female sex characteristics face? Are you worried that trans people will center themselves in those discussions? Are you worried that cis men will masquerade as trans women to infiltrate women's spaces with nefarious intent? Are you worried that you'll say something wrong or offend someone? Are you worried that including trans women in women's issues will set women back in terms of the progress we've made? Is it a general discomfort with societal change?

Once you understand where your emotions are stemming from, then you'll be able to address them in a meaningful way. I don't think that "this is just [you]" or that you "can't change". But I do think it will be hard to change your view until you know the reasoning- might we even say... the feeling? - behind your views. You're not coming at this from a rational, emotionless, scientific perspective, and that's okay. But that means that, despite my best efforts, I probably won't be able to debate you into changing those feelings. Only you know where those feelings are coming from, and only you can choose to change them. I think you can "be better one day", but you have to choose that for yourself.

Extra Credit

If you're interested in digging further into this topic (or if you're looking for a fun and educational way to spend thirty minutes), I recommend the ContraPoints video "Pronouns":

It absolutely will not dissuade you of the notion that trans people are attention seeking, because Natalie is, at her core, a fabulous performer who uses elaborate aesthetics and sarcasm to illustrate her points and to make her philosophy lectures more fun. But it does directly argue against Ben "facts don't care about your feelings" Shapiro in a rational, logical way. It delves into a lot of the topics I was talking about the other day and also a lot of the topics you bring up in this ask. Natalie even talks herself about how the polite, easy thing to do is call someone by their preferred pronouns, but that she wants to truly understand why people use the preferred pronouns they do instead of defaulting to them because it's "dogmatically the woke thing to do". In my opinion, it's a good video, but even if you don't end up agreeing, it's not that long, so try it out anyway.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 170

170

Lance lavished Keith with extra attention as they got ready for the day ahead. Today was finally the day that Curtis was freed from his curse. Waking feeling ill, Lance kept it to himself. Keith was fighting his own dose of anxiety, coupled with lingering pain from bottoming though that had been a good 15 hours ago now. Making extra coffee, Lance had cooked a few of Curtis’s favourite foods, and comfort food for Shiro, assuming being an anchor for his boyfriend’s soul would be quite taxing on their friend. They weren’t allowed on the same floor as their friends, so Pidge and Hunk were coming with them to Platt, told by Coran to be a few hours late.

When Hunk picked them up, Lance was glad he was the one driving. Keith had hit that angry stage of anxiety, a little snappy and overly apologetic. Lance unable to keep from thinking about the house and Curtis on the drive. Hunk trying to cheer them up as he and Pidge talked tech. The house was clearly an unsaid no go topic for the day. Plans shifting to making the most of the road trip down to see Keith’s father once Curtis was up for it. Keith barely contributed. Lance ignoring safety in favour of sitting in the middle back seat with just a lap belt to be able to hold Keith close to him. Honestly having so much in his head distracted from the discomfort in his belly. A growing feeling something was wrong left him teary, though he knew he’d done everything he was supposed to be doing to keep the pregnancy progressing smoothly.

Parking in the staff parking under Pidge’s direction, Lance was hit with vertigo as he climbed from Hunk’s car, resulting in him tripping on his own feet as his left ankle rolled. Something felt very wrong. Again, he knew it was his anxiety blowing things out of proportion... Embarrassingly, Lance found himself on all fours throwing up. Keith yelling his name as if he’d been shot or stabbed, and not something as damn common as him falling over. Grabbing him around the shoulders, Lance hacked, spitting in his puddle of mess with his nose scrunched up

“Babe?!”

“I’m okay...”

“You collapsed. Do you have a fever?”

Keith smacked him in the head as he tried to check. Lance sighing heavily

“I’m fine. I tripped...”

“You...”

“I tripped. I’m okay”

Ugh. Stupid ankles. It didn’t matter how fast and how strong you were, ankles would get you every time

“We should get Coran to check you”

“Babe, I’m okay... help me up”

Keith hovered. Hunk hovered. Pidge had a bounce in her step as she led them to her office. Everything within VOLTRON was running smoothly. People going about their jobs. No blaring alarms. No one was hurt. No big bad jumped out them. He was being stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The only thing around to fear was Lance and his paranoia... and his paranoid anger loaf who’d made Hunk carry the picnic basket, then started “helping” him along as if he was old and decrepit, reducing him to shuffling along. Thank god no one else was there to fuss, his anxiety hadn’t settled as it was, now it’d decided to kick into overdrive there’d be no settling it until Keith finally stopped fussing and they could see their friends again.

*

Keith couldn’t stop thinking about Shiro. He hadn’t called him. He hadn’t wished him good luck today. He’d said nothing to his brother and he hoped his brother took it to mean he trusted things to go smoothly, and not that he was giving up before things had started.

Settling in in Pidge’s office, she shared her space with three other technicians. Keith would have gotten lost if he hadn’t been following her as she confidently led them to the lab. With his arm around Lance, he found himself torn between who to fret over more. His boyfriend who’d fallen over and then promptly thrown up, or Shiro who would acting as Curtis’s anchor right about now. Thank fuck that the fellow lab techs weren’t in at the moment, because he wasn’t sure he could keep his damn temper in check over the situation. He didn’t blame Lance for throwing up. It’d been a while since it’d happened outside... His boyfriend had spent the morning trying his hardest to be reassuring, but when his rock started crumbling, Keith didn’t know what to do. Lance kept him grounded. Lance had to be okay. Plus Lance had totally nailed him the night before and he worried the slip of his ego had somehow upset the twins. Keith had been swept up in Lance’s scent and the way his boyfriend’s body moved. He’d rushed in, over sensitised and flipped some kind of switch inside Lance. He didn’t regret it. Even with his vampire side showing, Lance hadn’t hurt him. His grip firm, without being painful, pleasure pounded into him until he had to touch himself for relief.

Now Lance was sitting in a chair Pidge stole from another technicians desk, his boyfriend rubbing his stomach as their little gremlin grabbed a case for him to rest his feet on. Keith had seen plenty of those cases before. Normally they contained things that someone shouldn’t be putting their feet on. “Dusting” her hands off, Pidge beamed

“Okie dokie, guys. Lance has decided he needed the royal treatment, but do you guys want to see my lab?”

Pidge and Hunk had showed they were they’re for them, by being physically there for them. Pidge was keeping them smiling, as she’d done at the house, using her “gremlin powers” as a force for good. Going to the house had been a sobering experience for them, and Keith had let his duties as the cool mature older friend slide by providing very little comfort to her, despite the fact both her brother and father had been held there. Leaning back in his chair, Lance nominated him

“Keith would love to. I’m going to chill here and be pregnant. Maybe think about breaking into the locker room and appropriating some toothpaste... the options are endless”

Pidge poked Lance in the back of the head, Lance swatting at her hand. How could the pair of them act so normal? Hunk seemed the only one worried outwardly. Lance letting Pidge tease him only served to annoy Keith. His boyfriend might be clumsy, yet he felt there was more going on with Lance that what met the eye

“If you’re feeling that much better, you can come on the tour too”

“I’m busy growing two humans at the moment...”

“You’re on a roller chair. Hunk can drive you”

“Piiiiidge, I promise I’ll listen, but I’m not feeling great. Show Keith and Hunk around, brag about your job. You deserve it”

There was no one there that Keith trusted Lance’s health too. Allura helping in the summoning ritual, and Keith now realising he hadn’t been worried about the two faes. He should be worried. A demon against Coran and Allura... That wasn’t as simple as a werewolf with a cavity. They could be seriously hurt if the summoning went wrong. Catching him staring, Lance held his hand out of him, Keith moving to automatically grip it

“I’m going to be okay. You’re not leaving me. You’re not leaving the room. It’s all psychosomatic from what I can tell”

“So something is wrong...”

He’d known it. He fucking knew it. Now Lance was admitting it so it had to be true

“Just a little pain in my stomach, and a little bit of dizziness. I’m fine now I’m sitting”

“You should have told me”

“I know. But I’m in the best place I can be and I’m like pretty sure that maybe it’s because I’m worrying about our friends. They’re going to be okay. Coran knows what he’s doing. They’re going to be okay and we’re all going to in relief once it’s over, you’ll see”

“But what if something’s wrong?”

“The most important thing we can do is be calm. Go check out the tech. I packed my phone, so maybe Pidge can play with that?”

Keith had forgotten about Lance’s phone. His head felt foggy from the moment he’d woken up. Too many thoughts were taxing his brain power. Crossing her arms, Pidge huffed

“I do not play. You guys should appreciate my genius”

“Trust me, Pidgeon, we do. Hunk, Bud. It’s all going to be okay. You’re allowed to be here, so you don’t have to be nervous. Kolivan isn’t here to kidnap you guys, and Coran loves you. I’m sure that engineering side of you is dying to tinker. You’ve already signed a non-disclosure, and as your amazing legal advisor I’m telling you it’s totally fine to relax”

Hunk worried his pointer fingers together

“I’m worried about you. Oh, man. I said it. Dude, are you sure you’re okay being here... You’re pregnant and pregnant people should be resting and we went to the house and you didn’t look very well then and...”

Lance gently interrupted Hunk

“Sunshine of my life, all bromo and no homo, I’m okay. You don’t need to worry. I’m older than you, remember, plus I’m a vampire. A little trip isn’t going to hurt the babies. My stomach didn’t even touch the ground. Go forth and tinker. Maybe you can swipe something useful?”

Lance liked to think he was magically easing everyone, but Keith could tell differently. He felt it, that Lance wasn’t being completely honest, yet Lance did like to stress and worry too much... He felt kind of weird being in the labs without being at work. He’d start back tomorrow, provided everything went well today. Lance had probably already thought about that too. His boyfriend being so thoroughly himself by trying his hardest to support him. Leaning down, Keith kissed the top of Lance’s head. He was being silly. He was letting his anxieties blow things out of proportion

“I’m sorry. I’m not handling this very well”

“Babe, none of us are. But we’re all not handling it well together. We’re a pack remember, it’s natural we’re worried for our family. Now, give me a kiss...”

Keith did as he was told, Lance smiling at him toothily, before continuing

“... and don’t go touching anything”

“Why not? You said Hunk could”

“Because Hunk could probably rebuild anything he broke. We have to face it, babe, we’re a little bit dumb when compared to these two. Not that you are dumb. I have no doubt you could rebuild any weapon you get your hands on, I’m just saying there’s no way I could fix a microscope if I broke it”

Keith got it. He was no wiz when it came to tech

“That’s true. We’ll be... somewhere in here, if you need me call me”

Lance slowly rubbed the underside of his swell

“You know I will. Me and our cupcakes are just going to chill”

*

Not knowing how long the summoning would take, the wait dragged on. Keith had taken to borrowing a roller chair, keeping himself preoccupied as Pidge worked on Lance’s phone with Hunk. Rolling over to his boyfriend, Lance raised his leg, pushing lightly and sending him rolling across the room. Yeah. They’d hit level of boredom. “Running” back across the room on his tip toes, Pidge pushed her chair back to stop him

“If you two keep this up, I’m going to evict you”

Lance sighed at Pidge, pulling himself up in his chair

“Don’t get snappy at him”

“Then don’t get mad when your phone explodes!”

Lance rolled his eyes, not phased by an angry Pidge

“Is it just me, or does our gremlin sound like she needs another dose of coffee?”

Coffee sounded great. Plus it’d give him something to do with hands

“I’ll go!”

Pidge huffed at Keith’s enthusiasm at leaving. He could have brought Kosmo and taken him for a walk while they waited

“Say how you really feel. You’re supposed to be helping me with the interface”

“I can’t help you until we get there”

Lance wheeled himself over to Hunk

“Hunk, the coffee nerds are fighting. Want to come get the coffee with me?”

Hunk nodded, playing along as he whispered loudly

“They’re scary when they fight”

“I know. I’m surprised Pidge hasn’t invented a Roomba that knives ankles when someone gets between her and coffee”

“Man, don’t go giving her ideas!”

Pidge pushed her chair back, crashing lightly into Lance and Hunk

“You two suck. I hope you both know that”

Lance raised his hand to ruffle her hair

“So Pidgeon doesn’t want a coffee? I guess I shouldn’t get cookies either”

“If you dare come back without cookies, I will end you”

“Many have tried. I’m having cupcakes with the last hunter who came to do just that. You might be a gremlin, but you’re facing a creature of the night”

Pidge sighed at Lance

“You’re a dramatic arsehole, you know that, right?”

“I have been told my arsehole is very dramatic and I don’t even know what that was. Hunk, do you want to come for the walk?”

“Sure... are you up for walking? Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’ve rested and I need to pee. Besides, Keith is cranky. He needs sugar and caffeine”

Keith scowled at the pair of them. He should be the one going for coffee, not his pregnant lover

“Why don’t I get to go?”

“Because Pidge might need your help. We’ll be back soon, babe”

Wheeling herself back to her desk, Pidge mocked him

“Yeah, babe. He’ll be back soon, babe. Don’t worry, babe”

Pidge could pull off being a summoned demon with ease. Keith glad she was using her powers for good instead of running a top class criminal racket

“You’re evil”

“I know”

“Guys, we’re all family and we all love each other. We’ll be back soon. Babe, it’s okay. I love you and I promise I’ll get your order right”

“I know you will. Love you, too. Make sure Hunk doesn’t get lost”

What the heck was that? “Make sure Hunk doesn’t get lost”? What a time to be awkward... Lance snorted

“Pfft. I’ll make him hold my hand and look both ways before crossing the road”

Hunk groaned at them

“Why am I being treated like a kid?”

Lance smiled happily at Hunk

“Because you’re our Hunk and we love you. Pidge, do you want any real food?”

“Nope. I’ve got my own fridge with adult food and everything. You two losers go get the coffee already”

“Ma’am, yes, Ma’am”

Lance shot Pidge a sloppy salute, Pidge over exaggerating rolling her eyes at him

“Go already! Keith, why do you put up with him?”

“Because I love him”

“Acceptable answer. Okay, come over here and pretend to make yourself useful”

*

The bad feeling Lance had hadn’t left. Leaving VOLTRON the world felt warmer. The sunshine and busy streets distracting with their overness. So many people were talking he couldn’t narrow in on one particular sound. With each step away from the building, he felt better. The pains in his stomach hadn’t abated at all. Yet if something was wrong, all he could do was wait for Coran as it was. Noticing his distracted mood, Hunk held his hand, Lance smiling and he shook his head when it first slipped into his.

Unable to stop from over ordering, Hunk was on coffee carrying duty, as Lance carried the two bags from the bakery back. The pain now starting to get to the point when he had to slow down, and rest every few metres. Reminding himself he only had to make back to the next block, he tried his hardest to ignore it. It’d pass. It’d pass and the twins would be okay. He didn’t so much care for himself, he’d heal, but them... He couldn’t lose them. He’d give himself an hour. If things hadn’t improved in an hour he’d head down to the infirmary and let them poke at him.

Hunk noticed the stops, the big man slowing to a snails pace to match his. Making their way through the bookshop and into the elevator, Lance dropped the bags as he grunted, staggering into the elevator wall. Something was wrong. Something was very very wrong. These... this felt like... his fake contractions but a hundred times worse

“Lance!”

“Call... Keith...”

Gripping his stomach with one hand, Lance held himself up, bent over with his hand against the elevator walls. A second wave of pain made him moan in misery

“Fuck, okay, okay, okay. It’s only a little further...”

Wetness trickled down his legs, Lance immediately panicking at the warmth

“Call Keith!”

Behind him Hunk had hit the button down to the labs, the elevator doors sliding shut. They’d only just started moving when elevator shuddered, some kind of barely audible boom causing it to shudder around them as it came to a stop. Shit. This couldn’t be good

“I can’t get through to Keith. The call won’t connect!”

“What do you mean you can’t reach... agh!”

Gripping his stomach, Lance’s knees bent, nearly buckling under the pain. A wave of something evil seemed to tear through the air, the hairs on his skin standing upright as his body erupted into goosebumps

“It says no signal! What do I do?!”

Hunk was freaking out. Lance was freaking out. He hated being trapped. He hated elevators but knew the doors would open, so ignored the discomfort of being in one. Above the lights flickered, red replacing bright white light as an alarm started ringing. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone wrong with the summoning. That was the only thing Lance could think of... fuck... fuck it hurt... it hurt so much his head dropped as he swore violently in time with the wave of pain

“Fuuuuuck!”

This couldn’t be happening. He’d done everything right. Every demand placed on him, he’d done it. He’d stabbed himself over and over with those damn injections. He’d drunk Keith’s blood. He’d eaten until he started to hate food.

Coming to his side, Hunk had set the tray of coffees down. Placing his hand on Lance’s lower back, he leaned around him

“Lance? What do I do?”

“Hunk, I need... need you to check... if I’m bleeding...”

“Wha...”

“Just put your hand on my arse and tell me if you see blood”

Hunk moved, his moved hesitant as he pulled down the back of Lance’s pants exposing his underwear. Thank god for elastic maternity pants

“N-no...”

Okay. Okay. That was good. Forcing down a deep lungful of air through his nose Lance released it slowly through his mouth

“I think I’m in labour. The summoning’s gone wrong... I need you to check the elevator doors. See if you can get them open”

It didn’t matter what floor they were on. Coran had built the place with a labyrinth of hidden stairs. If they could get out, they could get help. He could send Hunk through the car park to call Krolia, Matt and Rieva

“On it... Dude, do you want to sit? I don’t know what to do...”

Poor Hunk. Lance had to keep strong for him, but fuck... He needed Coran, like right now!

“No... no... standing... is better... fuck... fucking fuckery fuck...”

[piermanwalter]

Thief’s Apprentice: Magical Beings

Note: I mean magical beings in the sense that every being in a discrete group is magical. For example, a human or a wooly mammoth or fig tree can all be mages, but it doesn’t mean all humans, wooly mammoths, or fig trees are mages. All of these beings are mages. The World was once populated with magical beings, but after they all mysteriously died while turning human, there have been very few magical beings on The World. However, disease, soul experiments, and mass prayer have caused humans to become magical beings again.

Revenants

There are about a hundred million revenants on The World. 

We already know about revenants. A plague turns vertebrates into necromancers after they die, who come back to life as a walking corpse. Revenants have no physical senses. Revenants feel the emotions they felt as they died the strongest. The longer you had the plague, the saner you will be after death. Revenant souls regenerate quickly and grow continuously, becoming huge enough to allow them to perform powerful magic without consequence.

We have taken a very revenant-centric view of The World so far, but there is so much other shit going on.

Ambient Creatures

There are countless trillions of Ambient Creatures on The World. 

The World was once covered with Ambient Magic strong enough to support large creatures through magic alone, but they have shrunk almost to disappearing. Some believe the loss of Ambient Magic coincides with the mass extinction of magical creatures, but there’s no proof of this. There are still a few patches of Ambient Magic scattered throughout The World, but they collectively take up less than 100 square miles and are too weak to support anything but small and simple creatures.

In the last few hundred thousand years, some previously nonmagical animals have evolved to take advantage of Ambient Magic. All beings with souls can absorb and make use of Ambient Magic, which only amounts to feeling slightly more emotionally stable. However, this is enough to sustain some beings, like the flatworms, which eat nothing and lazily float about, needle snails, which eat and behave like normal snails but have the ability to shape iron sand into spikes using Industrial Magic, and lambent butterflies, which use Light Magic to flash and turn invisible, but revenants don’t see using light anyway so it literally does not matter. When removed from Ambient Magic, ambient creatures will lose all magic ability, and in some cases, die quickly. There are many species that are indistinguishable from nonmagical species, but when they are placed in Ambient Magic, start performing powers. Some of these species are found nowhere near Ambient Magic. How did they get there? Maybe it’s the Ambient Magic that moved.

Parts of Ambient Creatures can be used to make powerful magic items because they evolved to store a specific type of magic.

In Veilheim, the Ambient Creatures in the Magical Grove outside the city are seen as further proof that invertebrates are Perfect Forms. 

Vampires

There are about fifteen thousand vampires on The World. 

120 years ago, Dr. Hanna Ferse, an infamous Gore Mage from Hapsburg, was able to reverse engineer the original plague-transmitting neuroleprosy bacteria into something she hoped would save humanity from plague. It sort of worked. Vampirism renders its bearers immune to plague, but vampirism is arguably worse than the plague. Instead of turning the dead into necromancers, it turns the living into gore mages. Given that vampirism still draws upon The Necromancer’s magic, this has terrifying implications as to The Necromancer’s true power. While being a vampire prevents plague, being a plaguebearer also prevents vampirism. Vampirism only infects humans. Interestingly, mages, wizards, and other people with unusually large souls are immune to vampirism.

Vampirism is transmitted by bodily fluids, has a ten hour incubation, then in one hour turns bearers into vampires while they are still alive. If bearers don’t deprive themselves of water and eat salt past the point it’s physically painful, they will die. Their bodies have been modified to function best when very salty, but they still have the same survival instincts as humans. A healthy vampire suffers from constant thirst, but if they drink too much of anything with a lower salinity than blood, they will get sick and die. Vampires can also die in all the ways a human can die, such as starvation and bleeding. Vampires are also very dense and quickly sink in all bodies of water. Being in contact with freshwater for too long will cause mass cell death and their skin to slough off. Vampires also get very stiff and develop a grainy pallor as more of their bodies are replaced with salt. Many vampires get strokes and kidney stones and go blind because of high blood pressure, and also their blood is so thick with salt crystals it starts cutting into surrounding tissue. Being a vampire sucks because you need to turn into a cured ham or else you die. Hampires.

Why haven’t vampires overrun and destroyed The World like revenants did? The most obvious reason is that they are weak and fragile compared to revenants, but the most important reason is incubation time. Living a normal life for a few years, a plaguebearer can infect many people, who in turn infect many people, and none of them know they have the plague. Entire continents can unknowingly become saturated with plaguebearers. Meanwhile, an accidental bearer of vampirism only has 10 hours to unknowingly infect someone before suddenly dying. The plague can also be carried by all vertebrates, living or dead, while vampirism bacteria can only survive in living humans. 

Vampires stop aging and are sterile. Vampires also have ever-growing souls like revenants, but not as fast. You’d think newfound Gore Magic abilities would help vampires alleviate their salty pain, but no. If a sane newly dead revenant screws up Death Magic and burns half their soul to pull their arms off, the revenant can sit around and contemplate their mistakes until their soul regenerates and they can put their arms back. If a newly turned vampire screws up Gore Magic, they die. Few vampires are lucky and privileged enough to survive more than a few months and master Gore Magic enough to elevate themselves above basic humanity, usually by guidance from other vampires and/or incidental medical knowledge. 

Despite all this, Dr. Ferse used freedom from plague and promise of magic powers to convince some Hapsburg nobility to become vampires, who then used their practiced good health, magic, and plague immunity to advocate for the widespread use of vampirism to combat the plague. Gehenna heard about this and was initially interested, but then saw what agonies vampirism rendered unto the poor and uneducated general populace, who were used as snacks and test subjects by the nobility, and decided stopping a painful infectious disease with another painful infectious disease is stupid as hell.

After Dr. Ferse and many others were killed in an eradication campaign, the few surviving noble vampires were able to leverage old family allegiances and secure their survival after proving they could use Gore Magic and their own bacteria to sense and drink all infectious fluids from a plaguebearer during incubation. The plaguebearer dies in the process, but their body is no longer infectious. This doesn’t work for plaguebearers once they show symptoms. 

Vampires were allowed to live as long as they kept their own numbers low and contributed their skills towards eradicating the plague. Nowadays, Gehenna views vampires like cats. They carry disease too, but they also reduce the numbers of other disease carriers, so it’s more convenient to let them live.

Although vampire killing and gorging sprees are ultimately good for the people of Beringia, many still fear vampires for obvious reasons. Sometimes vampires are driven mad by pain and thirst and start attacking indiscriminately. Some vampires lie about plague outbreaks to kill and eat uninfected people. Other vampires powertrip and infect people without caring for consequences. Other vampires look terrifying, with bloodshot eyes, salt-crusted ulcers, and gouty crystals bursting from their joints. Also most vampires are rich aristocratic Hapsburgers with their perverse decadent foreigner ways. Hamburgers.

Controversy rages throughout Beringia over whether the fine stranger who arrives in the middle of a plague outbreak and sleeps all day while mysterious piles of corpses show up overnight in the street or the white-clad masked soldiers who arrive in the middle of a plague outbreak and start shooting and burning people are more cool and sexy.

Compared to revenants, who have been on The World for 700 years, vampires are very young and are always discovering new things about themselves. Some vampires can shapeshift to hide their salty deformities, become unrecognisable, or mimic other people. Some vampires are immune to all disease, not just plague. One amazing thing that may be enough to justify salt hell is when they die, as long as their heart is intact, vampires will come back to life on Dark World Day. Before this was discovered, some dead vampires were buried and had to starve to death over and over. Dr. Ferse was found like this.

Hapsburg has a regular court and royal family, and also a Vampire Court established 80 years ago to deal with vampire internal affairs. Dr. Ferse was the first Vampire Queen after her revival, but was ousted 5 years later by the second and current Vampire Queen Hecata, who believed that Dr. Ferse’s aggressive promotion of vampirism and callous treatment of the common folk are what led to the persecution of all vampires. Dr. Ferse is still around, but no longer has serious political influence and instead secretly publishes a lot of forbidden Gore Magic literature for secret students of forbidden magic and miscellaneous edgelords. You may assume that Pontiff Rubedo modelled himself on Dr. Ferse’s teachings to become a murderous freak, but he hasn’t actually read any of her books. While he may be indirectly inspired by vampires, that’s just how he is.

The Hapsburg Vampire Court used to be a puppet state, but as the regular Hapsburg Court steadily declines from inbreeding-induced insanity, deformity, and genetic disease, the balance of power is shifting towards vampires. Although vampirism is still an upper class disease, the Hapsburg Vampire Court leveraged their newfound power to responsibly infect and educate a lot of regular Hapsburgers to form the Hapsburg Vampire Navy. Not only is vampirism useful for fighting plaguebearing pirates, vampire sailors don’t need to carry drinking water or alcohol or most types of food, because they trained to use Gore Magic to prevent vitamin deficiencies and can drink seawater. 

The Hapsburg Vampire Navy provides an alternate method of oversea transport from Gehenna’s well-armed and well-regulated sea travel monopoly. Hapsburg became very wealthy from increased trade and leasing ports to landlocked countries at huge prices, and is the first and only country to reclaim its coastline from Gehenna.

Relations between Hapsburg and Gehenna are not good. Aside from the back-and-forth coastline control, Gehenna still needs to marry into Hapsburg royalty despite them being the biggest source of unprecedented and spectacular new genetic diseases and they are really annoying to deal with in general. Vampires are still treated with suspicion at best and like rabid animals at worst, largely due to propaganda spread by Gehenna 100 years ago they have since put super half-assed efforts in dispelling. 

Despite mutual bad blood, when Gehenna announced their expedition into plagueridden Surenia to stop the source of new revenants, Hapsburg volunteered half of their Vampire Navy under the thinly veiled threat that the age of vampire dominion would begin if Gehenna failed. Gehenna used most of the Hapsburg Vampire Navy attachment to make up for the loss of troops in Beringia, and anchored some of them near Surenia to euthanise and purify returning plaguebearers. After a lot of arguing, only one vampire was allowed to set foot in Surenia. 

Vratis Constantin was a peasant in northwestern Fire Escape, the sole survivor of a village that got attacked by Vampire Queen Hecate in one of her thirst rampages. Going off dubious vampire legends, Vratis became a local hero by killing ancient revenants that emerge from the soft peaty Fire Escape ground. Through sheer willpower and blind ignorance, Vratis became nigh-indestructible from Gore Magic and also learned how to use Light Magic because of misinterpreted stories of immortal vampires materialising from shadow (they were actually dying and instantly reviving on Dark World Day).  

Upon hearing of a Vampire Court in Hapsburg, Vratis left to join his people. His presence was a shock, since it offended the noble vampires that some Fire Escapee asshole was not only able to survive, but also surpass many of them with no assistance. Queen Hecata defended him, since he was a magical curiosity and technically an heir to the throne since the Queen infected him. Queen Hecata stuck a noble title on him and treated Lord Constantin like a son, and he waged war against rival vampire families on her behalf. 

The rest of the court hoped Lord Constantin would get overwhelmed by court politics and get killed and/or disgraced. Instead, he developed a ruthless and bombastic outward persona to prevent others from reading his intentions while building a network of informants from servants, and was single-mindedly and unquestioningly loyal to the Queen. This presented a potential succession crisis, since most of the court would refuse to serve a foreign King, but Queen Hecata didn’t have any reason to disinherit him and all “accidents” and deliberately unwinnable battles haven’t worked yet.

Queen Hecata disinherits him, but promises the Hapsburg Vampire Court will recognise his new title as Vampire King of Veilheim if he succeeds. Lord Constantin knows he was sent to Surenia to die, but still believes he can get back in the court’s good graces by succeeding where Dr. Ferse failed. He hopes to liberate the people of Veilheim by giving them vampirism to fight back against their evil necromancer overlord and his mindless revenant slave army. After a life of alienation and watching himself turn into a heartless bloodless undying monstrosity, Lord Constantin believes he finally found a kindred spirit in Prince Train Noise, a faceless voiceless syphilitic monstrosity. Prince Train Noise hates Lord Constantin because he became disgusting and alienated himself on purpose.

Living Saints

There are about six thousand Living Saints on The World.

If a soulless object like a statue of a saint is prayed to long enough, it begins accumulating tiny scraps of souls from its worshippers. Some worshippers begin to hear the whispers of ancient prayers being repeated back to them. With sufficient emotion matching the general vibe of the souls in the statue, some of the soul fragments can leave the statue and die to perform miracles. This motivates people to continue praying and the statue continues to accumulate souls.

If many people are praying to help others, the statue will become selfless and benevolent. If many people are praying to help themselves, the statue will become selfish and perform the bare minimum of miracles to keep them praying. If people are praying out of desperation, the statue becomes terrified and helpless. Mass prayer is a gamble. You could generate the emotion to perform great miracles, or you could fill the statue with your own fears and doubts and render it powerless. Very rarely, the souls in the statue become self aware and realise with every miracle, they come closer to death and with every prayer, they lose more and more of themselves in a sea of pleading voices.

When someone dies in a church with an unhappy saint, all the souls in the statue enters their body and revives them as a Living Saint. 

Living Saints have gigantic souls and the same incredible magical power they had as a statue, but because the soul fragments are not in their original bodies, their souls can’t regenerate. Living Saints are physically human and eat and breathe and age like normal. Living Saints are most powerful and self-assured when they first rise and steadily grow weaker and less assertive until they run out of soul to sustain a human body and die. In that sense, they are the opposite of revenants. Sometimes the soul of the original person is still there, and once all the other souls are used up, the Living Saint returns to being a normal human. Praying to Living Saints doesn’t do anything because beings have defences to stop other souls from getting into them. These defences only drop during death, which is how the Living Saint came to be in the first place. 

Historically, there have been very few Living Saints, but as Beringia turned to centralised religion to cope with mass death and plague hell, and then later to cope with oppressive and terrifying regimes that formed to combat mass death and plague hell, Living Saints are becoming more common, to the point where some giant cathedrals have entire choirs of Living Saints. Fortunately, attempts to engineer the creation of Living Saints by killing people in churches rarely work, because you can’t be sure if the Saint is unhappy enough to leave, the time between consciousness and death is too short for all the souls to move in, and also the injuries or poisons sometimes end up killing the Saint again.

As per their original function, Living Saints are unquestioningly obedient towards clergy and people they vibe with. Regardless of how charitable they are, Living Saints love attention and being surrounded by people. They are also famously good listeners. Living Saints tend not to have a set personality and instead behave like the owner of whatever piece of soul is being consumed to keep them alive at the moment. Many churches glorify their Living Saints, and most Saints are happy to be there, but as you may expect from souls desperate enough to possess a dead body, some Living Saints are not only unhappy with being statues, but also unhappy with being worshipped or serving the clergy or even religion as a whole. Naturally, the church tries to suppress Living Saints when they do this. Most Saints are too powerful to fight directly, and can only be defeated by the opposite of prayer. A lot of people curse the Living Saint for days on end until enough of their souls die, then the Saint either becomes obedient or dies completely. 

250 years ago, a mass Living Saint rebellion led by Saint Korz, patron saint of war (oops), caused the formation of Hasc, an independent democratic republic of Living Saints and Living Saint equalists located in The Holy Pentacle in the middle of the four most religious countries in Beringia: Sacra, Benedicta, Suspensia, and Termina. Gehenna used to be the fifth country in The Holy Pentacle before it left to do its own thing. The original Saint Korz is long dead, but worship of Saint Korz is so widespread in Beringia that there’s always at least one Saint Korz who survived their journeys to Hasc, so Hasc is always well-defended. The current Saint Korz are an elderly Alexandrian woman who got elected as Minister of War and a 7-year-old Bourbon boy who goes to school and isn’t even remotely involved with the military. 

The church would prefer if Hasc was routed and all the Living Saints there returned to holy service, but nobody can do anything because Gehenna, the bulwark against plague, wholehearted and aggressively supports Hasc and its endeavors for Living Saint liberation. Why? Living Saints are a new source of heritable mages that aren’t already super inbred by centuries of royal marriage. Becoming a Living Saint doesn’t make a person have more magic potential, but a Living Saint can only form in someone with huge innate magic potential. By modern times, every legitimate Gehenna royal is descended from at least three different Living Saints. 

There is much debate in non-Hasc non-Gehenna society on whether marrying and having children with Living Saints is admirable or abhorrent. Some believe that because Saints are holy, the children of Saints are also holy. Others believe that Gehenna is contaminating their royal bloodline by marrying whatever random peasants and vagrants and students who died in a church. Some Saint marriages are in direct contradiction to canon, especially if they were a martyred virgin of legend or actual historical celibate monk. There is also an issue with personhood, since it can be argued that a Living Saint isn’t a real human with an intact soul.

Imagine being a villager praying to your local saint every day, but then one day, she leaves by possessing the body of a girl who fell off the church roof while playing. Everyone is very sad from the combined blows of the girl’s death, losing the epicenter of your community, your prayers going unanswered, and feeling like you are unworthy of the saint and it’s your fault she left. You keep praying to the silent statue, but it isn’t the same. Years later, news comes in that the Living Saint is alive and well and fucking the Pope.

Living Saints are basically unheard of in Surenia. The more a society accepts magic, the less likely for Living Saints to form. Mages can sense the fragments of human souls in religious items, and worshippers who are aware of this tend to lose faith, or treat prayer as purely transactional instead of genuinely believing they are communing with a higher consciousness. A statue being prayed to like a person is more likely to become a person, and vice versa. 

For example, a saint statue in Albany is fed with prayers like:

saint marta please please please make osten propose to me I can’t wait any longer                               hello saint marta I am seven years old and prayer book said today is the day to pray for a good husband I would like a good husband but not too soon maybe when I am ten years old                        my husband is angry with me again            may we have enough money for both a lavish wedding, a new house, and taxes by the end of the year           sweetheart is out there somewhere I will find him and finally be happy                      I ask this of you even though this task is impossible even for god my husband has the plague he’s all alone in the plague house everyone else sees him as dead he can’t die he can’t die he can’t die he can’t die if I am the last person he remembers will I die next                          I tried throwing darts at books I tried growing onions in a grid but I still don’t know the name of my true love saint marta at least reveal the first letter to me I need to know                  how do I make him stop drinking I am so scared                  daughter moved to a new town to be married and I miss her so much may saint marta protect her                    i am now old and ungainly husband says he loves me but I need peace of mind saint marta give me a sign                               is it a sin to abandon my children I need to leave I can’t stay here anymore                              saint marta our marriage is blessed thank you please take these almonds.                    i am frightened of strangers i am frightened of dancing i will never find someone to love me on my own saint marta help me                                                

The souls in this statue are thus very likely to develop into a real consciousness that is highly motivated to leave. 

Meanwhile deity statues in Veilheim are fed with:

MAY ALL WHO USE MY POWER FLOAT AS HIGH AS THEY DESIRE                                                                                               

i am not very magical but if i pray more maybe Floating Goddess will be biased i will float more         

Floating Goddess stores a combination of Death, Gore, and Industrial Magic. Those of us who are more prosthetic than flesh and bone may have difficulties floating so I will give the Floating Goddess more Industrial Magic.

who the fuck put the bathroom on the top floor of a building only accessible by Floating Goddess

The souls in this statue know they are here to serve as fuel for others’ prayers so they won’t leave.

Due to divergent cultural developments, sane revenants are magical beings that are only common in Surenia and Living Saints are magical beings that are only common outside of Surenia.

Living Saints can’t get vampirism because this loser knockoff disease can’t deal with many souls at once.

Interesting things happen when Living Saints get the plague. After the normal giant bruise upon infection, the plague has to recognise every piece of soul, raising the incubation time from five years to so long that the Living Saint dies before plague symptoms start to show. In this time, the Living Saint could have infected countless people. Because there is no soul left, although the body is a plaguebearer, it will not come back as a revenant. If the original soul is there, then the incubation period starts from the beginning and the person is affected by the plague as normal. Once they die, their soul immediately balloons to its original size as the Living Saint. 

Usually after death, a revenant takes several hours to several weeks before moving, but a Dead Saint’s soul is so huge that upon death, the body is flung about erratically and torn to pieces under its own necromancy, as well as causing indiscriminate damage to its surroundings with its secondary genre of magic. A Dead Saint will uncontrollably destroy everything nearby with magic until its body is reduced to paste, spreading infectious fluids everywhere in the process. Woe betide you if a Dead Saint breaks free and starts splattering down the street.

This is a huge controversy between Gehenna and the church. Gehenna believes all plaguebearers should be killed and burned, while the church believes killing a Living Saint is an unforgivable sin. It can be argued that a plaguebearing Living Saint can live in a way that doesn’t infect anyone, but there is always the risk of a Dead Saint. Ultimately, the church justifies its own cursing of rebellious Living Saints and mercy towards plaguebearing Living Saints because the plague unrelentingly damns people no matter what and the ultimate sin is disobeying the church, while Gehenna supports Living Saint liberation and burns all plaguebearers because the plague is a bacteria that you get as consequence of your own negligence, and disobeying the church is the most practical thing to do at this point.

Life in Veilheim seems so simple in comparison. Succumb to plague and let the city take care of you. Die happy and achieve eternal life as a revenant. 

[cynicaldesire]

Since I’m having trouble writing, I’ll just make an update post. Maybe that’ll help me feel better, get some things off my chest.

Not much to get off my chest tho. My husband had a like 2week break and we sat around mostly playing Monster Hunter Rise for the duration.

Shortly before his break, though, I was having chest pain and a toothache. My teeth have looked pretty gnarly and my gums have been receding for a while but language barrier so we’ve been too scared to go to a dentist. But we have to now because I started have Chest Pain.

My husband’s father died from heart failure. So I kept expecting my chest pain to go away so I wouldn’t have to scare him with it. But after like day 4, when the pain hadn’t gone away, I finally broke down and told him about it. He had like 3 days of work, so we agreed that I would be super careful and we lost a lot of sleep, but I checked my heart rate using my phone and tried to take it easy until my husband’s break started. We headed to the big hospital like a block away from the clinic we usually go to just in case my chest pain was serious. We struggle our way through language barriers and I explain my symptoms to the doctor. It was mostly some burning pain at the time. Doctor has me get an ECG and some bloodwork. He tells me the ECG is normal so my actual heart muscle is fine, but the bloodwork says my liver is inflamed in response to something, but it’s not an infection, so he’s gonna prescribe me some NSAIDs and tells me to come back in a week. My husband says that I also have been having some tooth pain. The doctor freezes with a thinky face and says to get my teeth checked and to come back in a week. We ask if he has any suggestions on dentists. He says NOPE! and leaves. We head to checkout and while waiting for them to process my stuff, the doctor stops by checkout also and I’m like Hey. He nods and heads out. We spent a total of like... 4 hours there. Total. For the ECG, the bloodwork, etc.

Go home, take the meds, try to take care of my teeth, get Listerine. Sit around and try to take it easy for a week. We go back, the burning is gone and my teeth have overcome their problem. Doc asks if I’m okay now, I say yeah, seem to be, but now I have random pinchy pains. He says I should come back in a month. Husband and I can’t so the doctor is like Okay well, you’re fine, but if it gets bad again... Come back.

Due to my being broke, uninsured, and having a chronic illness, I do a lot of armchair doctoring on myself. There’s a limit to it, of course, but I try to research my own health issues or treatments after visiting a doctor. I found so much more information on PCOS on sites like fucking Reddit than by going to a doctor for years. So after the doctor told me I was okay, I looked up why I might have chest pain if it wasn’t related to a heart attack or something. And one of the options was a pulled muscle.

I thought back to the week before the chest pain started. Other than the toothache and swollen gums, I had been doing a bunch of exercise. I did a bunch of Ringfit and hip lifts and situps and stuff. And I was like Hm. Did I injure my chest muscle overdoing the Ringfit?

I, of course, informed the parents of all of this. My husband’s mother was informed and I was worried she would be deeply upset because she lost her husband to heart problems. But then both parents were like “You went to the doctor? You have medications? Well you seem to have it under control, so let’s bitch about my problems.” Meanwhile, I’m over here having trouble sleeping because I’m worried I won’t wake up. But okay. When my husband went back to work, I Skype’d with my mother and she seemed more irritated that I had interrupted her evening than happy to talk to me or worried about my Chest Pain. Also my dad has to get up at like 3am, so when I called her, she was worried her getting loud and animated as we do was going to wake him up.

(husband’s mental health doctor struggles and a story about library card nonsense under the cut)

Husband has also been seeking professional help because he believes he has ADHD. He’s been having a lot of problems, mostly mentally and emotionally, and he traced all the issues he’s having to ADHD. So he went to an English-speaking psychiatrist for medication. The shrink said he wanted to treat the anxiety before the ADHD in case anxiety is the only issue. My husband, due to his job, is very good at asking questions, so he asked the doctor how many people he prescribes this medication to. And he said 100% of his patients. Well, the medication didn’t seem to help, so on the followup appointment, the doctor said Oh, you’re just taking too much. My husband was like It’s supposed to reduce my anxiety, but instead it’s making my anxiety worse, it’s giving me mood swings, and generally making me very angry. And also sex is more difficult. Doc said I’m gonna reduce the dosage because I can’t treat your ADHD without getting rid of the anxiety. Husband came out of the appointment angry and defeated. But now he’s taking less (and it might be helping?)

Soooo yeah. I try to brush my teeth at least once a day (up from the like once every 20 years I did it before) and I use the No alcohol Listerine in place of brushing sometimes because you can. I skimmed an article about how to take good care of your teeth and it said to not actually rinse when you brush and mouthwash in place of brushing sometimes. I drink almost exclusively soda so I try not to drink any for at least 30minutes after brushing or mouthwash.

We hung out with the friends a couple weeks ago and they said we should start up a new DnD campaign because one of our friends has a roommate in his small apartment and can’t rejoin the old one. The roommate is a friend displaced by a breakup, but he seems to have a new apartment and the moveout date keeps moving. Our DM is getting tired of it and one of our other friends wants in because he’s lonely and DnD is great, so he said we should start up a new campaign so he can join. So we’re setting up for that, just in case.

In order to work on my writing, I’ve skimmed a lot of tips articles after watching a bunch of YouTube lectures and videos. I kinda hate reading and I feel like a huge fraud because if I want to write, I should like to read. But I don’t want to risk buying books I don’t like and having piles of books on my Kindle that just rot. And also, you know, I’m broke. Why spend money on something I won’t get any enjoyment out of? Just a waste at that point. Coulda bought some McDonald’s with that money. Or something. So I thought about the library. I don’t have an active library card, but I knew my Dad had one, so I asked to use his to check out ebooks. He obliged and I started getting books that everybody recommends, like The Name of the Wind and Tales of Earthsea and all this other stuff. I also got Mistborn: The Final Empire and some other Sanderson books, and the Witcher series. But not every book was available at my library. I found an app that let me look at other libraries’ catalogs and I found the missing books at the library where my husband’s family and friends are. I asked our friends if they had a card among them, and the one guy that works at the library has one but his card is always maxed out for checkouts. As an employee, he can check out like  a max of 99 things. And it’s always maxed out. He offered me something I wasn’t comfortable with, so I declined. So I asked my husband to make a card. He declined. So I asked him to ask his mom to make one. She said she doesn’t live in the city, so she can’t. She sent us an email with my husband’s sister’s name for a library that I didn’t ask for and didn’t have the books I was looking for available. Because it uses a different service than the one I was looking at apparently so I could use that one but they didn’t send actual login information.

My husband, because of the way he communicates with his family, asked his mother for help with this library endeavor very cavalierly. He was just loosey-goosey with it. Something about it rubbed me the wrong way, but I figured they would handle it. His family intimidates me, has rarely made me feel welcome, and so I usually leave myself out of conversations with them. But after they just stopped worrying about the library thing, because I felt like I was right and all they had to do was make an effort, I took it upon myself to email his mom directly. Due to childhood trauma or other paranoia, I’m always worried about being misconstrued or misunderstood, so I end up being very verbose. See above. So I made a long email explaining why I wanted the library card, why I was asking for their help specifically, and included links to the places I saw you could make a library card and how they didn’t have to leave the house to verify it because of COVID. Then, to make sure it wasn’t demanding, that it was friendly, I added some stuff at the bottom about how I wished them well and I was proud of my sister-in-laws’s weight loss journey and how my chest was doing and blah blah. I sent this email right before bed. I assumed that his family would work together to figure it out and if they didn’t wanna deal with it, they would say they weren’t interested. The worst they can do is say no and I’ll have lost nothing except time.

Woke up to an email from his mother saying, in that malicious compliance/corporate politeness way, that she couldn’t make a library card because she didn’t live in the city and she’d be happy to make one for one of the cities that did work. Also, she hoped I was feeling better.

I had had a bad day prior. The day before, waking up had been near impossible, my husband ordered McDonald’s delivery for breakfast and I wasn’t hungry so we sat and watched an anime I didn’t want to watch while food sat getting cold in front of me. I ended up not being hungry for 8hrs. We were talking to the group about DnD, but also needed to shower, so while my husband got in the shower, I said some things to the group and then hopped in the shower. Upon telling my husband what I said, he had this look on his face like he was planning how to damage control what I had said, despite not even knowing what it was. My exhaustion had left me vulnerable, so I couldn’t deal with it and cried. He apologized and we talked about it. Bolstered by this conversation, I went on to boldly converse with other people, which is what allowed me to send that email to his mother in the first place. So upon her declaration that she couldn’t help me, I decided to help myself.

So I went through the process of making an account using my husband’s name for the library I wanted and it worked, I think. It’s not verified or maybe it’s not in the city, so I couldn’t check out an ebook. So I was back to square one. Not only back to square one, now I was doubly wrong. I had pursued this process in righteous indignation, after having directly contacted his mother, and been proven wrong. So now, not only was I dumb and wrong, I had put myself out there. I was wrong on stage.

My husband, wanting to help, went and acquired the one book I was using as my litmus for me. There are probably others I could look up, but at least I have that one and it’s sequel.

But yeah, that’s what’s going on with me.

[joaquinfeed]

I Think I Want to Marry You (Arthur Fleck x Reader)

Prompt: You and Arthur are getting married. Angsty-ish with a happy ending.  For @rise-like-the-phoenix. Sorry there’s not many wedding feels. I don’t know what’s going on with me, but this is not my best work. It felt forced in areas, and I apologize. 

A/N: The reader is a female because I mention “wife” twice or so, but can be gender neutral otherwise.  Warnings: Thoughts on forced relationships, descriptions and mentions of Arthur’s thoughts as well as coping mechanisms.  __

Clothes? Check. Vows? Check. Ring? Check.

You went over the list a few more times because surely you forgot something. Today was such an important day, one you thought may never come—your wedding.

Before you met Arthur, you weren’t sure what to think about the man. You had heard rumors floating around his apartment complex, and through the city of Gotham, but when you had asked a few people, many denied they even knew him.

It took a while for you both to develop a friendship, and even longer for it to move to the next level. The more you learned about Arthur, the less you wanted to overwhelm him with your feelings. Little did you know, he was already falling too.

There were times in the relationship where you questioned if you were right for one another. Although you loved him deeply, so profoundly it threatened to swallow you at times, you occasionally worried that your love was not enough to overcome the affliction of society.

This was the one time when you were grateful to be wrong.

As soon as Arthur proposed, and by ‘proposed,’ you mean he accidentally said, 'if you were my wife’ in a conversation. You both had a long and grueling talk that consisted of rambling, nervous laughter, and repetitions of 'you don’t ever have to be my wife.’ An hour of reassurance, a declaration of love, and a cuddling session later, you were engaged to Arthur Fleck.

You both agreed that it was best to 'get it over with’ per-say—not that you would ever actually mean that. With money being tight, and Arthur’s mother needing treatment for her deteriorating health, it just wasn’t practical for you to go all out for a wedding party. When Arthur timidly suggested a courthouse 'elopement’ so-to-speak, you were all on board as long as you got to spend the rest of your life with him.

After checking the list of items—clothes, vows, ring—once again for good measure, you make your way to the courthouse. You and Arthur agreed to meet there instead of arriving together because you wanted to follow the traditional rule of not seeing each other before the wedding.

The skies of Gotham are sunny, and the residents are unusually adherent to your body pushing through them on the sidewalk. You definitely miss the annoyed glances and scowls as you nearly run to the courthouse, excited to see the man who’s about to be your husband.

When you get to city hall, you meet with a judge who brings you into the courtroom. It looks no different than a room in which you’d be convicted for a crime, but it was perfect for you and Arthur to make your partnership official.

“Y/N, I have the marriage licenses here,” the judge tells you. “When your fiancé gets here, we will start the ceremony. If both of you have prepared vows, you may read them after I’m done speaking. Then, we’ll present the rings, and you’ll be hitched in no time.”

Your heart beats wildly in your chest at that notion. Married. You and Arthur were going to get married. You still couldn’t believe it. You glance at the clock above the entranceway and frown.

“Arthur should have been here by now,” you say more to yourself than anyone else.

“I’m sure he will be,” the judge replies, startling you out of your thoughts. “It’s normal for people to run late on their wedding days; most people are just trying to work up the courage. It can be a lot of pressure.”

You shake your head absentmindedly. “He wouldn’t be late to something like this for no reason. That’s not- he’s not like that.”

The room falls silent as you chew on your bottom lip, worriedly. There’s no need to panic over nothing, you tell yourself. He will be here.

You’re not sure how much time passes—an hour, maybe two— before you feel a small touch on your skin. You jump slightly at the brush, turning to see the older judge place—what you assume is supposed to be a comforting hand—on your shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look back up at the clock, the hands moving slowly as if to taunt you with Arthur’s absence.

“No,” you mutter, trying to fight the urge to cry that’s building up behind your eyelids. “He’s not here.”

“He could still come,” the judge tries to reassure you, but his words fall flat. You know Arthur. You have spent the last year of your life trying to learn every detail about the man you’re so desperately in love with. His life fascinates you; he fascinates you. Getting to know him was like reading a really good, but challenging book. You never quite catch every detail, so you just want to keep reading and reading until you understand it better.

Arthur never misses a chance to tell you that he loves you, so it always felt quite apparent to you that he felt the same way. But did he?

You think back over your year together, trying to pinpoint a moment when you may have upset him—any reason to explain his absence—but you can’t find one.

“He’s not going to come,” you finally let the tears fall down your cheeks. You hope that you’re wrong, but you know you’re not. You’re not sure why he’s not here, but it had to be real—final. Arthur would never leave you waiting for no reason. He either had trouble getting here, or he realized proposing to you was a mistake.

That’s when it hit you. Arthur hadn’t actually proposed to you, not really. He slipped up; he made a mistake. You had been the one to initiate the conversation afterward. Did you trick him into marrying you? You couldn’t remember him ever once telling you that he wanted to get married; you only assumed after he called you his wife.

Panic and guilt arose in you at the idea of pushing Arthur into this. Your brain started to run a mile a minute as you tried to recall the events leading up to this moment. Did Arthur even want to be with you in the first place? Surely, he would have said something if he didn’t. At the same time, you knew he was often shy and reserved about certain emotions, especially in the beginning. It’s possible he didn’t want to upset you with rejection. Or because he lacked experience in dating, maybe he believed you were the best choice for him, even if it wasn’t true.

“Here,” the judge says, holding out a tissue. Your eyebrows scrunch up before he nods towards your wet cheeks. You take the tissue, drying the tears that you failed to realize were still spilling down your face.

“I guess I’ll go,” you chuckle humorlessly. You turn away quickly, not wanting to see the pity in the judges’ eyes. He still proceeds to follow you out, trying to console you with empty promises, and 'it’s his loss’ bullshit.

You push open the door of city hall, only to be met with hard raindrops hitting you like a punch in the face. You watch as Gotham’s people rush to cover, and umbrellas are flung open as the puddles grow increasingly heavy.

“Fucking great,” you scoff, not bothering to run for cover yourself. Instead, you put one foot in front of the other, only hoping to make it home before the lighting removes you from this godforsaken day. “Sunny earlier, and raining now. How ironic.”

This time, you let people hit into you as they push their way through the city streets. When you arrive at the apartment, you can’t tell if the lines running down your face are drops of rain or your own reminder of this evening.

You slowly trudge up the stairs, avoiding the elevator to make time. You’re not sure what you expect to find at the home you share with Arthur. You halfway anticipate a note explaining his whereabouts and why he has decided to leave you. On the other hand, you briefly consider the idea that he may still be there. 'I got caught up at work,’ he’ll say, apologizing profusely. You’ll cry tears of joy, and he’ll kiss you so passionately your heart will threaten to burst.

But as your hand wraps around the doorknob, and you walk into the apartment, you’re not met with either of those options. Your eyes float around the room, landing on Arthur’s items that are carelessly tossed on the floor. Remnants of his Carnival makeup lay splattered on the table, along with a sweater, his medication, and an old cigarette butt.

You make your way across the room and drop yourself onto the couch with a sigh. “Arthur, what is going on?”

A world without the man you love is a world you can’t conceive of. If he has left—vanished without so much as a word—you genuinely don’t believe your heart could mend from such a devastating blow. The emptiness settling in your stomach already was enough to drag you down; you couldn’t imagine having to carry out the rest of your life like this.

Your head shoots up when you hear a small knocking sound coming from the kitchen. You almost stay put, fearing it’s a figment of your imagination due to overstimulated emotions. When the knocking gets louder, you pull yourself off the couch and walk towards the disturbance.

“Arthur?”

You swing around the corner, only to find the kitchen empty. Probably the stupid rats, you think to yourself. As soon as you turn to exit the room, a small whimper comes from behind you, one loud enough to echo through the quiet room.

You follow the noise, dreading the worst once you find the source of it—the refrigerator. You can recall the many times you’ve found your fiancé (ex-fiancé?) in the colder appliance. When you both decided the relationship between you was serious, he had confessed to you the strain his mental illnesses put him under, and you, in turn, had been willing to listen to every word.

You tug open the refrigerator door, hoping to find the rats you were previously expecting. But just as the day has shown you, you don’t always get what you predict. Arthur sat inside, knees bunched up to his body, and still wearing his wedding suit.

“Arthur, sweetheart. Can you hear me?”

You didn’t know how long he had been in there, and that made worry bubble up in your chest. Arthur didn’t move from his position or acknowledge your presence; he just continued to knock his head slightly against the refrigerator back.

The knocking sound was amplified in the otherwise noiseless room. You could hear the faint tick of the clock on the wall, but it did nothing to soothe your increasing heart rate.

“Arthur,” you repeated. “Can I touch you?”

Another minute goes by with no response, but you keep your eyes trained on the man you love, hoping to see any sign that means he’s come back to the material world. The tension in his shoulders was obvious, and his nose twitched slightly with every shift in his body.

You raked your eyes over his suit jacket and down to his dress pants. The thoughts from earlier forced themselves back into your head as you took in his tormented state. If he was in his wedding attire, chances are he was planning on meeting you there like planned. Was it possible he was experiencing this episode because he felt obligated to 'tie the knot’ today?

The rattling of the fridge fell on deaf ears as you thought about the likelihood of that being the case. You reached out with a trembling hand and placed it on Arthur’s arm, careful not to startle the man. At the small touch, he finally seems to notice you beside him. He blinks his eyes slowly as if he’s awakening from a dream. Probably a nightmare, you think to yourself.

His eyes focus on your hand, and his next words are uttered so softly, you had to lean in to hear them.

“I’m sorry.”

You’re not sure what he is apologizing for—missing the wedding, his current state, or both. Either way, you can’t find it in you to be upset. You only want to know why this is all happening.

“Why?”

He doesn’t ask what you’re referring to, and you don’t have to tell him. He finally meets your eyes, and the wholly destroyed look in his irises nearly forces a sob to escape your lips.

“I couldn’t do it to you,” he says, not moving from his spot.

“You mean, marry me?”

He shakes his head. “No, I- I mean, I couldn’t keep you here.”

“What are you talking about, baby?”

“Gotham. You- you said you wanted to move last week, but we were getting married.”

You exhale, moving your other hand into the small fridge to place on his knee.

“Sure, I want to move. But Arthur, I want to move with you. If we never have enough money, then so be it. We’ll stay here. I want to get out of Gotham, but I want to take my husband with me.”

“But if we never leave, you’ll be held back because of me. You want a home somewhere else.”

“No, I want a house somewhere else,” you say before moving your finger to his heart and pointing. “My home’s right here.”

A few chuckles escape his mouth, and you tense up, prepared to comfort him if he’s pushed into an attack. Instead, he falls quiet, presumably thinking over your words.

“What about Ma’? She can’t move, and- and we have to stay with her. People who are married don’t live with their parents.”

“Arthur,” you start, but he continues on.

“If you only stay here because of me, you will end up regretting it later.”

“Arthur,” you say again.

“If you regret marrying me later, then—”

His words halt when he sees you stand up and walk out of the room. He nearly jumps up in a rush to stop you, but his body won’t let him move from his position in the fridge. Within seconds, you are back in front of him with a crumbled piece of paper in your hands. You don’t wait for Arthur to ask you what it is. Instead, you just start reading.

“I wish I could explain to you the depth of my feelings. I wish even more that you would believe me if I could. It would be easy to tell you that I get butterflies in my stomach, or my heart nearly bursts from my chest, but it’s not so easy to explain all the other ways I feel you. Ever since I met you, it’s like your soul has been intertwined with mine. I fear that I can never express to you the love I feel for you because words aren’t enough. For so long, you’ve been my biggest supporter. You’re not afraid to tell me when I’m mistreating myself, and you’re even more willing to acknowledge my strengths.”

You take a shaky breath in before continuing. “It feels like you celebrate me every day, and today I want to celebrate you. You’re so kind, so funny, and so beautiful Artie. I love you, and I love Penny. I am honored to spend the rest of my life with a man who’s willing to care for his mother. You are my home, and you will always be the person my soul seeks out. I vow to choose you every single day because I can’t imagine choosing anybody else.”

By the time you’re finished, your cheeks are stained with tears, and Arthur is no better. His lips are pursed together tightly, and you can see the emotions playing out in his eyes. 

"Was- was that your vows?”

“It was,” you say. “I know we’re not at the courthouse, but I figured you could use to hear them.”

He nodded. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you. I was just speaking the truth, though.”

“I meant you.”

You ducked your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Oh.”

You glance back up when you feel him nudging you to stand. You follow his lead, and he moves to exit his spot in the refrigerator.

“I’m sorry I left you there today,” he says while pulling you into a hug. You bury your head into his cold chest, breathing in the cologne he must have applied just after putting on the suit.

“It’s okay. I was just worried,” you mumble. “I thought maybe I forced you into this too quickly. Then, of course, I wondered if you ever actually wanted to date me at all—which I know is silly.”

“You wondered if I wanted to date you? Do you need to hear my vows too?“

You chuckle. "Let me just hear them at the city hall, Art.”

You stand there in his arms, allowing the feeling of his body pushed against yours to comfort you. Seconds later, you pull away, cursing yourself over what you just said to him.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep assuming you want to get married. There I go again.”

“Stop saying that,” he says, pulling you in to kiss your forehead. “You have never made me do anything that I didn’t want to do.”

“So, you still want to get married?”

“I do,” he emphasizes, letting out a small snicker at his own joke.

You shake your head, smiling. “Let’s get down to the courthouse then. We should still have the time slot reserved.”

You link your left hand with his and keep your vows tucked away in your other one. “Arthur?”

He looks over at you. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay? After,” you nod towards the refrigerator. “Seeing you like that is always—”

“I’m okay. I was in my head, but I got back home,” he offers you a smile, and you return it immediately. It seems you’re Arthur’s home, just as much as he is yours.

On your way to the courtroom, you run through the streets, trying to dodge the ongoing rain like they’re bullets coming from the sky. Of course, neither of you succeed in doing so, and by the time you sprint into city hall, your dress clothes are soaked from head to toe.

The same judge from before shuffles you into the same mundane room, but this time it’s full of new beginnings. As you both stand up in from of the older man, and he reads the typical wedding discourse, you can’t help but be struck with the realization that loving Arthur is nothing like being in this dull, ordinary setting. This morning, when the skies of Gotham were sunny and bright, it wasn’t the city at all that made it the case. It was Arthur. 

The courtroom you were in surely wasn’t magical. But as you gazed into Arthur’s emerald eyes, his dripping hair stuck around his face, and his suit making puddles on the floor, you thought the world around you has never felt so perfect.

“Arthur, do you have vows prepared?”

He nods and pulls out a wrinkly sheet of paper from his jacket pocket—one that most likely was ripped from his journal.

“Y/N, I am not always good with words, but I will do my best for you. I promise to try and be the best husband I can be. I- I want to make you as happy as you make me. I will always save up extra money, so I can buy you flowers because you deserve them. You’re so strong, and you work really hard. I’m sorry my vows aren’t as good as yours, but I want to say one thing. All my life, I was nervous about doing my stand-up routine in front of people; I know how awful they can be. But you have never laughed at me, only with me. You’re the one I want to tell jokes to forever. Thank you for loving me.”

You suddenly feel his hand on your cheek, wiping away the tears you didn’t even know were falling. You fight the urge to pull him into a kiss right then and there because you know that is coming shortly.

“Your vows were perfect,” you speak softly, hoping he believes you. “You’re perfect.”

He blushes, and your heart swells at the notion of him still getting flustered by you. Before Arthur can reply, the judge is speaking out again.

“Y/N, do you have vows prepared?”

“I already read them,” you chuckle, but Arthur asks you to say them once more. You don’t want to deprive your soon-to-be husband of a single wish, so you comply and read them again.

As you fly through the words scribbled on the sheet of paper, Arthur’s smile is enough to make it seem like he’s hearing them for the first time. When you utter the last words about ‘choosing him always,’ he brings your hands to his lips, placing a kiss on each one.

“Rings will now be exchanged.”

You both pull out the individual rings, ready to gift them to the other. Neither band was spectacular, considering you both had bigger things to worry about than spending money on jewelry. However, you know Arthur spent a lot of time picking out a ring he felt you deserved, and you did the same for him.

“Arthur, if you wish to take Y/N to be your life partner in sickness and in health, you may present the ring and say 'I do,’” the judge says.

Arthur delicately slides the ring onto your finger, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His lips curve upwards into a brighter smile as he holds your eyes. “I do.”

“Y/N, if you wish to take Arthur to be your life partner in sickness and in health, you may present the ring and say 'I do.’”

You mirror Arthur’s actions, sliding the ring you picked out onto his finger. “I do.”

Arthur stares at the ring in awe, almost like he doesn’t believe this is happening. Which, very well could be true. So you reach out and cup his face before pulling him into a kiss.

“I didn’t say you could kiss yet,” the judge says, chuckling. “Okay, okay. I now pronounce you—”

He doesn’t get to finish before your pulling away from Arthur, laughing.

“So, hubby, want to go make this marriage official?”

You wink at Arthur, and his cheeks heat up again as he nods rapidly. “I would very much like that.”

You pull him by the hand down the aisle towards the entrance, ignoring the judge’s calls through his laughter.

“I’ll just mail you the marriage certificate,” the judge shouts as you push through the city hall doors.

“Do you think we can get your mom out of the apartment for a while?”

“Actually, I was thinking we could get out of the apartment for a while,” he says, holding up his last paycheck from HaHa’s. “To Gotham’s finest motel, we go.”

Your eyes widen, and you latch onto him as you both stumble down the wet sidewalk. “Motel? Am I going to get breakfast in bed too?”

Arthur glances at you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Is it too late to get a refund on the marriage?”

“Oh, ha-ha. You’re such a comedian,” you gently hit him on the shoulder. “Now, you owe me.”

“I’m sure I can make it up to you.”

“I’m sure you can.”