#Human hair extensions for hair loss

[jcmarchi]

For healthy hearing, timing matters

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/for-healthy-hearing-timing-matters/

For healthy hearing, timing matters

When sound waves reach the inner ear, neurons there pick up the vibrations and alert the brain. Encoded in their signals is a wealth of information that enables us to follow conversations, recognize familiar voices, appreciate music, and quickly locate a ringing phone or crying baby.

Neurons send signals by emitting spikes — brief changes in voltage that propagate along nerve fibers, also known as action potentials. Remarkably, auditory neurons can fire hundreds of spikes per second, and time their spikes with exquisite precision to match the oscillations of incoming sound waves.

With powerful new models of human hearing, scientists at MIT’s McGovern Institute for Brain Research have determined that this precise timing is vital for some of the most important ways we make sense of auditory information, including recognizing voices and localizing sounds.

The open-access findings, reported Dec. 4 in the journal Nature Communications, show how machine learning can help neuroscientists understand how the brain uses auditory information in the real world. MIT professor and McGovern investigator Josh McDermott, who led the research, explains that his team’s models better-equip researchers to study the consequences of different types of hearing impairment and devise more effective interventions.

Science of sound

The nervous system’s auditory signals are timed so precisely, researchers have long suspected that timing is important to our perception of sound. Sound waves oscillate at rates that determine their pitch: Low-pitched sounds travel in slow waves, whereas high-pitched sound waves oscillate more frequently. The auditory nerve that relays information from sound-detecting hair cells in the ear to the brain generates electrical spikes that correspond to the frequency of these oscillations. “The action potentials in an auditory nerve get fired at very particular points in time relative to the peaks in the stimulus waveform,” explains McDermott, who is also associate head of the MIT Department of Brain and Cognitive Sciences.

This relationship, known as phase-locking, requires neurons to time their spikes with sub-millisecond precision. But scientists haven’t really known how informative these temporal patterns are to the brain. Beyond being scientifically intriguing, McDermott says, the question has important clinical implications: “If you want to design a prosthesis that provides electrical signals to the brain to reproduce the function of the ear, it’s arguably pretty important to know what kinds of information in the normal ear actually matter,” he says.

This has been difficult to study experimentally; animal models can’t offer much insight into how the human brain extracts structure in language or music, and the auditory nerve is inaccessible for study in humans. So McDermott and graduate student Mark Saddler PhD ’24 turned to artificial neural networks.

Artificial hearing

Neuroscientists have long used computational models to explore how sensory information might be decoded by the brain, but until recent advances in computing power and machine learning methods, these models were limited to simulating simple tasks. “One of the problems with these prior models is that they’re often way too good,” says Saddler, who is now at the Technical University of Denmark. For example, a computational model tasked with identifying the higher pitch in a pair of simple tones is likely to perform better than people who are asked to do the same thing. “This is not the kind of task that we do every day in hearing,” Saddler points out. “The brain is not optimized to solve this very artificial task.” This mismatch limited the insights that could be drawn from this prior generation of models.

To better understand the brain, Saddler and McDermott wanted to challenge a hearing model to do things that people use their hearing for in the real world, like recognizing words and voices. That meant developing an artificial neural network to simulate the parts of the brain that receive input from the ear. The network was given input from some 32,000 simulated sound-detecting sensory neurons and then optimized for various real-world tasks.

The researchers showed that their model replicated human hearing well — better than any previous model of auditory behavior, McDermott says. In one test, the artificial neural network was asked to recognize words and voices within dozens of types of background noise, from the hum of an airplane cabin to enthusiastic applause. Under every condition, the model performed very similarly to humans.

When the team degraded the timing of the spikes in the simulated ear, however, their model could no longer match humans’ ability to recognize voices or identify the locations of sounds. For example, while McDermott’s team had previously shown that people use pitch to help them identify people’s voices, the model revealed that that this ability is lost without precisely timed signals. “You need quite precise spike timing in order to both account for human behavior and to perform well on the task,” Saddler says. That suggests that the brain uses precisely timed auditory signals because they aid these practical aspects of hearing.

The team’s findings demonstrate how artificial neural networks can help neuroscientists understand how the information extracted by the ear influences our perception of the world, both when hearing is intact and when it is impaired. “The ability to link patterns of firing in the auditory nerve with behavior opens a lot of doors,” McDermott says.

“Now that we have these models that link neural responses in the ear to auditory behavior, we can ask, ‘If we simulate different types of hearing loss, what effect is that going to have on our auditory abilities?’” McDermott says. “That will help us better diagnose hearing loss, and we think there are also extensions of that to help us design better hearing aids or cochlear implants.” For example, he says, “The cochlear implant is limited in various ways — it can do some things and not others. What’s the best way to set up that cochlear implant to enable you to mediate behaviors? You can, in principle, use the models to tell you that.”

[hexb0nes]

Reaffirmation - Vows to You

word count: 1.6k

warnings: mentions of dying/death, illness complications, hospitals, violence, parental loss, gen neutral!reader / afab!reader

summary: one night, in your shared bed, viktor reflects on his journey from the depths of zaun to the skyscrapers of piltover, his relationship with you, and the future.

a/n: trying out a new format for my fics!! hope they like them <3

There’s something funny about knowing when you’ll die. 

Viktor’s fingers trace over your sleeping body. The pads of his nimble appendages brush softly, as he memorizes every nook and cranny you have to offer. He admires your curves and dips, your hips plush and fit the grasp of his hands like a missing puzzle piece. Your facial features, the barely audible snores that escape your oh-so kissable lips. You stir in your sleep and grimace, murmuring something under your breath. Viktor presses a kiss against your temple and pulls you closer into his frail arms. You relax and snuggle into his bony chest, as if he was the world’s most comfortable pillow.

Viktor’s hands move from your hips to your hair, entangling his fingers into the locks and combing them quietly. Your hair is silky, smooth to the touch. He remembers your various hair styles over the years; long braids, then a bob, followed by shaving it all off when one of your friends began their battle with cancer. Your hair is an extension of your energy, your soul. It reflects your journey and carries memories. Each time a person cuts their hair, they cut off the old memories with it and begin anew. Viktor hopes you cut your hair after he passes on. 

I should tell them.

Viktor rests his chin on top of your head and exhales. Behind the curtains in your shared bedroom, the dazzling lights of Piltover dimmed by the thick fabric. You rub your face against Viktor’s chest and sigh, a deep but content sigh. Viktor’s lips quirk up into a miniscule smile.

But they would try to stop me.

On his nightstand, an assortment of opened mail lay still; medical bills, electricity bills, HVAC bills, and so on, these are the costs of staying alive. A calendar is pinned on the wall closest to the balcony, scribbles of appointment dates and work events present. 

If there is a God out there, damn you. Damn you for this, damn you for–

You squirm in your sleep. Viktor strokes your hair and gives you another peck on the head, you simmer down and continue to peacefully snooze.

Oh, little dove. You have a knack for sensing my distress, huh?

His chest rattles with an impending cough and Viktor stifles it back. He reaches for his nightstand and grabs his handkerchief, a belated birthday from his colleague Sky Young. Viktor muffles his coughing with the handkerchief, praying that his attack didn’t disturb your slumber. 

Damn you, God. 

The coughing soon subsides and Viktor pulls the handkerchief from his mouth. Splatters of crimson blood stain the handkerchief. It’s wash friendly! Sky reassures him upon gifting the embodied cloth, Just add some soap to hot water and scrub, then it will be good as new.

Miss. Young is a thoughtful woman.

Viktor sets the handkerchief and makes a mental note to wash it in the morning. He lowers his hand down your back, feeling each vertebrae. Your back is smooth, untouched by bolts and screws implanted deep within. His hand reaches the small of your back, your pajama top somewhat lifted and exposing your skin. Viktor brushes his thumb against your back and lets out a low hum.

What a marvel you are, my darling; it’s as if the Heavens forged you of holy light and pure, unabashed love for humanity.

Viktor recalls the day you two met; it was an act of total coincidence that you and he touched that book at the same time, Thus Spoke Zarathustra. At the time, Viktor never met someone who enjoyed such literature, not even Jayce, who preferred science fiction and mystery over anything philosophical or classical. It sparked a conversation on Friedrich Nietzsche’s characterization and the various elements introduced. The conversation led to a friendship, a friendship led to a spark of romantic feelings, and a spark of romantic feelings led to you confessing to him during a terrible thunderstorm.

No matter the weather, you promised to show up for me.

You had spoken from the deepest depths of your heart and soul, proclaiming your love for Viktor while thunder roared and lightning crackled above. In soaked clothes, you cried out to Viktor how you couldn’t keep hiding your feelings from him, that you loved him with every fiber of your being. You held your head low after your confession, your face hot with embarrassment and fear. Viktor extended his hand out to you and pulled you inside his apartment.

You were drenched to the bone, I couldn’t let you catch a cold.

Viktor remembers how his lips connected with yours that day, how foreign but exciting the sensation was. He kissed you, mustering up each ounce of energy and willpower to express his reciprocation of love. You grabbed at his hair and tugged on it to stabilize yourself, inciting a muffled moan from Viktor. 

I could have kissed you for eternity, if my lungs allowed for such a gift.

From that day onward, you were no longer just you and Viktor–friends and nothing more–but you and Viktor, two souls intertwined. You said so yourself at the altar during your vows, how you and him were one and the same. In the present, Viktor chuckles to himself at how teary-eyed he was at seeing you beside him at that altar. 

I vowed to stay alive for as long as I could, to spend every day and every moment left in my weary bones with you by my side.

The milestones you two went through–the move to more spacious living quarters, your first ever wedding anniversary, and so on–were done so with the utmost glee. Soon, your friends followed suit, some getting married and having babies while others relished in the single life and their roles as aunts, uncles, and such. Even Jayce, Piltover’s most eligible bachelor, finally settled down and married Councilor Mel Medara, having three adorable kids.

What a spectacular life I have lived with you, my little dove.

You push yourself off Viktor and spread your limbs out, tussling the linen sheets for a new position. Viktor lays back against the bed and faces you, entranced by your beauty. He lifts a hand and puts it on your stomach, a small bump protruding outward. 

I don’t have much time left.

The pregnancy was unplanned, a flunk. Viktor was unsure if he could pass down his conditions to the hypothetical child, so it was better to be safe than sorry. Yet, the day you held up that pink stick and showed him the two lines was the day Viktor reaffirmed his vows to you.

I vowed to stay alive for as long as I could, to spend every day and every moment left in my weary bones with you by my side.

The idea of fatherhood terrifies Viktor. He has no recollection of his own father, nothing more than a patron at the brothel where his mother slaved away to raise enough money to make a better future for herself. A child complicated things; sometimes, Viktor wonders if he cost his mother such a bright future. However, whenever those doubts would arise, his mother would shut them down with a wave and smile, You’re my new future, Viktor. You’re my winner.

Yes, winner. My name means so. I strive every day to be a winner.

An act of senseless violence stole his mother’s life. She switched to working the counter, collecting and maintaining the bills, something better for herself and her son. A robber came for the money and the women, she stalled as long as she could for the workers to evacuate. She played hero, saving at least ten lives that day. Yet, for every heroic act, someone had to pay the price. The robber shot her straight in the head, brain matter and blood splattering and coating the wall behind her, as she crumbled lifelessly on the floor.

I vowed to make the Undercity, Zaun, a better place.

Viktor rose from the bottom to the top, climbing up the rusty rungs of Zaun to the shiny rungs of Piltover. He studied by day, worked odd jobs at night. He worked and worked until a Yoddle named Cecil D. Hemingdinger found him and took him under his wing. Every day, Viktor fought to be a winner. Soon, Jayce came along with his grandiose plan to revolutionize magic for the common man. He was Viktor’s ticket to promotion, life as an assistant was never in the cards for him, Viktor was a scientist.

We made the world better.

Hextech became a reality and shot Piltover into the stratosphere as an epicenter for trade, the arts, invention, and progress. A few years after the invention of Hextech, a slow day in the lab with no Jayce in sight led Viktor to visit the nearby library. A colleague had recommended Thus Spoke Zarathustra for him to read.

Yet, it was you that made my world better.

Exhaustion weighs Viktor down, his body demanding sleep. He tries to remain awake, but his need for sleep overtakes his desire for introspection. His eyes flutter, as he falls deeper and deeper into sleep.

Goodnight, my darling.

Viktor falls asleep, his hand wrapped around your arm. The entrance to the balcony near your bed creaks open just a bit for some wind to blow inside. The wind knocks some mail off Viktor’s nightstand and reveals a letter underneath.

Dear Mr. Reveck,

I write this letter to you with my deepest apologies and condolences. Your recent lab work has shown concerning results, despite your ongoing treatment. I fear that your prognosis has diminished from five years to two years. Yet, there is hope! A clinical trial has opened up, testing a new treatment that may extend your life for another decade. The researchers have informed me that they’re willing to offer you a spot in the trial if you desire so.

Please contact me at your soonest convenience to express your acceptance or refusal.

Dr. Kuwayama, MD 

Pulmonologist – West Piltover Hospital

[mintmoth]

Alright I'm gonna ramble about my Bad End AU finally lmao, basically it's a Lusamine Wins/Ultra Beast Fusion style au thing lmao I'll put it under a readmore

Essentially this is a Bad End AU, in the vein of What If Lusamine Won? The main group goes to ultra space but Lusamine wins the battle and the Nihilego descend upon the cast.

I do have Zia managing to try to protect Lillie, though the quick separation of the Nihilego from the host leaves Lillie in a fairy princess like coma for angst reasons sorry Lillie 😔 she gets added to the display of creepy crystalized pokemon. BUT Lusamine herself, Guzma, and Zia are parasitized and essentially fused with Nihilego, making them somewhere between Pokemon and human. They now are full of toxins and have some similar abilities to the Nihilego a la the Lusamine battle, but they also have Standby and Active states aka just when they're more visually human or not. Typically they look more human and are all kind of weirdly emotionally numb due to the overflow of toxins in their bodies, but sometimes will get moments of clarity, like coming out of a long dissociative episode and they're filled with panic at the realization of everything before Nihilego pick up on their heightened emotions and head over to "help" them.

Because I'm taking a page from the manga handbook and Lusamine has taken over Poni island with ultra beasts but also I've added aether paradise to this as the main hub base, with various aether employees who are still loyal to her. Guzma and Zia are also there because something in them feels weirdly loyal to her- same with the Nihilego that just roam the halls, like they have their natural defensive instincts but also pack instincts with each other. REGARDLESS this leaves them at her side as I have affectionately come to refer to them as her guard dogs.

They're both basically left with their worst negative traits heightened, making Guzma more irritable and aggressive, but willing to push himself to the breaking point for praise. He takes on a more active role with Lusamine being approached by various other evil team crap due to how successful she was and Guzma sometimes goes on loan to help when people schmooze up to Lusamine right and need some muscle. This Guzma has definely killed people rip. He has more muscle to him and can use the toxins within him and their natural ability to heighten the host's mood and own abilities to go into an almost berserker state. On the flip side Zia got the Nihilego's ability to look into people's memories and create illusions to make her a more distance based non physical combatant, so she typically stays by Lusamine's side and as such has become this like, weird new surrogate extension of Lusamine's self. Her more negative traits are being very passive and obedient and avoidant because she was raised on the "be seen and not heard" method and that leaves her in a more "you're so well behaved, unlike my unruly children" position with Lusamine.

ON THE FLIP SIDE Hau and Gladion are working together and with the adult cast to try to put an end to Lusamine bringing all this out of control bullshit to Alola and eventually Gladion will be able to at least save Lillie so they can work on figuring out how to wake her up. Honestly I don't have a lot of timeline stuff figured out outside of the premise LMAO

Also to explain the hair color changed real quick- it's another visual signifier for a loss of self as well as just another instance of Lusamine's penchant for prioritizing aesthetics. Zia's hair is naturally white so it's easy to just dye over in more of that weird element of Lusamine regarding her almost like a new well behaved child of hers- while Guzma within all my Zia stuff does have naturally two toned hair that he just dyes and bleaches in spots to make it looks more like an intentional style, so it's easy to dye over in black to unify it, which also shows a loss of his own personality in all this

BUT YEAH it's not super fleshed out but I've been having fun with the idea since it's so different than the normal story for these two

[tojisun]

dunno where this came from bc i honestly just wanted a short ramble and not smthn long but here we are :'D this is an extension from my rambling yesterday about simon x reader but it's a dowry of blood au (brides of dracula retelling). i havent finished the book yet tbh but if ur planning on reading it, i do just wanna give a warning that it's dark and prose-heavy

cw: death/massacre; blood drinking; vampire-turning and stuff; inaccurate references to dracula lore

the village is gone. burnt. fire crackles amidst the broken hymns of the dead—they don't sing, not anymore of course, but their losses are catastrophic. you never realized how the apocalypse could be so loud.

you stand at the centre of the chaos, bloodied. bruised. ruined. the lone survivor.

the only one who was lucky enough to be saved.

brought out from the pyre, you were dragged into the shadowed corners and hidden from the pillagers who slaughtered everyone you loved and everyone you knew. you shook in your grief, screams erupting from the base of your throat, but all were silenced by an ice-cold palm over your mouth.

"shh, little one," he said. the first of his words; the first of his kindness. "you must be quiet."

your fury sputtered into anguish, the loss descending to you like the first drop of snow. tears spring from your strained eyes, staining even his hand; you did not know how to compress the bloating agony that was pressing into your lungs. your only comfort was that he seemed to favour you enough to keep you safe, even if just for a moment. 

rain had fallen by then—it seemed like it knew that tragedy had struck this little place. it extinguished enough of the fire, washing away the smell of ashes and leaving only the pungence of iron. blood.

with it, your adrenaline wore off, and you began to feel the extent of your pain. of course, you were not unscathed, but you didn’t expect your body to be so brittle. 

you fell, tumbling into the muddy ground and right before his feet. you croaked in pain, lungs constricting. it was becoming a lot more difficult to breathe, to speak. you wondered why death came to you slowly.

he knelt down by your side, cold hand brushing away at your dirty hair. he was speaking to you softly, words passing through his lips in soft lilts. you struggled to hear him, your ears ringing, numb, as your mind pulsed in your skull.

you groaned, begging him to stop. to go away. you had nothing to pay him back with, nothing to entertain him, so you told him just as much. you told him to let you die in silence because how else could he save you?

“that is troubling,” was all he said, his words were rumbled from the depths of his chest like he hadn't used his voice in eons. 

you peeled your eyes open, wondering what it must be that he was after, then you finally saw what he was—pale skin gleaming underneath the moonlight with eyes dark like wine. he was not a human. he couldn’t have been one.

your mother told you tales of the wicked. of those cursed and abandoned by the almighty father—she told you of their beauty, of their wealth, of their hunger.

(they do not know how to love, she said as she tucked you underneath your sheets. they only know how to deceive.)

your body locked, heart congested with fear—your body knew then, didn’t it? that this being that held you close was far more terrifying than the invaders. that your body survived the fire, the greed of humanity, only to be devoured by the devil.

“please,” you whimpered, the will to live burning inside you once again. you didn’t care about the pillagers, you didn’t want their mercy, but this being. this creature of the dark, oh how you craved his clemency.

“please, save me.”

“i cannot save you,” he said. 

his hand fell to your throat, grasping it gently, almost reverently. he swiped his thumb along the expanse of your skin to feel the way you swallowed. 

“but i can help.”

you tried to reply, to beg once more, but the words could not be sounded out, your throat having been too ruined for any prayer. you shook with your desperation, turning your eyes to him to express your ragged hope. you prayed that he may see your plea. you prayed that he may bless you with his curse.

he smiled, fangs glinting before your eyes. then, he murmured, “of course.”

(mama? how do you know when your prayers are answered?

well, sometimes it starts off painful.

painful?

yes, little star. but then, it becomes euphoric. freeing. good suffering.)

his teeth tore into your skin, ripping apart the muscles as it hunted for the blood. you screamed, throat scratching at the intensity of your pain; it was unbearable, burning unlike that of fire, scalding as it slithered down your very being. something was happening then. something unholy. 

you were being remade. reshaped. taken apart one bloodied fragment at a time.

you felt like you were at the precipice of death, so close to the edge and into eternal damnation, but he would not let you. chained to his hunger, your body writhed underneath the extent of his power; burning. burning. burning.

he was your new pyre. 

he was hell.

you begged for anything to subdue the pain; for a touch kinder, warmer; for the ceasing of it all. 

and it did.

his lips left the sensitive patch of your neck, pulling away with a hummed smile as though it were ambrosia he was sucking out of you. you stared at his lips, stained with your blood, and, within a fraction of a heartbeat, unrelenting hunger coursed through you.

you yowled, your mind heavy and your body sore. you felt lost; you felt like you were drained and left as nothing but a shell of what you once were.

“good. that’s good,” he crooned, his eyes wrinkled in his joy. “this hunger is proof of your new life.”

he brought his wrist to his lips and bit into his own skin. the first puncture oozed out with blood; you watched it pool, beading, before it trickled down the length of his arm. your throat constricted, tongue heavy all of a sudden in your mouth.

a taste. you craved for a taste.

he smiled as he pressed his wrist to your lips. “go on,” he murmured. “drink.”

you were delirious, or you must be, for you to have listened to him—your weak hands grasped at his wounded arm, pulling it closer to your maw.

you drank. 

that experience of having the first drop on your tongue was indescribable. it was like you have never eaten before; like you have never been fed. never been nourished.

it was like anything that sustained you before had been erased from your memories; you don’t remember the taste of your mother’s cooking anymore, nor the sweets that your grandmother brought home with her for you on occasions when her mistress remembered to reward her, nor the milk from your father’s cows. 

every sweet memory was washed away by the blood pouring down your throat; every gulp a sinister promise of what would be irreversible.

your body sang, skin mending itself, and bones healing underneath torn muscles. numbness filtered in—it had never felt like salvation before.

lost in your new paradise, you didn't notice as your saviour cupped your cheek once more. his touch was gentle. it was kind.

he leant forward and kissed your forehead—a reward for surviving.

“my name’s simon,” he whispered, nuzzling you. “and you will be my bride, won’t you, my dark miracle?”

your mouth left his arm, reluctant but necessary, because even before he said his name, you knew he was your master. you knew that in exchange for this new life he’s cursed you with, you were to be obedient to him no matter what. 

you nodded, breathless and ragged.

“yes, my lord.”

[the-s1lly-corner]

48, 52 and 56 with bloody painter? :3 (trope list)

(Reader is the one with wounds)

-🦭

Prompts 48, 52, 56

WOOOOO things are getting intense as I write the opening for this-- did NOT expect February to be such a busy month grregrrrr

Prompts: holding face, "Do you think we're together in every universe?", tender (major) wounds

Notes: gn reader, reader is the one injured in 56, short post, Helen is a realist though leans towards cynical, written on mobile

CWs: mentions of canon typical violence and blood

48

He doesn't typically like being the one held... but he's more than willing to hold your face. It's a little funny how that works, right?

He doesn't hold your face often... typically only does it to keep you still and so he can study the smaller details of your skin... possible freckles or dimples here... some unique skin textures there... the way your hairline and strays rest around your face before your hair properly frames it..

In a way the studying makes it all the more intimate-!

52

He doesn't believe that the two of you are together in every universe. In every context of together-- romantically, sexually, platonic... hell even existing at the same time

And he's blunt about that belief. Not because he doesn't see the softer side of "OH we were meant to be together regardless everywhere everytime" hypothetical... he's simply thinking about it realistically. There's infinite universes and possibilities

..but in this universe you chose each other.. its... a deliberate choice of words. Chose. Not found

56

He treats your wounds with the upmost importance. Hes no doctor but I like to imagine he's had a fixation with human anatomy and by extension medical stuff at some point

Each movement is... calculated. Almost cold but you can tell he's being gentle as he handles you. He won't let himself crumble to the fear of loss- if you see him panic it might stress you out... and if he can't keep himself together it might all fall apart

In the event he cannot immediately tend to you he will... simply do his best to get to you. Eliminate any nearby danger or get you away from it as soon as possible

[sibylcade]

I Fell for the WitchTok to Alt. Right Pipeline

And I escaped, thankfully.

**obvious trigger warning for discussions of trauma**

TLDR: Due to childhood trauma I wanted to find my own family. I reconnected with someone from my home town to create a witchy-commune. Things quickly turned toxic—hierarchies emerged, and I realized I being used. Over time, I recognized I had been sucked into an extreme, right-wing pipeline, with supremist-based beliefs. I got out, but learned how ANYONE can be recruited into a cult. Be careful and always question the paths you're led down

************************************************************************

I grew up in a neglectful and violent home. I won’t dwell on my childhood, but it’s important to mention because it left me with a deep sense of loss from the very start. My hyper-independence and dissociative tendencies protected me, but they also made it difficult to discover who I truly was. I didn’t learn the necessary skills to communicate my wants and needs, let alone understand boundaries with others. I searched for meaning and longed for genuine connection.

So, as I had done with every other aspect of my life, I struck out on my own and severed all ties with my parents. I shunned anything that reminded me of them—including Christianity.

My world began to expand when I started practicing paganism. The deities I encountered were flawed and acknowledged their imperfections. I forged spiritual relationships with beings I couldn’t—and would never—fully understand. I was free to doubt their existence and indulge in whatever made me feel good. This flexibility became the foundation of my practice, and it’s what I cherish most about being a pagan.

As I interacted with other pagans online, I started piecing together what my spirituality truly meant. Eventually, I found a like-minded individual, and we began talking.

It turns out, this person had a similar background to mine. We had both grown up in the same town and even been childhood friends. Once we reconnected, we discovered we were both ex-Christians and pagans, so we began sharing our beliefs. We created a small bastion for ourselves, which quickly turned into an echo chamber.

Before long, we were convinced that the world was ending and that we needed to create a commune to protect ourselves, our loved ones, and possibly even others- if they aligned with our beliefs.

So, we did it. I moved eight hours away from everything I had known, to join my newfound family. Everything started out great. I was accepted fully and without question. My partner was too. We began looking for a larger house with land for two family units... until things began to unravel.

Expenses and chores were no longer split fairly. The “smaller” unit—my spouse and I—was deemed expendable because we had no children. Though I was seen as a spiritual leader, I was also considered naïve for never having given birth (or having a penis inside me). It wasn’t until my spouse sat me down and pointed out the unfairness of it all that I realized we were being used.

Thankfully, we fled and cut ties.

It took two solid years to process everything that had happened. Slowly, I realized I had fallen into a pipeline that led me to the extreme right, which scared me more than the fact that I had nearly started a cult with someone.

Here were some of the common beliefs that we adhered to/topics we talked about literally ALL THE TIME:

 (I’ve spent extensive time deprogramming these from myself, just FYI– if you find yourself in communities that resonate with them, I urge you to carefully examine your beliefs to ensure they align with your values, and respond accordingly)

StarseedsIf you’re not already familiar, Starseeds are alien souls in human bodies. This sounds neat and all, but the idea originated with the belief that the “best” aliens are blond haired, blue eyed white people. This should sound alarmingly familiar- it’s neo-nazism but spiced up with woo.

I remember spending hours pouring over forums to find where my “star family” was. I have a feeling that most people who fall into the whole starseeds rhetoric are just looking to belong, like I was. I’m in the camp now that I’d rather be alone rather than in the company of fascists. 

Womb WorshipThis one started to take hold when I first moved in with my “new family.” The woman I had been talking to and agreed to create a commune with had recently given birth, and it was a deeply spiritual experience for her. I agreed with her that it was special— as are all births—but slowly, things shifted. It became insisted that everyone in the home were to hold her in high regard, elevating her status because she was the “only breeding female.” Reducing AFAB people to nothing more than baby-makers is disgusting and completely reductive. Further, this leaves out women who don’t have wombs,  which is TERF territory. Again, fuck fascists.

Feminine SuperiorityThis overlaps quite a bit with womb worship, but it deserves its own category because I see quite a bit of magic being divided into two energies- masculine and feminine. If that’s what works for you, and you’re not promoting some kind of superiority, that’s your choice. But too often, these practices end up reinforcing hierarchical structures. In the pre-cult, women who were afab and capable of reproducing were at the top of the hierarchy. Men were all lowly idiots that were slaves to testosterone. This was especially concerning because she would call her husband an idiot and treat him like a neanderthal- and he would do the same to himself. I hope she does not instill these beliefs into her amab child.

Aside from them, I am agender. As I came to really think about all that happened, I found that this highly gendered approach repulsed me. I think it forces everything into following rigid gender roles and seeks to exclude anything that fails to fit into the norm.

I’m glad we escaped

It scares the shit out of me how nefariously this crept up on me. Sure, laid out onto a screen makes it seem loudly obvious how cult-like things were. It happened slowly, almost in a calculated way.

I thought these people genuinely cared about me and my spouse. I seriously cared about them and thought they had our best interests in mind.

I guess that’s why it’s called a pipeline- I nearly lost myself and all I held dear to the current.

Make sure you keep your head above water or risk drowning, friends.

[peaches2217]

Here’s a headcanon. Whats Mario’s favorite thing about Peach (both personality-wise and… physical 🤭)

Bless you Vee 🥹

Personality-wise, his favorite thing about her is her faith in people and her unflinching ability to trust. Mario’s a very kind person who believes that most people are inherently good, or at least contain the ability to be good; however, he’s also from Brooklyn and has a brother who’s been hurt one too many times, so while he’s open to giving everyone a chance, actually coming to trust someone is more difficult for him. He’s always happy to help or hang out! But you have to earn anything beyond that.

For Peach, however, it’s much simpler: you have to earn her loss of trust. She’s cautious, make no mistake, you have to be when you’re the leader of a nation. But she can look at someone, speak to them for a moment, and decide right away whether she trusts them or not, and her intuition is never wrong. That sort of insight and faith is something Mario admires deeply… not least of all because she extended that trust to him and his brother when they first met.

She had every right to be wary of two dazed, lost, and extremely confused humans stumbling into her kingdom, yet when they were brought before her, instead of throwing them out or placing them under supervision/observation, she heard them out and gave them food and shelter. Mario can’t say with any level of certainty that he would have done the same in her shoes. Some call her reckless extension of trust naïve. He calls it brave and humbling.

Physically, I think he’s so overwhelmed by her everything that there’s no one attribute he can single out as his favorite. Her eyes, bright and soft and full of cheer; her lips, plump and pink; her hair, long and thick enough to frame her body yet fine enough to sway in the breeze; and that’s just what’s on her head. Don’t even get him started on the neck down. Every last part of her is wonderful, both in their own merits and because they make up the whole entity that is Princess Peach, his best friend, the love of his life, and the most beautiful woman in existence.

[bardic-tales]

3.19.25 - Goals / Motivations - Breaking Bianca

I've been thinking a lot about Bianca and Sephiroth’s dreamscape and how it might have played a role in her fall, especially as I continue edit my Yanderoth fanfiction. So, I wanted to write this headcanon to explain why they are like they are in the dreamscape in that fic. Keeping post-madness Sephiroth as close to canon as possible in Fantasy Worlds Collide is important to me, but I also want to explore the psychological and emotional manipulation that could deepen their dynamic. I have taken his obsession with molding Cloud into the perfect puppet and amp it up to 11.

The idea of Sephiroth breaking Bianca down in the dreamscape, using her past betrayals, traumas, and even her celestial heritage against her, feels like a natural extension of his obsessive tendencies. His love, twisted by Jenova’s influence and his fragmented memories and his own descent, becomes a possessive force, shaping Bianca into the queen he desires.

This blog post dives into how their dreamscape serves as a battleground for Bianca’s mind, where love, power, and control blur into something far more dangerous.

Content Warning: Abuse (Psychological & Emotional), Betrayal, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Captivity, Gaslighting, Hallucinations/Dream Manipulation, Mind Control/Psychic Influence, Obsession/Possessiveness, Religious Themes, Toxic Relationships, Trauma/PTSD, Yandere Behavior.

After the Nibelheim Incident, during which Bianca rejects Sephiroth’s offer to rule at his side, he is consumed by a rage and heartbreak that he cannot fully understand. Though he throws himself into his destined path of destruction, her defiance festers in his mind, an open wound that refuses to close. Even after his fall into the Lifestream, when his memories are fragmented and distorted by all the knowledge he consumed in the Lifestream, the Red Thread remains: a reminder of what was stolen from him. He cannot purge her existence, no matter how deeply he sinks into madness. He gets flashes of her in the Library: hair, the time they had sex, and her scent, as well as her refusing to join him and Jenova.

His love warps into something darker: an obsession, an unwavering belief that Bianca belongs to him: that she fell into his arms, so she has to be his by right. If she would not willingly stand at his side, then he would make her see the truth. He would reshape her into the queen she was always meant to be.

Trapped in Shinra’s clutches after Nibelheim, Bianca is left vulnerable to both her captors and the lingering presence of Sephiroth. Her mind, already fractured from a year and a half of torment, becomes the perfect battlefield for his influence. Unable to reach her physically, he invades her dreams, turning their dreamscape into his personal domain: a place where her reality bends to his will. In the beginning, his presence is subtle, a whisper in the dark, a comforting voice amidst her nightmares. He soothes her, speaks to her in ways no one else can, and offers her reprieve from the agony of Shinra’s experiments. But this kindness is not without cost. Each night, he pushes deeper, peeling away her defenses, unearthing old wounds, and filling the cracks with his own truth.

Sephiroth does not simply force Bianca into submission. He guides her toward it, twisting her past into a narrative that serves his purpose. Through their bond, he delves into her memories, exposing every betrayal, every moment of abandonment, every failure of angels, demons, and mortals alike. He forces her to relive the pain of Krista’s betrayal, Asmodeus’ skinning her alive, the loss of Mordecai, her mother’s death, and how humanity turned its back on her when the Creator wouldn’t answer their prayers, showing her time and again that the world has only ever sought to break her.

And where was the light she clung to? Where were the celestial beings meant to protect her? Nowhere. Only he remains. Only he understands. He is her everything. Over time, Bianca begins to believe that perhaps he is right. Perhaps the world was never meant for her. Perhaps she has been fighting against her own fate all along.

But Sephiroth is not only cruel. Sephiroth is kind. When Bianca crumbles beneath the weight of her suffering, he is there to catch her and to offer the illusion of choice. He paints vivid dreams of the future they could have together, a world where she is not just his lover but his equal and his queen. He does not demand her submission. No, that is too easy for Sephiroth and his presence is so insidious. He makes her want it. He speaks of a purpose greater than the pain she has endured. It is a destiny that only they can fulfill. He offers her power, a place at his side where no one can ever hurt her again. And the more she dreams of this future, the harder it becomes to resist.

By the time she escapes Shinra and they reunite, Bianca is not simply a willing ally. She is something he has forged, a being reshaped through his influence. She has not been broken so much as she has been rewritten. Her devotion to Sephiroth is no longer conflicted. It is no longer torn between love and morality. She has chosen to stand beside him, but it is a choice sculpted by his manipulation. It is his careful erosion of everything that once held her back. The celestial light within her does not vanish. Oh, no. It is simply consumed, twisted into something dark and unrecognizable.

In the end, Sephiroth does not just get what he wants. He ensures that Bianca wants it too. There is no need to force her hand when she willingly takes it, need to command when she offers her loyalty freely. Through the dreamscape, he has conquered her without ever lifting his blade. And as they stand together at the precipice of destruction, he knows that this time, she will not turn away.

tagging some fellow mutuals: @themaradwrites @acursedduty @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap @seastarblue

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon

[themurdochmemesteries]

Some surprise Malcoshi for @deadheaddaisy It's angsty, because that's what I do, but I hope you like it.

Also on ao3.

She finds him in the armoury, alone, picking apart a phase pistol. Exactly where she suspected he’d be. He has his back to her and doesn’t seem to hear her come in. Hoshi frowns. It’s not often one can catch the ever-perceptive Lieutenant Reed off guard, so she ensures her footsteps are loud as she walks closer. When he still doesn’t lift his head, she clears her throat.

He whirls around so suddenly he almost teeters off balance. Seeing her, he relaxes ever so subtly. “Hoshi,” he breathes.

“Hey, Malcolm.” For all her extensive vocabulary, Hoshi is, for once, at a loss for words. A dozen or so different things she could say crowd at the tip of her tongue—questions, apologies—but none of them feel right. So instead her eyes flick to the phase pistol lying in pieces on the desk. “What are you working on?”

Malcolm glances back, running his fingers through his hair. “Erm, replacing a power pack.”

“I see.”

He turns back around to face her. “Was there something you needed?”

“I just came to see if you were alright,” Hoshi says, and even as the words leave her lips, she notices Malcolm stiffen almost imperceptibly.

“I’m fine,” he says immediately.

Hoshi’s expression softens. “What you went through-”

“Was nothing.” And there’s another uncharacteristic moment, for Malcolm hardly ever interrupts anyone. “I’m fine,” he says again.

“Sure. But… it’s okay to not be, you know.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds.

Hoshi takes a deep breath. “Captain Archer told me. About your fear.”

And Malcolm stiffens again, his spine ramrod straight, jaw set, shoulders tense. “Is that so,” he bites out.

“The aliens… What they did was inexcusable. Regardless of whether or not ‘tests of strength’ are their tradition.”

“It was the only way to get them to talk to us.”

Hoshi frowns. “But we didn’t have to.”

“We needed the dilithium.” Malcolm turns back to the worktable, but Hoshi is nothing if not persistent—and stubborn.

“Someone else could have gone. But you volunteered. Why?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer.

Hoshi takes a step closer. “Why, Malcolm?”

Still not a word.

Hoshi grits her teeth, anger flooding through her—but not directed at the man she’s held secret affections for for the past two years. Towards the aliens who returned him to sickbay two days ago, sopping wet and borderline catatonic. “They locked you in a box and left you to drown!” she exclaims.

“I know that!” Malcolm hisses.

Hoshi grabs his shoulders and spins him around. “So why did you do it?”

He shuts his eyes.

She shakes him. “Why, Malcolm?”

He purses his lips, once again not responding.

“Do you know how difficult it was seeing you like that?” Hoshi whispers hoarsely.

He glances away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “Tell me why.”

He’s silent for a moment, and Hoshi worries he’s not going to answer again, but then he opens his mouth.

“They told us, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link,” he says in a quiet voice. “If I couldn’t face my fears…” He swallows thickly, tears crowding at his eyes.

“You’re not weak,” Hoshi assures him. “It’s their system that’s bullshit.”

He shakes his head, hands coming up to rest on her own, which still grip his shoulders loosely. He hangs his head. “I cried for help,” he whispers. “When the water got too high. I cried out for someone to save me. I couldn’t handle it.”

“I’d do the same, if I was suddenly stuck in a shrinking box,” Hoshi points out.

“You’re not the security officer.”

“But we are both human.” She reaches up, cupping his face, and to her surprise he leans into it and closes his eyes. “We can’t help that.”

He draws in a shuddering breath. “I was scared…”

“I know,” she says.

And then suddenly he’s leaning forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck and soon Hoshi feels hot tears against her skin, dampening her uniform, and before she knows it her arms are wrapped around him. “It’s alright,” she murmurs, “no one can hurt you anymore,” and she holds him as he slumps in her arms and breaks down.

[listofwhyyouloveher]

hiiii I was wondering if I could request an outsiders (character of your choice) x reader. Like, them comforting reader after losing a friend. One of my friends sadly passed away to suicide recently and it’s mean a lot. Fly high Brady 🕊️🕊️

I'm am so sorry for your loss, stay strong ml

Summary: Darry comforts you after the loss of a friend

Warnings: suicide, death, heavy topics

Authors note: I chose darry because he'd be the best at comforting

There's little solace after loss. No grief turned comfort, no melancholy evenings of wishing, there's just raw, hard emotions that tear from the inside and bubbles in your throat like fresh poison. And it kills, a burden too heavy for one. It felt like everyone was peering at you from a distance, but no one was looking at you. Except Darry.

He found you by the lot sitting there numbly. Eyes glazed and teary and so incredibly recognizable, in the way you and him felt after the loss of someone important.

"Hey, Y/n," he said gently, sitting down next to you. You muttered out a quick hello back before spacing out again, head spiraling again.

"How ya feeling?" He asked, after a beat, turning to look at you.

You didn't respond, lips straightening to a thin line. Darry frowned, genuinely worried for you.

"Well, maybe I can help?" He asked, gently patting your hand.

"You wouldn't understand," you Saud, tears welling in your eyes.

"No, but I've dealt with similar things, and I really will try to understand" His smile was comforting, enveloping you in a warmth that calmed your thoughts a little. You sobbed harder.

"It's like everything is closing in on me" you shivered, body racking with sobs.

"Nothings closing in on you," Darry lifted your face up to meet his eyes.

"There's a lot that comes with death, and for me, there was this terrible sinking feeling that my world was collapsing. These emotions that you feel make us humans, but the way we grow past the bad ones makes us strong. You are so bright and talented, and so was your friend. It's up to you to make sure people remember that." He paused, wiping your tears.

" I think of people as an extension of the legacy everyone they've met left with them. In these little details, you'll find people that you love. You are forever carrying that piece of them with you. Their ideas, their talents, their likes, and their dislikes. You hold them with you forever." He stroked your hair as you sniffled.

Eventually, the air blew colder and Darry offered you a ride back to your house.

"No, not there," you said quietly, "I can't be there tonight,".

"Then how about I brew you up some tea, and you can stay at mine tonight," he offered. A warmth seeped into your chest again, and you nodded.

[soltheocracy]

The road to perfection

In which Albedo is too attached to his darling to let them go, no matter what.

He’s done it. He’s finally done it.

With an undisclosed liquid dripping down his forearms and powdered chalk coating his gloved hands, he leans over his creation. His creation, concieved of fear and obsession.

His poor, pitiful darling, ever so generous, so kind, loyal, perfect, and still so terribly ill-fated. It is truly the fate of all mortal creatures by nature, he knows all too well. Afterall, there’s no stopping the hand of Celestia when it extends towards you, intended on taking you away.

He watched your body deteriorate by time, clutching your wrinkled hand tightly as your conscience peacefully drifts away from you. Laying in the arms of your beloved, you pass on, unaware of the lives your fleeting presence will influence and consequently bring to ruin.

Your abscence left an abysmal void in him. How could a human come and nestle themselves so deep into his heart, only to leave without his explicit permission? Wallowing in despair at the loss of his beloved, he wandered the streets of Khaenri’ah as if the never-ending stroll would exhaust his being and he’d eventually join you in the afterlife.

But then he saw you again. Sure, you looked different in a few ways; your hair wasn’t as shiny as before. Oh, Archons it wasn’t even the same color, but it had to be you.

Approaching the person in a feverish manner only to be met by denial and rejection, Albedo was stunned into silence, looking at the extension of you he had falsely put together in his mind with a cold glare. Surely you’re just confused, you have no idea what you’re talking about. You love him.

Even after his relentless efforts, ‘you’ still continued to deny him. ‘You’ shut down his advances each time he tried as much as touch you; but that’s all he craves, beloved. And if you won’t let him do whatever his heart wishes, then he might resort to taking unsavory actions.

————————

But he couldn’t. No matter how much you resisted him, he could never hurt you. So, with a heavy heart and shaking hands, he let you slip away from him once again. And so, the cycle continued over centuries.

It continued until it didn’t. He had enough of going so far into your relationships, only for you to selfishly leave him to suffer in his ever-consuming loneliness.

But no longer would he stand for this. If his beloved thought they could escape him using natural causes as an excuse, he would prove them wrong. He would go above and beyond for his beloved, no matter what it took.

No matter what kinds of crimes against humanity and even Celestia itself he had to commit, he couldn’t even care for the divine punishment he was bound to receive once word of his experimentation got out.

He would make his darling permanent. He only needed to figure out how to make them perfect.

————————

He always did like Starsilver. The colour of it- when extracted- could make an elegant hue of blue for his portraits. The leftover grains from the mineral gives texture, personality; something that his creation lacked so far, but he was determined to change that.

You didn’t even have the consciousness to form a single thought. Perhaps he should keep you this way. So pliant and motionless, without a single urge to resist his desires, but then again, he does miss having meaningful conversations with you.

This way, you’ll be just like him! The perfect couple, isn’t it so romantic?

Caressing down your cold, artificial leg, he nuzzles his cheek into your still limb lovingly. Albedo marvels at the way your skin reflects the gleam of the frigid moonlight, the way your hair - which he religiously combs day after day- cascades around the stone table you were laid on.

He can barely wait until you wake up.

————————

Although you gained your conscience only a moment ago, your eyelids felt so heavy you couldn’t open your eyes. As sound slowly fades in, you hear quiet humming accompanied by glasses clicking against eachother. The freezing temperatures that would otherwise bite your skin now feel merely comfortably cool, the air filling your aching lungs stung as if you haven’t taken a breath in a million years.

Unbeknownst to you, during your painful inhale, you let out a strained gasp. You only realized your mistake when the humming stopped and pure silence set in.

Your breathing -however excruciating it feels- accelerates in panic, the rise and fall of your chest giving you away clearly. You dare not open your eyes in fear of what you might see once you do.

But you couldn’t hear anything other than your own hushed breathing. No humming, no glasses, footsteps… No sort of sound whatsoever. Perhaps whatever put you on edge has been finally driven away by your presence. Waiting for a few more moments in anticipation of something, anything happening, but still nothing.

Opening your eyes, you’re met with a face only inches away from you. Albedo’s hair frames his face and drapes down, tickling your skin. His dazed, icy eyes gaze into yours, as if searching for a soul.

“You’re finally awake, my beloved.”

“I missed you.”

“Welcome back~”

[doodle-pops]

Just a thought popped into my head, since elves have such a signifigance toward their hair, what would the elves think If their hair gets cut off by the enemy or severaly damaged and their s/o used their own hair to make a wig or extensions for their elven lover? (You know since for a human s/o hair would probably not be a big deal)

You know that moment when Rapunzel got her hair cut off? Right. Picture Mother Gothel’s reaction as the elves when their “precious, beautiful” hair got chopped off (even for an inch) 😅. I mean, Tolkien heavily specified that elves have an entire category just for ✨️hair✨️, which we all are aware of. The extra distance to let others know of the high beauty standards they have.

Anyway, before I get carried away. For your question; I see them rather…displeased at your decision because, after all, their hair would grow back eventually. Yes, all their years of caring for their hair and efforts to maintain their beauty standards got cut (pun intended) in a matter of seconds. And while it was touching (which was acknowledged) that you thought about making a wig for them using your hair, in their eyes, it was rather…unnecessary.

Although, you can both regrow your hair at the same time. ✨️couple goals✨️.

Hair overall, both elves and mortals (in Tolkien’s world and at that period), holds great significance. So in my opinion, I don’t see any of them being (immediately) touched by the act, nor do I picture them wearing the wig (wearing your hair makes them feel more guilty cuz if theirs didn’t get chopped off, then likewise yours). Perhaps after a while, they would show better understanding, once you express how much you thought the act would have meant to them if they could “have” long hair again until it regrew. However, they still wouldn’t approve of you making a drastic act like that. You're getting scolded 🫠

I believe they would have looked forward to you comforting them and giving reassurance that the hair loss didn’t strip away their beauty, strength and power. They were still the same as you always saw them and it would never change. Give them a boost of confidence to not hate their appearance and remain positive.

[sweeter-than-teafood]

Sitri Attacker Card - Chapter Six (Finale)

TW: Oh, we’re getting angst again, Morax being a wholesome bbygirl, MC comes clean about her motives, A whole lot of crying and confiding

——————————————————

Paradise Lost

Once the trio reached Paradise Lost, Sitri and Ra-On were led into separate rooms. Marbas set about getting Ra-On an antidote for the aphrodisiacs, before letting her have some rest.

Meanwhile, despite Sitri’s protests, Morax had used his healing powers to absorb the deep scratches and bites that littered his upper body.

“There! All done! How are you feeling?”

Sitri couldn’t help but inwardly grimace at the kind-hearted devil. He took on too much of Hell’s pain in this war, and he could only hope that he wouldn’t take it too far.

“Feeling a lot better, thank you. Where’s Solomon resting?”

Morax paused to glance at a clipboard on his desk, bandaged fingers tracing down rows of patients until he found the line he was looking for.

“Ah, she’s in Room 49. Would you like directions?”

Sitri shook his head, not wanting the constantly injured devil to exert himself further.

“I’ll manage by myself. Thank you again, and please, take care of yourself.

Sitri quickly left the room, teacup in hand. The smell of disinfectant stung his nose as he paced the corridors, until he reached the room where Solomon was resting. He opened the door quietly.

Ra-On was laid in the pristine hospital bed, blanket pulled up to her armpits. She flicked through a book, unaware of the company she had.

Sitri crossed the room, before sitting on the edge of the bed. Something had been plaguing his thought since he arrived in Paradise Lost, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

“Solomon?”

Ra-On’s eyelids flickered upwards, greeted by the sight of the blue-haired devil before her. She set her book aside and was about to speak before Sitri cut to the chase.

“Solomon, I have a question for you.”

The human shuffled to sit upright, curiosity marking her features. She nodded, a sign for Sitri to continue.

He took a second before enquiring, curiosity with a hint sadness obvious in his tone,

“I recall that you said earlier that you took that medicine to fake your own death, to see what would happen. What did you mean?”

Ra-On swallowed hard and glanced away, to hide the tears that brimmed on the corners of her eyes. It was time for her to confess, though she was afraid of the consequences that would spark from her words.

“I know this is going to sound ridiculous but I… I wanted to see who you would mourn…”

She choked out a sob, unable to stop the tears now.

“I thought that if I had passed away, who would you mourn? Me? Or Solomon? 

Everyone has been so nice to me since I got here, but I feel like no-one is trying to get to know me, they just want to play catch-up with Solomon.

I was afraid that my existence means nothing; that I’m just an extension of the man loved by all.

What hurt the most was… You… You called his name over and over, even during sex…”

She couldn’t look Sitri in the eyes now. Her soul was exposed to him, her emotions in a state of vulnerability that she never thought she’d experience.

But the devil’s actions surprised her the most. 

Sitri pulled her into a tight hug, allowing the human to seek refuge in the warmth of his firm chest. Her cries vibrated through his body as she returned the embrace just as tightly.

“Solomon… No. You’re Ra-On. I’m so sorry that I made you feel like that. Please forgive me.”

His chin settled on the top of her head, while his hands comfortingly rubbed her back.

“It’s been hard for all of us, you see. Your ancestor may have been gone since 931 BC in your world, but for us devils, it’s only been 100 years.”

Tears started falling onto the top of Ra-On’s head as Sitri recalled the loss of Solomon.

“I know that 100 years is a lifetime for you and other humans. But most of us devils are centuries old. It… For me it only feels like a short time ago when I last saw him alive. I’m sorry Ra-On.”

The human tilted her head up to look at him. She couldn’t help but quietly marvel at how pretty the devil looked, even when tears streamed down his face. Without thinking, she reached up to wipe his tears away.

“Hey. It’s okay. I can’t begin to understand how you feel, I’ve never known the loss of someone who could have been my ‘forever’. Although I lost my parents a few years ago, and it pains me to know that they’ll miss out on so much of my life. I still miss them greatly, they’re always in my thoughts.”

Sitri gazed at the human in his embrace, biting his lip slightly. Now it was his turn to confess, as he leaned into her hand.

“Sol- No. Ra-On. I really like you. More so than just calling this a friendship with sexual benefits. I…I’m trying to love you for who you truly are, and not the man I lost, who you painfully remind me of…

…I just need you to be patient with me. Please.”

Ra-On settled her head against his shoulder, grasping him tighter than before.

“It’ll take some time, Sitri. But I’m here. I promise.”

[bunnyuki]

UNSAID WORDS. toge inumaki

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ) gift for: @darlingspeach

CW!! AFAB READER, she/her pronouns. au fantasy/medieval. toge is a dragon, reader is a human. mentions of slaughtering/people dying/hunting. mentions of blood and injuries. he doesn't understand much of human language. this is very short and silly, i apologize. SFW, FLUFF.

YOU DON’T SEE as many dragons around as you used to. the kings of the earth and the heavens were destroyed by greed. their wings were struck by spears and cannons, their blood was collected and tested as a product. the rich wear their scales at dinner parties, because they become necklaces and delicacies. their teeth became hunters’ trophies. dragons had nothing against humanity, but humans had a desire to have everything. their ruin brought that of other peoples.

and so, the remaining dragons fled. running from the world, choosing the loneliest places to call home. deprived of reliable companions, of their companions with wings, dealing with the losses of their loved ones. nothing was left for them but memories and bones. so disappeared that they became merely legends.

fantastic stories that parents told their children to amaze them, or scare them. false and lying stories for merchants desperate to sell their products cheaply. one of the strongest, most influential and powerful races in the world. reduced to nothing more than tales. a small belief spread among the dragons. humans were dirty. rotten, spoiled. disgusting creatures that cared about nothing. the sick apple that would rot the rest of the basket. by extension, hatred for those creatures that had barely sustained themselves for a century grew. humans who encountered dragons and their treasures did not come out alive to tell the story. and no one heard from them again.

life in a village is not easy. taxes are merciless, and nobles drown in champagne while families in your village count coins to find out if they can eat. you are not exempt from this. the marquis who controls the region is obsessed with more amounts of money. the village has been going through difficulties, and with winter approaching, some have already said their goodbyes. people will die. that is a fact. for the king and his court, nothing more than numbers.

the sweet embrace of death comes to seek everyone, eventually. this is the mortal life. but that’s not how you’ll end up. huddled in a bed, on a cold morning, praying to a god who wouldn’t listen to you. you refuse. that will not be your end.

plantings have been disappointing. food becomes scarcer every day, and from what it looks like, this will be a year with lots of snow and abundant hunger. and for this reason, a good deal of adapted hunting became the main source of food and income.

the local forests are dark, specks in the middle of nowhere that is your village. full of trees and animals that need to hide from people like you. like a squirrel collecting dried fruit and nuts. all you have is a rusty knife, a crossbow with five arrows, and faith. not in god, not in greater forces. all you need is yourself.

the traps you planted exist in strategic points. hidden by grass and branches, abusing the natural environment to create the illusion of safety. merely for a noose to tighten around the body of a small animal, or a bear trap to bend into a cruel bite.

checking the traps daily has become part of the routine. just as many other villagers were forced to adapt, so were you. the skins are usually removed and worn by you. or sold.

instead of finding a small animal split in half by your bear trap, what’s in front of you now is a boy. a young one. maybe your age. his purple eyes seem to contain decades of wisdom you couldn’t dream of. his hair has an abnormal tone, like a very pale shade of blonde. he turns over and groans, his ankle caught in the trap. the metal teeth dig deeper into the flesh every time he moves, and the blood is thick and red.

but what really draws attention to him are his horns. and the tail. highs rising from the forehead and rising, white like the snow that will soon fall, with purplish tips. the same pattern for the long, tail full of scales. his nails are sharper than normal. when he opens his mouth to groan in pain, his teeth look like fangs. around his mouth, there's a strange pattern that doesn't seem to be a painting, but his skin. snake eyes and fangs.

he raises his arms to try to open the trap and free himself. the skin on the forearms has traces of scales of the same whitish tone.

his first instinct seeing you is hissing. actual hissing. like a scared snake, ready to pounce. the reaction of a scared, injured animal. you— pity him.

of course, you shouldn't. legends about dragons make it very clear what they think of your species. this boy would make you a forgotten corpse once he had the chance. but that didn't seem true. he was scared. alone, lost. his ankle caught in a trap that hurt more every moment. contrary to common sense, you choose to put the beast down and follow your instinct. approaching slowly, with your hands raised.

“easy there.” another hiss. it's a clear message. stay away. your steps are slow and you show that you are not holding any weapons. “i'm not going to hurt you. i'll help.”

no matter how sweet and loving you force your voice to be, the distrust in his eyes doesn't go away. you crouch before the stranger, staring for a moment. he is a pretty boy. you can't deny that.

your hands grip the bear trap, and you look him in the eyes. “I'm going to open this, and you're going to take your foot off. all good? on three. one. two. three.”

at the end of the count, you muster the strength your hungry muscles allow you to open the bear trap. the stranger quickly understands the message and moves away from it, allowing you to let the metal go without consequences. his hands release the trap, and it closes again with a click. the metal resonates as it strikes itself. there is fresh blood on his fingers and on the trap, and his face turns to look at the boy.

he's sitting by a tree, grabbing his injured ankle with a groan. you approach slowly again, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. his eyes narrow in suspicion.

“hey. hey, i'm not going to hurt you. okay? i promise. just let me help.” he frowns at your words, his lips parting to reply in a language you do not know. oh, well. this can be complicated.

“i don't— i don't understand.” you pause, moving to sit besides him. he furrows his brows, but doesn't say a word. “can you understand what i am saying?”

by his pout and frown, you think the answer is no. okay. what to do now, then? you quickly point to yourself, pronouncing your name out loud. then again, slowly. he repeats, the sound beautiful on his tongue. his pronunciation is a little bad at first, but the third time he's repeating it, he seems to have understood.

he follows the example, pointing to himself. “toge.” he states, and your eyes narrow.

“toge. okay. i think that's your name. you are injured.” you point out to his ankle, and he stares at you for a moment. if he could speak your language, you are sure he would be sarcastic right now. oh, don't say.

you gesture nervously, trying to sign you wish to help. after almost ten minutes of denying and hesitation, he holds out his injured foot to you. your hands are gentle, and you don't touch the injured area unless you have to. he hisses and groans in pain.

toge stares at you, decided to say something. his lips part, and he sounds confident when he says. “salmon.” you frown.

“what?”

he repeats again. salmon. seaweed. tuna mayonnaise. he only talks about...ingredients? toge is desperately trying to tell you something, confused why you don't understand the message. then it clicks. oh.

“you only know ingredient names. that's all you know in my language.” you murmur. he nods slowly, and you sigh. communicating like this won't be impossible, but it will prove itself as a challenge. but these thoughts are for later. he is injured. because of you.

it's your obligation to help this young dragon — secretly. the people in the village would take every last drop of his blood for gold coins. you'll have to improvise. “okay. uhh. does it hurt much?”

he pauses. “salmon?” another sigh escapes your lips.

this will be complicated.

[themushroomofdeath]

characters: eliza beaufoy (original character) x trafalgar d. water law fluffy, nsfw. morning sex, unprotected sex, rotting sugary of a fluff

sooo, people liked the one i posted, so I guess you can have more Ellaw, if you want? might post her profile if anyone want to see too. MINORS, BE GONE. 🔫

It was rare, those mornings in the Polar Tang. Lazy days where the heart pirates could spend unwinding in bed for a little longer, instead of immediately getting up to a day full of work. It was even more rare for their captain to accept the prospect of doing the same, letting his mind be consumed by anything other than planning and working.

But the hand threading through his silky strands of hair is just convincing enough to keep him from leaving the tranquility of his current position. Eyes still closed, even breath moving his chest ever so gently, nose unconsciously nuzzling against the pillowy skin of his lover’s bosom, holding her body close to his own - he was just content to accept this form of affection for the time being.

And to her, he never looked more beautiful. She learned to love him with any mask he would take - the stoic pirate, the genius surgeon, the man who refused to show weakness, the child-like nature of his eyes when finding a new collectible - even the endless mood swings at time, but most of all, she loved his peaceful and vulnerable state. Moments he seemed to reserve to her and him only, a shared secret closed behind locked doors. Trafalgar Law had moments of humanity too, despite popular belief.

There was pleasant warmth running through her veins, endless devotion from just gazing at his serene expression, enough affection to fill an ocean from holding him so close to her heart and knowing he was protected. He was so very precious, if only he could feel the extension of her love for him, never would he doubt the worth he had in this world, ever again.

Hand tired, she let it rest against the nape of his neck, choosing to adjust her body in his grip, just enough to reach for his forehead and temples with her lips, leaving a trail of deliberate kisses, trying to convey all her tenderness in the wake of her motions. She could feel him stir with that, but no protest came, only a content exhale - acceptance. 

Smiling at that, she hummed a response, moving to kiss each of his eyelids, each side of his nose and each cheekbone and cheek, earning a tilt of his head by the end, to be able to finally reach his full lips, leisurely taking her time with it, hand reaching to run gingerly through his sideburns, sharing one breath together.

Just sharing kisses and caresses for long lazy minutes, his free hand now joining to wander the expanse of her plushy thigh, to gently squeezing the fat on her hips and backside, repeating the motion enough to earn a little nip to his lower lip and a leg to almost instinctively reach around his own, pulling him in close. Pulling back ever so slightly, she could see that his eyes were now open, burning amber boring into her chocolate ones, faintly unfocused from just waking up, but pupils already blowing wide with desire. As it didn’t matter how many years they shared those acts of intimacy, he would feel just as addicted to her touches and warm skin, as the first time he allowed himself to feel them.

And how could he feel anything less than overpowered by those feelings, when her soothing voice, paired with a loving smile, reached his ears with a “Morning, love.” He could only hum an answer, too absorbed in the soft glow from the morning sun lighting her features, too enamored with her to give a coherent answer. Not that words were ever easy for him, at least not those of love or affection, too used to rejecting the concept of it, always stern and reserved, opting to hold an air of indifference - guarding his heart from the familiar feeling of loss. 

But to the one who has been gradually melting his icy walls, he would try and swallow the first instinct of fighting, allowing the warmth to consume his being, reaching to brush a path of tender kisses against the column of her throat, nonverbal language to each touch of his lips. Good Morning, My Heart. I love you. Thank You for Existing. I’m Safe With You.But not for long, as softness was never his speciality, and the temptation to graze and nip his teeth to the tender flesh was ever growing, the want to mark her as his own, suck a path of bruises to her collarbone, changing their position to lie atop her body, hips lazily rolling against each other, a need to release all those feelings into action. 

Answers to his ministrations came in the form of voluptuous thighs coming up to meet his sides, legs meeting behind his waist, looking for more friction between clothed sexes - just few barriers between them, as summer days kept them from wearing more than underwear to bed.  A sink of his teeth to the softness of her left breast and well placed thrust of his length against her still covered folds, and the nonverbal ritual came to an end. A moan, whimpered little sounds could be heard, a string of pleads for more - and who was he to deny it? His body was more hers than his, long tattooed fingers ready to please, reaching between them to rub her increasingly wet arousal, smirking proudly to himself, with how quick her body reacted. Adorable, was what she was. Moving back to observe her entirely, how her mouth hangs open with barely audible whimpers, pink blush adorning her  cheeks to her heaving chest, hips trying to meet the movement of his fingers - to which he pushes one, two, inside her entrance, marked thumb rubbing against sensitive nub, earning praises and moans. “A-ah, yes… Please. Yes. You are so good to me, Law.” Absolutely maddening.

“Take it off.” A simple command, one she didn’t really need to question, already knowing, her fingers reaching to unclasp the piece of clothing that kept her sensitive parts from his sharp gaze, freeing her heavy breasts from their confines, before reaching down to help take both bottom parts of their attires. 

Normally he would take the time with her, make her come on his fingers at least once, perhaps stimulating his tongue against her folds for another orgasm, before finally pushing inside her. But today felt different, he felt consumed with desire and ardor, wishing to be the closest possible to her body, leaning to her welcoming arms, hugging impossibly close, allowing her to be to one maneuver their bodies and guide his arousal to her entrance, letting himself sink inside in one languid move, gritting his teeth to control himself, from the sheer pleasure pooling within his lower abdomen from the warmth enveloping his girth.

Contrasting with her partner, Eliza freely let herself feel the contact, eyes closed and head thrown against the pillows under it, toes curling and hands reaching up to grab sturdy shoulders to anchor herself, mouth yet again falling open to babblering encouragements and praises. 

Taking a slow pace, position allowing for unhurried hip movements, lips and tongues dancing around each other, taking their time for once, too absorb to the tender embrace, allowing the moment to be more love making than simple sex. 

If he couldn’t already tell how much her feelings meant, with those intimate acts, Eliza seemed set on making sure he knew. As soon as his head fell to her shoulder, her voice met his ears, siren song driving him mad, too unused to the overwhelming feeling of adoration from her words. “I love you, do you know that? Mhmm. So, so much. My heart. A-ah. My only one. I want to be yours till my last breath, Law.” 

The way his position changed, hands coming up to reach for her thighs, pushing them up for easier access to drive faster into her, seemed to speak about how he wished her to stop talking. But she knew him enough to know, he just wouldn’t last long with all those feelings involved. And she didn’t mind, what mattered was how he absorbed her loving words, how his harsh actions did nothing to appease the slight shine of tears forming on his golden eyes, dark blush to run through his features - he was not used to this. It was too much, too tender, too much hope in unconditional love and a future together.

“Fuuuuck.” He growled as the pace quickened, he wanted to truly devour her, make her one with him and never let this feeling go. She gave him everything he ever needed all those years, if not more, and as an answer, he could just fuck into her harder, seeking the release from this overwhelming unfamiliar sensation. Reaching a hand to pour his fingers inside her mouth, which she gladly accepted, warm tongue rolling around them, wetting it - words of devotion shifting into filthy noises, to loud whimpers and moans, when those same fingers reached down to rub her puffy clit, all tenderness forgot for the moment, only the feeling of a knot ready to burst inside her belly. She was close, and so was he, as his voice rasped with pleas of “C’mon, 'Liz, come for me. Be a good girl for me. So good, so tight ‘round my cock.”

Devoted woman that she was, she did what he wanted from her. Legs convulsing with the stimulation, when he didn’t stop rubbing her sensitive nub nor the pounding inside her folds, loud orgasm hitting from the intensity of all feelings bursting from her chest and the right places being stroked again and again.  And not long, there was the warm filling of his seed spreading inside her, the pirate allowing himself to finish with a throaty moan, doing his best to not simply fall with all his weight over his lover, lowering himself to his elbows to sustain his body over her.

A moment to simply breath, gazing at each other, before her arms reached for him, bringing his body to meet hers anyway, to each he gladly accept, relaxing and circling his arms around her waist, head resting against her chest, ear able to listen to her heartbeats becoming stable again. His heart, he thought. 

He never said anything that morning, but to the woman who was back to her job of lovingly grazing her fingers through his now sweaty strands of hair and murmuring tender words, he promised to fight God and the Devil to keep her forever safe in his arms.

[searchingsomewhere]

All Too Well, Part 18

{"Don't know how much more I can take. I just know that I need to get better."}

Cw for some descriptive very mild gore? Just throwing it out there.

poly!Gojo x OC x Geto

All Too Well Masterlist

Part 17

Suguru Geto was not well.

He hadn't been, since that summer. And he was only falling further into the spiral.

The man who was hired to kill Riko was named Toji Fushiguro. Was named. That past tense was important to note, as he was no longer alive. Suguru later learned that, while he had dragged his body over to Miho to check for her pulse, Satoru had gone after the assassin. Refusing defeat and delirious from blood loss, the then sixteen year old Gojo heir had done what his peers failed to do and killed the man.

Miho was nearly dead when Satoru stumbled down there, pressing his hand to her chest to rush Reversed Cursed Energy through her body before he collapsed next to them. Suguru could do nothing but lie there between them, crying quietly. Praying to whatever god was listening. Begging for karma to take him instead of them.

The extensive damage Toji did to Miho's spinal cord had nearly paralyzed her. It took almost eight months for her to walk again with specialized care from the school doctor and Shoko. The doctors told her it was unlikely she'd ever walk without a cane.

Yes. Suguru Geto was, in fact, not well.

Everyone tried moving past it. Even Miho, who he cheered on as she was learning to walk again. Who still worried over him while telling him that she was fine, even though he caught her crying and telling Satoru she wasn't sure if she could continue physical therapy. And Satoru...he was leagues above them. The tether that had been holding him back with the rest of them had broke. The gap between his skill and Suguru's was wider than ever. They were no longer evenly matched. No longer the strongest. That was a title meant only for the white haired boy with the Six Eyes.

When Suguru tried to look at Miho, all he saw was her covered in blood. Blade striking through her chest, ripping through flesh and bone. He could still hear it. The sicking crack of her ribs shattering, the splash of her blood against the floor as it gushed out of her. She couldn't remember, but he did. At night, when he closed his eyes, he saw her lying on the ground, glassy eyes staring lifelessly at him.

"Even with those blessings, you two were still beaten by a monkey like me who can't even use cursed energy."

He couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Something dark had been stirring in deep in his chest for so long. It was forcing itself up his throat and out of his mouth. A nasty, acidic, bile-like taste for humanity. A humanity that used children like weapons. That protected the weak and held back the strong. That sacrificed innocent, bright lives for the sake of Jujustu society. And the humanity that required those sacrifices for the simple sake of keeping the calm-

A loud knock on the door roused him from his endless session of staring at the wall. Suguru looked over at the door before rolling back over in bed. They'd go away soon.

The door opened. Light flooded the dim room. Three shadows peeked in.

"Suguru?" Satoru asked quietly, poking his head in. He looked over at the bed. "Hey, man. Mind if we stop by?"

Suguru rolled over to face him. He tried his best to give him a smile, but it was tired. "Of course."

He knew he looked different. Gaunt. Exhausted. He briefly wondered if his appearance would scare them off. But Satoru came in anyway, followed by Shoko. He heard the soft tap tap of Miho's crutches as she slowly made her way into the room. She had cut her hair recently. It hung to her shoulders now, sweeping to the side. She was cute. Suguru knew that, under their clothes and even further under their muscles and bones, both his girlfriend and boyfriend had scars that would never quite heal.

Satoru sat down on the side of the bed. "You okay?"

His voice was soft. Gentle. I'm here, it said. I see you.

Shoko reached over his bed to open the window. Sunlight filtered in, lazy and warm. She opened the window and took a seat on the sill.

"We're worried about you," she said, lighting a cigarette. She held it out to him. He took it and nodded to her in thanks.

Suguru sat up, patting Satoru's hand. He pulled his legs up, making room for Miho. Satoru took her crutches from her and set them down before helping her onto the bed. Suguru noted the pain that flickered across her face as she moved. Miho straightened her face, smiling at him with that beautiful, welcoming smile.

"We're here for you, Suguru," Miho said, reaching out to grab his hand.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "You're the one we should be worried about, Miho. I'm fine-"

"You're horrible at lying," Satoru scoffed.

He took a hit of the cigarette, holding it in for a second before slowly exhaling. His friends were looking at him. Watching him carefully.

"I'm just...struggling," he admitted finally, "I've been having nightmares again...about him."

The four of them sat in silence for a moment. Miho squeezed his hand, encouraging him to continue. So he did. He told them about his nightmares, the spiral he was falling into. Maybe it was the cigarette, or the way they all hung on to his every word, but getting it all out there felt good. He couldn't see a way out. That's what he said.

"...by a monkey like me who can't even use cursed energy."

But he knew what he needed to do.

"If you want to live a long life, you'll remember that."

He couldn't take it any longer. Something in his subconscious snapped.