#I like my descriptors and it just so happens that I don't want to make plan deaths becuse I need the SYMBOLISIM!!!!

[pineapple-cheese-bread]

Me: *Talking to my Coworker about Fractured Timeline and how I'm excited to write it*

Them: Oh can I read it when you finish writting it?

Me: *Not really thinking about it* Yeah!

a few weeks later

Me: *Staring at the google doc for the double life section as I write the finale few deaths of the game, * He, Maybe I should have thought about my answer a bit more.

[sysig]

Getting up to trouble is his speciality (Patreon)

[buttercupblu]

Satoru's Psyche|Escalating

"Should I really have to suffer for my actions?"

Previous SessionSession 2 of 10|Next Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Patient Gojo displayed extremely flirtatious and unruly behavior during the first half of his visit. Mentions of escape and kid-napping were noted as well as enforced close proximity with his nurse. Threatening remarks were also made at the end of his lunch in response to mentions of disciplinary action. Patient is scheduled for a bath but is pending the possibility of negative punishment to instill corrective behaviors. 📋Length of Session (w.c): 8.3k out of "i said we will cross that bridge when we get to it 😊" 💊Intake Chart (tags): mild violence but no in-action descriptors, coercion, manipulation, drug use, angst, unwatched close contact and touch, nudity, mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️Doctor's angel’s note: i hope you know what you're doing, Nurse 🎼Waiting room music: Overheated|Billie Eilish

Choose wisely.

Hunger stirs in your tummy, and Gojo's words sit with you through lunch. Your spoon clinks around the bowl, stirring the soup growing colder by the second though the growls from your stomach are too obnoxious to be ignored. But your mind wanders.

You're stuck. Earlier, you were all for serving up justice on a silver platter, but now you're seriously second-guessing your "genius" idea to punish Gojo by making him someone else's problem.

As if anyone will be crazy enough to say yes.

Everyone already avoids his wing like the plague. It's kind of an unspoken fact that you are Gojo's one and only. The only staff he allows near him. Anyone else would be playing with fire.

And if someone is brave enough to willingly throw themselves into the lion's den, they definitely can't be new. New to nursing—new to the ward. High expertise is needed here. Someone seasoned—experience which you lack yourself—otherwise, they won't last a second with Gojo.

It'll be way too easy for him to make them snap, like tossing a bone to a dog.

"Persephone." Yuko brings you out of your coma.

You perk up, instinctively smiling. "Hey, what's up?"

"You tell me," she snorts. "You've been playing with your food like break isn't over in 10 minutes." She touches your arm. "Everything ok?"

It's written all over your face, huh? You could deflate right now.

This is why Yuko is your favorite co-worker. Always reading you like a book without you needing to say a word. Quick to call anything off out.

Leaning back in your chair, you huff, rubbing circles into your temples to relieve the headache you didn't know you had.

"Yeah, yeah," you begin, "It's just—" You stop, her eyes hold so much concern and you've barely opened your mouth. Not sure if you should now because you know what kind of person Yuko is.

And if she knew even half of what you don't tell her during your lunch breaks spent complaining about work, she'd hang Gojo out to dry if she could. She often makes it very clear she hates you have to deal with him at all.

"—I'm just a bit tired. Gojo's scheduled for a bath later, him and two others. Gojo's easy but...I don't know. I feel slower than usual today. Definitely won't get home until late, again, because of all these sponge baths." You cringe at the last part.

Aside from trying to keep Yuko cool, you also don't want to risk the news getting back to the Director who could take you off of Gojo completely. No one else can take your place. And who knows what would happen if you disappeared from his roster for good?

How would his threats manifest?

Yuko scoffs, waving her hand.

"Gojo and easy do not go together," and you both shake your heads and laugh. "But I get it. You did come in super early."

"Thought there'd be less of us," you sigh.

"Sonya's been on our asses lately, right? But hey, she finally got us all here."

"A little too late. The damage is done," you pout, resting your elbows on the table, realizing you've accidentally grown used to chaos and ever-changing schedule.

You routinely plan ahead to make sure you can stand up when people fall short. Constantly putting yourself on the back burner seems to be a thing that always set you back.

"Sooo, you just need rest, ya? Nothing else? Gojo—" there she goes "—been 'okay' with you lately?"

Your heart skips. "Ya. he isn't so bad today," you lie, "I'd just love to be home on time for once. Maybe even a bit early, I'm soo close. Overtime's been wringing my neck for weeks."

Yuko looks at you with puppy dog eyes. And not in a "I feel sorry for you" kind of way, but one that almost makes you feel bad for not telling her the whole truth.

"Here," she pushes your soup towards you, "How about I do Gojo's bath and you get an early start on my last two? That way you can at least binge that show you won't shut up about later." She smiles.

You immediately protest.

There's no way you can do that to her.

Yuko never even crossed your mind and was far from your first pick, not because she can't handle him but because she's your friend. Not just a colleague, but someone you actually care about more than anyone else in this run-down job even if she doesn't feel the same.

She's too good of a person, and you'd be the Devil Incarnate if you let her do something so risky. Especially when you can just suck it up and get it over with.

"Woah, woah, it's just a bath, calm down," she says, taking your hands in hers as you ramble on, trying to convince her that you'll be fine or that you'll find someone else. Burdening her is simply out of the question.

"Who else but me, Seph'?" and she tilts her head, "You don't you think I'm as good as you?" And the way she says it, giving you that look she does when you're being stubborn, dares you to challenge her.

Now you really have to think about what to say.

Goddamn it, you regret saying anything at all, but Yuko's so motherly, how could you resist? Hiding from her is impossible, she would've sniffed you out sooner or later.

Easing your pains when she can is her specialty—helping to calm and settle you down when you blow things out of proportion.

Could this be one of those moments? Or are Gojo's words more than just hot air?

The back and forth is killing you, but the combination of Yuko's reassuring touch and your gurgling stomach puts the final nail in the coffin as she reminds you of the time.

Eyes wide, you look at the clock, ticking away faster than you realized, then back at your lukewarm soup.

Denying that you need help would be silly because technically it's true. You probably should've asked the Director for a little Gojo break forever ago, even if just for a few hours a few times a week. It would be better than nothing because if you can't function, Gojo can't be cared for.

So, who better to help bridge that gap for you than Yuko?

The gutsy woman has been your rock ever since you started at the ward, having your back and sticking with you through tough times when staff constantly dips in and out of the facility like a rotating door, unable to handle the job.

Yuko's a real day one, and next to you, she's the most competent nurse in these walls, fully equipped with a "take-no-shit" attitude that routinely keeps her patients in check.

When you really think about it, it'd be silly, downright irresponsible to trust anyone else.

Her offer is simply too good to dismiss.

"Thank you, Yuko," you cave, grabbing your spoon and finally allowing yourself to enjoy your meal. "You're...amazing. I don't deserve you."

She looks on happily. "Just promise me you'll take some personal time after this," she insists, worry evident in her voice. "We both know how much you care, but even superheroes need rest." She's too kind and right in more ways than one. "Besides, I think Gojo will like me, ya? I'm cool. I'm fun. He'll like a friend of friend?"

You roll your eyes—ya, totally, cool people definitely say they're cool.

Not knowing whether to joke back or wave her off, you softly smile at her concern before nodding, vowing to make good on your promise and feel a bit lighter knowing your wish for early release will actually come true.

Maybe.

The latest threat to your miracle in the making is Mr. Hampton, who is personally making it his business to drag the already long day by its edges, almost bringing time to a standstill with the way he's handling his bath.

Enormous and lumbering, the man Yuko usually deals with took his sweet time gathering his things and even longer trekking down the seemingly endless halls leading to the bathing area. Occupying every inch of the space like those massive trucks that hog the interstate, yet inching along at a pace that makes a snail look like it's in a sprint.

All that was missing were the yellow hazard lights.

Oh no, please, take your time, you think, watching Mr. Hampton clean each limb painstakingly s l o w in a tub that's comically too small for him. You may have been able to rush through Yuko's first patient, but this one wanted all that time back.

His pace resembles a giant's, and his cheery, nonsensical hums echo around the hollow chambers and lull you to sleep, turning your eyes into bricks under the spell of his melody. Perfect timing for the energy drinks from early to crash you out, tag teaming with the chair beneath you that feels a bit too soft as you lean over the tub, willing the colossal man to hurry up.

Warm water flows over your skin as you scrub circles on his neck, deciding to bite the bullet and take over the bath so he can play with the bubbles and get out when you hear a blood-curdling scream.

Your entire body goes rigid, shock reverberating through your spine and forcing you to halt as your mind goes blank. But steamy water brings you back to life, drenching your shirt and upper thighs when Mr. Hampton jumps from the noise.

The rude awakening makes you lock in.

The scream. It sounds like...no, you know it came from the west wing...where Gojo is.

And Yuko.

Hurried steps rush past your door, sounds of multidirectional distress and frantic shouts echoing through the corridor—staff members and patients alike sweep into a whirlwind of panic.

You're number one, dropping the scrubber and scrambling to help Mr. Hampton out of the tub, hands shaking as he grips them.

A security guard bursts into the room, face ashen and jaw tight.

"Nurse! We need everyone in the west wing, immediately!" The command is sharp, laced with an urgency you've never seen before.

And immediately feel responsible for.

"There's been an incident."

Without another thought, you wrap Mr. Hampton in a towel, trying your best to assure him that everything is fine when your obviously trembling body says nothing is. His confused gaze follows you as you lead him back to his room, the commotion in the air moving him a lot faster than earlier before you rush back out and head straight for the west wing—where chaos reigns supreme.

The usually pristine floors, normally squeaky clean due to lack of traffic, are now barely visible. Staff members crowd the familiar hall for the first time since Gojo made it his own, filling the space with more bodies than you're used to and making it difficult to find the source of trouble.

Not like you need to. The truth is painfully clear, and it's disrespectful to even pretend you don't know exactly what went wrong.

You push through the masses, clumsily bumping shoulders, your heart beating into your ears and making the world seem quiet as you inch closer and closer to disaster. Dragging imaginary shackles on your feet until you all but collapse once you spot it.

Gojo—barely restrained by guards, straitjacket nowhere in sight—standing absolutely furious.

And for the first time today, time seems to slow down, your mouth suddenly becoming dry when you look past him.

Yuko.

Halfway out the door to his room. Sprawled out on the ground. Bruised, unconscious, and no signs of breathing.

Your hands fly to your lips, mouth agape. Murmurs from the crowd swirl around you before attendants rush to Yuko's side, knocking into your pathetic frame as you stand too frozen to move.

They gently pick her up, careful to handle her motionless body and place her on a stretcher. Her usually vibrant face is drained of color, twisting the dagger in your chest when you spot the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Fighting for breath.

Fighting.

It hits you like a train.

Someone as kind as her, always greeting you with warmth and empathy and capacity every time she sees you, should never have to lift a finger let alone fight for her life. The sight is too much to bear.

Waves of helplessness crash over you and you can't even look at her. Regretting with every ounce of your being that you sent her in your place. Knowing this could happen. Concerned only with your silly wants and needs.

But you're so confused.

The ward should have weakened Gojo—Yuko should have been fine. The only threat Gojo has up his sleeve is mental torture but Yuko might as well be Freud. Her mind is sound, strong.

And that's where you fucked up, forgetting that Gojo's pure strength, especially when he's lost his fucking mind and triggered, is stronger.

Even with his security system in place, the devil is still powerful enough on his own. And like this was some sick and twisted experiment to help you figure that out, Yuko was the one to pay the price.

"I warned, I WARNED YOU!" Gojo's words pierce the overlapping voices like a sword, breaking your shock and drawing everyone's attention to the strange interaction between the two of you. "I don't like to be touched by strangers, Nurse." Guards struggle to restrain him as he pulls away.

All eyes fall on you and the stares are intense. Confusion and judgment.

Why was Yuko here in the first place?Where was Seph’?How’d he get out?How did this happen? 

Whether the murmurs are real or in your head, the effect is all the same, and you wish you could just completely vanish. Standing like a deer in headlights—and they're so fucking bright.

But Gojo is brimming with malice and amusement, chaotic energy pulsing from the hellish man and threatening to send sparks flying. Daring someone to be brave and push the button.

But despite his outward display of dominance, the pure rage on his face that makes you feel sick to your stomach about every decision you've ever made, there's something...uncertain lurking behind those fiery eyes.

Something like...apprehension.

Like he knows he's done something wrong.

Yet, words escape you, as if anything needs to or even could be said. But soon, fear and guilt turn to anger, threatening to consume you. Ready to eat you alive and spit out the bones with disgust because you are not a victim.

You have no right to stand here, spineless, shocked, or feeling even a little sorry for yourself. Holding back tears because you know what you've done.

Your fists clench, unsure how to deal with it, but there's fire in your eyes because someone needs to pay.

But then you exhale, thoughts shifting to Yuko as you take a good look around at what happened the last time you decided to take things into your own hands. All of your actions, even now, are rooted in selfishness. Like you've learned nothing.

Pushing down the knot growing in your stomach, you turn away to follow the medics, deciding your friend needs you more than you need revenge. Gojo doesn't deserve any more of your attention, even if it means risking your job or life to turn your back on him.

And there's nothing Gojo hates more than being ignored.

Struggled and strained noises grow louder. Guards tighten their grip on the fuming man whose raw strength outnumbers thousands of them even without his cursed energy.

You look back, their determination to keep him contained making you nervous. You don't anyone else to get hurt and Gojo is fully exploiting that.

You're painfully aware that your decisions have put you in this position, watching the guards' valiant but increasingly pointless effort to prevent Gojo from causing further harm. But it's obviously a losing fight, and the unease on their faces is unmistakably clear.

You wonder why they don't just run like hell.

"Let's go," a guard barks, but Gojo remains fixed in place. Moving a boulder would be easier.

"No, I'm filthy," Gojo protests, smirking, "And if I don't have my bath soon, there will be hell to pay."

Seeing no one else in the room, his eyes are locked only on you, his expression a menacing promise that would send anyone else running for the hills. A look that says, "Try that shit again, and there will be casualties instead of mercy."

Reinforcements are called but it won't be enough. The goddamn military wouldn't be enough. Gojo is...the strongest, after all.

"Stop."

Your cry freezes the room. Everything goes silent.

You hesitate, fuck, what should you do?

What can you do? No one else can suffer—no one else should suffer. Because of you.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you silently apologize to Yuko, swallowing a lump instead of looking back.

"I'll do it," you say firmly, "Just stop this and...and I'll give you your bath. Please—" The sharpest pang you've ever felt cuts through you. "—just don't hurt anyone else."

Pathetic. But necessary.

He looks into your pleading eyes with surprise, amazement even, before smiling.

The submission in your voice sounds better than anything he could ever imagine. A sweet tones that feed his already inflated ego.

Unsure of how to proceed, the guards exchange uneasy glances.

Gojo's strength is undeniable, that much is evident, and restraining him forever is simply not possible.

You know offering to give him what he wants is risky as hell...but this is your doing. Your mess to clean up.

So you squeeze your sweaty palms and give a decisive nod, signaling at the guards to let him go. They hesitate a second, then reluctantly agree, stepping back and leaving Gojo standing smugly before you.

Closing your eyes, you breathe, hating to have to look at him, but needing to stay strong. For Yuko. For yourself. And everyone else in the ward.

But Gojo's satisfied grin says it all. He's won this round.

You're ready to get the next over with.

The squeaking of your shoes has never been this loud, each echo bouncing off the empty halls and reminding you of how alone you are.

Alone—with a psychopath.

A bit more docile, doped-up psychopath but, the man could probably still rip someone's head clean off if he wanted to.

Still, Gojo despises anything that alters his body—mentally, physically, all of the above. Alcohol, medication, coffee, energy drinks—anything that threatens his need for absolute control.

But he also needed to compromise, and you refused to be alone with him again unless he took something stronger. Otherwise, it would be you, all the guards in the ward, and a pay-per-view premiere of his bath time.

He knew he had to agree because his ass is not for free, but only if you took it as well.

You blinked, hard.

You knew he would be skeptical—hell, it could be poison, and he wouldn’t blame you. But to suggest something so ridiculous?

"Half, then," he said, as if that made his suggestion any less idiotic, but, as you waited for your supervisor to dismiss the insane idea, the back and forth with Gojo actually didn't save you. And you didn't need to ask why. The entire ward shoots daggers at you any time someone walks by now.

Your supervisor reassured you that you'd be fine, the mild tranquilizer would be out of your system by the end of the day, then she patted your back as if to say, "Lay in the bed you made."

It felt unreal, holding the familiar pill between your fingers, one you were used to dishing out but now had to take.

With a quick snap, you broke it in half, holding his half out to the leering man. Gaze unwavering as he leaned forward and parted his lips, waiting. Taking a deep breath, you placed them both on your tongues, in disbelief at your reality, but Gojo's focus was elsewhere, not wasting this prime opportunity to rattle you more and taste you, closing his lips around your fingertip with a quick lick before you snatched away.

But it wasn’t quick enough to avoid the tingles shooting up your arm as you swallowed, no longer needing the water you had set aside, and a confusing mix of emotions churned as the tingles spread throughout your body.

Making good on his promise, he swallowed his own, still watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. Like he knows what he does to you. And despite just witnessing this man's violence firsthand, you'd give anything to deny that he still has an effect on you. Hating yourself for being more concerned with the way he looked at you and the lingering sensation on your skin than the tranquilizer now coursing through your system.

The guards carefully lead you and Gojo to his private bathroom—they're more there for show than for protection, but you'll take what you can get, and they keep a firm grip on his replacement straitjacket.

You trail behind, mind buried with thoughts of what to say once you're really alone with him.

The door shuts behind you, followed by the familiar sound of a series of locks clicking shut. "We'll be right outside," one of the guards mutters, eyes shifting between you and Gojo, a stereotypical warning lacing his voice, but even he probably doesn't believe it.

"Perv," Gojo sneers and laughs, but you don't find a damn thing funny, the keys to his jacket digging into your palms as you spin around and face him, furious. What would be better? Slapping him, kicking him, or knocking his teeth out. Or should you be particularly evil and just let him sit in the shower, fully restrained and drenched in cold water and you let it rain down. None of the above will do you any good, but it'll show him exactly how done you are with his shit.

"That isn't funny. None of this is funny," it fumes out before you know you're speaking, "You've hurt someone—you hurt my friend." Your rage echos through the vast bathroom.

Gojo's laugh fades, his smug expression slipping from his face. Even you're surprised.

...oh shit.

You're actually confronting him.

The intense words burn through his usual arrogance, leaving a heavy, uncomfortable silence between you.

Then, for a fleeting second, his face does something weird.

Something you haven't seen before as his eyebrows draw together. Is that...regret?

"I'm sorry."

The record scratches. You’re fully positive you must be dreaming.

But when he doesn’t make a joke or even crack a smile, you squint at him.

The words are muttered and reluctant, but there they are, hanging in the air between you.

"It...won't happen again."

And he's serious, the same seriousness you see when his heart races as you take his vitals...but why? Because an apology? From him?? Unheard of.

Gojo has said some nasty things to you in the past that you've immediately scolded him for, but he's never apologized. He'd make a note when certain jokes didn't land, but he never took them back, preferring to cut out his own tongue than to waste his breath being sorry.

You know better than to take anything Gojo says at face value, but...what the fuck??? You almost feel offended.

He has to be joking, fucking with you to dig even deeper under your skin.

Or is he?

Fuck, you don't know how to feel.

He's so good at that, stealing the air back and hanging his words in them. Tempting you to pause and even consider if he ever truly means them. If he could mean them. The mind games are endless.

But then, the familiar cockiness returns and overshadows your doubts, twisting your stomach into knots with that familiar smile of his.

"Now," he says, strutting towards the stalls, "let's get this bath started, shall we?" And his easy, but confident steps call you to follow, a stark reminder of who you're dealing with. But he never knows when to quit. "Or should I really have to suffer for my actions?" and the bastard pouts.

Though you know he's being sarcastic and not to feed into his taunts, you can't help but wonder—what would suffering even look like for someone like Gojo?

Violence? Physical pain? A slow and agonizingly painful death?

But the guy is damn near invincible. What on earth could hurt him?

Whatever it is, it would have to be his absolute worst nightmare, but nothing comes to mind at the moment other than frustration because you have to keep making choices.

Return his energy or keep it professional? Tolerance or revenge?

"Apologizing won't cut it," you snap and gesture at his jacket, wondering how the hell he slipped out of the first one without leaving a trace. "And no tricks, or those guards will be back in here faster than you can tell another lame joke."

Smooth.

Gojo sighs sooo dramatically, like he can see straight through your kitty claws. "Fine, fine. Loosen up," he drags, "I won't cause any trouble. Just don't go getting any ideas now, Nurse." and he winks.

He's insufferable—but despite your smoldering anger, tendrils of doubt still creep in.

Your fingers slightly tremble as you begin to unfasten his straps, but each click feels a bit like victory, a fragile illusion of your 'control'—at least for now—because at the end of the day, Gojo had chosen you to listen to. And after today, he's sure you won't forget there isn't room for anyone else.

The jacket falls with a heavy thud, your eyes immediately scanning his upper body in search of any signs of injury or stress. The cascading bruises on his arms surprise you.

They feel so feeble in your hands; the evidence of him not as invincible as he seems is jarring. Pale, weak, and resting between your fingers. Devoid of the power that makes him so feared.

"Never seen bruises before," he tilts his head, "at least not on me"

You hope Yuko was at least partly responsible for the marks on the villain, but they appear self-inflicted, and he's not as mobile.

Fuck, now you'll have to bathe him too. Still, it's strange, seeing him like this. Even weirder knowing that he could still do damage in this state and you can't shake the feeling of this temporary 'truce'. If it isn't obvious by now, you've learned that Gojo always has something up his sleeve.

Warm water soothes you a bit, flowing over your fingers as it fills the large white tub—pristine, imported from somewhere far away, and standing on decorative claw feet. Your eyes wouldn't stop rolling the first time you saw it, completely annoyed with Gojo's over-the-top alterations and sense of style, but you'd be a liar if you said you never thought about sinking your body into it.

The best you could do was cope with the little porcelain tub in your apartment, and you get lost thinking about how you'd love to take a long, hot, and steamy bath when you get home—if you'll even have the energy. There's no way you'll be leaving early now, not like you deserve it, and you feel sick for even thinking about it. You doubt you'll even have a job tomorrow.

You look so defeated Gojo thinks, sauntering forward and lifting the hem of his shirt. You turn away, focusing instead on the temperature of the water, but the rustling sound of his shirt being pulled overhead and pants falling to the ground warms your cheeks.

His physique certainly isn't lacking, even in his current state, but still, you wonder how such a slim but toned frame could be so...powerful.

Could you be more obvious? Your flickering eyes are so telling, shamefully darting between him and the water, but he catches your gaze from the corner of his eye as if he's read your mind. How cute, he thinks, trying to hide away your thoughts.

Clearing your throat, you toss in his loofah. "Well...go on. It's ready." But Gojo only grins, amused by your attempts to look away despite seeing his muscled frame a number of times. Relishing in the fact that he still manages to fluster you.

"Your shirt," he eyes your top, "Your pants. Looks like you've already started without me."

The water stains from earlier sit beautifully across your chest, not yet fully dry, and drawing his eyes to your semi-erect nips.

His teeth tug at his bottom lip, eyes shamelessly raking over your hefty chest. "Always such a tease, aren't you, Nurse?"

You grit your teeth, cursing the conflict swirling in your stuttering heart, fully aware of the thin line between professionalism and this game of intimacy he refuses to stop playing. Everything is always a game no matter the circumstances. And he loves to push your buttons.

"Just get in, Gojo," you order, and after what feels like an eternity, the silence is broken by the sound of splashing water as he steps into the bath.

He slowly sinks in, sighing at the warmth of the water. Ringlets of steam engulf him, almost making his silky white hair disappear with it.

His arms string over the rim of the tub, a look of relaxation resting on his face as if he's had a long, hard day. You resist the urge to slap it off.

Sudsy bubbles form from the solution you pour under the faucet, hoping to shield your eyes from his body. You've seen enough today and expect the mini-rebellious act to piss him off, but as the bubbles grow, so do his eyes. Picking up a handful, he actually starts playing with them.

"Nice touch," he adds, blowing them right into your face, and you watch with a tight lip as he decorates the bathroom with them, knowing you'll be the one to clean it all up.

He sits a crown on his head and gives himself a bubble beard, nipping your nose with some that you're quick to wipe away, and his pale eyes flutter and settle on you in a curious way.

His arms flex as he leans over the edge—steam-slicked sweat dripping down his face that he doesn't bother to wipe away. "I'm ready for my sponge bath," he says, and if it was hard to take him seriously before, it's damn near impossible now—especially with that ridiculous bubble mustache.

Sickening, him still being so playful, so unserious, at a time like this.

You know Gojo's unhinged, yeah, quote, "mentally unwell and a literal danger to society", but to nearly take someone's life and then make jokes afterward?

God, you feel so stupid, walking around him like you were the shit but with the wrong guard up the whole time, playing right into his hands and accidentally rewarding this grown-ass man who likes to play with suds.

The reality of your circumstances replays in your head, the story of how you ended up here, coddling this monster, and you're still confused as hell as to why it had to be you.

Then again, this is what you signed up for...right? To heal. To help those who can't help themselves. To offer redemption some sort of redemption no matter how sick and twisted the person in need is.

With your loofah in hand, you resist the urge to roll your eyes for the 400th time today and keep your morals in mind. "Keep talking like that and I'll stop, Gojo," you say, reluctantly drenching the tool in soap before proceeding to do your job.

Gently washing his back, he sinks into your touch, closing his eyes and letting his body completely rest on the cool cast iron, breathing. Feeling like he's won no matter what you say because your scrubs feel like magic.

Across his arms and over his broad shoulders, you work your way down, bubbles glistening in your trail as you're careful not to miss a single inch of skin but don't linger too long.

Every now and then, you catch glimpses of raised marks between the foam, and because you hate yourself, your brain absolutely refuses to give you a break. You have to give kudos to his dedication to his craft. The muscle definition, the scar tissue telling stories of battles won, the evidence of his past before corruption—everything it takes to be a hero.

It's unsettling, yet fascinating, the polarity between his beauty and his monstrous deeds.

You've never really noticed because this level of care is another first for you. Usually, Gojo just hops into the shower and takes care of himself while you wait outside—easy and thorough but always taking his sweet time, all while loudly singing some annoying song that inevitably ends up stuck in your head.

But after today, it'll be impossible to trust him or you again, and the hushed whispers as the guards walked you both to the restrooms made that abundantly clear.

The pitiful thoughts seep into the way you hesitantly clean him, moving down to his chest and abs while making sure to avoid more sensitive areas, but the malicious glint in his eyes is unmistakable.

"Whatsamatter, Nurse?" Gojo taunts, feeling you slow around his stomach, "Afraid of gettin' too close?" And you can't believe you're praying for a speedy recovery for this monster so he can handle this himself again.

You ignore his comment and try to get this over with as quickly as possible, feeling humiliated enough as it is and he can sense it, mocking you with a laugh.

"You're so uptight. Can't you just relax and enjoy the view?"

God, please make him shut up, begging for relief so you won't scrub his cocky brow right off his face. "Just doing my job," you mutter, twice squeezing the loofah that feels a little funny in your hand as the soapy water rinses his chest.

It feels heavenly on his skin, but the subtle change in your movements makes his brows furrow. Slowing, more deliberate, heavy as if you're wading through molasses. You keep adjusting your grip but the material feels so strange—the texture almost too soft like it could melt into your palm.

Your breath catches when you brush his skin, not realizing how close your fingers drifted to the edge of the sponge, and though it was only a second, it sends an unexpected jolt through his chest.

The muscle relaxers. How could you have already forgotten, you both think.

But Gojo, ever observant, doesn't miss a thing.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you. "Feeling a little funny, Nurse?" His velvet voice teases.

"I'm fine," you lie, though you couldn't be less certain as the muscles in your hands start to relax more than you intended, the sponge gliding over his abs, and down his sides, the rhythm almost hypnotic and making his head fall back. You try to push through the haze, to finish quickly and be free of him, but you're losing the battle against numbness and heightened awareness.

And fuck, he has to bite his lip at your touch that suddenly feels so intense, a sensation too good to keep to himself, and one that you obviously need to stop being such a tight-ass.

You need to loosen up in a way that medicine can't help. And Gojo knows just the trick.

He licks his lips, tongue curling over his canine before splashing a wave of water on you in one swoop.

Saying you gasp is an understatement as the steamy wash drenches your face and front once again, setting a new record as you're hit not once, but twice in a day. The loofah slips from your hand as you instinctively reach up to shield yourself, but Gojo is quicker, wrapping his hands around your wrists and holding you in place.

A scream is ready to surge from your body when Gojo maneuvers both of your wrists into one hand, placing a finger to your lips.

"Ssssh ssh ssh ssh ssh," he hushes, his voice a little too calm, "I'm not going to hurt you." A lone droplet hangs from your eyelash and he swipes it. "I just want you to listen."

You freeze, your nerves on fire as you're forced into close proximity with him for the second time today, inches away from his face that gradually softens.

Though you can easily call for help, you know better than to argue—he knows you know better too but he never felt threatened in the first place. Besides, he can feel your breathing slowing, the effects of the pill combined with his firm hold sending a faint buzz from your wrists to your stomach, and his finger remains on your lips as he brings his closer.

His eyes flicker to your bottom lip. "You're so good at your job, Nurse," smoothly pulling it with his thumb. "That's why I like you. You're thorough but real. Just what I need to keep me sane."

Sane?

"Sane," he repeats like he's heard your thoughts. "Believe it or not, you keep me grounded...like a good boy. Be proud, not a single soul here or anywhere else can compare to me, let alone deal with me, and yet...here you are." He looks at you like you're a marvel. "You can handle that...can't you?"

Words fail you. This feels rhetorical. Why does he keep torturing you like this? What is it about you?

You haven't really thought about it since your first few weeks with him but now he's forcing you to think about the little 'power' he's given you that he can easily snatch back.

What happens if he decides to go further than flirting?

You can't handle it, any of this.

Hesitating, you're unsure of what to say but know it could never be the truth.

Gojo must sense it because he leans closer, his breath warm on your cheek.

"If you leave, I just might crack completely, beauty." A breath you didn't realize you were holding slips. "How do you think everyone else will do against me then, hmm?" Gojo knows he's a prodigy, but still manages to surprise himself sometimes, his eyes lingering over the spots on your uniform soaked through just enough to make the fabric cling—perfect aim.

Ice shoots up your spine from the heat of his unadulterated gaze, but you refuse to let him see you falter, and he can almost feel a prick from the daggers in your eyes.

"Oh, don't be like that," he purrs, thumbs grazing your wrists in a mockingly gentle touch. "We all have our boundaries, right? I thought communication was key in a relationship."

"Let go of me," you find your voice, "We're done here."

His head slightly tilts.

Look at you calling the shots, he thinks. So strong, so very serious.

"God, I can't help it," he breathes, "You're so fun to mess with."

He could laugh in your face, have his way with you, and show you that your resistance means nothing, but instead, he slowly releases your wrists and lies back against the tub. "I know you think about it—there's nothing wrong with a little fun...right?" and though the connection is severed, you don't know if it's the drugs or just him that makes his amplified touch linger as you sheepishly rub your wrists.

Gojo watches you blush red—thoughts you didn't know lived within you rushing to the forefront as if he's pushed a button.

Grimy, raw, unwanted thoughts of forbidden fruit, wandering hands, and stolen touches in the dark, wondering what his idea of "fun" is like under the sheets. With a psycho named Gojo.

You feel like you should throw up in disgust but the nausea never comes, burning hot between your legs instead.

Fuck, you have to get out of here.

You draw a breath, forcing away the torturous daydreams and quickly finish his bath.

"You should rest," you firmly say and pull the plug to let the tub drain. "And don't expect any more favors from me."

He sits up slow, his expression stone-cold as he slicks back his wet hair. Then he smiles. "I promise. Now dry me off?" he quips.

You ignore his request, swiftly handing him a towel before he can flash you. With a gruff, you lower to your knees, beginning to dry the floor of his messes and hoping to distract yourself from your questionable sanity.

The sounds of rustling fabric fill the chamber as he dries off, and once you figure it's safe, you look up to find a nude Gojo. Dripping with bubbles, hair plastered to his derpy face, and toned muscles, all the muscles, presenting themselves in all their glory.

The only things dry are his damn hands.

He throws the towel over his shoulder, sauntering towards you with a wicked grin.

"Well, aren't you gonna help me put this thing back on?" He nods at the jacket he knows is more bullshit than security. "Don't want you getting all worked up again."

The first time your brain registered that Gojo was flirting with you was on your third day as his nurse.

"Well, aren't you a breath of fresh air?" Gojo was sitting on his bed, leaning against the wall. It was the second time he'd noticed how sluggish you looked while tending to him, suggesting with a grin that you must be quite the party animal.

Ha. If only.

You tsked, tossing his bedsheets into the hamper, and assured him that your sleepy eyes and dragging feet were the result of long hours and running on fumes. Having time for fun was just a dream.

"I don't get out much myself," he says, alluding to the situation he's in, wearing sarcasm like a necklace. "I love a good night in as much as anyone else but, I don't know. The stuffiness hasn't grown on me yet."

You tugged the collar of your scrubs—the air did feel a bit thick, like the room hadn't been aired out in ages and you couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been sitting in it—how he could. That alone would be enough to drive you up a wall.

Sunlight flickered in your eyes, and you raised your hand to block it, noticing the small window perched above his chair.

"Let's open this then," you said, walking over and wrestling with the ancient wood for a moment before finally pulling the creaky flap up to the ceiling.

A sliver of your midriff peeked out as you stood on your toes to reach it, but what captured Gojo's attention most was the way the sun rays washed over your face. You scrunched your nose, the breeze sending wisps of your hair to tickle it, and he imagined the feel of your strands between his fingers.

The view was beautiful, you thought, hands gripping the warm bars. Trees surrounded the vast area, stretching out as far as you could see, the pathway to civilization completely covered in dense forest from this angle.

You never realized how high up his ward was—or how long the drop was from here.

"Too bad I'm not small enough to slip through those bars." He rubbed his stomach. "But you know me, 'Mr. BigBack.'"

He joked around as he usually did, looking to trigger your defenses, but your reaction was...odd.

Not only was this the first time anyone cared to do something so simple for Gojo, but it was also the closest anyone had gotten to him without their knees buckling.

The first two days of your trial, the Director had guards posted right outside of Gojo's door, their presence a constant reminder to stay alert and maintain a safe distance from the convict. Gojo was positive the mental barrier would keep a wall between you forever.

But then, you laughed. A real laugh. Snickery and cute. Finding his joke funny instead of threatening.

It surprised him, that sound, so natural and pure without hesitation. And he wanted to hear it again and again and again. "Who knew you could bring so much light into this place?" he sighed.

Later at lunch, you sat with Yuko, having your usual midday catch-up. You never start with yours but she, like most people in the ward then, was absolutely dying to hear about how you were dealing with the villain of the century.

"He's actually not so bad...yet. Corny, but," you took a pondering breath, "He kind of thanked me today?"

She immediately scoffed and waved you off, and who could blame her?

You were an anomaly, Gojo already showed that he was capable of mercy and now he was thanking you??

Being polite was too far of a stretch to believe, you must have been mistaken. But when you gave her the deets on why he'd do such a thing, she nearly choked on her apple. "He said that??"

"Ya?" You patted her back with a concerned look.

"Watch out, Casanova," she teased, clearing her throat with a nervous laugh.

Her comment threw you off for the rest of lunch, but when you thought about it later that night while surfing for new shows, a light bulb went off.

He flirted with you.

Thinking it was just another one of those literal dry-humor jokes or simply gratitude for making his stay a little less crappy, it flew right over your head. You always feel warm inside when you help people so you didn't think too much about it.

To you, it was just a kudos. Nothing more.

But the way Gojo stands in front of you now is everything.

As bold and brash as it gets.

Fuck. Me.

And your body betrays you, sending all of the vulnerable sensations you've been fighting to suppress from your soaking chest, tingling wrists, aching thighs, and heavy breath, straight to your throbbing clit.

Air escapes you and you couldn't feel more conflicted, scrambling to grab your supplies and leave.

Enough is enough. The guards outside can restrain him and escort him back to his room for all you care. You just have to get out of there.

Away from him.

Away from temptation.

Hot, overwhelming, guilty, mentally and physically unstable temptation.

In the quiet of the hallway a level below Gojo's ward, you lean against a wall, taking deep breaths and completely disgusted with yourself.

How are you supposed to keep dealing with this, with him?

This force that keeps pushing and pushing and pushing you to the edge until there's nowhere else to go. You can only imagine the hell the nurses he didn't like went through.

Taking care of him isn't getting any easier, and now you were fucking up and making mistakes.

But you're the only one who can do this. Who must.

So suck it up. Play along, Stop thinking only of yourself. Pretend.

Pretend.

Pretend?

...

What terrifies you the most is the thought that you may not have to.

You keep your scrambled thoughts to yourself when you're called into your Director's office at the end of the day.

You tell him the same story you told Yuko and take full responsibility for what happened, blaming it on exhaustion and needing a break. Swearing to never let it happen again.

By some miracle, you get to keep your job, though your one wish to leave early ended up costing you an hour and a half of unpaid overtime, and almost a friendship.

When you finally get home, you collapse onto your bed—images of the day, the ward, and Yuko flooding your thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside. You tell yourself that it's just the guilt talking, just anxiety gnawing at your edges.

But then there's Gojo.

The most prominent one of all.

Staring you in the face with lifeless eyes and a ghostly smile. Tugging on your moral strings like a puppet.

When you close your eyes, you can't shake the feeling that he's waiting for you, a lurker in the shadows watching and anticipating your every move. Have you become predictable? Now you're wondering if you could do something he wouldn't expect.

Leave it. Leave it. Le—

You're scrolling through your phone on a deep-diving, scouring the web for any info on your tormentor.

His past, his affiliations, anything to tell you who Gojo was, and who he is now.

But the man is an anomaly.

Not much is known about him outside of mainstream news and internet rumors.

He's just this guy that kind of popped out of nowhere in the worst way possible, conveniently on the tail of what could have been the most devastating incident in the history of Tokyo.

The media says he's a hero gone rogue but not much else. They've damned him to hell and that was that. Even the Director disclosed very little about him during your briefing and you weren't allowed access to his files or records because it's all 'confidential'.

Nothing.

The more you search, you less that comes up. Not even silly conspiracy theories that you definitely thought would be riddling Reddit. The longer you scroll, the more you find yourself beginning to question your own mind. Your interest. Sweet little buds of obsession.

Even though you hated taking it earlier, you actually need the pill now more than ever to relax as sleep eludes you and your mind wanders to imaginary scenarios as you stare at the ceiling. 

Tomorrow, you'll have to face Gojo again. And the day after that and the day after that and every day after.

In between your nearly non-existent off days, you'll have to see him and decide what face you want to put on.

Because you simply cannot walk away.

After all, he's right—no one else can handle him like you can.

extended angel's note:

when i originally decided to make this into short story, i had no plans on using a y/n perspective. it was just going to feature an OC name i’ve used in stories before, named Persephone, buuuut i decided to wanted to keep it immersive and include no physical descriptors/personality specifics bc i knew i wanted to upload it to tumblr. 

to keep it reader-friendly, yk? 

alas, Persephone has had her claws in me the entire time i’ve been editing and said with her whole chest that i couldn't just dismiss her like that chile. so i decided changed the perspective but keep her name in place of y/n. 

you won’t see it too often in the story bc it’s not super significant or said a lot in general, bUT it is relevant for a certain moment later in the story. you’ll know when you know 🤭. 

anyway, hope it doesn't bother you guys too much. and def feel free to mentally plug your name when you see it to keep yourself grounded into the story.

tag list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @kiwismoother @rune1920 @blkkizzat @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @ressyshi @startatdawn

@khenanadeche @heijihatsutori @inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk

@rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping @sims-4lifers @bratidol @rh-tg1

@hyunsuks-beanie @n1vi @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111 @supsiii

@natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko @strawberrymilkshakes-posts

@nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow @sxnkuna

@misoyuh @lupitalove @sebastianlover @gojosatorubrainrot @sleepiebunniee

@mmmidkman @theonecrackhead @thathorsegotpoobrain @iveivory @samistar

@yuuan-66 @gojoslefttoenail @soyalovestoyap @winkwonks-world @thebiggestsimpforyou 

[thezombieprostitute]

Trying

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's December Daze Challenge.

Prompt: here, take my jacket.

A/N2: Follow up to this ask. Takes place in the same town as What's Mine. Reader is female, no other physical descriptors used.

Warnings: Controlling behaviors, Implied smut, Non/dubious consent. Let me know if I missed any!

Within the first week of Steve finding you, he'd replaced all of your clothes with ones he liked. Dresses and skirts that gave him easy access. Low cut shirts that did nothing to hide the tattoo he'd made you get when you were first together, marking you as his. He threw out all of the foods he thought weren't good "for a mother-to-be" including the coffee. And if you even looked at a bottle of alcohol Steve would give you a lecture on being careful for the baby's sake. Never mind that every pregnancy test had turned up negative so far.

Not for lack of trying, though. Steve had been making good on his promise to get you pregnant, to give you the kids you'd once told him you wanted. As many times as you pleaded for mercy, he seemed insistent on making up for lost time. It would be sweet if it were wanted.

You wake up from a nightmare only to find yourself living in one. Steve slumbers next to you, gently snoring. There was a time you would have stuck around, adoring how handsome he looks. But now your only thought is getting away from him, even if it's just for a minute.

As sore as you are from Steve's attempts at breeding you, it surprises you that you're able to walk. You make it to the kitchen, eager for a warm drink, and have to fight back tears when you remember that you're not even allowed hot cocoa. You grab a packet of hot apple cider mix and brew that up for yourself instead. When it's done, you walk out the to porch and have a seat, trying to enjoy the cool weather with a warm drink.

The weather is colder than expected but you don't mind. It matches the coldness you feel in your heart. Well, that's not entirely true; you're also burning up with guilt. You genuinely thought this small town would be beneath Steve's notice, that it would be a safe place for you. You never intended for him to follow you, much less bring his entire gang with him.

The poor librarian, especially, got the raw end of the takeover. Bucky and Steve were all smiles when they introduced you two, as if you hadn't already known her. Steve's told you several times how happy he is that Bucky's got himself a girl and is settling down. You're just glad she has yet to lash out at you for cursing her with Bucky. The two of you have yet to be left alone so you can't express this, but you hope your body language conveys how sorry you are.

You hear your name roared and you nearly drop your empty mug.

"I'm out front, Steve," you call out. You can't go back in yet. The fresh air is all that's helping with your sanity.

Steve storms out the front door soon after. "What the hell, Bunny?! Do you have any idea how scared I was when I woke up and you weren't there? I practically had a heart attack!"

"I'm sorry, Steve," you sniffle. "I just...I'm not yet used to being back together again. I'll try to remember. I'm so sorry."

He softens a little at the tears forming in your eyes. "You left me once before and I went on a rampage thinking someone had stolen you. You can't just leave me alone in bed anymore, Bunny."

"I am sorry, Stevie."

He smiles at the nickname. You were the only person ever allowed to call him that. You're glad it seems to have the effect of calming him even further. He heads inside for a moment and comes back out with this coat.

"Here, take my jacket," he gently orders. "Can't have my girl getting sick, especially if she's carrying our baby."

"I...I do need to ask..." you hesitate as you put the jacket on. It's the only thing that's allowed to cover up your tattoo. "What happens if I can't have kids?"

Steve sighs as he sits next to you. He gently maneuvers you so that you're sitting on his lap and he pushes your head down to rest on his shoulder. "Is that why you've been so stressed out lately?"

"Part of it," you admit. You don't dare tell him the full truth.

"If it turns out we can't have kids, we'll look at adoption."

"Not a surrogate?"

"Not exactly. Bucky's offered to knock up his girl and let us adopt the kids."

You're frozen in shock. You know Bucky can be cruel but this felt like a new low for him.

"Why not just knock her up yourself?" you blurt out.

"Ah, so that's what you're actually worried about." You're not sure what he's talking about but you stay silent. "Bunny, no one could ever replace you. I know you didn't leave because I was too controlling, you're smart enough to know I was keeping you safe. You were scared I'd get tired of you, not want you anymore. I saw how you looked at some of the girls at the bars. I promise, I never gave them a second look after you came into my life. You're it for me, Bunny." He gives you a gentle squeeze to emphasize his sincerity.

You feel numb. All that work to get away from him and he still found you, still took over your life. And he's promised to always be there to control you. You let the tears fall, hoping he'll see them as tears of relief instead of despair. He gently rubs your cheek and alternates coos and kisses to your forehead.

"Let's get you back to bed," he smiles. "Your period tracker thing says you're not ovulating yet, but you never know. Besides, Bucky's foaming at the mouth to knock up his girl." Your brows knit in confusion. "Years ago Bucky and I agreed our kids would grow up together. But whoever found their girl first got to have the first kid. The sooner you make me a dad, the sooner Bucky gets to become one."

"That's--" you stop yourself short of calling him insane. You know it wouldn't go well for anyone. "That sounds like fun. It's nice to know I won't be alone in pregnancy troubles. And I'm sure our kids will be natural friends."

Steve's smile grows. "That's my Bunny. Now lets get back inside so we can keep trying."

Tagging:

@alicedopey; @darsynia; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness;

@lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly; @thiquefunlover63

[untitledmemes]

Baldur's Gate 3: Astarion Prompts

Part I An assortment of dialogue lines taken from the character Astarion in the game Baldur's Game 3. Adjust as necessary to fit pronoun and/or descriptor. In case of Multimuse, don't forget to specify which one/s. Reblog, please do not repost or add.

“ You can kill it, can't you? Like you killed the others. ”

“ I was hoping for a kind soul. ”

“ Let's try to keep that lovely neck of yours in one piece, hm? ”

“ And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies. ”

“ I'm out of wine and flowers, so I hope an introduction will suffice. ”

“ Is that so? We clearly move in different circles. ”

“ You know, I was ready to go this alone, but maybe sticking with the herd isn't such a bad idea. ”

“ Wait, that's it? 'You're doomed, sorry,' and then off to the next adventure?”

“ My my, you've been busy. ”

“ Curling up in the dirt and resting is... a little novel. ”

“ You sleep. I'll keep watch. ”

“ We're all doing surprisingly well, given the circumstances. ”

“ I am open to suggestion. Knives, poison, strangulation - whatever you'd prefer. ”

“ If the last day taught me anything, it's that the impossible is more likely than you think. ”

“ Quite a sight. The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin. ”

“ Good. I don't want you to run off just yet. ”

“ I'm not easily impressed by people, but you're stronger than I gave you credit for. ”

“ You have your charms... more than you think. ”

“ No, no - it's not what it looks like! I swear! ”

“ It's not what you think - I'm not some monster!. ”

“ No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me. ”

“ I need you alive. You need me strong. ”

“ I shall be gentle as a babe. ”

“ Shouldn't take long. So many people need killing. ”

“ This is a gift, you know. I won't forget it. ”

“ Good morning. How do you feel? ”

“ Someone - or something - wants me alive. They've changed the rules. ”

“ As for my other quirks - well, we can figure those out in time. ”

“ I was worried people might turn up with torches and pitchforks. Although there's still time. ”

“ We're bound together, no matter what comes. ”

“ There now, we're all friends again. ”

“ Oh, you're such a sweetheart. ”

“ I'm here in the spirit of openness and honesty, to work together as a team. ”

“ I've never killed anyone! Well, not for food. ”

“ Do you think you could trust me just a little further? ”

“ I only need a taste, I swear. ”

“ Let's make ourselves comfortable, shall we? ”

“ Oh no. Something's terrible happened! ”

“ You're - you're here! Thank goodness, I was worried about you. ”

“ I understand you're upset, but let's not get carried away. ”

“ I can fight with all my weapons - teeth included. ”

[cripplecharacters]

Hello! I need advice for writing a character with oculocutaneous albinism who’s a platonic love interest without descriptions of her coming off as fetishising albinism. Her name is Glass and she’s blind and an investigative journalist and will be a reoccurring character in the series. The MC is gay and he describes her very affectionately in the narrative. When she’s introduced he fondly points out (to the reader) a lot of traits about her including things related to her albinism like “slightly wavy snow white hair in a fashionable bob and striking dark blue eyes that gently danced back and forth. One eye was pointing slightly inwards as she tilted her head and smirked at him.” I got the “dancing eyes” idea from a short film made by someone with albinism and nystagmus. I’m going to try and describe other traits about her more, especially about her personality to counter this.

I also have a question that might be too specific? I’m planning on giving her a little brother with ocular albinism, OA. If someone has a daughter with OCA are they more likely to have a son with OA or are the two kinds of albinism genetically unrelated? I wanted to include him to have more then one blind character in the story. Thanks for your time. :) -Anon Blue.

Hey! We don't currently have mods with Albinism, so I'll try my best. I recommend our #albinism representation tag for resources made by people with it.

If you don't put most of the attention of how she looks to her hair or skin color, I think it should be fine. It's okay to mention it - I mean, that's just how she is, would be kinda weird to fully ignore it - but don't make other characters or the narrator gush over her paleness or eye color every time she comes up. Change it up and praise her fashion sense (like you did with her hairstyle), the shape of her nose, how bushy her eyebrows are, or how her gums show when she's smiling instead. Her appearance shouldn't be reduced to just "girl with albinism" - give her other visual traits.

For other descriptors, I would avoid making her "angelic" or "ethereal" because of her disability. Remember to not make it mystic or magical; there's a whole "Magical Albino" trope out here that you should try to avoid.

You mentioning nystagmus and strabismus is great. Those are often forgotten or ignored in characters with albinism because they're not seen as "pretty". I've seen some people describe their nystagmus as "dancing eyes" before too, I think it's a very cool of conveying it.

In general, a good way to avoid fetishization is to include the "boring/mundane" things. When you show the medical parts of albinism like the esotropia, avoiding the sun, having her use a white cane or a guide animal, or using Braille, the representation will be more informed overall and not just an "aesthetic" - which a lot of characters with albinism unfortunately end up being. There's a big difference between a blind journalist guided by a German shepherd who happens to not have melanin and needs a Big Hat, and an evil sniper with bright red eyes and mysterious powers.

In case that Glass is Black, I'd recommend looking at the #albinism tag at @writingwithcolor - it's always good to make sure your descriptions don't come off as unintentionally colorist if you go into her skin color. Things like describing her as more frail or delicate (when compared to other Black characters) would be in poor taste, so look out for that intersectionality if it applies.

The brother with ocular albinism part; those two types are completely unrelated, and it would be incredibly rare (not impossible) for that to happen as far as I know. For reference, almost all OCA (1-7) and OA (1-2) types are caused by completely different genes. The only exception could be OA1 and OA3; we don't currently know what causes the third one, and there's a theory that it's just a different presentation of the first. But I'm not aware of anything like that for oculocutaneous albinism, so if Glass has OCA1 (as I'm assuming from the description), her brother would have OCA1 as well (as opposed to OCA3 or any other subtype) if anything.

One interesting thing that you could do to have him have OA that I never see in fiction is to have him be adopted. I know multiple families who had a child with a certain disability and decided to adopt a second (or third, or fourth...) one with it. I think it could be very cool and would make sense with him being the younger one. Here is an interview/vlog from a real-life family with six adopted blind kids, if you want an example of that.

Wanting to include multiple blind characters is a great idea - if adoption doesn't work for your story, he could have the same type of albinism as Glass or have a non-genetic cause of blindness, like CVI, Retinopathy of Prematurity, glaucoma, or a whole lot of other things.

A story about a blind investigative journalist sounds awesome. Good luck with your writing.

mod Sasza

[captainthisshipinmyhead]

Secret Desires

Sanemi x Fem!Reader, Giyuu x Fem!Reader (p sure I used she/her pronouns at one point but I don't think I use any descriptors really, so it could be read as GN!Reader, just wanted to tag as fem just in case)

Shinazugawa hates Tomioka, everyone knows this. But nobody knows the real reason behind this animosity-- or that it mostly has to do with you.

Warnings: angst, mentions of sex (no smut), OOC Sanemi tbh, cold/emotionless Giyuu (I put that as a warning bc it pains me. Giyuu is my lil cinnamon bun sweetie I hate making him that way 😔), very little plot outside the romance stuff lol.

WC: 5,182

A/N: I'm not rlly a huge fan of like, music-based fics but I have to admit I thought about the idea for this one when a Panic! At the Disco song came on shuffle the other day. These lines listed below in particular from "She Had the World" inspired this. Enjoy. As always, constructive criticism is much appreciated but please be kind.

“When I look in her eyes, well I just see the sky”

“I don’t love you, I’m just passing the time”

         It was no secret to any of the hashira that Shinazugawa hated Tomioka with a passion. To the few of them that had asked about this animosity outright Shinazugawa had given some lame answers before, like that Tomioka appeared to think of himself as better than the other hashira (true), that Tomioka had defeated him in all their 1v1 training sessions due to some really bullshit happenings that occurred each time and it was annoying (true), and that Tomioka had killed one of Shinazugawa’s pet beetles (not true). Though these were the reasons he gave for having such a hatred for the Water Pillar, they weren’t the real reason why Shinazugawa couldn’t stand the guy. The real reason that he would probably never reveal out loud to anyone else was simple: you.

         You were indeed the reason for the one-sided hatred between the two hashira. You didn’t know this, of course, but Shinazugawa absolutely couldn’t stand the fact that Tomioka had you. Though he never intended on telling you this, Shinazugawa had feelings for you. Deep, deep feelings that he actively had to push down when you talked to him with your bright smile, telling him another one of your stories about the crazy happenings of your day. He was no stranger to envy and not getting things that he wanted in life, so it wasn’t just the fact that Tomioka had you, but that he didn’t care for you as he should.

This was another secret Sanemi held closely-- not because he didn’t want to tell you, but because didn’t know how. He had found out Tomioka’s true feelings because Tomioka had gotten careless after one stressful week with back to back missions and left his personal notebook out in a common dining space. The only person around at the time to find it was Shinazugawa. He normally wouldn’t care about the personal musings of a random person but given whose notebook it was, he couldn’t resist reading a few tidbits. His jaw fell open in rage when he saw the way Tomioka had written about you there—not necessarily as if he didn’t care for you at all, but he was very clear in the fact that he had no romantic feelings toward you whatsoever. He was very clear in his musings that you were his partner simply as a way for Tomioka to relieve stress, seek out affection, and boost his own ego.

When Shinezugawa read this, he was beyond pissed. He was absolutely outraged. How could he? How was it that Tomioka of all people got to have someone as kind as you and he didn’t value you the way that he should? He could’ve killed Tomioka with his bare hands in that moment, but he knew that you were at his estate now, visiting your partner for the evening, and he knew that you hated unnecessary violence and animosity between fellow demon slayers. In the moment, he decided to place the notebook back where he had found it, and go on a walk to calm his anger. He would deal with Tomioka in due time, some way that wouldn’t have you angry at the both of them.

         In the weeks following this discovery, Sanemi could not shake the rage that filled him at the sight of Tomioka. And don’t get him started on how it felt seeing the both of you together. When you approached Sanemi alone, which you often did as you enjoyed talking to the typically prickly Wind Pillar, he forced his emotions down so that he didn’t burst forth with the knowledge he had on your little boyfriend. You absolutely deserved to know, but if he were to be the one to tell you he wanted to do it without anger, only with empathy and understanding. The way that you should be treated. Sanemi valued you deeply, and he never wanted to hurt you. It was his own deep-rooted care for you that made this situation so anguishing. He knew that he could treat you better—so much better. If only he had gotten closer to you first, then maybe....

         He tried not to linger on the maybes. He didn’t want to be your friend with any conditions attached—he never thought of himself as the most emotionally intelligent person, but he at least knew that wasn’t fair. So he let it play out, because although Sanemi didn’t necessarily believe in karma, he did believe that the truth always comes to light.

         As far as your relationship went, you were comfortable in it. While there were things that maybe had you desiring more, you couldn’t say that you weren’t content with Tomioka so that was good enough for you. Really, what more could you ask for? Your boyfriend was strong, handsome, perceptive to your needs, and your intimacy together was consistent. Sure, Tomioka wasn’t the most outspoken about your relationship or on board with PDA—or, when you thought about it, any kind of physical affection-- but you really didn’t have any complaints. I mean, is your relationship really in the trenches if your boyfriend doesn’t show you off? No, that wasn’t necessarily a deal breaker.

         But when you saw other couples together, you felt an ache in your chest. You couldn’t help but compare your relationship to the sugary sweet ones around you. You saw others who held hands on public pathways, fingers intertwined, and imagined what it must feel like to be in love so freely where everyone could see. You saw the way these couples would sneak pecks on each others’ cheeks or foreheads, and the way that they would blush at the acts of affection, and you sighed internally. You heard whispered vows of devotion and love, and couldn’t help but think about how Tomioka never professed his love to you. Not verbally at least. I mean, he had to love you of course, you two had been together for the better part of a year. He just didn’t show it that often. He was just subtle. That’s what you told yourself. You had muttered the three words to him before, but you usually only did it in moments of passion, when you could play it off as being really into the moment if he questioned it. He didn’t, but all you got in response to your proclamations were grunts in your ear or hums that you hoped were agreement. But honestly, not hearing those words from him hurt your feelings. You wanted a deep love; one that your mind never questioned because it was always made so clear to you how much you were valued. You wanted it so badly you dreamed of it, but you weren’t willing to end things with Tomioka just over feeling a little pathetic at not publicly being affectionate with him or hearing three words. Other than those desires of yours, you guys were perfectly fine, really.

         It only took about a month before the guilt and rage began chipping away at Sanemi’s resolve. He had to tell someone, even if it couldn’t be you—and Iguro was the only hashira Sanemi trusted with any tidbits of his personal life, so Iguro it was.

         He had invited the Serpent Hashira over for a training session one afternoon when he was particularly frustrated. Iguro pretty much knew the drill; when Shinazugawa invited him over for one-on-one training it usually meant he needed to rant about something and let off some steam. Since Iguro was more of the quiet type anyway, he didn’t mind keeping quiet and letting Shinazugawa grunt out his frustrations.

Sanemi may have thought that he was keeping his admiration for you a secret, but Iguro was much more perceptive than the Wind Pillar realized. When he finished telling his friend how shitty your relationship really was, he was shocked that his friend called him out instead of getting angry with him.

         “And you didn’t tell her this?” Iguro admonished Sanemi, “You’d keep such a secret from the girl you love?”

         “I...what? Love? I didn’t say anything-“ He cut himself off at the sharp look in Iguro’s eyes as he tried to deny his feelings.

“I can’t tell her, obviously! She would be angry not only at the situation but at me, for knowing now for a month that her relationship is a sham! You can’t just....just drop that on someone! I mean, did I even ask  for your opinion anyway? Geez!”

Iguro’s eyes peered sternly at Shinazugawa over his bandages. “You should have told her as soon as you knew. It wouldn’t have been easy, but it would have been easier than telling her now. Maybe she wouldn’t have been angry then, but she definitely will be now that you’ve known all this time, and you can’t blame her.” Iguro would never admit it, but he had grown fond of you over your time with the Demon Corps, and it was mostly contributed to how highly Shinazugawa, his friend, spoke of you. This whole situation now pissed him off as well.

         Sanemi found that he couldn’t meet his friend’s eyes.

“You think I don’t know that?! Know it all ass....” Sanemi mumbled, deflecting the shame he felt at being called out. “Look, whatever, I’ll tell her soon. I said already I should’ve told her before. God, this sucks.”

Iguro nodded in the affirmative, sheathed his sword and bid goodbye to his friend before heading back to his own estate, trusting that their training session had been helpful. And it turned out that it had been helpful, as it struck Sanemi to be called out so plainly by his typically cold friend, who he had not expected to scold him at their training earlier. I mean, what was that about? Iguro never spoke up when Sanemi ranted—it was like, an unspoken understanding of theirs. But hey, whatever. The longer Shinazugawa got to ponder on the oddity of the earlier conversation, the less he thought about what he was on his way to do.

Sanemi approached the residence of the Flame Pillar, who you were training under as his tsuguko. His steps faltered a bit as he saw that you were already outside and you spotted him quickly, giving him no more time to prepare his words. He forced a smile on his face that he hoped matched yours, and closed the distance between you.

“Y/n! Hey, how are you doing today?” He started out with some niceties, stalling.

“Oh well, I’m pretty good, Sanemi, how about you? I see you’re kind of flushed, if you need to come inside we can. It’s pretty hot out today. Here, let me get you some water as well!” As kind as always, you took him gently by the elbow and began walking him to the engawa nearby. As he was seated, he rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. Gratefully accepting the water you held out to him, he drank deeply and sighed, knowing that the painful conversation had to begin.

“Y/n, I um... I came here to tell you something. I should’ve told you a long time ago, but I have been a coward, and I’m sorry for that.” He glanced sideways at your face, noticing already how the worry filled your eyes.

“About a month ago, I found some personal writings of Tomioka’s, and, well, they... they mentioned you, and...” He paused to take a deep breath, preparing to rip the metaphorical bandaid off. “He wrote in his notebook that he isn’t in love you”

Sanemi held his breath. It almost seemed in that moment as if the world held its breath too—he could feel a slight breeze but didn’t hear it move through the trees, and even birds that had been chirping had fallen silent. He forced himself to look at you and he immediately wished he hadn’t. Your mouth had fallen open in a delicate “o” shape, and your eyes sparkled with tears that had yet to fall. It appeared that you were trembling, and you couldn’t meet his eyes as they desperately tried to lock onto yours.

After a few moments of prolonged silence, Shinazugawa reached his hand out toward you, not knowing what to say but knowing he could offer you some physical comfort—and you jerked violently away from him.

“Go.” Your voice was low.

“Y- Y/n I’m—”

“I said go Shinazugawa,” you were practically growling at him.

“But wait, I-“

Your head whipped around so quickly he was startled, your expression as fierce as when you faced down a demon. “You knew. You knew for a month and you hid it from me. I thought we were friends, I- I thought that you cared for me!” The anger in your voice is exactly as he had feared.

He was going to lose you because of Tomioka—no, no.... he was going to lose you because of his own stupidity.

Not wanting to anger you further, he slipped down from the engawa and took a couple of steps away before speaking one last sentiment to you: “I am sorry, Y/n. I understand if you don’t wish to talk to me anymore, but my door is open to you if you ever change your mind.” He exited the estate and walked with a heavy heart back to his own mansion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         You were devastated. Your deep fear had been confirmed by your friend, who had known long before you and chosen to deceive you. You had ignored Giyuu’s letters asking to meet for meals, and you had asked Rengoku to turn him away whenever he showed up at the estate’s entrance. You sobbed for a couple of days straight, then you could only lie in silence for the next day or two. Rengoku, the kind hearted man that he is, brought you all your favorite foods at mealtimes to try to entice you to eat, but your appetite was nonexistent despite his efforts. You finally reached a point where your sadness turned again to anger, but this time it was rightfully aimed toward the person who had deceived you longer than anyone—Giyuu. You finally instructed Rengoku to let him in after 5 days straight of the Water Hashira groveling outside. Rengoku, bless him, glared at Tomioka the entire time he marched to your door, though he knew not what was going on between the two of you.

         You had made an effort to clean your appearance up; you didn’t want to be disheveled in front of the man who had ripped your heart to shreds. Tomioka began the conversation, immediately starting to apologize, knowing how you had found out because Shinazugawa and Iguro had already ripped him a new one for it.

“Y/n please, I’m so so sorry. I can’t apologize enough for-“

“How could you?” You cut him off, not wanting to hear his bullshit apologies. If he were really sorry or guilty or whatever he would claim to you, why would he have kept his act up so long? Why pretend to care for you at all? If he wanted sex, it could have just been that. People make arrangements for situations to just enjoy sex all the time, there could have been some sort of understanding between you without the need for this senselessly cruel pain that you were put through.

“Y/n, I... I messed up. I was selfish, and I began a relationship with you knowing that a serious relationship wasn’t what I wanted, and I just.... I just hoped that somewhere along the line I would change my mind. I need you to understand though that it has nothing to do with you, you’re the best person I know, I just... I’m not someone who’s able to date right now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to ever, it’s just how I am. I should have told you that. I made excuse after excuse not to break things off. I enjoyed your affection and your attention, and I took advantage of it. I’m sorry.”

You listened to his small speech with a quivering lip.  He dated you for almost a year, with you thinking that you two were serious about each other, just because he liked your affection? You were almost more angry now that you’d heard his stupid explanation; it didn’t excuse this sham of a relationship. The silence stretched on as your tear-filled eyes glanced at the ground, at the trees behind him, at the birds in the sky....anywhere but at him, the man you thought you loved. Eventually, he broke the silence.

“You’re right to be angry. I would be too, anyone would be. You deserve better than me wasting your time. I’m so sorry. I know I never told you I loved you, because that felt like a lie, and I know you probably feel used. But y/n, if you ever forgive me, I know I could love you as my friend. I could be a much better friend to you than I ever was a lover. Please, take all the time you need. Even if you don’t forgive me, I’ll be willing to talk more whenever you’re ready.”

         He slowly began to turn around and step toward the estate’s main gate, and you watched him walk with slumped shoulders. At least you knew he truly felt bad about it all—Giyuu was not an actor. He couldn’t lie to save his life—not directly, like how he never said that he loved you. Once you were confident that he was out of earshot, you let out a sob that you hadn’t wanted him to hear, and turned to escape back into your bed for the remainder of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         After a week of your grieving your future with Giyuu, in which luckily you had not been called on any missions, you finally felt okay enough to get ready and go to a group training session. Upon your arrival, you were approached by Sanemi, whose expression was more worried than you’d ever seen it.

“I came to check on you,” he said, eyes flicking between your own as if searching for a response there. You knew he had come to ask about you multiple times, maybe more times than Giyuu even, but Rengoku took his role as your protector seriously and turned Shinazugawa away even when he threatened violence.

“I wasn’t taking visitors.”

“Okay, yeah, I um—I get that. You needed time. Did you at least get my letters?”

You hadn’t realized he had been sending you letters also—you had instructed your crow not to deliver any messages to you unless they were from the master instructing you to go on a mission. Everything else could wait.

“Oh, my crow may have them stored away for me somewhere, but I didn’t want to read any letters last week either. Sorry.”

“Oh no, no, no need to be sorry,” He rushed to reassure you, placing his strong hand on your shoulder in a comforting gesture. You hadn’t realized how much you missed his company; how he effortlessly showed you his sweet side that others didn’t see. Your heart, having felt frozen solid for well over a week at this point, began to thaw out at the genuine warmth you felt from your friend. Overwhelmed with appreciation for him, you drew him into a hug, which he returned after a beat of hesitation.

         The training session went without a hitch as you slid right back into your regimen. Sanemi hardly left your side, and other slayers gave the two of you odd looks at the beginning when you had embraced. You couldn’t blame them—Sanemi was feared by many for his quick temper and how he resorted to violence in many situations that weren’t quickly and easily resolved with words. Though you’d never had to be fearful of him, you were able to see why others were.

         As you were gathering your things to head back to Rengoku’s estate, Sanemi asked if he could accompany you, which you accepted. You enjoyed his companionship too much to say no.

“Y/n, I want to apologize to you. I know you were upset with me for not telling you about Tomioka when I found out, and I should have. We’re... we’re friends, and I care about your feelings. I didn’t tell you because I was scared to hurt you, even though it wasn’t technically me who was doing the uh, hurtful thing? Look, I’m not good with words, so uh, I—” His cheeks blushed scarlet as you peered up at him in the evening sun. A tiny smile formed on your face before you cut him off.

“It’s okay, Sanemi. I know. And I know you probably wanted to tell me. I’m not angry with you really, you told me eventually. You’re a good friend to me. Thank you.”

         You looped your arm through his and continued walking, a comfortable silence between you.

Sanemi was the one to break it. “You deserve better, y/n. I always thought you did, but definitely with all this coming out you deserve better. You deserve someone to love you. I see other couples around, like, kissing and holding hands and stuff and... I don’t know, I just never saw him do any of that for you. The next person should do that and more. You should have someone who isn’t afraid to love you proudly. I know you have a lot of love to give, ‘cause that’s just who you are. You are love. So that’s what you deserve.”

You couldn’t say anything in response—you had never had someone tell you something so heartwrenchingly sweet before. You were coming up to your place, so you stepped on the engawa and turned to face Sanemi before dipping down to place a kiss on his cheek. His blush from before, barely having faded, returned with a vengeance.

“Thank you, Sanemi,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. You hoped you conveyed how much you appreciated him. You smiled, and backed into your home, watching his lips turn up as he also backed toward the path leading to his home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         Over the following months, you got back into your normal routine and felt much more at peace with your heartbreak. You had the support of the rest of the hashira, even if most of them didn’t know details of what happened between you and Tomioka—it wasn’t something that you were inclined to share. Not only would it cause more animosity to be directed toward him (he wasn’t the most popular slayer to begin with...), but it also caused you a bit of embarrassment that you were toyed with for so long. Regardless, you came to understand Tomioka’s reasoning for stringing you along, especially because of his lack of social life outside of you. You felt bad for him, knowing that now he truly had no one to spend time with; but you definitely weren’t ready to be on friendly terms with him anytime soon so you didn’t make efforts to see or speak with him.

         You had grown closer to Sanemi than you were before, which was a feat considering that you were already best friends really, even when you were with Tomioka. You both ate all of your meals together, trained together, often walked each other home, and confided in one another more than ever. Shinazugawa made you very comfortable around him. You were shocked when you realized one afternoon, head thrown back at the sky as you laughed at some clever quip from him, that he had single-handedly returned your smile to you after your heartbreak. You felt a tiny bit of warmth wiggling in your chest.

         Walking once again toward the Flame Hashira’s estate, your arms swayed gently by your sides. With Sanemi to your left, you felt very relaxed after a long day of training and goofing off with him and Iguro. You were looking forward to a nice meal and a hot bath. A sigh slipped from your lips at the pure contentment you felt in this moment.

         Sanemi’s head turned toward you, seeking your eyes.

“Everything alright?”

“Perfect, ‘Snemi,” your tongue was loose in relaxation and a strange version of his nickname slipped out, alongside a giggle at the slip-up.

         His face stretched into a smile, which was rare for anyone besides you to ever see. Walking down the bumpy path leisurely, the backs of your hands kept brushing. The warmth you’d felt in your chest since seeing Sanemi every day turned into a flutter everytime you touched his skin. As his knuckles bumped yours again, you decided to be bold—it was about time you started going for what you wanted, right? You caught his hand in yours and laced your fingers through his calloused ones. Your heart stuttered at the contact, and if you’d asked him how he felt he’d say the same. He squeezed your hand in his and rubbed his thumb in soft circles as you approached your residence.

“Y/n, I was actually wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow? With me? Well, duh, but you know...” Sanemi trailed off, his cheeks turning that shade of pink that delighted you so much. He was always so confident in every other situation—in fighting, in conversation with others, in his strengths, and he had been confident in flirting if what you’d seen in past years through your friendship was anything to go off of. His shyness with you was endearing; it told you that he cared what you thought of him. You knew he also had a level of comfort with you that he didn’t possess with anyone else, but you hoped in the near future you could express to him exactly just how much you valued him so that he no longer had reason to be so shy around you anymore.

  “Nemi, we hang out every day. Of course, I would love to see you again tomorrow.”

He kept meeting your eyes but then looking away. “Well yeah, yes, we do, but I kind of want to do something different, if that’s okay. Like if you wanted we could walk to the trees where the cherry blossoms are and I’ll bring a bunch of food and we’ll have, like, a picnic or something.” Your heart had to have swelled to twice its normal size.

         Still holding his hand, you gave him a reassuring squeeze. “I would love to.”

He finally met your gaze for more than half of a second and his still-pink cheeks broke into a grin wider than you think you’d ever seen on him. You didn’t know if you’d ever seen anything cuter. “Okay, then perfect! And, just to be clear, I wanted this to be a date. Like, romantically.”

You laughed again, throwing your arms around his neck and nuzzling into his broad chest. “Yes, Nemi. I want this to be a date too.”

Pulling back, you looked at his face, and you couldn’t help it. You were smitten with your friend. Well, soon to be more-than-friend, right?

“Can I kiss you?”

His face dropped into a look of pure shock, then elation as he breathed out, “Yes, y/n. I would like nothing more.”

So you leaned in, and he did the same, meeting in the middle. Sanemi may look rough around the edges to everyone else—but to you, he was nothing but soft and sweet. His lips were soft, not just in texture but in pressure, as if he wanted to make sure he wouldn’t be too rough with you. Your lips moved together as if you’d done this before. Thinking about how you knew now Sanemi’s true feelings for you made you smile into the kiss, and you felt his lips turn upwards too. Both of you were hesitant to part, but you had to pull away when it became difficult to breathe. His lips followed yours, not wanting to break.

Sanemi rested his forehead against yours and your peered up into his eyes. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him look so relaxed or blissful. “I should go,” you said after a moment, pulling a sigh from his mouth. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sanemi. We’ll have more time together then.”

“Alright. If you must go,” he replied, pressing a sweet kiss to your brow before stepping away, off to his own estate. You watched him go. For the first time in several months, you could see yourself being happy again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

         A year later, you still walked everywhere with Sanemi, only now you two never went without your hands clasped tightly together. Your relationship with him had been completely different than the one before that had broken your heart. Sanemi held your hand with pride, he planted kisses on the top of your head and pecked your cheeks even when in the presence of others. When you became overwhelmed with how adorable your partner was and stretched up on your toes for a kiss, he still blushed if you two were in public, but he never turned down an opportunity to kiss his beloved. Not to mention, Sanemi never let a day go by without telling you he loved you. He didn’t really need to tell you in order for you to know—his actions spoke volumes about his true feelings—but each time he told you, you reveled in it and made sure to tell him the same back. And yes, you could say it to him anywhere, anytime without embarrassment or needing to play it off somehow.

His affection was shocking to others. The big, bad Wind Pillar who beat other slayers to a pulp at his trainings blushed when his girlfriend kissed him? He held her hand like his lifeline? His eyes weren’t full of hatred, but adoration? How could this be? Though this behavior was shocking to them when your relationship began, many were able to associate this new temperament to Shinazugawa fairly easily. While still rough in training sessions and prone to losing his temper, since he had been with you others could tell that he made a greater effort to hold his tongue or step away when upset rather than throw senseless punches. You made him want to do better for you, so he was better for you. He was a man of his word.

****

Now, when you walked Sanemi to a Hashira meeting, you placed a gentle kiss to his cheek and looked at the other hashira waiting in the Master’s garden. You waved first at Rengoku, who you’d see later on, then at Tomioka, who still hesitated to return your greetings even though you had released any anger you held toward him months ago. How could you hold anger toward your ex when you were so incredibly happy with Sanemi? Tomioka had taught you what you deserved, and Sanemi had been more than happy to put in work to be that for you. Now you could say with truth that you had no complaints.

[mumms-the-word]

Illithid Souls - Part 1

What’s up with mind flayers and souls anyway?

I know this deep dive has been done before like a hundred times, based on all the Reddit threads I’ve read, but I feel like a lot of the "evidence" has been scattered about in a lot of places (reddit, tumblr, other threads, other socials, etc). So I figured...why not gather a lot of it here in one place?

As with all my deep dives, this post is designed to equip you with some lore so you can build your own theories and ideas. I’ll offer theories that I find interesting or feasible, but lore is always a little hazy so I’m bound to be wrong or you’re bound to interpret things differently. Just have fun with the lore!

I’ll start by defining what D&D calls a soul, and then…well it unravels from there. In this part we're going to dive into the lore about souls, the afterlife, and where mind flayers differ, along with a bit of in-game context. In Part 2 we'll look at individual case studies (Tav/Durge, Orpheus, Karlach, and Gale).

Buckle up, folks, cause it's a long one!

As always, I’ll include images and image descriptors/text written out in case the pictures fail or are too small to read!

What is a soul?

The entire game of Baldur's Gate 3 is heavily invested in the idea of souls. Raphael wants to bargain with your soul. Mizora has Wyll's soul bound to a contract. Cazador plans to sacrifice 7007 souls. Vlaakith consumes the souls of her faithful. Karlach wants to collect (and use) soul coins. Every tadpoled follower of the Absolute is called a True Soul. This game is OBSESSED with souls.

But it never actually defines a soul, does it? So what do the official D&D rules say?

Well...they don't. Older editions used to split hairs about the difference between a soul and a spirit, but those older editions also used to say that elves, orcs, and half-orcs didn't have souls, so...we've moved on a bit from those days.

In the game, a book on soul coins defines souls as "the sum of personal and magical essence," which is both helpful and vague. The general player consensus is that a soul is the animating "force" that is made up of memories, personality, intelligence, and (possibly) morality, and that in some cases, such as the spell Speak with Dead, a soul differs from a spirit, which merely "animates" the body but does not actually possess the personality or the thinking capabilities of the deceased (though it may have access to memories).

Speak with Dead [...] Until the spell ends, you can ask the corpse up to five questions. The corpse knows only what it knew in life, including the languages it knew. [...] This spell doesn't return the creature's soul to its body, only its animating spirit. Thus, the corpse can't learn new information, doesn't comprehend anything that has happened since it died, and can't speculate about future events.

So there's a chance that while an entire soul is generally made up of personality, memories, and some element of active thinking/decision making/speculation (intelligence, for lack of a better term), the part of a soul that functions as an "animating spirit" is what houses memory. In other words, animating spirit (memories) + personality + intelligence = soul.

This idea of the animating spirit (memories) being housed within a soul, but also detachable from a soul, is important for later, so remember this in a bit.

Souls also have power, which is why the game is obsessed with everyone fighting over souls. Raphael, Mizora, and Cazador trade in souls in exchange for power. There are insinuations in the game that the gods want to stop the "scourge of soulless illithids" (Mystra's words) because souls are a kind of currency to them (though, trust me, trying to find a recent D&D source that clearly states that particular stance is a damn migraine of an endeavor). But Withers does say that souls imbue gods with power, so the game at least operates with that assumption in mind.

According to Withers…

We all know that Withers, aka Jergal, aka the Final Scribe, aka the former god of death, aka the expert on souls, has plenty to say when you ask him to elaborate on anything:

Well, okay, maybe he doesn't. But he does have a bit more to say about souls and mind flayers. For example, when he first brings up the topic of illithids and souls in Moonrise, this is some of the information he can give the player.

Withers: I shall ask yet again. Do illithids possess souls? Player: These abominations are soulless, surely. Withers: Correct. - Player: I'm not sure. Don't all living things? Withers: No. Nor canst thou count mind flayers among them. - Player: I admit I haven't thought about it. Withers: Thou shalt think about it now, and I shall give the answer. Mind flayers are soulless. Yet the Three amass an illithid army, void of apostolic souls that could imbue them with power.

A couple of things to note here. Jergal, the guy in charge of putting down the names of people who die and keeping track of where their souls go, is pretty clear that he thinks mind flayers don't have souls. But his last statement clarifies two things: one, that he is referring specifically to apostolic souls (more on that in a bit) and that souls imbue gods with power.

Souls give the gods a kind of strength. He brings this up when he criticizes the dumb plot the Dead Three came up with in his post-epilogue scene:

Thou sought to bolster thy strength by taking away the souls of mortals. But souls vanish when their hosts become mind flayers.

So we know that souls are a source of power for deities and gods because they imbue gods with power and strength. But gods only get the power of these souls after a mortal dies with their soul intact. If someone becomes a mind flayer...well, let's just say the natural order of things gets disrupted.

What happens when you die?

You see, normally, when someone dies in Faerûn (assuming they are humanoid), their soul travels to the Fugue Plane where it basically waits around until a deity picks them up or Kelemvor decides they're just going to be part of the Wall of the Faithless for forever. From the Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide (page 20 because I am, as youtuber Swoop says in her docs, a thorough bitch):

The Afterlife Most humans believe the souls of the recently deceased are spirited away to the Fugue Plane, where they wander the great City of Judgment, often unaware they are dead. The servants of the gods come to collect such souls and, if they are worthy, they are taken to their awaited afterlife in the deity's domain. Occasionally, the faithful are sent back to be reborn into the world to finish work that was left undone.

This is where the idea of apostolic souls comes in. Apostolic, in its most basic definition, means "having the characteristics of an apostle," or having the characteristics of someone who dedicates their entire lives to the teaching of a particular religious figure (in our context and reality, this mostly means the apostles of Christ, but in BG3 it would refer to any deity). I think here, the definition gets stretched a little thinner to mean any soul that is capable of devotion to a deity, rather than a soul that is already devoted. Apostolic souls can be Faithful, Faithless, or False (which is how souls are separated in the Fugue Plane).

In other words, an apostolic soul is a humanoid-specific soul that the deities recognize and can use as a source of power by inviting said soul into their domain. Mind flayers do not have apostolic souls. Emphasis on apostolic here, but we'll back to mind flayers in a minute. For now, let's look at the Faithless and False souls.

Souls that are unclaimed by the servants of the gods are judged by Kelemvor, who decides the fate of each one. Some are charged with serving as guides for other lost souls, while others are transformed into squirming larvae and cast into the dust. The truly false and faithless are mortared into the Wall of the Faithless, the great barrier that bounds the City of the Dead, where their souls slowly dissolve and begin to become part of the stuff of the Wall itself.

Depressing.

The distinction between a Faithless and a False soul is a little hazy, but according to the Forgotten Realms wiki, a Faithless soul is someone who never aligned themselves to the worship of a specific deity or who just didn't believe in the existence of the gods at all (think of Astarion, who outright rejects all gods). A False soul, in contrast, is someone who did believe but failed to serve their god or outright betrayed them (a fate that Gale feels he is faced with for being on Mystra's bad side). Allegedly all the Faithless end up becoming part of the Wall, whereas the False could get mitigated sentences, such as becoming guides for other souls.

Of course, there's nothing stopping deities from combing through Faithless or False souls to collect them into their domains. But it could take a while. Clearly, the more souls a god collects into their domains, the more powerful they become, but the gods are also not exactly fighting over the souls of Faithless or False people, because people can end up waiting hundreds of years before Kelemvor is finally like "guess you're part of the wall now." Your only option to get out of that is to sell your soul to a devil, which isn't a much better fate.

From The Sword Coast Adventurer's Guide, page 25, regarding servants of Asmodeus:

To those not so dedicated, priests of Asmodeus offer the prospect of a reprieve in the afterlife. All souls wait on the Fugue Plane for a deity's pleasure, which determines where a soul will spend the rest of eternity. Those who lived their lives most in keeping with a deity's outlook are taken first. Others, who have transgressed in the eyes of their favored god or have not followed any particular ethos, might wait centuries before Kelemvor judges where they go. People who fear such a fate can pray to Asmodeus, his priests say, and in return a devil will grant a waiting soul some comfort.

This makes me infer two things: first, that the gods are kind of picky about which souls they want to join their domain (regardless of what actually happens to that soul in a deity's domain, which is a topic for a different post entirely, because the results may vary) and therefore the gods aren't just going to go with any soul that ends up in the Fugue Plane. Second, that the gods aren't exactly in a hurry to choose among wandering souls, likely because the Material Plane just keeps producing and destroying mortals, resulting in a constant flow of souls.

We see a glimpse of a god's perspective on the influx of souls when Gale confronts Mystra in the Stormshore Tabernacle (in this case, when you play him as an Origin):

Gale: You're one to talk. How many innocents were you prepared to sacrifice if I detonated the orb? Mystra: Such eddies are unexpectional. Souls arrive and depart your plane with every tide, in circumstances just and unjust. The Weave cannot be lost because we are unwilling to cause a ripple. And that is what is at stake.

She then goes on to say "With each day that passes, the elder brain threatens to become a new kind of god, its worshippers a scourge of soulless illithids." This is what's at stake. The loss of souls on the Material Plane.

The Absolute plot threatens that cycle of birth and death, of souls arriving and departing. But how, exactly, is the mind flayer plot a threat?

Well, for one, if everyone with a tadpole turns into an illithid (which doesn't have an apostolic soul, Withers is adamant about this), and then all the illithids kill all the non-illithids...who is making new babies with apostolic souls? And if there are no new fresh souls, eventually the deities will just also die out, since no one will be left to believe in them and thus their powers will diminish and eventually fade. It might take a few hundred years, but it still spells death for everyone involved.

The irony here is that it means the Dead Three gambled and lost even if their plan to ascend a Netherbrain ends with a success, such as when Tav or Durge decides to dominate the world by controlling the Netherbrain. Either the brain is destroyed and they lose, or the Netherbrain successfully completes its Grand Design and they really lose, because the only winner here after a thousand years would be the Netherbrain. Thus we have Withers taunting them in the post-epilogue scene by asking if they really thought their ploy would succeed.

Okay...so we know that mind flayers killing everyone on the planet is a bad idea because it means that apostolic souls stop arriving in the Fugue Plane. But what about mind flayers? If they don't have apostolic souls, do they have ANY soul worth eternal currency?

Remember, the only way to create more mind flayers is to tadpole a humanoid creature. Without humanoids, mind flayers can't reproduce. But when humanoids turn into mind flayers, they allegedly lose their souls. Right?

Withers says souls "vanish" when the body turns into a mind flayer. But this is vague, and thus allows for a few different theories. Perhaps souls move on to the Fugue Plane while the person-turned-mind-flayer continues existing on the Material Plane. Perhaps the soul just becomes obscured and unrecognizable by the gods. Or perhaps the soul really does go poof and is replaced by something else entirely.

So which is it? Well...first of all, let's set the record straight on mind flayer souls.

Do mind flayers have souls?

The short answer is...yes. They just don't have apostolic souls.

According to Volo's Guide to Monsters (page 80 for those looking through their copies at home):

Illithids acknowledge the existence of divine entities, but it is unusual for any but a deviant mind flayer to actively worship such a power. Since they are capable of planar travel, illithids don't view the afterlife and the Outer Planes in the mythic way that most other races do. Illithids don't believe they possess souls whose eternal fate is governed by the gods. Instead, when a mind flayer's brain is returned to the elder brain to be consumed, the creature's intelligence lives on. Only if an illithid's brain isn't retrieved after death would its consciousness be cast into oblivion.

And on page 72:

An elder brain has a perfect recollection of its race's history. Consequently, it views itself as both a refugee and a victim, forced into hiding by barbaric monsters. An elder brain also sees itself as a savior of the mind flayer race and a living memorial that preserves the memories of the mind flayers' prey. By its twisted logic, humanoids whose brains are devoured by the colony are rendered immortal, their memories preserved forever in the elder brain's labyrinthine mind. When a mind flayer grows old, becomes infirm, or is previously injured, the elder brain absorbs it—another form of immortality, as the mind flayer's mind dwells within the hive mind forever after.

So essentially, mind flayers do have a soul, but because they are a) not humanoid but are aberrations from another plane, and b) not faithful to the deities of Faerûn, their souls are not recognized by the gods. The souls might not even journey to the Fugue Plane when they die. Instead, mind flayers give up their consciousness (their memories, especially) to an elder brain to become part of its eternal collective memory.

It's worth noting that Volo's Guide to Monsters puts emphasis on memory and intelligence here, but not necessarily personality. Mind flayers and elder brains do have a kind of personality, because they experience emotions (we'll look at some conversations with the Emperor in Part 2), but their emotional range seems to be a little limited. For example, regarding elder brains:

An elder brain is arrogant, scheming, and power hungry, yet quick to flee or beg for mercy in the face of a powerful foe. It has no conception of joy, sympathy, or charity, but is well acquainted with fear, anger, and curiosity. It is an intellect utterly incapable of empathy or concern for creatures other than itself.

These limited emotions suggest there might be some element of personality here, but it's not exactly the same as a humanoid personality, which would normally be capable of a wider scope of emotional range. We'll talk a lot more about personality and how transforming into a mind flayer alters that part of one's identity (if not their actual soul) more in Part 2, but for now, just know that a mind flayer technically has all the elements usually present in a soul: an animating spirit (memories), intelligence, and personality (emotion).

When mind flayers die, their memories and intelligence are usually consumed by an elder brain, but it's unclear if the personality is too, or if the personality is destroyed. However, if they're not enthralled to an elder brain or if they die and their brain isn't retrieved to give to an elder brain...then their soul is "cast into oblivion."

Being cast into oblivion could mean anything. It could mean that their soul simply wanders around wherever it died, untethered to anything but unable to move on. Or it could mean that their soul simply ceases to exist. No one really knows what happens to it because renegade mind flayers are extremely rare. BG3 has Omeluum and the Emperor, but other than those two, official D&D lore only lists a small handful of other renegades out of millions of mind flayers over time.

So now you're probably thinking, "Well, wait, but is a mind flayer's soul the same soul that a person had before they became a mind flayer?" And the answer to that is complicated.

Let's talk about ceremorphosis

Normally a mind flayer isn't supposed to remember much of its life prior to ceremorphosis. This is partly why mind flayers eat brains, so they can literally absorb the memories of other creatures and make those memories part of the hive mind. But initially, after ceremorphosis, it seems like the the usual animating spirit (memories) of a person gets destroyed or displaced.

The tadpole grows as it devours the humanoid's brain, attaching to the victim's brain stem and becoming its new brain. Over the course of a week, the humanoid body changes form, and a new mind flayer comes into being. The emergent mind flayer often retains a few dim memories from its previous form, but these vague recollections seldom have any bearing on its new life as a brain-eating monster.

So right off the bat, a typical mind flayer loses the memories (perhaps the animating spirit) of the original host, and it's likely that it loses a lot of the initial personality as well (since it seems likely to lose some of the emotional range). Its intelligence is likely altered too, since the tadpole is literally eating brain matter. So this could lead us to believe two things.

First, that ceremorphosis utterly destroys the host's body and the host's soul likely goes to the Fugue Plane because they have basically died. Their brain has been consumed and their body transformed, so in essence they can't be themselves anymore. Instead, a new soul has taken residence inside the mind flayer body, though where this soul comes from is unclear since tadpoles probably don't have souls. The original soul, however, is free to move to the Fugue Plane and beyond.

Or, alternatively, the host's soul is transformed, shedding memories and personality to become a non-apostolic soul that aligns with an elder brain's hive mind somehow. This means that the host's apostolic soul might be destroyed because it's been changed so drastically, but there are some parts of the original soul still left (the lingering memories, for example). This means the host's original soul didn't move on, but is tethered to the mind flayer body and has been changed into something unrecognizable. When the mind flayer dies, the former apostolic-soul-turned-illithid-soul is either consumed by an elder brain or cast into oblivion.

If the first theory is correct, it seems a little odd that the BG3 companions are so concerned about losing their own souls. If it would just be the same as dying, there would still be some desire to avoid the fate of ceremorphosis, but the companions seem incredibly concerned about losing their own autonomy, as if their consciousness will be trapped inside a mind flayer body and their souls forfeit and unable to move on to the Fugue Plane. After all, Withers is in the business of plucking souls out of the Fugue Plane when we inevitably die in the game.

Specifically, Withers can take a body that has been completely turned to ash and resurrect it with True Resurrection, a spell powerful enough to completely restore a body to its former state. However, there is some assumption here that he wouldn't be able to do this with a mind flayer body, thus the push in the game for a cure.

True Resurrection You touch a creature that has been dead for no longer than 200 years and that died for any reason except old age. If the creature's soul is free and willing, the creature is restored to life with all its hit points. This spell closes all wounds, neutralizes any poison, cures all diseases, and lifts any curses affecting the creature when it died. The spell replaces damaged or missing organs and limbs. If the creature was undead, it is restored to its non-undead form. The spell can even provide a new body if the original no longer exists, in which case you must speak the creature's name. The creature then appears in an unoccupied space you choose within 10 feet of you.

In other words, if theory one is correct, and a person simply dies when they become a mind flayer, Withers should technically be able to resurrect them by pulling their soul out of the Fugue Plane and giving them a new body. You'd have a weird mind flayer clone of you running around, but you wouldn't have to worry about ceremorphosis again.

(But then again, we know the game ignores the organ-regrowing properties of True Resurrection for Karlach, too, so the game intentionally limits the capabilities of True Resurrection.)

If theory two is correct, and the lore is extremely unclear about this process if this is the case, then the companions' reactions and dialogues make a bit more sense. They all talk as though turning into a mind flayer means their soul is somehow destroyed. Mind flayers having souls is likely not common knowledge in the universe (certainly no one in the game is arguing that they have souls), so if a person's soul is transformed beyond recognition it could certainly seem like the host's soul got destroyed. Additionally, this would result in a person's consciousness being trapped inside a mind flayer body, so the loss of autonomy would be a terrifying possibility here.

Plus, we know that when a mind flayer dies, the soul they have (whether a brand new soul or an apostolic soul that has been altered) is consumed or thrown into oblivion. So if theory two is correct, there will be no eternal consciousness for you, allegedly (though there's some debate as to how much eternal consciousness you have in the Fugue Plane or the Outer Planes too...)

We don't know which of these theories is correct, and the game sort of slides between these two theories (as we'll see in Part 2). But, and I cannot stress this enough, this lore only applies to normal mind flayers.

BG3 has altered the usual mind flayer tadpoles with Netherese magic such that things get a little wonky. And beyond that, the ultimate tadpole that changes you (or Karlach, or Orpheus) into a mind flayer capable of wielding the Netherstones is a Supreme Tadpole that has been further altered by the Emperor:

The Emperor: I took this one from the nautiloid. I have been nurturing it ever since - priming it for your use. It is not dissimilar to the experience you already had with the previous one. Only this one is much more potent. All you have to do is open your mind to it. Its latent potential will do the rest.

We don't know how the Emperor has been priming this tadpole, but if it came from the nautiloid, then it is imbued with the same Netherese magic as all the other tadpoles. It's not the same as the Astral-touched tadpole (from Act 2), which has been in the Astral Prism for millennia, but it is somehow more powerful, or at least more effective in transforming you into a new kind of mind flayer, one that can think independently of the elder brain.

So now you (or Orpheus, or Karlach) are a new special kind of mind flayer. Does that change anything?

Yes. In fact, it seems to change quite a lot. But this post is already super long, so you'll have to check out Part 2 to see what I mean.

~*~*~

You made it to the end! Gold stars!!!

✨⭐️🌟⭐️✨

I'll link part 2 soon~

Tagging those who wanted an update! @galesdevoteewife @stuffforthestash

[muzzlemouths]

Since you're working on a new fic/au, this might be a good time to ask: how do you start creating a new story? Do you start with an outline? Do you open a word doc and go in guns ablaze? What's the process on that I'm very curious

I sat on this ask for a couple days because I've been struggling with figuring out how to answer it, since the actual answer is that I don't have a process. Not one that sticks, anyway.

For DMD, I had a clear, concise idea in mind for how it would start, how it would end, and a few scenes that needed sorted in between. But the "outline" looks something like that one post:

Most of my fics that end in "?" for the final chapter look like this.

In terms of my oneshots and drabbles, I very rarely have any sort of outline in mind. I'll get an idea for a scene that I want to see, and I'll just start typing until it's finished. Anything over 3k words normally has me writing down some notes for direction, at least.

As for DFtR, due to the nature of that story (what with having three alternate routes) it was pretty much required that I write a full outline, otherwise I would undoubtedly lose track of some details.

My newest au, Easy As Pie (formerly Stardust Hotel) also has a full outline, though it is far more simplified than the one for DFtR, and acts more like guidelines for me to follow with only the necessary/important information established, which still leaves me with room for changes where/when necessary.

For example, here's an excerpt from that outline which has the main bullet point (What that scene is "About") and then a brief description of the room underneath that I can use as a descriptor, while writing everything else around it. That is, the dated appearance of the room is the main focus, and everything else that occurs in this scene will be written as a secondary focus.

Occasionally I'll also include brief phrases/conversation just to ensure that said lines make it into the fic, and so I don't lose track of what is meant to be happening in that moment. Those bits normally look pretty silly (at least to me). Here's one of them!

And that's my process! It's kind of a mess, but it works for me, so that's all that matters haha

[sophieinwonderland]

r/systemscringe is Hulking out over my Avengers post!

Does everyone know that?

What comics or movies was this addressed in?

Why does the hatesub act like this word was just made up? Sanism has been a thing since the 60s!

I know it's hard for you all, but please at least TRY to educate yourselves before making fools of yourselves in the future!

This subreddit just cannot stop itself from hurling ableist insults.

Oh, for the love of the triple goddesses!

What is it with certain groups reacting to NEUTRAL descriptors by claiming they're slurs?

This is the ridiculous bad faith "cis is a slur" argument all over again.

"Singlet" is a neutral term for a non-system. It's not a slur. It's not an insult.

You just have a massive raging victim complex.

And I promise you, the fact that you don't have DID is not the reason everyone thinks you're a piece of shit.

They've typically fought Mutants when those Mutants were doing something that could be dangerous to the world. Not just attacking them because they're mutants.

Mutants have even served on several Avengers rosters. And The Avengers have teamed up with mutants far more than they've come to blows with them.

Yes, Steve and Tony have generally stood aside while mutant discrimination was happening. That's an unfortunate side effect of separate groups of writers running different comics. Besides that, Captain America showing up to save the X-Men from their enemies in their stories would be pretty unsatisfying.

But even if Steve is just someone who hasn't done enough for mutants, he's still generally supportive of mutants.

Hulk wasn't abused in the MCU as far as has been revealed. Nor is his plurality considered DID.

This may be confusing it with the Ang Lee movie that did address the abuse.

MCU Hulk, so far as we know, is an endogenic systems made by trying to recreate the super soldier serum in an experiment gone wrong.

"He doesn't live in Marc's head. He just invades it"

Right... That's a Gateway System. A headmate from the outside entering the mind.

And the gods do seem, at least, somewhat "attached" to their avatars. It seems like they can communicate only with their avatars and prospective avatars. How this works isn't perfectly clear. But it at least doesn't seem as if he can just freely roam Earth and appear to different people whenever he wants while bonded to someone. I admit this may be disproven in the future.

Still, my assumption is that he can appear to Layla because he wasn't currently bonded to Marc. Once he's bonded to Marc again, he can't communicate with Layla anymore.

This did come to mind. But being pro-endo isn't just about believing endogenic systems exist. Even if we consider the Winter Soldier an endogenic system... which feels wrong on multiple level... he's a brainwashed tool to them.

They don't even consider him a real person. Just an asset to use.

Given their association with Nazism, I wouldn't expect them to see other systems any better.

Your so-called "defense" is reliant on having no idea what you're talking about, and regularly accusing DIS systems of faking for things that are basic parts of the disorder.

One of the first things you'll see on my page is a debunking of just a small fraction of the lies r/systemscringe has spread about DID in the name of "defending" it.

But we are not talking about DID here. We're talking about plurality. About the experience of being multiple in one body. And this is something that has been well-recorded by actual psychiatrists.

The entry on DID in the World Health Organization's ICD-11 states that you can have multiple "distinct personality states" without a disorder.

In Transgender Mental Health, a book published by The American Psychiatric Association, it was specifically acknowledged that you can be plural without trauma or a disorder.

If I wanted, I could go on and on and on, listing paper after paper affirming the existence of non-disordered and endogenic plurality.

But what's the point?

The thing I've learned from sysmeds is that they are chronically incapable of accepting any information that proves them wrong.

And this is the ultimate reason that the Avengers could never be anti-endo. And even most Avengers villains couldn't. Being presented with all of these expert opinions and still doubling down, when you can't even name a single doctor who claims all plurality comes from trauma, requires a certain level of willful ignorance that fictional characters like these are rarely written with.

None of the Avengers would ever be a sysmed.

Because being a sysmed requires you to lack curiosity. It requires you to lack critical thinking. It requires you to be someone who will go along with the crowd and be sucked in by groupthink. To NEVER question the narrative that you're given.

And this type of person... doesn't make for a good protagonist.

In the end, you're pretty clearly not The Avengers. You're just ignorant bigots who hide your bigotry under the guise of helping people. But that is just a front. Inside, you're looking for people to blame for your own suffering, and so you've picked a marginalized community you think you can get away with attacking because it's more socially acceptable. And you will refuse to accept facts that prove you wrong because accepting those facts would mean you're the bad guy.

No, you're definitely nothing like Avengers. But maybe Purifiers?

[see-arcane]

Jokes aside Jonathan must have felt so very vulnerable after that night. Getting both scared and horny for the first time in his life aside, now he realized that the Count 1. Has claimed him as his own 2. Has moved from touching/grabbing/pulling him to taking the liberty to undressing him 3. Yet is the least dreadful thing here and the one he can go to seek protection and safety from

Points 1 through 3 have already been picked to death so I won't beat them any further into the ground. But the 'Mark me down as scared and horny!' of it all is something that legit has me going back and forth, so I'll hop on that.

Jonathan does state outright that he finds the Brides attractive, or, specifically, that he wants them to kiss him.

"All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that made me uneasy, some longing and at the same time some deadly fear. I felt in my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips."

The most straightforward read on this and his ensuing ~dreadful anticipation~ is that Jonathan is A) Naturally attracted to the hot vampire ladies and/or B) Having natural attraction being enhanced on a supernatural-hypnosis level. I can see either being in play. But I don't think it's the most interesting--or terrifying--read.

The first thing I want to nitpick here is that this almost definitely is not him feeling lustful for the first time in his life (we'll learn more on that point later in the novel ala his relationship with Mina being A Lot 👀). Jonathan knows what attraction is, emotionally and sexually, from being a staunch Minasexual. Which is a not-quite-exaggerated way of saying I personally see Jonathan skewing more towards the demisexual and biromantic side of the scale. In that lens, he has the potential to be attracted to anyone regardless of gender, but first they have to win his interest/heart before he even starts connecting any sexy dots.

Minor spoilers, but through the whole novel, Jonathan does not refer to Mina with any physical descriptors when he gushes about her. It's always a reference to her character, to her actions, to Mina being Mina. Which I think is interesting when put in context with his fixation on describing Dracula and the Brides' appearances, be that in attracted, repulsed, or frightened terms. Because the vampires are the only ones who get that reaction out of him. And I think the former, the automatic physical attraction, is its own unique red flag to him; though he may not have the language for it. It's not just him being ashamed to feel attraction or to write it down when Mina might see it someday.

It's because that attraction is probably not even his.

He doesn't know these women. All beautiful, certainly. But strangers. They haven't spoken with him, haven't endeared themselves to him, haven't done one (1) single thing to provide an excuse for his highly reserved libido to pay attention. And I doubt he's gone his whole life blind to any pretty people in his vicinity. Hot people have happened to him before and he has not cared because for Jonathan, care has to precede lust.

What the Brides have done is introduce a wholly alien sensation to him--an instant arousal that was injected rather than awoken from some natural place in him. It makes me think of Toxoplasma gondii, that fun little parasite that switches off rodents' natural predator response to cats and makes them docile when the pretty kitty creeps up with their mouth open. And while the Brides' and Dracula's trance effect does get the basic job done of Keeping the Victim Still and Compliant, having the side effect of forcing a bodily reaction on that intimate of a level is a violation in itself.

Though it does have a purpose too. Because the very first thought Jonathan has upon seeing them turns out to be the most dangerous one: He wants them to kiss him.

The One Thing that will see him bled to death, then undeath. Which has its own super fun parallel in things like, say, the fucking Cordyceps fungus that turns ants into zombies forced to aid in their own and others' slavery/destruction.

And while Stoker wasn't in on all the scientific lookalikes in the animal kingdom, I doubt that Jonathan's mesmerized fixation on wanting to be kissed first and foremost, running on in a written stupor about lips and teeth and breath, was an accident.

Just like a mouse holding still as the cat scoops it into their maw.

Just like an ant crawling up to the sun so it can burst with spores and share its half-life demise with its fellows.

Hold still, dear. You want to hold still for us, don't you? Of course you do. Good boy. Here. Have a kiss.

[skruttet]

What are your thoughts on Moominvalley's comet special?

I talked a little about it in this other ask response, but overall I was disappointed. I think it's quite telling that the part of it that made me the most emotional was the opening credits 😅

Someone else said it was "underwhelming" and I think that's a good descriptor for it. The rest of the season as a whole already didn't really feel final enough to me, and you'd expect the finale to make up for that and give you that big feeling of wrapping up the whole series in a satisfying way, but it just didn't hit that mark for me.

The actual journey in the first half just wasn't as epic and exciting as I was hoping it'd be, and I think that's partially due to them using elements from Comet in previous episodes so they didn't wanna reuse them again, like the stilts (though surely they could've brought them back...). The cave Moomintroll and Snufkin end up in also feels like a missed opportunity - it's such a beautiful setting, but all they do there is panic, then see the Hemulen, then he leads them out. Idk what exactly they could've done instead, but surely there was something interesting the writers could've come up with to utilise that space more.

The way Snufkin brought up the sun oil was so awkward and forced; I know it was to establish it so that Sniff could have his whole stinky salesman arc in the latter half, but it's really weird how he explains its origin to his friends again even though all of them apart from Snork were there in Fire Spirit! Speaking of, that was a real step down for Sniff, and I would've preferred him to have an arc surrounding the kitten instead. Maybe he spends the time trying to gain its trust or something, and then at the end, finally manages to do so and rescues it to bring it back to the cave.

And speaking of the cave, I didn't like that change, either (honestly I just think I disliked most of the changes they made from the novel tbh lol. like I get they don't just wanna rehash it and want this to be new and original to an extent, but sometimes that can go too far, or just in the wrong direction). It's just really stupid for them to be like "we need to face our fear and face the comet!" it's a COMET! It's not a mysterious noise you hear in the middle of the night that you can investigate, it's a big hot rock that'll kill you all!! And then Groke moves towards it, and ~something~ happens, but this is a family show so they have her moan again at the end to show she's still alive and I love Jack but his delivery of "I'm so relieved" is so weirdly flat that it doesn't help how awkward and unnatural this ending is lmao.

Now this is more of a personal gripe, but I don't like how Snufkin is positioned at the end. When they're facing the Groke, he's right next to Moomintroll, which I like (and also brings to mind Night of the Groke when they faced her together), but then after the white flash, he's not only nowhere near Moomintroll, but not even near their friends? And he walks away WITH THE POLICE INSPECTOR?! Like thank god Joxter doesn't know he's his dad he'd have a heart attack if he found out his son was so chummy with the cops smh. You could maybe argue this isn't even just a personal complaint, and that Snufkin has objectively been one of Moomintroll's most important relationships in this series, so for them to not have some kind of moment or interaction at the end feels wrong.

Something I was going to discuss in that other ask reply but I ultimately deleted because I couldn't find the words at the time was Little My's characterisation. This season in particular made me feel as though she's so, like, mad all the time. And I understand that anger is her thing, but it's usually a cheery kind of angry, you know? But in this series she sometimes just seems so frustrated and upset and although I like that it explores the more emotionally dramatic side of her, I was hoping that by this final season at least she'd be in a more comfortable and happy place. But in this Comet special she's so exasperated and moody with Moominpappa and I wish they just made it feel more like daughter-light-heartedly-poking-fun-at-her-dad, I guess?

Snork is interesting in this special because he plays quite a big role in it, but I also feel so sorry for him cause he's always getting cut off or used by Pappa and Sniff who don't properly listen to him and I just want to give him a big (figurative bc he hates hugs) hug my poor smart boy let him infodump. There's also a moment where he says "I can explain-" and his sister says "Thanks, Snork, but we really need to carry on!" which is so obviously the writers trying to squeeze in Snorkmaiden's characterisation from the book where she's practical in the face of her brother's long-winded meetings, and is a great example of the feminism of her character there, but it just doesn't quite work the same here. Once again just not as natural as it should feel.

On a positive note, I LOVED the look of the comet itself - every shot of it looked so cool and it changed the lighting of the valley in a fun and interesting way. I also liked how Jarmo and Samuli gave the score of the episode a funky sci-fi sound, which helped set it apart as something special for the series. And despite all my negatives, it's still entertaining! It's enjoyable to watch! Just, for someone who had expectations based on the whole series and the novel, underwhelming.

[machine-saint]

i think one of the fundamental problems with the word "techbro" is that it has multiple meanings, some of which contradict each other.

the original term brogrammer referred to programmers who act in a very stereotypical masculine way, as a pejorative. the word "techbro" was sometimes used as a synonym for this. this is why the word "bro" is there, because it's a comparison to frat bros. this is also the only sense mentioned on the wikipedia page. this is also the sense i see the least usage of on tumblr; it was really more of a thing back in 2012-2013 or so.

people also use it to refer to people who are pushing the latest fad; web 3.0, blockchain shit, NFTs, LLMs, whatever. this usage does not require that the person actually knows anything about programming. some of these people genuinely believe in what they're advocating for, some of them are just hopping onto the latest money-making thing. this is the y combinator set.

a third usage is to refer to people who are very into self-hosting, and "own your hardware" type stuff and don't understand that computing is a compromise and not everyone wants to spend all their effort getting stuff to work. this is the rms type. unlike the second definition, this one requires the person to have fairly deep technical knowledge. theoretically you could have someone who doesn't know a lot about computers but is real big into this kind of stuff, but in practice that never happens.

(i'm broadly sympathetic to this type; i avoid music streaming and sync all my music using open-source software, that sort of thing. the "techbro" part, in theory, comes when they look down on others for not making the same choices. of course, the line between "you're looking down on me" and "you're arrogant for simply believing that you're right" is thin.)

in particular, sense-2 and sense-3 "techbros" have very opposite beliefs! one wants to run everything "in the cloud", the other wants to run everything locally. one wants to let chatgpt run your life, the other hates the idea of something they can't audit be that important. both tend to be very "technology will save us" types, but the way they go about that is very different. one makes very sleek-looking but extremely limited UI, the other will make ultra-customizable, ultra-functional UI that's the most hideous and hard-to-use thing you've seen in your life.

and so you can see here the problem: what can we actually say about "techbros" that's meaningful, other than "techbro is when i don't like someone who likes technology"? if a word isn't used as a self-descriptor, but only as an insult, what stops it from becoming broader and broader until it loses all usefulness?

[thezombieprostitute]

Hands Off

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty's December Daze Challenge.

Prompt: i didn't know the egg nog was spiked!

A/N2: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.

Warnings: Implied drugging with alcohol, Not taking "no" for an answer. Let me know if I missed any!

Another year, another Christmas wedding that isn't yours. At this point you were certain you'd never get any wedding, let alone one at your second favorite holiday. Maybe it was for the best. Your job had you traveling too much for a sustained relationship. Maybe you can be an example for the others to be grateful for what they have.

Then again, if "what they have" is anything like Pete, the groomsman you've been paired with, they'd be better off single. He's apparently bought into the stereotype that bridesmaids are desperate and needy because he has yet to stop hounding you, trying to entice you back to his hotel room. No matter how many times you told him you're not interested. You'd even started only pretending to drink anything he hands you during the rehearsal dinner. He made you grateful the happy couple had decided on going alcohol free for the wedding reception as he was likely to ply you, or any other target, with whatever libation he could get them to drink.

You duck out of the dinner as soon as you're politely able, hoping you can get to your room before Pete even notices you're missing. It's kinda late so there's almost no one around. As you turn the corner to get to you're room you almost walk into a very tall, lean, handsome man in a suit.

"Oh, my apologies," he says, his accent catching your attention.

"It's okay. These things happen," you assure just before you notice how blue his eyes are. You think you could get lost in them.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, yes, I'm just...I'm with the wedding party?"

"Oh! You aren't joining them for the rehearsal dinner?"

"I just need some time away from the crowd, you know?"

"Ah, yes," he nods. "Crowds can be cumbersome, especially when you are not used to them."

You smile at him, still a little lost at how handsome he is. "I'm just glad they gave us a discount on the rooms."

He smiles back, "it is hotel policy for hosted events." When you give him a confused look he continues, "I am the Night Manager of the hotel. You caught me doing my rounds."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! I should let you get back to work."

"I do appreciate that," he says, but you swear you see a hint of disappointment on his face. "But if there's anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask for me, Jonathan Pine, at the front desk."

You giggle and give him your own name before you part ways for the night.

The wedding goes well and you're all smiles for the happy couple. The reception is themed like a Christmas Dinner, complete with eggnog. It's not your favorite drink, but in the spirit of the event, you have a few glasses. Especially as it pairs well with the dessert heavy menu.

Around your fourth cup you start to realize you're feeling buzzed. Initially you'd brushed it off as excitement from the event, or maybe even all the sugar, but this is a feeling you distinctly remember as alcohol induced. You start patting the person sitting next to you mumbling, "alcohol," "eggnog," but they don't react.

Other people seem to have caught on as well and they've started making the rounds, checking in on everyone after removing the alcohol.

When they get to you, Pete puts an arm around you. "I'll get her to her room," he says. His voice is laced with fake concern. You don't want him to take you and you try to fight, try to argue, but you just seem like a whiny drunk so your protests are ignored.

"I didn't want it to be like this," Pete whispers as you reach the elevator to your floor. "I really tried to be a gentleman but you forced my hand."

The elevator doors open a couple floors before yours and you almost cry from relief when you see Jonathan enter. Pete painfully squeezes your arm, the warning clear, so you pray that Jonathan can see the panic in your eyes.

"Is the reception over already?" Jonathan inquires, looking at you.

"Eggnog got spiked," Pete answers. "Helping this one get to her room to sleep it off."

"Oh how dreadful! And in my hotel!" Jonathan seethes. "Any idea who did it?"

The elevator dings as you reach your floor. Pete quickly moves you into the hallway saying, "nope. No idea. Probably just a bad prank."

Jonathan follows the two of you, "what kind of prank is that to pull? Seems like a bad omen for the poor couple."

"Nah, probably just someone being dumb," Pete argues. "I know a few of the people on the groom's side would definitely be the type to think it's just a bit of fun."

When you reach the door to your room, Pete starts feeling you up, presumably for your key. You keep trying to bat his hands away, but he doesn't stop.

"I think the lady doesn't want you to touch her," Jonathan observes.

"She's being a pain and not letting me help her into her room," Pete argues. You start crying, babbling, and slapping at him, encouraged by Jonathan's words.

Jonathan pulls Pete away from you. Suddenly without a support, you fall against the wall and try to keep yourself standing. As Pete protests, Jonathan stands between the two of you and pulls a flask out of Pete's inner pocket. Pete tries to get it back, but Jonathan holds him at arm's length and takes a sniff of the flask.

"Smells rather potent," Jonathan comments. "I wonder if it would be a match for the spiked eggnog."

Pete stops trying to fight him and puts on his best used-car-salesman expression. "C'mon, man, I was just trying to have some fun and get laid. Can you blame me?"

"Yes."

"It's not like any real harm was done!"

"Sir, you could have poisoned dozens of people with this antic, or worse."

"It's not poison, it's just alcohol!"

"Which someone may be allergic or addicted to."

Pete rolls his eyes, "it's not that big of a deal!"

"And then you try to abscond with this lady, whom you've been harassing throughout the entire event."

"Harassing? That's a bit strong---"

"Did you not try to bribe one of my staff for a copy of her room key just last night?" Pete goes quiet at that. "You will leave my hotel now or I will call the police."

"Whatever," Pete grumbles as he turns back to the elevator.

It isn't until the elevator doors close that Jonathan pulls out his walkie-talkie and makes some orders about making sure Pete leaves, getting the reception cleaned up, and refunding half the money the couple spent on renting the reception area.

While he does that, you struggle to keep yourself upright. Your cardkey is in the sleeve of your glove. You can't reach it so you take the glove off, only to have the key fall to the floor. You struggle to bend down and pick it up and almost fall flat on your face but, thankfully, Jonathan catches you before that happens.

"My apologies, Madam," he sighs. "I should have gotten you settled first.

You try to shake your head and say it's okay but, between the alcohol, the adrenaline spike and the events of the day, you're crashing, barely awake.

Jonathan gets you into your room and onto your bed. "I will make sure you get the best breakfast our chefs can make, along with some advil and water when you awake." He places a card next to the phone. "Simply call me when you are awake, and I will make sure you are taken care of."

You're barely able to mumble your thanks before you fall asleep.

You wake up with a surprisingly mild headache. Memories of last night start filtering in and your breath catches as you remember the fear you felt. And then your rescue. You look over to the phone and see the card there.

Taking some time to wake up, take a shower, put on some more comfortable clothes, you ponder whether or not to take Mr. Pine up on his offer. By the time you're feeling more like yourself, you decide to treat yourself to some good food.

You call up Jonathan and he sounds delighted that you've accepted his offer. Feeling bold, you even ask if he'd be willing to join you for that breakfast, as you find his company quite calming and pleasant, though you don't say that part out loud. You swear you hear a smile in his voice as he agrees to join you.

Tagging: @alicedopey; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly

[outercrasis]

Welcome Home

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x F!Reader (reader is petite, with no other descriptors)

Word Count/Rating: 3.3k / Explicit 18+ only

Notes/Warnings: Western!AU, Paz & Reader are married & both are hot heads/combative (but they love each other v much), size kink, oral sex (m receiving), penetrative sex, v light amount of spanking, more or less make-up sex, I have my own image of what Paz looks like and you all have to deal with it

Summary: Your husband finally comes home after 3 weeks. Surely you're going to welcome him home with open arms?

You don't turn when the door opens. Not for the familiar chime of his boot spurs, nor for the shuffle of his jacket and hat. You act as though you haven’t heard him – facing the window, focused on the same plate you’ve been washing since you heard the first footstep on the porch.

It's irritating how perfect this moment should be. Golden light streams through the dusty windowpane, bathing the kitchen in warmth. The enticing smell of dinner still lingers in the air. There’s plenty left for Paz. Even after three weeks you found yourself unable to adjust your portions to one.

You can feel his large presence behind you – waiting for you to turn and greet him. He probably expected a big homecoming. Fantasized about you running into his arms, kissing him desperately, crying tears of joy. It's happened before. Unfortunately for him, the Henderson boys ran by ten minutes ago to let you know they saw him riding back into town. Their warning ruined any surprise, not that you would have given him the satisfaction anyway.

Paz crowds behind you, placing his hands on your hips. You hate how quickly you want to melt into his warmth. To fall backwards into his broad chest and let him sweep you off your feet. It’s infuriating what he can do with a single touch.

You manage to find your resolve, slapping at his hands. "Get off me, you brute."

Paz chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in tighter. "Why so full of venom, ner riduur'ika?"

You let go of the plate to push at his arms. It’s futile, but you're unwilling to give up the fight. "You know damn well why. Now get off me."

You struggle further, trying to escape his vice-like grip. It's all for nothing. Paz spins you around to face him, an arm still firmly around your middle. Even through layers of clothes, you can feel the shift of his muscles.

Upon seeing his face, you gasp. Some is as you expected it. That annoying self-sure grin, the healthy start of a beard, the playful shine in his bright eyes. Some is not. There’s a new, healthy scar forming along his cheek to match some old ones from long ago.

"What did you do?" you demand.

"Now why do you automatically assume I did something to cause this?" 

"Because that's always the case. I'll bet Din doesn’t have a single scratch on him."

"Thanks to me he doesn't." He says it with a strong hint of pride and that only sets you off more. 

You push and shove at Paz, but he's still unwilling to let you go. In a further act of humiliation, he picks you up with ease and sets you on the counter. You're directly face to face like this. Nowhere for either of you to hide.

"Darlin’, would you please tell me what's gotten into you?" Paz asks. His voice is gentle. You know he's trying to calm you and you hate that it's even slightly working.

"You." 

Paz laughs. "That can be arranged if that's what you're mad about." You try and fail to kick him.

His hand wraps around your calf, a harder look settling into his eyes. It would scare you if you didn't know him so well. Hell would sooner freeze over before he did so much as pluck a hair from your head.

"I didn't come home to be name-called and kicked, so you're going to tell me what's the matter or I'm not letting you leave this counter. That clear?" 

You resent the heat you can feel pooling low in your stomach at his command. Even worse is that he knows it too. All your buttons have long since been discovered and Paz knows just how to press every one. 

There's no getting out of this. Paz stares at you expectantly, willing to wait this out. The anxious soup churning in your stomach rolls and the fire burning in your veins dies only a little at the realization of there being no escape. He has you pinned.

You're not ready yet to talk. Instead, you reach out towards his face, inspecting the new cut that mars it.

You're happy to note it's clean despite the thin layer of dirt and grit that otherwise clings to the fine lines of Paz’s face. It doesn't seem as deep as his other scars and may even fade in due time. All in all, it's not as bad as it could have been. That doesn't make it any better.

You hate this feeling in your gut. The knowledge that your husband lives a dangerous life. Today it's a small cut, tomorrow it's his guts spilling on the cold, hard ground and becoming food for vultures. Paz doesn't know the terror that seizes you when Din crests a hill before he catches up. The thought every time that this is the time he doesn’t come home.

Your voice is small, half mumbling. "You promised."

Paz leans in towards you. "What was that?" he asks, voice still this side of mean.

You take a deep breath, resteeling yourself. "You promised."

Hot tears well at your lashline unbidden. Paz's face becomes wobbly, but you can see the confusion and concern written across it. The anger deep within your chest is reignited. It’s worsened when a tear finally falls and Paz gingerly wipes it from your cheek.

"You said you would talk to me before you took another job."

"I said I would try to."

You punch him hard in the shoulder. It doesn't hurt him in the slightest, but it's satisfying all the same. "Don't play word games. You promised me. You said you would and the next thing I know you're off with Din again."

"I left a note," Paz says, his chest puffing slightly. 

"And what a note it was," you spit back. "Gone on a bounty hunt. Be back soon. You'd think you went out to the saloon for the night with all the information you shared."

"I'm getting tired of going over this with you."

"That's why I asked you to talk to me before you leave,” you shout. 

Paz leans down to get directly in your face. The gray of his irises darken, like clouds before a thunderstorm. “You want to watch that tone, little miss?”

“I'll watch my tone as soon as you stop being an asshole. Oh wait, that'll never happen.” You try to push him away only for his arms to circle around you, pulling you flush against his body. 

Your legs are spread wide to accommodate his frame. You swallow a moan as your center is pressed against the bulge in Paz's trousers. Refusing to allow your baser urges to control you, you feign disgust instead. “You're a pig.”

Paz pulls you impossibly closer. One of his hands finds its way to the base of your skull, effectively scruffing you like a cat. “You had better find your manners real quick or I'm going to find them for you,” he grits out.

“Good luck.”

His lips are rough on yours. The kiss is more a clash of teeth and tongue than anything romantic. You detest the way your body easily betrays you and yields to his advances, but it has been a long three weeks without your husband. And there's no need for you to make things easy on him either.

You hook both your legs around his and pull them tight. He can't get any closer, but you still feel the way the pressure makes him stutter. You mimic his hand, pushing your fingers into his toffee colored locks, and pull him into you. He moans but then moves back from your embrace.

“Clearly this isn't teaching you any manners. I'm going to have to do a better job.”

Without any warning, Paz then lifts you up in a fireman's carry and hauls you off to the bedroom. You shout and pointlessly drum on his back to put you down. He responds with a smack to you ass that you can feel through your skirts.

Paz drops you onto the bed without ceremony and quickly positions himself over you. His large frame fills your vision entirely. The fabric of his shirt is pulled tight against his muscles, providing you with a delightful show, and you notice the obvious flush running down his neck. 

“Now I'm going to give you one more chance here, darlin’. You get yourself undressed right now and with no fuss, or I'm going to tear that pretty dress right off you.”

A rush of desire courses through you. As tempting as that sounds, this is one of your newer outfits and you'd rather not spend tomorrow trying to mend it back together. 

You shamelessly start to undress. Paz's gaze is heavy and eager. He looks exceedingly pleased with himself, convinced that you've decided to show him some manners. Poor cowboy doesn't know what you have planned.

Paz removes his vest and shirt, pulling back from his position over you. It provides the perfect opportunity. As he leans back over your now bare form, you quickly kick your feet up and plant them firmly on his chest. Despite Paz's size, your legs are powerful enough to keep him at bay.

His eyes widen in surprise for a moment before clouding over again. “Just what do you think you're doing, mesh'la?”

Your smile is wicked. “Nothing, riduur.”

You trail one of your hands along your body – Paz's eyes tracking them like a bounty that's close to getting away. You can feel the rumble in his chest as you slowly wind downwards.

“Don't you dare,” he warns as your intentions become clear.

You disregard him entirely and continue your path, not stopping until you've sunk a finger into yourself. The noise Paz makes is choked. Your pleasure doesn't last very long.

After only a few strokes, Paz makes his move. He backs away from your legs, quickly catching one under his arm and tearing your hand away from yourself. You would think the way his chest heaves is purely due to anger if it weren't for the obvious tent at the front of his jeans.

His large hand cups and covers your sex. You wait with bated breath to see what he'll do next. “Looks like I've got my work cut out for me,” he says and plunges one of his thick fingers into you.

Another day and you'd be embarrassed by how wet you've gotten. It's an afterthought at the moment. One of his fingers feels better than any and all of your attempts to feel full while he was gone. The noise he pulls from you is wanton and needy. 

“This what you need?” Paz asks. “Something to fill that little pussy of yours? Will that stop making you act like a goddamn brat?”

As good as you feel, your anger hasn't been snubbed out. “You think that's filling me?”

You watch as that comment makes something bigger within him snap. It makes your heart race with anticipation. In a flash, Paz has taken a seat on the edge of the bed and stretched your body over his knees. You hardly recall the feeling of his grip around your ankles.

His hands are greedy – touching and grabbing at every inch of your flesh. Just as you're about to make another comment, his hand comes down hard on your ass. You jump, hissing at the sting.

“Is this what happens when I'm gone for too long?” Paz asks. His hand cracks over your ass again. “You forget your manners?” 

You anticipate another sharp smack, but he surprises you with a soothing touch. His hand then glides over your curves and he presses two fingers into your pussy. The slight burn of the stretch is perfect. “Forget who this cunt belongs to?”

There's nothing gentle about the pace he sets. It's punishing, making your arousal drip down your thighs. He adjusts his fingers to find your clit, nearly overwhelming you completely. There's nothing you can do in this position but take it.

Your orgasm inches ever closer. Paz’s fingers glide over that spot you can never seem to find yourself, making you clench around him. His demeaning tsk glides past your ears. He changes his rhythm slightly and just as you're about to make that final leap he stops – going so far as to remove his hand from you entirely.

You whip your head around to glare at him over your shoulder. The look on Paz's face makes you finally understand Din when he calls it punchable. “Only good girls get to cum,” he says, punctuating his words with another light spank. You could really kill him now. Unluckily for him, you are capable of much worse.

You're not blind when it comes to your husband. You know his virtues just as well as his faults and although it has improved, his pride is still easy to take advantage of.

“Do you want to be good for me, mesh'la?” Paz asks. It's sweet that he thinks he has the upper hand.

You don't answer. Instead, you crawl off his lap and move to take off his trousers. Paz thinks this is a good sign. He really ought to know better. Maybe three weeks away made him forget who he belongs to.

His position on the bed is perfect for you. The self-sure grin tells you he doesn't suspect a thing. It's easy to further distract him by trailing gentle kisses along his body. You're relieved to see no further injuries he may have been stupidly trying to hide. It wouldn't be the first time.

You smile as Paz's eyes slip closed. He's so predictable.

Rather than settling yourself between his legs or on his lap, you turn around. He doesn't even catch on until you have his wrists pinned with your feet. You wrap your lips around his cock, humming as you hear Paz growl with frustration. In this position he's only able to look – not touch.

The pace you set is just as unrelenting as the one he used on you. He can do little more than moan as you overwhelm him with pleasure. 

Although there's no way to know for certain, you know Paz can't take his eyes off of you. Even if he wants to, the temptation is too strong for his eyes to close. You're so tantalizingly close, so fully on display, that he's powerless. It's not long before his bravado crumbles.

“Dar- darlin’ please. You've made your point, just, ah, let me touch you.”

You don't give into him just yet. As sweet as he sounds when he begs, you aren't satisfied yet. His hips jolt as you redouble your efforts. You missed the weight of him on your tongue and the ache in your jaw. 

“Please,” Paz continues to beg. “I can see the way you're clenching, let me take care of that for you.”

You can feel your wetness dripping down your leg at this point. Paz tenses beneath you, his breath hitching. You're finally able to take your revenge. 

You pull off of him, only leaving your hand to lightly squeeze at his base. You even sit up slightly, hiding yourself from his view. You sacrifice your pin, but it's worth it with your objective already achieved.

Paz wastes no time. You're flipped onto your back, his large frame once again filling your vision. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?” you ask, throwing his words back at him.

Thankfully he looks more amused than annoyed. “Can't help yourself can you?”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you. “Just shut up and fuck me already.”

His lips muffle your moans as he pushes into you. He groans back in response, relishing the way you open up to him. Despite his size there's no resistance. Neither of you will last long like this.

Words are beyond you both. Your nails dig into the meat of his shoulder – the other hand tangled into his hair. Paz holds you steady with one of his big hands on your hips. He trails hot kisses down your neck and onto your chest, no doubt making bruises rise. Normally you'd care more about making him stop. You do have an appearance to uphold in town.

Pleasure overwhelms you, your face twisting with it. There's no time or point in giving him warning. Paz lets himself go as you do, your peaks combining into one.

You miss his weight as soon as he rolls off. He lays back onto the pillows and you're quick to follow, using his chest as yours.

It's quiet as you both come down from your highs. There's a tension that still lingers in the air.

You trace idle loops above his heart, taking note of a few more grays making themselves known in his smattering of chest hair. You're unwilling to burst this small bubble just yet. Paz does it for you.

“Care to tell me what had you all worked up?” he asks. “I'm smart enough to know it wasn't just this.”

“What makes you think this had anything to do with it?” you challenge. 

Paz squares you with a truly incredulous look. “I'm not that stupid, neither.”

You sigh. He could have at least given you both a moment longer in the afterglow. “I already told you in the kitchen. You said you'd talk to me before you left again.”

He scrubs a beleaguered hand over the uninjured half of his face. “S'not like I really had the time, darling. We have to move fast when a trail gets picked up or we'll lose ‘em. Either to distance or other hunters.”

“I am not asking for much, Paz. A bit more of a warning. A kiss before you saddle up and ride out. Nothing more.”

You wish you could ask for more. Ask him to never take another job – to never leave you again. To hang up his holster and spurs to live out a nice, quiet life with you until you're old and gray. You can't though.

Asking for him to change would be asking for a different man. All you can do is sit by, pray to any higher power that might exist, and hope that he'll come home to you. A moment's more time with him before he leaves again doesn't feel like too big a request. It's not too much change.

Paz still looks frustrated. He pulls you off of his side and onto his body so that you're on top of him. His hand reaches up, thumb brushing over your cheek. You do the same, but make your best attempt to smooth away his worry lines.

“I can't have you asking me to stay,” he finally says.

“What?” You don't understand what he means.

“If I agree- if I tell you when and where I'm headed, you can't ask me to stay.”

“Paz, I don't-”

“If you ask me to stay, I won't go and I can't have that. Din can't have that. He needs a partner to make sure he'll come home to his boy and I'm the only one dumb enough to join him every time. So I can't have you asking me to stay.”

Your anger finally dissipates as his words sink in. He's still not completely forgiven, which you'll be sure to let him know, but you can allow yourself to soften. There's a look in his eyes you've never seen before. It's almost fearful.

“I won't ask you that,” you promise. “I just need you to share a little more with me.”

You run your fingers through his hair, noting that the curly ends are starting to become just a bit too long. Maybe you'll convince him to sit down for a trim tonight before he takes matters into his own hands and shaves it all clean off.

“Thank you, riduur.” Paz smiles. “Now, can I get my proper welcome home?”

You scoff and swat at his chest, this time far more playful than before. “There's some dinner on the stove for you,” you tell him, pointing to the kitchen.

Paz grins, wide and sharklike. “I've already got my meal here.” 

A/N: Yeah I'm aware this being a Western AU wasn't a major component here but that's why this is my fic so ya know, I can do what I want

[olympip]

The Sorting Hat // Peter Pettigrew & Neville Longbottom Being Foils *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Recently, I saw someone say they don't understand why Peter is a Gryffindor... and this made me want to talk about how the Sorting Hat possibly works. Harry tells Albus that the Sorting Hat takes "your choice into account", but I think the best descriptor is that the Sorting Hat takes what you value into account. For example, some people think Hermione should've been a Ravenclaw because she's intelligent and quick-thinking. But here's the thing- I think it'd be fair to say Hermione valued bravery over intelligence. She's passionate and outspoken with her beliefs and was determined to remain strong in the face of her adversaries. We see this in First Year and she only grows into these traits as she faces difficult situations. At her core, Hermione values traits like courage and determination, and happens to have a passion for learning and pursuing knowledge. And here's how Peter Pettigrew and Neville Longbottom play into this. Both were sorted into Gryffindor despite not really having been described as brave when they were 11 years old. However, I think it'd be fair to say that both valued bravery. We see Neville step out of his comfort zone and as the series continues, he grows more confident and (you guessed it) brave. He goes from being a nervous, shy 11 year old to being a leader in Dumbledore's Army while Hogwarts is under Death Eater reign. Peter, I imagine, had a similar start to his years at Hogwarts. He has these friends who are just so cool and do whatever they want and he loves that. He admires the courage they have to be able to do that. But, where he differs from the other Gryffindor students is that he never achieves that bravery himself. He remains a coward. He can't find it in himself to be brave and instead does what he thinks will keep him safe. That's what makes him a bit tragic, in my opinion. He never becomes what he values.

Just my thoughts on the matter, but I wanted to share because I like talking about this kind of stuff. I'd love to hear everyone else's thoughts or ideas :D i wrote this at like 1 am so sorry if it doesnt make much sense lmao