#a tool to be used and discarded when it's no longer of use to the authoritarian

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

Take care of yourself and each other. Keep fighting for human rights and against authoritarian regimes. Shield the out groups from whatever systems arise to target them. Try to be brave. Make it hard for them to take from you and others. Don't let the fear win. It's the only way to mitigate the damage Fascism causes.

[reasonsforhope]

Green energy is in its heyday. 

Renewable energy sources now account for 22% of the nation’s electricity, and solar has skyrocketed eight times over in the last decade. This spring in California, wind, water, and solar power energy sources exceeded expectations, accounting for an average of 61.5 percent of the state's electricity demand across 52 days. 

But green energy has a lithium problem. Lithium batteries control more than 90% of the global grid battery storage market. 

That’s not just cell phones, laptops, electric toothbrushes, and tools. Scooters, e-bikes, hybrids, and electric vehicles all rely on rechargeable lithium batteries to get going. 

Fortunately, this past week, Natron Energy launched its first-ever commercial-scale production of sodium-ion batteries in the U.S. 

“Sodium-ion batteries offer a unique alternative to lithium-ion, with higher power, faster recharge, longer lifecycle and a completely safe and stable chemistry,” said Colin Wessells — Natron Founder and Co-CEO — at the kick-off event in Michigan. 

The new sodium-ion batteries charge and discharge at rates 10 times faster than lithium-ion, with an estimated lifespan of 50,000 cycles.

Wessells said that using sodium as a primary mineral alternative eliminates industry-wide issues of worker negligence, geopolitical disruption, and the “questionable environmental impacts” inextricably linked to lithium mining. 

“The electrification of our economy is dependent on the development and production of new, innovative energy storage solutions,” Wessells said. 

Why are sodium batteries a better alternative to lithium?

The birth and death cycle of lithium is shadowed in environmental destruction. The process of extracting lithium pollutes the water, air, and soil, and when it’s eventually discarded, the flammable batteries are prone to bursting into flames and burning out in landfills. 

There’s also a human cost. Lithium-ion materials like cobalt and nickel are not only harder to source and procure, but their supply chains are also overwhelmingly attributed to hazardous working conditions and child labor law violations. 

Sodium, on the other hand, is estimated to be 1,000 times more abundant in the earth’s crust than lithium. 

“Unlike lithium, sodium can be produced from an abundant material: salt,” engineer Casey Crownhart wrote ​​in the MIT Technology Review. “Because the raw ingredients are cheap and widely available, there’s potential for sodium-ion batteries to be significantly less expensive than their lithium-ion counterparts if more companies start making more of them.”

What will these batteries be used for?

Right now, Natron has its focus set on AI models and data storage centers, which consume hefty amounts of energy. In 2023, the MIT Technology Review reported that one AI model can emit more than 626,00 pounds of carbon dioxide equivalent. 

“We expect our battery solutions will be used to power the explosive growth in data centers used for Artificial Intelligence,” said Wendell Brooks, co-CEO of Natron. 

“With the start of commercial-scale production here in Michigan, we are well-positioned to capitalize on the growing demand for efficient, safe, and reliable battery energy storage.”

The fast-charging energy alternative also has limitless potential on a consumer level, and Natron is eying telecommunications and EV fast-charging once it begins servicing AI data storage centers in June. 

On a larger scale, sodium-ion batteries could radically change the manufacturing and production sectors — from housing energy to lower electricity costs in warehouses, to charging backup stations and powering electric vehicles, trucks, forklifts, and so on. 

“I founded Natron because we saw climate change as the defining problem of our time,” Wessells said. “We believe batteries have a role to play.”

-via GoodGoodGood, May 3, 2024

--

Note: I wanted to make sure this was legit (scientifically and in general), and I'm happy to report that it really is! x, x, x, x

[misswynters]

Royal Welcome - Chapter Two

Dragon Twins Series

Aegon Targaryen x Dayne!fem!reader x Aerion Targaryen

[synopsis: You locked yourself in your room for the entire day after the events that occurred during the morning. You couldn’t believe aegon would humiliate you like that. Aerion however finds a solution to your sadness.

[warning: kissing, sensual touching, almost smut, puppy-eyed aegon

[word count: 3.0k

[a/n: we don’t often see the calm aegon in hotd so i decided that he will be that.

[note | it would greatly appreciated if you would not only just like, but also reblog & give me feedback. thank you!

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

As the day progressed you were sulking in your chambers, not moving a muscle. What aegon did was so humiliating to you that you didn’t even want to step foot outside. Soon the evening shadows cast long tendrils of darkness across the room as you lay on your bed, your face buried in the silken pillow that was damp with the tears you had shed. The humiliation of the council meeting replayed in your mind like a cruel jest, Aegon's mocking laughter echoing in your ears. Your heart pounded with a mix of anger and shame, your cheeks stained red from both the wine and the sting of his words.

A soft knock at the door barely registered through your sorrow. You remained silent, unwilling to face anyone, least of all Aerion. The door creaked open regardless, and you heard the quiet, purposeful footsteps approach. A gentle hand rested on your shoulder, and you looked up to see Aerion's concerned face.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice filled with genuine concern. “You haven’t left your room at all since what happened at the small council meeting”

You shook your head, unable to find the words. Aerion sat down on the edge of your bed, his hand never leaving your shoulder. The warmth of his touch was a small comfort amidst the turmoil of your emotions.

"Aegon was out of line," Aerion said, his voice steady. "He had no right to treat you that way."

You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen from crying. "It doesn't matter," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I'm just a pawn to them, a tool to be used for heirs and be discarded."

Aerion's expression hardened. "You are not a pawn," he said firmly. "…and luckily you have me."

His words touched a chord deep within you, and before you could respond, Aerion leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a sudden, passionate kiss. The world seemed to melt away as he cupped your cheeks, his fingers gentle against your skin. You followed suit, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as your heart raced.

The kiss deepened, a fervent exchange of unspoken emotions, each moment stretching into eternity. Your mind was a whirlwind, but in that instant, nothing else mattered. You were no longer burdened with duty and expectation; you were simply you, and he was with you.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. Aerion's eyes searched yours, a mixture of longing and concern reflected in his gaze.

"Wanna come somewhere with me?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You nodded, feeling a newfound strength. "Yes," you replied, your voice steady. "I'm sure."

Aerion smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made your heart flutter. He stood up, offering his hand. "Come with me," he said. "Let's get out of here, even if just for a little while. Clear our heads."

You hesitated for a moment, but then took his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Together, you slipped out of your chambers, the castle corridors quiet and dimly lit. Aerion led you through a series of passages until you emerged into a secluded garden, the night sky above and all inhibitions were cast aside. Aerion's hands became more insistent, gripping your waist and pulling you even closer. The cool night air contrasted sharply with the heat building between you, making every touch, feel electric.

The cool night air was refreshing, and you took a deep breath, feeling some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Aerion stood beside you, his presence a comforting anchor in the sea of your emotions.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, "we need to step away to see things more clearly. Out here, it's just us. No titles, no expectations. Just me and you."

You looked up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you said softly. "For everything."

Aerion nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Always," he replied.

After a few minutes in silence, you stood there watching the night sky, "Aerion," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of need and anticipation.

He responded with a low growl, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that left you both breathless. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the contours of your body with an urgency that mirrored your own. You arched into his touch, your fingers threading through his hair, tugging him closer as the kiss deepened.

You broke apart, gasping for air, your foreheads resting together. The garden seemed to pulse with the same intensity that thrummed through your veins. His eyes were dark with desire, his breathing heavy as he looked at you.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You nodded, unable to find the words but certain in your heart. "Yes," you whispered, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within you. "I want this, my prince. I want you."

He needed no further encouragement. With a swift motion, he lifted you, guiding you to a secluded bench surrounded by the fragrant blooms. You settled into his lap, your legs straddling his as he pulled you close, his hands gripping your hips. The new position only heightened the intensity of your connection, your bodies pressed together in a desperate, fevered embrace.

Aerion's lips found yours again, the kiss raw and hungry. You matched his fervor, your hands roaming over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingers. Every touch, every kiss seemed to ignite a fire that threatened to consume you both.

His hands slid under your dress, the roughness of his fingers contrasting with the softness of your skin. You gasped as he found the sensitive spots along your thighs, his touch sending shivers of pleasure coursing through you. You clung to him, your own desire mounting with each passing moment.

"Aerion," you moaned, your voice a breathless plea.

He responded with a low, guttural sound, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His hands continued their exploration, and you could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against you, adding to the delicious tension building between you.

The night around you seemed to disappear, the world narrowing to just the two of you, lost in each other. The garden, once a place of peace and tranquility, now echoed with the sounds of your shared passion. You moved against each other, each touch, each kiss pushing you closer to the edge.

"Aerion, I..." you began, but the words were lost as his mouth claimed yours again, silencing any further thoughts.

The kiss was possessive, demanding, and you surrendered to it completely, your body responding to his in perfect harmony.

Your hands moved to his shirt, fumbling with the buttons in your haste to feel more of him. He helped you, shrugging out of the garment and tossing it aside.

Your hands roamed over his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the strength of his muscles. You marveled at the sensation, the way his body seemed to fit perfectly with yours.

Aerion's hands were no less busy, his touch exploring every inch of you, leaving a trail of desire in its wake. The night air was cool against your heated skin, but it only heightened the intensity of your connection. You could feel the dampness between your thighs, a testament to your growing need for him.

"Aerion," you begged, your voice barely more than a whisper. “We should stop…”

He groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. "I need you," he murmured, ignoring you as his breath laid hot against your skin. "I need you so much." You started to feel guilty as he continued to kiss you passionately.

He paused for a moment thinking about what you said, his breathing ragged, eyes dark with lingering desire. “You’re right,” he hesitantly agreed, his voice hoarse. He reluctantly let go of your waist, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment longer before he pulled back.

You both stood, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat still radiating from your bodies. Aerion’s eyes never left you as you adjusted your dress, smoothing out the wrinkles and making sure everything was in place. His hands moved to help, his touch gentle and careful as he straightened your clothes, his fingers brushing against your skin with every movement.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice a mixture of regret and lingering desire.

He shook his head, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “Don’t be,” he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. “I understand.”

As he continued to help you, his hands moved with a deliberate slowness, and he couldn’t resist placing soft kisses on your lips. Each peck was tender and affectionate, a stark contrast to the fevered kisses from moments before. You leaned into him, savoring the sweetness of his touch, even as the urgency of your previous encounter faded.

“There,” Aerion said softly, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “All set.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with emotion. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice filled with a depth of feeling that went beyond words.

He smiled, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Always,” he replied, his eyes locking onto yours with a promise of more moments like this, of a connection that went beyond the physical.

The garden was quiet once more, the night enveloping you both in a serene embrace. You took a deep breath, the cool air calming your racing heart. He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and together you walked back toward the castle.

Aerion gently led you back to your chambers, the soft glow of the torches casting warm light across the stone corridors. His hand remained firmly clasped in yours, a silent promise of protection and affection. When you reached your door, he paused, his gaze lingering on your face.

"Goodnight," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your forehead, a soft, lingering touch that left your heart fluttering.

"Goodnight, Aerion," you replied, your voice barely a whisper as you watched him turn and walk away, the connection between you still palpable.

࣪⠀⊹  ˑ  ִ  ֗   ִ  ۫ 

A few moments later, your handmaidens entered the room, carrying your nightgown and the items needed for your nightly bath. They moved with practiced efficiency, helping you undress and preparing the bath. As you slipped into the warm water, a sense of calm washed over you, the events of the night replaying in your mind.

The handmaidens' gentle hands washed your body, the soothing motions helping to ease the tension from your muscles. Your thoughts drifted to Aerion, his touch, his kisses, the way he looked at you with such intensity. A smile tugged at your lips, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the bath.

Just as you were beginning to relax, the door to your chambers burst open with a loud crash. You startled, the peaceful moment shattered. Aegon stumbled into the room, his eyes glassy and unfocused from his usual nights out. He reeked of alcohol, his steps unsteady as he glared at the handmaidens.

“Get out!” he bellowed, his voice slurred but still commanding. The handmaidens exchanged frightened glances but quickly obeyed, scurrying out of the room and leaving you alone with him.

Aegon’s eyes flicked over you, and he took a deep breath, the fury from earlier momentarily subsiding. “Get dressed,” he muttered, his tone softer but still laden with the effects of alcohol.

Fearful of his unpredictable state, you quickly stood from the bath and wrapped a towel around yourself, hurrying to slip into your nightgown. Aegon sat on the edge of your bed, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

Once you were dressed, he patted the spot next to him on the bed. “Sit,” he commanded, his voice a mix of authority and vulnerability.

You hesitated, but the look in his eyes made you comply. You sat beside him, the tension between you palpable. Aegon’s expression softened, the anger replaced by a sadness that caught you off guard. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he lay his head on your lap, his vulnerability exposed.

“I saw you and my brother in the garden,” he confessed, his voice trembling slightly. “I saw everything.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, fear and guilt mingling as you searched for words. “Aegon, I—”

He cut you off, his voice muffled as he buried his face in your lap. “Why?” he asked, his voice filled with a sorrow that made your heart ache. “Why him? Why not me?”

Hesitantly, you raised your hand and began to caress his head, your fingers threading through his hair in a soothing manner. Aegon, usually so arrogant and self-assured, now seemed vulnerable, exposed. You looked down at him, seeing the pain and confusion etched on his face.

“Aegon, it’s not about choosing one over the other,” you began, your voice gentle. “Aerion and I… it was unexpected, we just connected in that way.”

He let out a shaky breath, his body trembling slightly against yours. “But I can love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I can learn how.”

The confession hung in the air, heavy with unspoken feelings and regrets. You felt a pang of sorrow for Aegon, but your heart still belonged to Aerion. You had to tread carefully, not wanting to hurt him further.

“Aegon,” you said softly, continuing to stroke his hair, “I care about you, too. But i can’t live like this, i hate being constantly ignored”

He let out a shuddering sigh, his grip on your dress tightening. “I’m sorry” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You gently squeezed his shoulder, your touch tender. “I’m sorry, Aegon,” you said, your voice filled with genuine regret. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

He looked up at you, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I know,” he said quietly. “I know.”

For a moment, you both sat there in silence, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. Aegon finally lifted his head from your lap and stood, his movements sluggish and weary.

“Goodnight,” he said, his voice hollow. He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

You sat there for a moment, the events of the night swirling in your mind. Aegon’s confession, his vulnerability—it all left you feeling conflicted and sorrowful. Your heart now remained stuck in between the two, drawn to Aerion with a pull you couldn’t resist. But also struck by aegon’s sudden burst of emotion. Even though he was drunk, you could feel his true feelings spurring out of his heart.

࣪⠀⊹  ˑ  ִ  ֗   ִ  ۫ 

In the morning, as the first light of dawn filters through the curtains, you wake with a sense of unease lingering from the events of the previous night. Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts about Aerion, Aegon, and the complex web of emotions entangling you.

The handmaidens enter quietly, bringing a basin of warm water and fresh linens. They help you into a simple but elegant morning gown, their hands gentle and efficient as they prepare you for the day ahead. Despite their calm presence, you can’t shake the tension in the air.

After dressing, you head to the dining hall for breakfast, apprehensive about facing Aegon. As you approach the hall, you hear the soft murmur of conversation. Steeling yourself, you enter the room.

Aerion is already there, looking as composed and handsome as ever, though his eyes light up with concern as he sees you. Aegon, on the other hand, sits silently, staring into his cup, his expression unreadable.

You take your seat, the tension between the three of you almost palpable. Aerion reaches over, his fingers brushing yours in a subtle gesture of reassurance. You manage a small smile, grateful for his presence.

Aegon finally looks up, his gaze locking with yours. There’s a flicker of hurt and something else—resignation, perhaps?—in his eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak but then closes it, shaking his head slightly.

The silence is broken by the arrival of the other family members and courtiers, who fill the room with their chatter and laughter, oblivious to the undercurrents at your table. You focus on your food, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.

After breakfast, Aerion suggests a walk in the gardens, a chance for some privacy away from prying eyes and ears. You disagree, wanting to speak with aegon about the happenings of last night.

After breakfast, Aerion suggests a walk in the gardens for some privacy, but you shake your head gently.

"No, Aerion. I need to talk to Aegon," you say, glancing over at your husband, who still sits at the table, his eyes fixed on his empty plate.

He hesitates but nods, understanding the importance of the conversation. "I'll be here if you need me," he murmurs, squeezing your hand before he leaves.

Taking a deep breath, you walk over to Aegon. He looks up at you, a mixture of frustration and sadness in his eyes. Without a word, he stands and takes your hand, leading you out of the dining hall. You're surprised by his sudden action but follow him quietly.

He leads you to another room, the council chamber. As you enter, he heads straight to the table and pours himself a glass of wine, leaning against the edge as he takes a sip. You stand there, hands behind your back, waiting for him to speak.

"When I saw you with Aerion in the garden," he begins, his voice tight with emotion, "I got angry. So angry."

He sets the glass down and looks at you, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions. "Come closer," he instructs.

You hesitate for a moment but then step forward. As you reach him, Aegon takes your hand and pulls you against his body, positioning you between his legs. You can feel the tension radiating from him.

"Aegon," you start, but he silences you with a gentle touch to your lips.

"I need you to listen," he says softly. "Seeing you with him... it hurt me. Deeply. I know we've had our differences, but you're my wife. And I can't bear the thought of losing you to him."

You place a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your palm. "I never wanted to hurt you, Aegon. Aerion and I... it was just a one time thing that happened out of the blue"

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Okay. Just promise to me that you will not go near him. I don’t wanna see you with someone else."

"Only me," he whispered, his voice trembling. You looked up at him, his eyes still closed. "That can be done" You stood on your toes and reached out for his cheek and gave him a small kiss.

Aegon opens his eyes and looks at you, his expression softening. “Well that settles it then."

You nod, relieved that he's willing to work give you another chance and not lash out. He pulls you into a tight embrace, holding you close.

As you stand there in his arms, you feel a sense of hope. However, your mind couldn’t stop thinking about your relationship with the other twin, now that aegon is starting to show a little of his good personality. You’ve now found yourself in a situation that could break you or make your life better. This was all you could think about until aegon pulled you back to reality, his hand at the small of your waist. The hug lingers, lasting longer than either of you anticipated. You can feel Aegon's heartbeat slow and steady against your chest.

After what feels like an eternity, Aegon gently pulls back, his hands now resting on your shoulders. He looks into your eyes, a small, genuine smile forming on his lips. "I appreciate you for staying and talking to me, i thought you would’ve left”

You return his smile, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I was the one who wanted to talk with you, so why would i leave.”

He nods and then surprises you by lifting you slightly off your feet, twirling you around playfully. You laugh, the sound filling the room with lightness and joy.

Setting you back down, he brushes a strand of hair from your face. "Let's spend the day together," he suggests. "Just you and me. We can go for a ride, visit the market, anything you want."

You beam at him, touched by the effort he's making. "I'd love that."

Aegon takes your hand, leading you out of the council chamber. As you walk through the halls, you talk about trivial things, the heavy conversation from earlier giving way to lighter, more comfortable topics. The air between you feels clearer, the connection stronger. Then you noticed that you didn’t even say where you would like to go.

You looked up at him as you walked “May we visit the market, dear husband” you playfully said as you swinged the hand that was holding his.

“Where ever you want to go, i will come with” aegon looked at you, his eyes shining. You left out a sign of relief as you were able to get closer to him. You were glad that he didn’t turn out to be a furious husband as the rumors concurred throughout the Red Keep.

However, you were thinking so many thoughts, “What if there was a slight chance that aegon was just doing this to get his piece, a future heir” You didn’t want to think that way but what if it’s true.

a/n 2: i’ve proofread this so many times but there could very well still be mistakes :’(

© misswynters ‘24 - don’t modify or steal my writings

taglist: @sab-falco @spn-obession @tomgcsmrs @sturnioloarchive @arquiiva @malfoycassimalfoy @klutzylaena @champomiel @p45510n4f4shi0n

[bonniesfamiliar]

The bat brothers really know how to make me cry. Especially their parallels.

Dick Grayson: Dick is the OG angry Robin, not Jason and I hate how no one remembers that Dick is the angry one who became Robin to get revenge on his parent's killer.

Jason Todd: Jason became Robin because he figured out Bruce's identity after finding the Batcave and was a huge literature nerd and bookworm who went to school on time and arrived at his classes early because he LOVED to learn. HE ONLY BECAME THE ANGRY ROBIN BECAUSE EVERYONE SAID HE'D NEVER AMOUNT TO THE LEGACY THAT DICK LEFT BEHIND.

Tim Drake: Tim (MY BABY) became Robin because Batman was killing himself and was losing his morals. The very thing that made him Batman. Tim didn't get the father that Dick and Jason got. No. Tim got Bruce trying to shove him away at every moment and Tim trained with Batman, not BatDad. He mainly trained with Lady Shiva since Bruce shipped him off.

Tim & Duke: These two make me cry. You got Tim who was tortured and moulded into Joker Junior  (in Batman Beyond: Return of The Joker) whereas Duke's parents were victims of Joker's laughing gas and I really hate how no one pulls these two into a fanfic together and makes them get therapy.

Damian Wayne and Tim Drake have to be the saddest pair of brothers (after Jason Todd and Dick Grayson) I have ever met.

Damian has been told his entire life that he's a weapon and the only thing he's good at is being a weapon but Tim has been told his entire life that he's nothing but a tool to be used and discarded when he no longer has a use.

Yh.

These brothers really make me cry.

[hey-august]

[Cross Guild Headcanons] The way he...

Some NSFW headcanons about how each of the Cross Guild pirates have sex. A mix of dirty and soft thoughts.

Warnings: NSFW, NC17, MDNI, GN!reader, mentions of degradation, praise, overstimulation, inappropriate use of devil fruit powers. crocodile x reader. mihawk x reader. buggy x reader. No use of Y/N or physical descriptions.

🐊 Sir Crocodile

…fucks you hard and rough, just the way you want it.

He knows what you're craving - when you want to be folded in half, to have his hook on your throat, his hand in your hair.

Crocodile knows when you want it filthy. When you’re a complete degenerate. To be his dumb slut. Cock-drunk, degraded, man-handled, drooling, and at his mercy.

He also knows when it’s too much. It’s in the way you touch him. Cautionary hands on his stomach, hips, or thighs, anywhere you can feel him. He’s aware of how much pressure you apply when he thrusts into you, telling him where to stop.

He knows that when you say, “It’s so big,” and “It’s really big,” you mean different things. Both are true, he always fills you entirely. Telling him “It’s so big” strokes his ego. “It’s really big,” means you are uncomfortably stuffed by his massive cock.

Crocodile knows when to ease up. He’ll still fuck you relentlessly, but there’s a softness to it. A gentleness that is always present in how he cares for you afterwards.

🦅 Mihawk

…knows how to tease you, turning you into a needy mess.

He loves to hear you whimper and beg for him. To feel you unravel under his attention. His touch. His praise.

Mihawk understands your body and your desires. He knows how to play them against each other, bringing you to the brink until you beg for release. He knows you want to be good for him, to show him you can take it.

But he also knows when the overstimulation and discomfort outweigh the fun. When he’s no longer testing your will and your body, but messing with your mind. When you worry that you’re not good. Not worthy. Just a play thing that can be discarded.

He knows how to make you feel better. Special. Desired. Mihawk will take care of you the way that only he can.

MIhawk will hold you gently and speak to you softly. He’ll ask what you want and give it to you tenfold. He’ll worship your body, covering you in kisses and praise. Giving you adoration that will carry beyond the confines of the bedroom.

🤡 Buggy

…knows when you want it hard and fast.

Buggy makes sure you’re bent over and pounded whenever you’re in the mood. A lingering touch, a sultry look, a soft whisper - any are enough to initiate a quick and dirty fuck.

Even when he can’t sneak away with you, he makes sure you have the tools you need. His hands and his cock are at your disposal, ready and available to fill your needs and holes.

Buggy also knows when you want it soft. Slower. When you’re craving intimacy. When you want him more than to be fucked by him.

He’ll lay you back and press his body against yours. Buggy will rest his head on your shoulder and moan into your neck. He’ll tell you how lovely you are. How good you feel. He’ll melt when you wrap your legs around his waist and run your fingers through his hair.

Buggy will make sure you feel fulfilled and content. And afterwards, he’ll hold you close, pressing his lips against your skin in an unending kiss.

[thesiltverses]

Hello! Writing first to thank you for such an extraordinary creation - as a piece of writing and even more so in performance. Every episode manages to somehow build on and outdo the last; you navigated that transition from a smaller scale story of grisly mysteries and personal crises of faith to a grand scale of war, revolution and political satire with absolute aplomb, and never lost that throughline of exceptional characterisation and sharp writing, always steering to the most interesting conflicts. You are always very humble in your public comments, but I hope you allow yourself a little pride, because this is absolutely top notch stuff.

I was struck by Paige's final words, that she hopes what they left would be found 'flawed, inadequate, yearning'. As the show went on, I was surprised - in a good way - that the show's politics gradually crystalised into a full-on nihilist anarchism, something perhaps even along the lines of Monsieur Dupont. (Muna used the 'a' word in one of the Q&As but it was pretty evident even before that). Taking these gods as a metaphor for ideologies and social systems, the scope of it becomes pretty universal - and unsparing. And, equally, hard to answer.

I wondered when the Many Below/Wound Tree was introduced what answers they would find: what political movement could truly resist cooption or becoming its own horrible self-sustaining egregore. And in the end the answer you express I suppose is a negative one: that even Paige's god of victims is a tool, one that must eventually be discarded to go into some unknown place beyond it all (to walk away from Omelas), towards something that narrative fiction - as a form of the 'endless words' that are derided so much in the third season - can no longer address. Which I respect - to pose the question is vital, even if the tools can't reach any answers if they even exist.

I think this struggle exists in many stories that address themes of making a break from the rapacious society that created them (and take it seriously) - your Baru Cormorants and Mononoke-himes. We can describe the problem vividly, but since we do not have a counterexample to hand, any story we tell about ~what is to be done~ and what it will look like when it is feels like it will be just as hollow as the spins and angles and parasitic fantasies that so many characters advance in the Silt Verses. (How could there possibly be a time where it finally works out, after we have seen all this? But then, what are we living for?)

To try to make this a question and not a ramble, I wanted to ask - what do you see as the role of fiction in addressing the horrible machinery of this world? Is it enough to pose the question particularly sharply, skewer the bad and inadequate answers, and leave the readers/listeners to figure out how to make the killing of gods concrete? How do we punch through the bounds of it all being Content, another product to be bought and sold? What does it mean to sit here and fantasise about people making that revolutionary break when there is no revolution to be had?

I don't know what answer I'm hoping for here, but given the themes of the show, I feel like this must be a kind of thing you've thought about, and probably have a far more developed line of thought than I do. And if this is a bit too much to drop in your inbox on a Saturday morning, I will say again thank you for writing this story and all the actors for making it so strikingly concrete - it truly means a lot, and I will treasure it.

Hi, and thank you for listening and for a beautifully written and thoughtful ask! ('Horrible machinery of the world' stopped me dead in my tracks.) And I am very proud, genuinely.

I don't have a good enough answer to your questions, and for me a lot of TSV is very much about trying to figure those answers out, but let me try and sum up my perspective bit by bit.

Is it enough for fiction to pose the question, without also proposing the answer?

I don't think it's enough for fiction as a collective body of work.

I'd argue there's probably a tendency towards open-endedness and irresolution in these individual narratives simply because it feels like a more honest acknowledgement that in real life, the foe has yet to take a real body blow and will not go down easy; that the foe, in fact, is the marketplace for the work itself and ironically profits from the popularity of stories with easy heroic victories over villains who represent capitalism. That these stories inevitably become a pleasant consumable that serves our complacency within the belly of the beast, a kind of daily tonic to reassure us that good always triumphs and regular people always come out on top.

I also think that the sheer scale and scope of the topic creates its own challenges; you probably can't engage thoroughly enough with both the dystopian question and your ideas for a utopian answer all in a single story, without ultimately turning the latter into that false reassurance, a quick handwave of a happy ending.

You mention Omelas, and I think we could illustrate the problem by looking at how LeGuin handles her two successive masterpieces:

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas, which gives us the titular resource-rich u(dys)topia built on invisible suffering, and the dissidents who turn their backs on that world and walk out into the inhospitable wilderness in search of something better.

The Dispossessed, which as its premise gives us Anarres, an imperfect but sympathetic anarchist society whose adherents turned their backs on a neighbouring world of capitalist plenty to live out in the inhospitable wilderness in search of something better.

Anarres can very reasonably be viewed as LeGuin's direct answer to the question posed by Omelas, and she would have likely had it in her mind already as she wrote Omelas. But if the short story had ended with 'I hear that against all odds, the ones who walk away have successfully founded an anarchist utopia where hardship is everywhere but it's shared as equitably as possible. THE END', the amount of lazy shorthand and empty comfort involved in that happier ending would inevitably make it a dishonest and unserious offering.

Instead, Anarres is a starting premise to be interrogated at length over the course of a separate story, rather than a happy ending to simply reassure the reader that better things are possible - and even at the end of the novel LeGuin's unresolved questions are still very similar to the ones that we're left with in Omelas (and the same questions that I feel like we were knocking about in The Silt Verses, and which I guess you could argue are all lingering concerns at the end of Mononoke, as well): how and where can we find space to create and sustain a genuine alternative when the narrative environment of capitalism is so powerfully all-subsuming and constantly growing to fill the space? Do we need to disconnect entirely, vanishing as if dead? If we disconnect, how can we possibly survive and what inhumanities or ethical compromises will be required of us? If we do survive, is our isolationism a dereliction of human responsibility to those left behind?

All of which is to say that I think present-day fiction absolutely can make the attempt to meaningfully explore potential alternative-utopian solutions in more depth and with far more tangibility than we attempted with TSV - but that dystopian fiction like ours which concludes with the unexplored promise of a revolutionary utopia and the vague reassurance that the irrepressible human spirit will figure things out from here on out (Chewbacca gets a medal, everyone's in the streets wearing a Guy Fawkes mask) doesn't do much more than dramatically undermine its own goal of disrupting the audience's comfort.

That said, one of my big regrets this season was that we didn't succeed in more engagingly exploring and articulating the Woundtree camp's development into a flawed but functioning society in Dispossessed fashion ahead of the ending. That was my intention, but what quickly became clear was that in a dramatic format, with a limited cast, it was just endless static meeting-room scenes with Paige and Elgin discussing difficult responses to impossible challenges, while everyone else was out having dynamic and exciting adventures with lots of fun and exciting gods. Dystopias remain too entertaining for utopias' own good.

What do you see as the role of fiction in addressing the horrible machinery of this world?

I believe that absurdist horror fiction specifically, founded on the principle of 'people in a world that makes no sense, deluding themselves that it definitely does make sense' can play a very powerful role in that stated purpose.

Many horror traditions carry the baggage of inbuilt or inadvertent conservatism - the concept of a peaceable, passive, safe, middle-class Normality which is then disrupted by a terrifying outside threat (alien, ultra-foreign, ultra-low-class, underworldly, wild, etc). But absurdist horror very directly identifies Normality as the true source of our terror and very directly confronts our human response to it. It creates the right environment for us to ask all of the good questions. Isn't this an unsustainable nightmare we're living in? Why are we expending so much energy pretending it isn't? How do we get out and what do we do if we can't?

Probably the only listener reaction that's genuinely frustrated me about both of our shows is the folks who come away turning their noses up at the bluntness of that approach and acting like they've Solved The Art simply for figuring out where our broad sympathies lie. "Hm, just listened to The Silt Verses and I understood it at once; it's clearly trying to say that capitalism is bad. A little heavy-handed in its messaging for my liking, hm-hm!"

Not to go full Garth Marenghi, but for me the directness of the provocation and the obvious outrageousness of the nightmare is the point; it then allows us to go to places that other genres (or more understated critiques) generally can't.

How do we punch through the bounds of it all being Content, another product to be bought and sold? What does it mean to sit here and fantasise about people making that revolutionary break when there is no revolution to be had?

God, I don't know.

Maybe it means nothing; maybe we can't punch through; maybe there is no story unruly enough to be truly unco-optable, and therefore even the most radical fiction ultimately serves as a distraction, a placebo, a reassurance (that we are not alone, that better things are possible) which will impact the wider world more by keeping us subscribed to the Kindle app than by any action we might feel inspired to take.

Amazon is paying Boots Riley to make TV shows. Disney won much praise for delivering a revolutionary fantasy in a Star Wars shell. Apple is funding excellent, discomfiting and furious corporate satires about how we happily ignore invisible worker abuses for the sake of our own lifestyles, but they also cannot be considered accountable for the deaths of Congolese child-labourers in the global cobalt supply chain. The Dispossessed is in development as a limited series and the LeGuin estate are closely involved.

The master doesn't just own the tools, he's been buying up the guillotines as well.

What if, as with the unknowable nothingness outside of Omelas, the only art that cannot be reduced to product in net service of the status quo is the art that's so invisible and inaccessible and disconnected as to not exist at all? Does being relatively small and ramshackle really lend us any ideological purity, any genuine detachment? You can listen to The Silt Verses on Apple and Spotify and Amazon Music. Brought to you by Acast.

Chapter 36 with Dev and Seb was to a large extent intended as an articulation of that worry. To what extent can we still trust in the integrity of a sincere love story (one that we want to believe in) it if takes place in an insincere and predatory environment? Can any meaningful story be told honestly within such a space?

This stuff really worries me. I think it's probably right to worry. I don't know the answer. I do know that there are some folks for whom the show has made a tangible difference in terms of their life's direction, and that's a huge comfort to me.

There was someone who said it helped them find their faith, strangely and wonderfully. Someone else who said it contributed to their decision not to go down a more lucrative career path within what they view as an exploitative industry. (I hope they don't regret that decision; I hope it makes them happy.)

So there's something there. Maybe.

[shentheauthor]

The iterators are supercomputers, yeah, but fundamentally, they’re the most human characters in all of rain world. Including the ancients.

Moon waited too long to exercise her authority, at the cost of her own life, because she wanted to trust Pebbles to listen to her. She didn’t want to overstep his boundaries.

After her collapse, she was angry, as she should have been, and yet she forgave in the end. Because after everything, her forgiveness and kindness is all she has. And she still has the power to revoke it, as she does with the slugcats when they hurt her.

No Significant Harassment created a creature without any regard for its suffering. He doomed an innocent slugcat to die a slow, agonizing death, all in the name of reviving Moon.

Yes, it was for a good cause, but was the Hunter not also worthy of living? Did they not deserve to experience life to the fullest, just as Moon did?

Five Pebbles was lost and desperate, erratic and severely self destructive. He’s a perfect example of how human the iterators are, because like us, he spirals out of control when faced with that much trauma and burden.

We watch him die slowly, and it’s horrifying, because nobody deserves that fate. And in the end, nobody was able to help him, or even willing to, other than the creatures he thought were so far beneath him.

Seven Red Suns was shortsighted. They wanted to help their friend, someone who looked up to them, and so they did in the only way they knew how. It was a bad idea, but who hasn’t made a bad decision when their intentions were good?

They never even got to say goodbye, or apologize properly. When they tried to fix their mistake, it was already too late, and Pebbles had shut them out. They care deeply, and yet we never hear from them again after spearmaster’s campaign.

The other iterators fascinate me. Why did Unparalleled Innocence expose pebbles’s rot? Why did chasing/gray wind reach out? Who else is out there? What are the stories of the other iterators?

Why did the ancients make them so very human, if they were just going to be discarded like tools once they were no longer needed?

[ms-snape]

i LOVE your writing sm!! could i request a Tom Riddle x reader where she sends him anonymous love letters and he somehow— for his own amusement— decided to write back which surprised her.

he meant for it all to be just for his benefit but slowly he started falling for the girl and one day she confessed who she is and he gives her chance!

Title: Letters From The Heart

Warning: Tom being Tom, opened end might be a part 2 depends on u guys

Words Count:3000+

Masterlist

---

There were things about Hogwarts that Tom Riddle had learned to both admire and despise. It was a place of power—raw, unfettered power—but it was also a place where the weak minded reveled in their ignorance. To Tom, power was everything. It was the key to control. It was what separated him from the rest of them, the ordinary masses who bowed and scraped, who lived in fear of their own limitations. And Tom had never been like them. He was exceptional. Brilliant. Born to be something more.

He had already begun to carve out his future, reshaping the world in his image. No one in the school, not the professors nor the students, could touch him. His intelligence, his ambition, and his presence were more than enough to put him at the top.

But it was the unexpected intrusion of something he could neither predict nor control that intrigued him.

It began with a letter.

It was a late evening when Tom returned to his dormitory, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of Slytherin House. The fire in the common room had long since died out, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer than usual, their cold fingers creeping along the stone walls. He was alone, as always, and that was how he preferred it. He didn’t need the company of others. People were tools, instruments to use when necessary, and once they had outlived their usefulness, they could be discarded. The thought made him smile faintly.

As he stepped into the private quarters assigned to him as a prefect, something caught his eye: a small, folded parchment sitting on his bed. There was no seal, no identifying marks on the paper. Just a single, carefully folded note. His mind clicked, instantly curious. He had grown accustomed to receiving praise from others—though never directly, always whispered behind his back—but this was different. Whoever this was, they had made sure no one knew of their message.

With a flick of his wrist, Tom summoned a candle, lighting it with a small burst of fire. The soft light revealed the elegant handwriting on the note.

"Dear Tom

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I can’t help but admire you. Your brilliance, your strength, the way you walk through this school as though you are above it all. I have spent so many nights dreaming of what it would be like to be near you, to feel the same air, the same space. Maybe that’s foolish, but it’s true.

Your Secret Admirer"

Tom stared at the letter. It was oddly intimate, almost too personal for someone so clearly intent on staying anonymous. His lips quirked upward in amusement. Someone—some girl, most likely—was infatuated with him. He should have dismissed it immediately, but instead, he found himself reading it again. The words were filled with reverence, with a longing that he had seen before in the eyes of countless students, but this letter… this letter was different. There was something about the way it was written. It didn’t scream desperation, it whispered with a quiet intensity.

With a quiet sigh, he folded the note back up, slipping it into the drawer of his desk. It wasn’t worth his time to think about. He had more pressing matters to attend to. But the next day, when he returned to his dorm after a long day of lessons, another letter awaited him.

This time, it was heavier, the parchment thicker. He opened it with the same mixture of curiosity and indifference. The words were different, yet the tone remained the same. Reverence, fascination, and a touch of fear. The writer spoke of his eyes, the way they could see through people, cutting through their facades and exposing their weaknesses. They spoke of how his mere presence seemed to command attention, how it was as though he were not of this world, but something far greater.

This time, Tom smiled darkly. "How pathetic."

But there was something else lurking in the back of his mind. He had always enjoyed the power of being admired, but this was different. This felt almost… personal. There was something about the tone of the letter that intrigued him.

What if he responded?

He had never had to chase after attention—his reputation did that work for him. But the thought of an unknown admirer… someone who dared to admire him from the shadows… it was a mystery he found himself wanting to solve. Perhaps it would be amusing to see where this led.

And so, he wrote his first response.

"To my anonymous admirer,

Your words have reached me. Your admiration is noted, though I wonder—do you truly understand the depth of what you are feeling? Do you even know what you desire from someone like me? I do not give my attention easily, and I do not waste my time on those who are not worthy of it.

But I must admit, your persistence is… interesting. I wonder if you will continue to write me, or if you will fade away as so many before you have done. You are already more than most of the students here, and yet… I wonder what you truly want from me."

Until then, I await your next letter.

Tom M Riddle."

He sent the letter off with a casual flick of his wand, his heart not quite as indifferent as he would have liked. The idea of a mystery—an admirer—was not something that Tom was accustomed to. And yet, he felt… something. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was boredom. Whatever it was, it was enough to keep him engaged in this strange game.

For the next few days, Tom carried on as usual. He attended his classes, ignored the sycophants who tried to gain his favor, and continued to plot his rise to power. But still, he thought about the letters. The words. The careful way in which the writer expressed their feelings. Whoever this person was, they had talent. They could write—really write—and there was something deeply personal about their observations of him.

As the weeks passed, the letters kept coming. Tom found himself growing increasingly intrigued by the mystery behind them. The messages were no longer simply filled with praise and longing; they had become more introspective. The writer spoke of their own struggles, their dreams, and fears. They confided their deepest thoughts in a way that no one else ever did. It was as though they believed they could open themselves up to him without fear, even though they knew nothing about him.

There was a certain beauty in that, Tom thought. A rawness he had never allowed anyone to see. Not even himself.

But each letter was also a test. He found himself crafting his responses with greater care. He was no longer playing just for amusement. He was fascinated by the writer's mind, by how she saw him. And the more he read, the more he began to wonder: Who was she?

His answers to her letters became more pointed, more calculated. He wanted to see how far she would go. How much she would reveal. He would lead her on, keep her writing, keep her thinking about him, all the while weaving his own twisted thoughts into her mind.

"To my dear admirer,

I have been thinking about your letters, about how you speak of your own weakness. You claim to admire my strength, my power, but I suspect you are simply looking for someone to guide you, someone to help you overcome your own failures. But do not misunderstand me. I do not give my attention to the weak. And you, my dear, are still weak."

"But I will say this—your letters intrigue me. I wonder what else you are hiding behind your words. Perhaps there is more to you than meets the eye."

Until then, I remain curious.

Tom M Riddle."

Days turned into weeks. The letters kept coming, and each one felt like a thread pulling them closer together. Tom found himself reading them with a strange sense of anticipation. The game had shifted. It was no longer just about power, nor about winning some hollow admiration. There was a deeper layer to it, something he hadn’t expected. A sense of longing had crept into his responses, subtle but unmistakable.

Then, one day, the letters stopped.

For days, Tom waited for another envelope to arrive. He convinced himself it was nothing. A mere blip in his game. Yet, as the silence stretched on, he realized he was growing… frustrated. Was this the end? Had she given up? Had she finally realized that she had been writing to someone who was untouchable, someone who had no interest in the fragile, fleeting emotions of love?

It was late one evening when he returned to his dorm after a long day of plotting and maneuvering. He opened the door to his room, and there, resting on his bed, was another letter.

But this one was different.

The handwriting was familiar. It was the same as before, but this time, there was something else. Something more direct. More honest.

"Tom,

I can’t hide from this anymore. I’ve been writing to you for weeks, pouring my heart into these letters, and yet, you still don’t know who I am. Maybe that’s a part of me I never wanted to reveal, but I can’t keep pretending. I’m YN YLN. You’ve been reading my words, and now I want you to see me.

I’m not perfect. I’m not like the others who crave your attention, who will do anything to be near you. But I’ve never been able to stop thinking about you. From the first moment I saw you, I knew there was something about you. Something I couldn’t explain.

And now, I’m standing before you. Will you accept me? Or will you push me away like you’ve done with everyone else?"

Tom’s breath caught in his throat as he read the letter. His thoughts spiraled. YN. So that was her name. This wasn’t just some foolish infatuation after all. This was real. This was… genuine.

He stood frozen for a moment, the letter crumpling slightly in his hand.

The game had changed.

Tom stared at the letter, his sharp eyes scanning the words for meaning, for any indication that he was being played. But there was nothing in her handwriting that suggested dishonesty. YN. Her name was simple, unremarkable, and yet the moment he saw it, it felt like a key had turned in his mind. This was no longer just a game, no longer some childish correspondence. No. This was real. The walls Tom had built around himself began to crack, ever so slightly, as his thoughts tumbled over themselves.

He had known, on some level, that this was coming. He had felt it in the tone of her letters, in the way her words had begun to shift from worship to something deeper, more dangerous. He had played his part in their little dance, baiting her, pushing her boundaries, testing the waters. He had wanted to see how far she would go—how much of herself she would give. And she had given him everything.

But now… now she had taken it one step further. She was no longer hiding behind the veil of anonymity. She was standing before him, vulnerable, exposing herself to him in a way no one else ever had.

Her confession had been straightforward, unembellished, as though she was laying bare a piece of her soul. And in that moment, Tom realized something he hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t just about power, or control, or winning. This wasn’t some mindless pursuit. This was a connection, one that he couldn’t control. That realization gnawed at him, sending a ripple of unease through his chest.

For the first time, Tom Riddle didn’t have all the answers.

He took a step toward the window and let the letter fall from his hand, the parchment drifting softly to the floor. His eyes focused on the dark expanse of the grounds outside, but his mind was far from the peaceful, mist-covered landscape. It was consumed with the girl who had sent him these letters. YN. A name, a face—finally. He could almost picture her now, her eyes, the way she must have written each word with such care, such fear.

The very idea of someone daring to feel so deeply for him both repelled and fascinated him. What had she seen in him, in the cold, calculating Tom Riddle? The one who had built walls so high that even the most persistent attempts to scale them were doomed to failure? Why had she, of all people, chosen him?

He walked over to the desk, his long fingers brushing the edge of the drawer where he had kept her previous letters. Each one a fragment of something he could never fully grasp. And yet, here she was. His admirer. His equal, perhaps. Someone who had outsmarted him, pulled him into a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

He ran a hand through his dark hair and sat down in his chair, his eyes falling on the letter once more. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting—an answer? A revelation? But all he could think of, all he could hear in the silence of the room, was her final question.

Will you accept me?

Tom had never known acceptance. At least, not in the way YN seemed to mean it. He was a man who had built his life around rejection—both his rejection of others and their rejection of him. But YN… YN had refused to be cast aside. She had fought for his attention, and in a way, she had earned it.

But could he give her what she wanted?

The next morning, Tom was awake before the sun, a habit he had maintained throughout his time at Hogwarts. His usual morning routine was mechanical, precise, but today, something was different. He found himself replaying her letter over and over in his mind, hearing the tremor of her voice in his head as if she had spoken the words aloud.

She had bared her soul to him, and all he had given her in return were cold, calculated responses. Was he capable of something more? Was he capable of meeting her honesty with his own?

He hadn’t decided when he arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast. As he sat down at the Slytherin table, his eyes swept the room, and for the first time, he let them linger. He searched the faces around him, looking for someone, anyone who might give him a clue. Who could she be? The girl who had written to him with such fervor, who had laid her heart at his feet without hesitation.

It didn’t take long for him to find her.

At the far end of the hall, sitting with her friends, YN was eating quietly. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her face in a way that almost seemed too delicate for the sharpness of her eyes. She was quiet, her usual smile absent, replaced by a faraway look as though her mind was elsewhere. Tom couldn’t look away.

For a moment, his gaze was fixed on her, and though she hadn’t noticed him yet, he could feel the connection between them, pulling at him like an invisible thread.

And then, as though sensing his attention, she looked up.

Their eyes met across the vast expanse of the room, and time seemed to slow. Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze was steady. There was no fear, no hesitation. Just a quiet strength in the way she held his gaze. In that moment, something shifted in Tom.

It wasn’t just about the letters anymore. It wasn’t about her yearning or his amusement at the game. It was something deeper, something that he couldn’t quite define.

He broke the stare first, his heart unexpectedly racing as he returned to his food, though his appetite had suddenly vanished. His fingers tightened around the edge of his plate, and his thoughts swirled with possibilities.

It was late that afternoon when Tom found himself walking through the halls, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He had thought long and hard about the letter, about YN, and what he was willing to do.

He had told her that he was curious. But now, as he rounded a corner and saw her standing there, waiting near a set of old classrooms, he realized that his curiosity had turned into something else entirely.

She stood still, her eyes locked on his, waiting for him. He hadn’t asked for this—he hadn’t asked for her to be so brave, so open—but there she was. She had stripped away every defense, every mask, and she was waiting for him to make the next move. To give her an answer.

"YN," Tom said her name for the first time, his voice cold but laced with something else—a tremor, a hesitation he hadn’t known he was capable of. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else, but it was there.

Her eyes softened at the sound of her name, and she stepped forward. “Tom, I—”

Before she could say anything else, Tom closed the distance between them, his hand rising instinctively to touch her arm. The contact was brief, but the electricity between them was undeniable. He could feel her pulse beneath his fingertips, steady but quick. She was nervous. She had to be. But Tom wasn’t sure what he was feeling. What did it mean when someone looked at you like they trusted you completely, without question? He had never been trusted before—not in this way.

“I didn’t think you would actually come,” YN whispered, her voice barely audible. “I thought you would reject me.”

Tom looked at her with a mixture of amusement and something softer, more contemplative. “I’m not the type to reject someone like you.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, and Tom couldn’t help but smirk, leaning in slightly. He wanted to kiss her, and yet, he held back. Instead, he let his words sink in.

“You’ve made your feelings clear, YN. Now it’s my turn to decide.”

She opened her mouth, but he silenced her with a single finger to her lips. “You don’t need to say anything more. I already know. But you’ll have to wait. Wait until I decide whether I’ll accept this… or if I’ll destroy it.”

For a moment, her eyes shone with uncertainty, but then they darkened with resolve. She nodded, as though knowing this was all part of the game he had set in motion. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t afraid of losing.

And that made all the difference.

Tom Riddle had always been a master of control. But YN had something that even he couldn’t quite manipulate. She had a way of making him feel—of making him question whether he was as invincible as he thought.

He didn’t know what would happen next. But he knew that he wasn’t done with her yet.

[hiiragi7]

Purple and Yellow-Colored Transness - An Intersex Trans View of Transition

It is strongly my opinion that an intersex lens is fundamentally necessary to understand transness, as much as race, disability, class, & culture is.

Yet, much of the time, when intersex is applied to transness it is used as a fetishization - and use without consent of the used is abuse. (Audre Lorde, Uses of the Erotic)

Our perisex trans siblings so often use us as a tool for pornography, as an object to shove insecurities and pain and desire onto, as a temporary escape from dysphoria and thought, as an imagined excuse to supposedly avoid oppression. Afterwards, we are discarded, much like an object that has fulfilled its purpose.

Intersex people do not exist for the purpose of abuse, incestual or otherwise. Intersex is power, intersex is love, intersex is experience.

As a group so deeply harmed and betrayed by our perisex trans siblings, it is no wonder why so many of us reject any lens which suggests there is intersexuality to be found in transness - I doubt that many of us have ever seen what it may look like outside of as an abuse of our bodies, our identities.

And yet, I cannot help but feel that there is an inherent intersexness to be found in transness. Rather than rejecting this, erasing this, I feel it is absolutely necessary to embrace without conflating or fetishizing this. This is not to say, however, that we are one in the same; in fact, within our differences is where I find a lot of our power lies. It is our ability to share experiences without using one another which is vital.

I struggle with this feeling, knowing so much more work must be done, knowing it cannot be fully expressed yet.

When my trans sibling is excited over newly developing traits we now both share, I would love to partake in that joy not only as trans joy but a joy of intersex traits as well. When sex characteristics I have been shamed for my entire life for having naturally becomes something which another person not only seeks out but actively falls in love with as it happens, is this truly only trans love? Is it not also an intersex love?

And yet, at the same time, I find myself choosing my words carefully; I fear they will be stolen from me, used as a weapon against myself and my community. We are still made so fetishized, so invisible, so abused, even amongst siblings. Because of this, I fear the answer to my question is that we are not yet at a point where trans love is an intersex love, but rather what I am seeing is a trans love of traits detached from any intersexuality at all. Even in cases where our bodies may look so similar, you don't see all of me - You only know me as trans, never intersex. You only know my variant sex characteristics as something possible through transition or pornography, and have erased any mention of me in them.

I see my trans self reflected in my intersex self, and my intersex self reflected in my trans self. My body no longer produces its own hormones; I get mine from a clinic that provides gender affirming care for trans people, the same place where just two days ago I had to spend time educating a nurse who learned the word intersex for the first time that day because of me. The surgeries which I both have gotten and will get in the future are both as trans as they are intersex. The letters from my doctors to appease insurance say I am transitioning and that this is a requirement for treatment of gender dysphoria, some of my medical papers say I am intersex and seeking a urethral reconstruction. Both of these hold truth to them.

There are intersex people and trans people who share scars in the exact same places, from procedures which were similar, but were done for different reasons. One grieves where the other celebrates. One tells a story of their identity being stolen from them, one tells a story of finally being able to be themselves. In some cases, both of these are the same people at different points in time in their life.

[edelgarfield]

thinking abt drugestarion and only knowing love as a form of power and ownership.

durge's previous letters & the narration repeatedly refer to feeling their father's love, begging for forgiveness, wanting desperately to please him, but Bhaal doesn't love Durge. Bhaal sees Durge as an extension of himself, a tool, he loves Durge the way you love a pretty toy that you can put on your shelf and admire, not as a person, not as someone with their own thoughts and desires. His love is entirely conditional on Durge's obedience. thinking abt durge becoming a weapon, a tool, an object for a love that's forever out of reach, making themselves invaluable bc they like on the knife's edge of being discarded.

and then thinking abt Ascended Astarion, who's so afraid of losing everything that he can only love someone he has complete control over, who calls you his pet, his treasure, who delights in forcing you to degrade yourself, in reminding you of his power, who no longer loves you as a person but as a pretty toy to sit on his lap, who saw his genuine feelings of love as a weakness and only knew to level the playing field by forcing you beneath him the way he feels his love forced him beneath you.

thinking abt Durge doing anything and everything for their companions, doing the impossible to give their allies the happy endings they deserve. thinking abt someone who only knows how to be a weapon only feeling loved when they're being brandished in someone's hand, making themselves the lynchpin holding the party together bc the only way they know how to earn love is by being useful.

thinking abt Durge being so desperate for love that they'll destroy the world if you only ask, being genuinely, truly, unconditionally loved for the first time in their life, only to lose it bc of their lover's fear, thinking that being owned is the only way they can be loved, that it's the only kind of love they'll ever understand. thinking abt astarion needing durge and durge needing to be needed.

(and then on the flipside, thinking abt two people who have never been truly loved, & perhaps never loved anyone else in a way that doesn't hurt, learning what it means to love & be loved, not knowing how to love another person but wanting to try, learning to want someone else's happiness over their own comfort, learning how to want someone instead of needing them, learning how to love without setting themselves ablaze, learning to love themselves by believing in someone else)

[berryless]

As much as Astarion likes to pretend he's better than everyone, the truth is—when the performance ends, and the curtains draw to a close, he stays on the stage alone and forgotten, unworthy of attention when he isn't a spectacle. That's why his little theater is open for everyone around the clock. Every act, every movement, every phrase, although deftly improvised, is part of the show.

Everything to prevent the crowd from discovering the truth.

Everything to fool himself into forgetting said truth himself.

That outside of the spotlight, away from the little stage of his, when he looks in someone's eyes, Astarion doesn't see himself reflected in them. They look at him, but also past him, through him, like he's nothing but an empty space, a person-shaped hole in the fabric of the world that someone forgot to mend.

And because this happens oh so every often this thought is no longer a fear of his, not something he can doubt, but a simple fact.

They don't see him. They don't know him.

They don't care to.

Admittedly, this makes it easier to stomach luring them back to Cazador. Because of course a performance of century would require a fee. Nothing in this world is free. Certainly not his services.

And he is but a humble baitman, a shining lantern attracting moths to leap into the flames of eternal damnation.

A tool.

And as a tool he does what he's told to do unless he wants to end up discarded and broken like others disobedient useless tools were.

But then Tav sees him. And it's frightening.

Because suddenly after the show is over, after the curtains are drawn, after everything falls back to silence, and he returns to being in nothingness, he isn't truly alone on this stage anymore.

She's here, sitting quietly, looking at him in a contemplation, thinking who knows what—Astarion certainly doesn't. And her presence alone is forcing him to put back his stage costume and perform off clock, asking in jest if she happened to lost herself in his eyes, because it certainly wouldn't be the first for this to happen, he does have pretty eyes (or so he's been told enough to regurgitate the sentiment appropriately).

Tav laughs, "As a matter of fact, you do. But…" Her voice trails off, and that uncomfortable stare returns. She looks at him, lost in thoughts as she gathers her words, and a wave of goosebumps runs up Astarions arms when it comes to him she actually sees him.

Wants to see him.

Through him—in a different, completely foreign way, not skipping past his existence, but uncovering it and studying its insides. His insides.

The notion makes him nauseous.

His fingers start to tremble, and Astarion hides them in his fists.

He never knew that being perceived might be so frightening.

He's far more comfortable with everything being the usual way, for people withdrawing when the performance ends, for them seeing past him, but not him, because if they judge his mask, his persona, his act—that's a critique of his presentation. His work, if you will. His craft.

Not of Astarion himself.

And as it shockingly turns out, he might not like receiving judgment on something that he, an actor, an author, a man behind the stage is.

"You have far more than just those beautiful eyes of yours, aren't you?"

He laughs on cue, desperate to turn this exchange into one he has with his audience, "My, what gave me away? My luscious locks, perhaps? Or would that be my lustful lips? I received rave reviews on my use of them. Would you like to try for yourself?"

Tav smiles. She looks at him openly, without blushing, without twitching, neither sultry nor loathing, accepting his words like an act that they are.

Astarion can barely keep his flirtatious mask without it cracking.

"As tempting as this offer is, afraid I've to restrain myself," she sighs, the tone of her voice aligning to his. She's also performing her part, and he knows that with certainty. "My compact size does not allow me thread deep waters without caution."

And your waters, Astarion, run very deep indeed.

She doesn't say this out loud, but he can infer the meaning from other places.

"Oh, come on, I'm hardly deeper than a puddle," he quips back. "You'll be perfectly fine sloshing through. As long as you don't mind being messy."

"Will I?"

He's still unable to see his reflection, but the feeling of being seen doesn't go away. She looks at him, through him, but not past him, right into his skull, right into his soul, and a part of him wants to curl himself in a ball to hide from this deep penetrating stare of hers.

Thankfully, Tav turns away before he's forced to do that. Or gouge out her wise all-knowing eyes, completely ill-fit for someone oh-so-young.

"Goodnight, Astarion."

He doesn't ask for a goodnight sip this time, just says something fitting without thinking much about it.

The feeling of her gaze lingers, it crawls under his skin, making all his hairs stand on end.

He doesn't like it.

And yet the shudder runs through him from just a fleeting picture of those eyes prying him open and reading through him with same acute attention that's reserved exclusively for her books. A frightened one, yes. But simultaneously full of excitement.

He does not like it.

Not one bit.

Not at all.

[aesthetically-dying101]

The Crimson Throne.

Act 4- The Garden Of Shadows.

A/N: weewoo part 4, also, she isn't as weak as you guys might think, two more parts and we're done yay!

Act 1, Act 2, Act 3,

It started with whispers.

But whispers have a way of spreading, creeping into the cracks of the palace like ivy, relentless and slow.

You noticed it first in the corridors, in the way the curses spoke when they thought no one was listening. Their voices were low, their words slippery things, darting between the safe and the forbidden.

“Did you see him after the last fight?” one had muttered, its voice a guttural rasp that scraped like dry leaves. “He wasn’t the same.”

“He hasn’t been the same,” another hissed, its form a shapeless, shifting shadow on the wall. “Since the human came.”

You kept walking, your head down, your pace steady. They didn’t stop when you passed; why would they? You were just you—small, mortal, insignificant. They didn’t think you could hear them. Or maybe they didn’t care.

“He’s let her live this long,” a third voice added, venom dripping from every word. “What does that tell you?”

“Enough.”

That single word, cut through the conversation like a blade. You risked a glance over your shoulder and saw one of Sukuna’s higher-ranked curses glowering at the others. They fell silent immediately, shrinking back into the shadows like scolded dogs.

But the silence didn’t last.

*-*

The hall was darker than usual, the torches along the walls burning low, their weak light casting flickering shadows that stretched and warped across the ancient stone. The curses gathered in secret corners, their voices low, whispers sliding over the walls like the hiss of serpents.

“Enough of this,” one spat, its voice gravelly, like stones grinding together. “He is not invincible.”

The curse who spoke was massive, its form hulking and malformed, arms too long and ending in jagged claws. It leaned forward, its yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light as it addressed the others. “The King grows careless. He bleeds.”

“He bleeds, yes,” another voice chimed in, soft and sharp, like broken glass underfoot. A smaller curse, hunched but quick, perched on a ledge above the group. “But do not mistake that for weakness. He will carve you into ribbons before you even blink.”

The first curse snarled, its jagged teeth bared. “And what of it, then? We continue to bow, scraping the ground with our faces while he uses us as fodder? Tell me, how many of us have died for his amusement?”

A murmur rippled through the group, uneasy but growing. The torches flickered again, their flames sputtering as though responding to the tension in the room.

“It isn’t just amusement,” hissed another curse, slithering forward. Its form was serpentine, its scales glinting in the dim light as its tongue flicked the air. “It’s control. Domination. He keeps us in line by showing us what happens when we step out of it.”

“And you are content with that?” the first curse snapped, its voice rising with anger. “Content to live under his heel until he decides we’re no longer useful? I will not.”

“You’re a fool,” said the glass-voiced curse. “The King has ruled for centuries. Longer than most of us have existed. You think you’re the first to have these thoughts? You’ll end up like the others. A smear on the ground, forgotten before the next moon.”

“And yet he lets a human live among us,” another voice growled from the shadows, deeper and quieter, but no less venomous. “A human. The very creatures we were made to despise. She walks freely, touches him freely, even heals him.”

The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of the words settling over them like a heavy fog.

“It is an insult,” the first curse growled. “An affront to all of us. What are we to him now? Nothing but dogs, while the human plays at being his equal.”

“She is not his equal,” the serpentine curse hissed, its tongue flicking again. “She is a tool. Like us. He will use her until there is nothing left and then discard her.”

“And if she is more than that?” the glass-voiced curse asked softly. “If she is something he values?”

The first curse snarled again, its claws raking deep gouges into the stone floor. “If she is, then she is a weakness. One we can exploit.”

Another ripple of unease passed through the group, this one sharper, more dangerous.

“You speak of treason,” the serpentine curse said, its voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “You speak of things that will get us all killed.”

The hulking curse turned, its yellow eyes burning with fury. “I speak of freedom. Of survival. If we do nothing, we die. If we act, there is a chance—a small one, perhaps, but a chance—to live.”

“And what of you?” the glass-voiced curse asked, its tone mocking. “You think you can best him? That your claws are sharper than his? Your power greater?”

“I think he is not invincible,” the first curse said, its voice steady now, conviction hardening its words. “I think he bleeds. And I think he has grown comfortable—too comfortable. He believes himself untouchable, and that will be his downfall.”

The room was silent for a long moment, the curses watching one another with wary eyes. The torches flickered again, and the shadows seemed to stretch further, their darkness pressing against the edges of the room.

“Careful,” the serpentine curse finally said, its voice almost a whisper. “He has eyes and ears everywhere. You think he doesn’t know your thoughts already?”

The hulking curse grinned, a feral, toothy smile that did little to reassure. “Then let him hear them. Let him know his time is coming. Let him know we are watching.”

The glass-voiced curse let out a sharp laugh, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. “Brave words for a fool. Let’s see how long you last.”

The serpentine curse slithered back into the shadows, its eyes gleaming faintly. “You play a dangerous game, my friend. One you will not win.”

And with that, the group began to disperse, the room emptying one shadow at a time, leaving only the faint echoes of their whispers behind.

But the hulking curse remained, its eyes fixed on the door at the far end of the hall. It stood there for a long time, its claws flexing against the stone, before finally turning and vanishing into the darkness.

*-*

Uraume noticed.

They always noticed.

They stood at the edge of the main hall, their eyes narrowing as they watched the faint, creeping vines snaking across the corners of the room. Roses again. Smaller this time, their dark red petals just beginning to unfurl, but there was something deliberate in their placement, a strange, almost purposeful growth.

"Strange," Uraume muttered under their breath, their hand brushing against one of the blooms. It pulsed faintly with cursed energy, the kind that felt eerily familiar. "What are you doing, little healer?"

They turned away, their steps purposeful as they made their way to find you.

*-*

You, meanwhile, were seated in the infirmary, hands dusted with dirt and an array of herbs spread out before you. You didn’t know how long you’d been there, but the hum of your cursed energy was stronger than usual, like an itch just beneath your skin that you couldn’t quite scratch.

The plants had been acting strange lately. You’d noticed it when you went to pluck some mint leaves from the garden for a tea blend. What had once been a modest patch was now sprawling, vibrant, and unchecked, the leaves glossy and brimming with vitality.

The same thing had happened with the medicinal herbs in the infirmary, then with the wildflowers outside your window. Now, they seemed to sprout anywhere you walked, weaving through cracks in the stone, curling up the walls.

You leaned back, staring at the small bud that had somehow appeared on the table beside you. Another rose. Its petals were soft to the touch, and the faint hum of energy within it made your skin tingle.

“Why won’t you stop?” you murmured to no one in particular, poking at the bloom. You knew it was your own fault, your own cursed energy.. or whatever. But something was off.

Unbeknownst to you, Sukuna had felt it.

He always felt it—your cursed energy had become a constant undercurrent, subtle yet pervasive, like roots threading deep beneath the earth. And now, it was louder.

He hadn’t summoned you yet, which was unusual, but you didn’t have time to dwell on that. The growing unease had seeped into your chest like cold water, spreading slowly but insistently.

Something was wrong.

*-*

Uraume found you an hour later, standing at the window of the infirmary.

“Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” you asked, attempting to keep your voice light as they entered.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” Uraume said flatly, ignoring your attempt at humor. They crossed the room in a few long strides, their sharp eyes flicking to the vines creeping along the windowsill. “This shift in the air. It isn’t normal.”

You hesitated, the weight of their words sinking in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A lie. You did feel it—the heaviness, the strange charge that had been lingering for days now. But acknowledging it felt too much like giving it power.

Uraume snorted, unimpressed. “Lying doesn’t suit you, little flower. Don’t play coy.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line at the nickname. Sukuna had started using it recently, and now Uraume was following suit.

“I’m serious,” you insisted, though your voice wavered. “I don’t know why the plants are acting strange, or why things feel... off.”

Uraume studied you for a long moment, their gaze uncomfortably sharp. “The plants are your doing. You’ve tied your cursed energy to them, whether you meant to or not. They’re... responding to something.”

“Responding to what?” you asked, your voice small.

“That’s what I intend to find out,” they said, turning toward the door. But before they left, they glanced over their shoulder, their tone unusually serious. “Be careful, healer. The palace isn’t as quiet as it seems.”

*-*

It lasted for a solid month.

The weird tension, that every time you went anywhere, curses seemed to just.. stare- and for some it was damn obvious, they had way too many eyes.

They were watching you.

Every movement you made, every glance you shot in their direction, it was as though they were cataloguing your every breath. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, the flicker of torchlight slower, and there were whispers. Whispers you couldn’t understand. Whispers that made your skin crawl, your cursed energy shifting unnaturally, like an animal sensing danger.

But the strangest part?

You couldn't figure out why.

You couldn’t put a name to it, but you felt it in your bones—the looming presence of something amiss, something that had shifted under the surface.

The roses had been growing, proliferating through every crack in the stone, twisting around pillars, weaving themselves into the very structure of the palace. The plants had become almost sentient, spreading with purpose, creeping like the inevitable, like they were a warning to anyone who dared approach.

*-*

Sukuna was distracted. Focused on something—someone, perhaps—but whatever it was, it had left him blind to the unrest brewing beneath his throne.

It had been in the works for weeks. Curses, once loyal to the King of Curses, had quietly gathered in secret, whispering of overthrowing their tyrant ruler. Whispers of freedom. Whispers of rebellion.

The palace was a powder keg, and tonight, it was about to explode.

You were walking through one of the upper halls, lost in your own thoughts, when the first sign of the conflict erupted. A crash. A roar. The sound of something heavy being thrown against a wall.

You froze.

It was coming from the lower levels—the halls you knew well, the very ones that led to the throne room. You turned, half instinctively, half hesitantly, knowing that whatever was happening wasn’t a minor disturbance.

The sound of curses shouting reached your ears, jagged and frantic, a few words cutting through the chaos.

“Take him down!” someone screamed. “This is the end!”

Then, the unmistakable sound of weapons clashing—swords, claws, and cursed techniques firing off like bullets, filling the halls with energy so thick you could feel it in your chest.

Your heart raced. What is happening?

You started to move, trying to find out what was going on, but a sharp voice rang out from behind you, pulling you to a stop.

“Stay out of it, human,” Uraume’s voice was cold and biting as they appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed. “This is not your fight.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Uraume’s gaze stopped you dead in your tracks. Their expression, a mix of frustration and something like desperation, stopped you from arguing further.

“Go to your quarters. Now.” Uraume's voice held an edge that left no room for disobedience.

You hesitated, the urge to help gnawing at you, but something in their tone had you second-guessing. Uraume was a figure of authority here—loyal to Sukuna, even if they were irritated by your presence. And their warning had come too late; the battle was already upon them.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

And just like that, you turned, walking quickly away, heart racing in your chest. The fight was unfolding somewhere below, out of your sight but unmistakably close.

Down in the throne room, Sukuna’s loyalists clashed against the mutineers with fury.

Sukuna’s most trusted—Yorozu, a towering curse whose body was a mass of shifting shadows, and Jogo, the fiery one who could twist fire into monstrous shapes—fought with a savage intensity. They were as much a part of Sukuna as his throne, his crown. But even they were caught off-guard.

The mutineers, those who had once been under Sukuna’s rule, were now fierce in their desire for freedom, their anger fueling their cursed energy like a wildfire. They fought with desperation in their eyes, some with claws, others wielding cursed tools, all of them determined to strike down the tyrant who had held them in thrall for far too long.

Jogo let out a frustrated growl as he was forced to retreat, flames licking at his hands, narrowly missing the attacks from one of the mutineers.

“Cowards!” he bellowed, lashing out with a wave of fire that melted the stone beneath him. “You think you can just overthrow the King?”

But even he was finding it difficult to get a clear shot at the mutineers, who were rallying, working in unison.

Yorozu, who had once served as the shadow that shielded Sukuna, snarled as she grappled with one of the mutineers, her long claws slicing through the air. “You traitors will die for this!”

As the clash escalated, Sukuna’s minions began to fall one by one. The sound of bone breaking, the crack of bodies colliding with stone—each one was louder than the last.

In the middle of it all, the traitor leader—someone you didn’t recognize, their face hidden beneath a cloak—grinned viciously. “Sukuna’s reign ends tonight. We will make this kingdom ours.”

And then, amidst the chaos, the massive form of Sukuna himself appeared, his silhouette cutting through the fighting like a blade. His crimson eyes glowed, and for a moment, all noise ceased, as if the palace held its breath.

“You think you can overthrow me?” Sukuna’s voice was a low growl, a promise of pain, of death. “You think you’re worthy of the throne?”

The room fell silent for a moment.

Then, the fighting resumed, more fierce than ever, and you could hear the sickening crack of limbs being snapped, the hiss of curses on the edge of destruction.

You stayed, un-moving, paralysed by... not exactly fear-simply.. confusion.

What were you supposed to do??

That's until the door literally exploded.

A/N:i made an attempt to do a cliffhanger, i don't think i'll do another cause that was just meh

:)

[breelandwalker]

Witchcraft Exercise - Spring Cleaning

There’s a marked tradition of cleaning and airing out the house in the springtime when the weather warms. As you’re dusting and tidying and getting rid of winter stagnation, take some time to do the same with your craft.

Clean and organize your workspace. If you have an altar space or a shelf where you keep bottles and jars and the like, remove everything from the surface and give it a good dusting. Take the opportunity to rearrange things or swap out pieces if it suits you. If you have ritual tools that don’t often get cleaned, check them for signs or rust or wear and give them a bit of love. Repair things that need fixing, if you can. If you have an iron cauldron that you use for fire magic, get a wire brush or some steel wool and gently remove any burnt residue left inside.

Sort through your supplies. If you have lots of candles and crystals and small items laying about, consider getting some small totes or craft organizers to keep things tidy. Divided storage boxes for beads or scrapbooking supplies are great for small items, and shoebox-sized caddies are perfect for taper, chime, and votive candles. Organizing things will make your space easier to navigate and also gives you a proper idea of what you have on hand. Which might help you resist impulse purchases the next time you’re out shopping for witchcraft supplies. While you’re tidying, be sure to discard any rubbish, candle stubs, wax blobs, herb scraps, bits of string, incense bases, and so forth that might be cluttering up the place. 

Discard things that are too old or worn to be useful. Dried plants and seasonings can usually be kept for 1-3 years if they remain in sealed containers. If they have no scent anymore or smell musty or mildewy, discard them and sanitize the container. If you’re using supermarket spices, you can use the expiration date on the container as a guide. Powdered material will likely last longer than whole herbs or cut-and-sifted material. One helpful tip is to put a purchase date on packets or bags of herbs when you buy them, or to put a little date sticker on your jars of herbs when you refill them. (Anyone who’s worked in food service will probably be familiar with the concept of container dating or day-dotting.)

If you make oils or tinctures or suchlike in your practice, check on these as well. Make sure nothing has gone off or lost its’ potency. Day-dotting your potion containers will help with this as well. A simple sticker with the name of the brew and the date it was bottled will help you keep track of your supplies and know when something needs to be tossed and replaced. (You can also print labels with the ingredients and purpose of the brew if you’re feeling super organized.)

Reorganize your books and resources. Review what's there and see if there are any materials that need to be weeded out, donated, or discarded. Remember that as you grow and progress, some things will become obsolete or may show themselves to be unhelpful or inaccurate. It's okay to remove things from your resource library that no longer serve you if you want to make some space on the shelves.

You can also cleanse your workspace and/or components while you’re tidying if you wish. It doesn’t have to be a full clean-slate-everything-must-go cleansing, but it can be helpful to just clear out stagnation or bring in some freshness and vitality.

Happy Witching! 🧼

Want more witchcraft exercises? Check out the masterpost here and visit my shop for spell kits, books, magical powders, and more!

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar, tune in to my monthly show Hex Positive on your favorite podcast app, or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. 😊)

[lilacxquartz]

Blood Thicker Than Honey | One Shot

Suguru Geto x Fem!Reader

ao3 link | masterlist

Summary: Suguru was drawn to you from the start, however your lineage shared a similar flaw to his own and in his perfect world, there were no exceptions.

W.C: 4.3k

Themes: (warnings in red) one shot, dark, dead dove lite, some smut, references to murder/death, reader insert, second person pov

A/N: After the break of the first half, it’s a slight time skip, just a year. This nightmare of a fic is short and sweet, but a lot happens.

~~~

It had been just a couple of years since the day that Suguru last said goodbye to his old life and chose to walk down his own path. No regrets, he thought. His life should have been his own from the very start and it was a cruel joke with what jujutsu society had initially planned to do; to script a predetermined fate for him instead, to force the shovel into his hand and to dig the same early, shallow grave as his friends would have done.

It was sickening, in its own right. To take a canvas so perfectly untouched and mar it with ink from a well that wasn’t his own and he couldn’t help but want to spill the pot. If it were up to him, regardless of the mistakes he’d make, then it would still be his own story to tell at least. What felt more cruel was to be left behind as just another tool to use, another weapon in a limited arsenal yet discarded as soon as the value was lost.

(Except for the blue-eyed ghost from his past, they’d use him until there would be nothing left.)

He simply couldn’t set an example with that, at least not for the two girls he had adopted. After all, what good could possibly come from anything at all when the only lesson that such a society taught was that sorcerers were born to be led to slaughter? No, Suguru wanted something different for them, something that should have been given to his old friend in fact; the freedom of an actual childhood.

Despite this, he was still sure to remind them that they were simply better unlike the filth that had otherwise locked them away before. The non-sorcerers, who hurt what they couldn’t understand, that abused them and refused to see beyond their own ignorance. He would remind them whenever they showed even a flicker of empathy for the ordinary people of the world, quick to extinguish such a silly thought away from their still uncorrupted minds.

Perhaps it was cruel to do so, but they didn’t know any better.

Reminding them as many times as he had to do so, again and again, that if the regular people of the world knew about sorcerers and what they were capable of, then their own history risked repeating once more.

After all, humans loved to destroy what they couldn’t understand, blaming themselves later on in history books when the apologies didn’t have any weight to them any longer; when the lives that they destroyed were buried long ago, forgotten and already lost to time.

He would remind them of how he slaughtered—massacred—those who dared invite such cruelty in the village they were kept in and how he struck down every last one of them. How he dipped his hands into their blood and wore the stained aftermath like a badge of honour.

Maybe the world didn’t deserve to understand, he thought. It was true that the ordinary people could earn their place and even worship the strong as their gods if they were given a chance to do so, but they’d always remain beneath them all the same. If he was willing to sever his own parents from the world for their own flawed existence, then there was nothing left in the world that could stop him alone.

And while taking a trip to the city, all these thoughts festering in his mind, trying to push them away for just a moment. Trying to give the girls a childhood worth remembering and looking back on, that’s when he spotted someone unfamiliar but captivating all the same—you.

Sporting an all too familiar work uniform, it seemed that you were in the midst of having just completed a mission of some sort, evident from how worn out you looked. He watched as you slipped into a nearby cafe, clad in layers of dust that hung onto your frame.

What a sight for sore eyes, he thought.

“Maybe we’ll stop somewhere and get something sweet?” he announced to both Mimiko and Nanako, both of his hands occupying their own. He didn’t personally care about interacting with the common people, but he bit his tongue for certain moments.

He wasn’t going to make them miss out on life just because of the prejudices he had.

And as he followed you in, his eyes focusing on you and how you acted, he found a certain charm behind your actions. Maybe it was the way your eyes seemed to convey exactly what you were thinking—fumbling your order with wide eyes and reluctantly accepting the fate of your new name, when called out to be known as “Kaka” in the busy joint. Standing just a few people behind you, he very clearly heard you say “Keiko”, though.

Maybe it was also the way that you didn’t seem to push his girls away when he instructed them to infiltrate your table and to steal your attention for a little bit while he ordered. Watching as you instead accepted your fate to entertain the two young siblings that took over the seats opposite with what he concluded to be genuine kindness. He glanced on and off as you smiled and you wowed at whatever it was the girls talked about you with.

Suguru of course, shamelessly played his way over to the table, feinging both ignorance and concern over his “lost” girls, handing them both a pastry each accompanied with hot chocolate. There was something endearing with how you interacted with them that he couldn’t just shake away; the first impression already made and set in stone.

“Ah, there you both are,” he said, ruffling their as they smiled at one another—so young and yet already understanding of his intentions, keeping their mouths perfectly zipped shut as they stifled giggles at the idea of him having a crush (and one so obvious, too.)

You blinked at the guy before you, flashing a glance at his features. He seemed significantly older than the two but not enough to be their father.

“Oh, are you their brother?” you asked.

“Not exactly, I see them more as daughters,” Suguru replied, his lips easing into a friendly smile, “you could say that I saved them from a bad situation so it’s been just us three for a while.”

You smiled in understanding while maintaining a polite tone, “How kind of you.”

Extending a hand that you were still cautious enough to not reciprocate to, he clicked his tongue in resignation and introduced himself anyway, “I’m Suguru by the way and these two are Mimiko and Nanako,” he paused, studying your reaction, “and you are…?”

You were about to introduce yourself but then your eyes narrowed as he spotted your name scribbled incorrectly on the paper cup, reaching out to turn it towards him. With embarrassed haste, you attempted to blurt it out in an effort to correct him, “Kei-“

“—Kaka?” he couldn’t help but snort, the two girls giggling beside him. He didn’t mean to bully you, but he did want to have a silly story to introduce you with in the future.

“It’s Keiko,” you muttered in a resigned tone, taking the cup back and gulping down a sip.

Suguru leaned back as you did so, studying the way your lips pressed against the slotted lid. You seemed tired from the way you glanced at him, but not bothered enough to push away his company completely. Maybe you wanted to be alone after what was likely a busy day but didn’t have the heart to say something rude in front of children. He knew just how intensive those missions could be and considered leaving you alone, but he didn’t want for you to just slip away either.

To lose you to the city, to allow you to fade away as just another fleeting face in the crowd, never to be seen again.

Tokyo was like that, after all. Maybe to an extent, all major cities were. You’d see someone and you’d bond with them in your mind, maybe spin a whole fabricated story riddled with what-ifs and maybes, only to never see them again. He didn’t want to reduce you to just another ghost that haunted his memory though (he had enough of those already) and besides, he could tell that there was more to you than just being a pretty face.

“So, you’re a sorcerer, aren’t you?” Suguru was quick to ask, his eyes locking in on the uniform you wore. He needed to keep your attention for just a minute longer, if he could help it. He knew how this looked too and didn’t want to come across as an out-of-touch person trying to hit on you without knowing anything about you (even if he did have the girls help him out in that regard).

You nodded as you took yet another sip, recognising right away that this was no ordinary encounter, “Oh, yeah. Just moved a here couple of weeks ago from Osaka, actually.”

Suddenly, your interest was piqued and you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he wanted from you. The very act of jujutsu was rightfully concealed from the prying eyes of the public and for obvious reasons, so he had to either be involved or was a sorcerer himself to have made such a conclusion. Lowering your cup and studying him, he seemed to be laughing at something in particular. Your eyes settled on the darker-haired girl, (Mimiko, was it?) sitting opposite you, her fingers dabbing at her lips while she stared at yours. Quickly, you wiped off the foamy residue left from your latte, thankful that at least someone let you know.

Suguru leaned in closer as the girls tucked into their pastries, his elbows resting on the table, “So, what brings you here?”

You considered how to respond to his question as your fingertips drummed around the paper cup. There was nothing rude about the way he asked it, but you were still wary about being too honest. You didn’t mind the company that the three offered you, but your reasoning for coming to work in Tokyo was shallow at best.

“The pay is better here,” you admitted, reading his reaction carefully. You had a mixed bag with admitting such a thing; some people cared a great deal, immediately making assumptions about your character while others didn’t care at all.

“Hm, but the spirits are a lot worse around here, no?” Suguru asked, his tone sounding curious but laced in bitterness. “The pay is great, but it comes at a cost.”

He didn’t want to admit it too soon, especially since he didn’t even know you existed until just ten minutes ago, but he didn’t like hearing that someone that he harboured a potential interest in was doomed to be just another cog in the machine; another part to be replaced rather than repaired.

It wasn’t your fault, many were just simply too blind to see just how disposable they really were in the shackles of jujutsu society. Not to worry though, he thought, he would help bring you to the light.

You tilted your head to the side as you hummed, finding his reaction interesting but fair, “I mean, yeah? I suppose they are, but not everyone has a choice in how they earn their living, you know? I’d rather have a fighting chance to live a better life if I can help it.”

Suguru nodded, continuing to chat with you while both you and the girls ate and sipped on whatever you had left. Again, you didn’t mind, finding the company interesting and almost pleasant in a way. Maybe his words might have seemed blunt and maybe even rude to others, but you appreciated that he didn’t mince his words.

You did find it curious, though, that he remained somewhat cryptic about what he truly did. You didn’t know all too much about him just yet, but his name did ring some sort of bell, seeming familiar in your mind—maybe you heard it in passing? The big shots of Tokyo were rampant here and in your short time spent in the city, you had already shaken hands with your fair share.

And maybe, just maybe, it was poor judgement on your end to have followed him back so soon, but the shyer sibling of the pair insisted that you did so and being a once quiet kid yourself, you weren’t one to dampen someone’s spark, no matter how faint. Mimiko seemed to have taken a liking to you and wanted to show you just about everything that she thought you’d like—mostly drawings but also a plush doll similar to the features you had. You did find it amusing though, that Nanako’s side of the room in contrast, was more orderly and even composed, more like an actual preteen’s room seeking independence more than Mimiko’s side.

Suguru in the meantime watched on from the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the frame. He brought you here partially to entertain Mimiko’s request but also to prove a point to you, that he wasn’t after you as a caretaker. Admittedly, this was an insecurity he had, needing to prove to you for some reason that he wasn’t just some lost kid barely breaking into his twenties with two extra mouths to feed, but someone reliable.

He walked you back after meeting with you either way, already convinced that you might be the perfect one for him which was admittedly, a rare moment of clarity for someone like him. Suguru was very selective with the company he chose to keep and even while his found-family was growing in steady numbers and there were already suitable candidates to consider, this also meant nothing if the girls he sought to protect didn’t think the same.

No, it had to be someone that they all liked. Strangely though, he didn’t resent this sort of system. Perhaps the sisters were a blessing of some sort, acting as some sort of filter to determine who was worthy and who wasn’t. Mimiko, so kind-hearted, would settle on someone gentle. Nanako, more guarded and even selective, would only allow those who didn’t pose a threat to get close.

And as he walked you back in the slowly darkening skies, the golden hour hues soon to be replaced with blanketing darkness that threatened to sweep over, he couldn’t help but already fall for you. He admitted more than he should have, telling you about the girls and allowed you a glimpse into his idolised perfect future, but he didn’t reveal too much too soon.

Not yet.

You parted from him with more questions than answers, just as he had so intended, wanting nothing more than to write you into his own story. Leaving you behind with just a name and a phone number, daring you to contact him again if you too, had felt something in between the lines.

Indeed, it wasn’t the last you saw of him as you met with him a second time after that, and then a third time and soon a fourth. Slowly, but surely, he entangled you into a mess that he spung with his own matter yarn, expecting you to navigate through the knots with no needle in place. It was by sixth meet or perhaps the seventh, that you learned just how cruel he could be but also just how kind—especially so as the city continued to break you down just as it did with everyone else, just as he predicted it would with you too.

(And at your most desperate, he offered you salvation. Happy to break you away from the predetermined mundane, eager to welcome you into a life where love didn’t have to be hidden—a place where you didn’t have to pretend.)

It was though his words slowly poisoned you into a sweet surrender, spreading venom through your once hopeful mind, keen to rid the idea that the world deserved to be helped at all. He reminded you that cursed spirits were a result of human negativity, so therefore the problem lied within people, not you, not him and certainly not the girls. He convinced you with carefully curated words that you could be so much more, planting the seeds of his own personal hatred into the core of your mind—sprouting what he thought to be a justified blame.

People weren’t worth fighting for, he would tell you, repeating it as many times as he had to do so before it would echo as an innate truth in your thoughts.

Lingering, festering. Settling into a known truth.

Yet, at the same time, it didn’t feel like a forced decision on your end to surrender to his will when you packed up your old life behind to see a promising future with him and the girls. If was with your own pledge that you vowed to not become another body in a casket, be it figurative or literal.

No, this was something you grew to want as well.

(A sweeter existence without the bitter aftertaste that followed.)

~~~

“We both share the same flaw, you know,” Suguru gently murmured, half asleep on the bed that you both now shared. His black hair loose, cascading against his sharpened features.

“We do…?” you asked, meeting his longing gaze. The skies outside were dark by now and the girls were sound asleep in their room down the hall. A bedside lamp offered a dim light, offering just enough of a glow to illuminate the troubling thoughts brewing on his face.

Suguru gently cupped your cheeks before answering you, fully understanding that you simply just didn’t get it yet. Not fully, at least. His touch brushed against your flesh like cushioned silk against his own skin, his barren eyes desperate to find life within yours.

It was ever since you told him that your parents weren’t sorcerers either, that he felt an even stronger connection to you. Something that flipped a switch in his mind as he became fully convinced that this was his true fate—one where he had to liberate you, to erase the imperfections that held you back.

In his vision for a perfect world, there was simply no room for mistakes and that included ordinary people. Including your parents. Even if your family did manage to somehow create art from unskilled hands (just as his own had done so too), then that still didn’t make them artists. The world was corrupted with negativity and they deserved to meet their end the very same way.

“Maybe it was meant to be this way,” Suguru mumbled again, sounding even more cryptic than before, “both sorcerers born from nothing.”

“…Suguru?” you asked, your voice laced with a hint of caution, unsure whether or not you should have been trying harder to break him away from his nonsensical thoughts. His expression was so serious, so angry and yet, he looked at you with such love, almost unconditional.

(You were his future.)

“I want to protect you,” he concluded, taking both of your hands and pressing them to his lips. His eyes were dead set on you as you watched him move back, ready to take a break from whatever darkness festered in the back of his mind.

He kissed at your shoulders, silently announcing to you that he was back to normal again. He peppered love bites along your neck and down to your collarbones, a little ritual that he spent the last year or so carefully defining. Suguru was territorial and his lips bruised you in places that were visible, where the ending cuts of clothes didn’t fully cover or reach, as if to show you off in a way that others couldn’t even dream of having.

He wasn’t shy about how much he loved your body either, with how his hands constantly roamed around your flesh, mapping out every single inch of your skin with such tender love and care.

It didn’t take too long for you to learn that his sexual appetite was insatiable either with most nights ending with him spearing his cock in-between your legs, pounding you into a flustered state as if his life depended on it.

Each night would start similar; so deceptively gentle. Soft kisses and careful worship, but if your body was his temple then he only saw it as right to be the one who got to ruin you as he pleased.

You’d surrender to him nightly, with your hands wrapping around his back and pulling him down by the shoulders. You’d hug his taut body flat against yours, rubbing flesh and skin alike into sweating passion.

And this night should have been no different, yet something about it felt off. As if he made a decision just now with you, perhaps for you… without you?

But you didn’t think too much of it for now, your mind melting at his touch as his tip teased at your entrance. Suguru loved to take his sweet time with you before he claimed you every night. He loved nothing more than to rub the head over your clit, testing the waters with your slick heat tempting him inside just below.

“So fucking perfect,” he would say, an unending cycle of varying praise remixing at his lips. Sometimes he would simply whine, so intoxicated before entry and desperate to stake his claim.

He pushed himself in when he couldn’t take it anymore, swiftly easing himself into your glossed sex, so ready to take him in. Every time he plunged into your core and every time he felt your walls tighten and your thighs clench around him, he could feel himself being driven to madness from just lust alone.

You cried his name as he impaled you and as his hips bucked against yours—your fingers desperately grasping at his back to gift you comfort. His relentless rutting driving you almost manic, but unchanged from his usual pace. Sometimes, he worried about being too vanilla for you as his desires were admittedly simple, but just from hearing your aching screams and needy moans and the way your breathing seemed to shudder from when he slammed into you from impact alone, he knew that he permanently had you; you were his and he was yours.

And as he emptied himself into you yet again, he pushed himself into you until the wave rode itself out completely. It was almost mesmerising of a sight, to see you so flustered and slightly tinged red, salted beads of sweat prickling down your body; your pretty pussy so full of him and perfectly spent.

Pulling away from you, he concluded something darker, promising you something you didn’t yet understand, “I’ll do it for you. Just for you.”

~~~

Perhaps you should have seen the warning signs with just how erratic he was acting just a couple of nights ago. Since then, the sex had died down in intensity and the words he drove himself insane with were no longer uttered, but his passive claim on you felt almost personal. It no longer felt as though you were simply his lover nor just a girlfriend, but someone who had intertwined with his very own soul.

So, at the mention of him cheerfully suggesting to meet with the people responsible for bringing you into the world, perhaps you should have read more in between the lines. Maybe you should have deflected his direction or even lie about their whereabouts, but you didn’t.

Deep down, you knew what he was up to. The the man you fell for—the very same who confessed to razing villages and killing their residents, the one who killed his very own kin for the sake of a better world, free from humanity’s own doomed confinement, was now driven to dip his hands in even more blood.

(And for your sake that time.)

It was almost sickening to hear; with his smooth words falling onto your corrupted ears, with how he truly did believe that it was all for a greater cause.

“You’d still choose me in the end, right?” he asked you, holding your hand as you faced your family home. He was about to go in, to do something unspeakable but all for you.

You nodded, albeit cautiously. Accepting that the world was simply just too cruel. You felt as your own tears spilled from your eyes, salting your cheeks while your heart fluttered in your chest; fully understanding what it was that he was about to do.

You knew better than to stop him.

You’d be a hypocrite if you called for exceptions.

It was a maddening sight, all things considered as you watched the loveless walls of your childhood interior, devoid of happy memories that could have been photographed and adorned around the various rooms, decorated by Suguru in the heat of something terrible. Ivory white concrete, splattered from the aftermath of crimson slashes, like sprayed ink from the finest well—blood that was spilled again and for your cause.

Suguru only ever wanted to liberate you.

To free you.

So maybe that’s how it all had to be.

You watched as the life disappeared from the faces of those who raised you a final time, like a light giving out. Deep, dark blood pooled at their heads, almost void like, the reflected lights overhead seeming almost like stars.

Blood that was thicker than honey and yet it didn’t feel so sweet.

A part of you however felt troubled as the death finally settled, something that you couldn’t quite shake off. You started to feel it at first in the mornings, just maybe a week ago. A sweeping nausea that would overcome you; a sickness that was perhaps too telling, too frequent by now to be written off as a coincidence.

You couldn’t help but wonder…

If you were both born from such equally flawed lineages, then what if the unborn child you carried was woven from the same sort of cloth?

What if they were born simply… ordinary?

Would he accept it… spare it? Or would he…?

You clutched at your stomach, almost sickened by the thought.

You already knew the answer.

(No exceptions.)

[wulvercazz]

🌃Street Horrors☠️

a bit of a flashback for part 2💕

Previous~

It wouldn't have been so weird to find a person in such a state, Ichigo's horrified to admit; not here on the ground level of the city. His heart stopping in his throat for the half second that he catches glimpse of the sorry figure hidden behind the trash. He's actually far more shocked that what he's found, gutted and dismembered in the middle of an alley, is actually a very unique looking android. Something with this technology isn't usually discarded in such a place.

It takes him a whole four hours to go home for his dolly cart and back and forth three full trips to bring back the broken thing in pieces; unable to carry more than a fraction of the incredibly heavy machinery at a time on his own.

It sits sadly, silently. Even more disfigured now that he had to bring it in three pieces into the garage he calls a home. Something about it rubs him off in the wrongest of ways... Spare parts, is what it is. He reminds himself. Nothing more. Tomorrow, after some severely needed sleep, he'll finish dismounting it to it's core pieces to use for future repair jobs and that sorry sleeping face won't haunt him any longer.

He sleeps that night's exhaustion till noon, and is almost surprised to find the thing still sitting in the same spot he left him. Still sleeping, still sad looking. Androids he's seen in the expensive, more vast, part of the city have plain and clean looks. Friendly in the way that an appliance looks friendly. The way this thing appears to sorrowfully take up space is fucking with his perception of it.

But he's not about to stop himself from doing his job simply because this creepy rich people's toy is disturbingly more human-like than anything he's seen.

Ichigo sets his tools and a makeshift stool at a reach-appropriate height near the android, safety wear in place in case this thing runs on some kind of fuel that he wouldn't want near his eyes. It's so badly broken up, and so much different to anything else he's worked with, that he's got no other choice but to take his time investigating it all over. Following the jumble of gut-like cables that spill out of its abdominal cavity, poking at what he supposes is a very large and empty memory port right in its middle. Whatever an android would need such a powerful core for he's got no clue, and honestly, he'd rather not know. The government doesn't keep a full control of all Android unit production for no reason; he's not about to dive into conspiracy theories... but there's a reason for everything- and they tend to have the worst of them.

Bits and pieces and more length of cable shuffle about as he works, perhaps he was being too optimistic last night, thinking it'd dissassemble so easy. He changes tools with a huff, reaching behind the memory port to poke at whatever it's attached to and a dim light blinks on right above his face. Ichigo's heart drops down to his stomach and then punches him in the throat until a loud startled gasp threatens to choke him, right until the fight or flight freezes on a continuous and alarmed confusion; the thing's eyes are open and staring right at him in a chilling glowing blue.

"Get your grubby fucking hands off me." A hoarse, messed up, voice says with a hard set brow and tight broken up jaw.

The tools clank and clatter into the floor messily, and the box and tool box he'd been sitting on shuffle with a screech when he backs off as much as he can without stumbling onto his ass. "Y-you- you're- I thought- your consciousness works."

"Enough to know I don't care for a scrawny little boy feeling me up."

Ichigo has a hard time choosing whether to be pissed at the obvious offenses or to freak about how this thing is throwing sass and insults in his face in the first place. Androids 'learn' from their first owners what will become part of their personality later on; absorbing the words and mannerisms, the inside jokes as much as they retain their owners' likes and needs, and fit them along their fabrication conduct protocols. To better relate to their human, of course. He's never seen an android learn personality quite like this, never heard an android complain, or have preferences and wants of its own. Never heard one come up with an insult on the spot in a voice that didn't sound like a mere echo, a regurgitated string of words it's heard many times before.

It's almost... like a human is sitting in pieces right before him.

Next~

[warriorofthought]

Fleeting Solace

Summary: You and the Winter Soldier could flee, with a touch of Christmas spirit.

Word count: 2941

Warnings: practically no one

Winter Soldier x Medic Reader

You never asked for this life. Hydra had ripped you from everything you once knew, forced you into servitude and trained you to be their medic. It wasn’t a choice, it was survival. Day after day, you treated their soldiers, patched them up after brutal missions and erased the evidence of Hydra’s violence. Each new wound you sewed shut felt like another chain tying you to this cold, unrelenting place.

And then, there was the Winter Soldier.

When you first saw him, you thought he was just like the others, a weapon Hydra used and discarded, a tool without a soul. He rarely spoke and when he did, his voice was low and empty, devoid of anything human. His piercing gaze was cold enough to freeze you in place and the silence that followed him was oppressive. He frightened you at first, a living reminder of how dangerous this world was. But as time passed, you started to notice things about him.

You noticed the way his body would tense every time you touched his metal arm, how his jaw would tighten when you stitched a particularly deep wound, or the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. His eyes weren’t empty, they were filled with pain. Beneath the cold, detached mask Hydra had forced on him, there was a man struggling to survive. And somewhere along the way, he became more than just another soldier to you.

You started speaking to him softly while you worked, even when he didn’t respond. You gave him water when he came in exhausted and stayed with him longer than you should have, knowing Hydra would punish you if they caught you lingering. He never said much, but the way he looked at you started to change. The coldness in his eyes melted into something softer, something almost vulnerable.

What you didn’t realize was that those moments meant everything to him. You were the only light in his otherwise dark existence. The only person who saw him as more than a weapon. You weren’t just tending his wounds, you were giving him hope, even if neither of you fully understood it. He couldn’t tell you what he felt, Hydra would destroy you both if they found out, but it was there, buried deep in his fractured mind.

Then, one night, everything changed.

The alarms started blaring, their shrill cries cutting through the silence of the base. You sat frozen in your quarters as the walls shook with the force of explosions. The distant sound of gunfire grew closer, louder. You didn’t know what was happening, but it didn’t matter. You were unarmed, helpless, and there was nowhere to run.

Before you could even think of hiding, your door slammed open.

Winter stood in the doorway, his chest heaving and his hair wild around his face. His metal arm caught the dim light, and his expression was sharper than you’d ever seen it.

“We need to leave. Now” he said, his voice low and urgent.

“Leave?” you stammered, staring at him in shock. “What’s going on? Is Hydra under attack?”

“It doesn’t matter. The base is compromised and Hydra won’t recover from this. But we’re not staying to find out how it ends.” He stepped closer, his intense gaze pinning you in place. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Your heart pounded as you tried to process his words. “Winter…”

“You trust me, don’t you?” he interrupted, his voice softening for just a moment. His eyes searched yours, desperate for an answer.

Did you trust him? The man Hydra had turned into a weapon, the man who had been both your patient and your silent protector? You didn’t need to think about it.

“Yes” you whispered. “I trust you.”

Relief flashed across his face, though it was gone just as quickly. He reached out, his metal fingers brushing against your arm. “Good” he said firmly. “Stay close to me. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Before you could reply, he pulled you into motion. The hallways were chaos, soldiers running in every direction, flames licking the walls, and debris raining from the ceiling. Winter moved with purpose, his grip on your arm steady and unyielding. You stayed close to his side, dodging falling beams and ducking past Hydra agents who barely noticed you in the chaos.

“Where are we going?” you asked breathlessly as you ran to keep up with him.

“Out” he said simply. “There’s a route I know. It’s not safe, but it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

You didn’t ask how he knew it, you didn’t need to. He’d always seemed to know the layout of the base better than anyone else. You let him guide you, trusting him with every step, every turn.

At one point, you stumbled, nearly falling as the ground shook beneath you. His metal arm shot out, wrapping around your waist to steady you. For a moment, his hand lingered, his grip protective. And it feeled so good.

“I’ve got you” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the chaos around you.

When you finally reached the edge of the base, the cold night air hit your face like a shock. Outside, the stars shone above, untouched by the destruction you’d left behind.

You turned to Winter, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. “What now?”

“We keep moving” he said, scanning the dark horizon. “Somewhere far away. Somewhere Hydra can’t find us.” He looked at you, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “We’ll be free.”

Free. The word felt foreign, almost impossible. But when you looked at him, you believed it. You nodded, stepping closer to him.

“I’m with you,” you said.

Something shifted in his expression, something raw and unspoken. He nodded, his resolve hardening again.

“Let’s go!” he said, and together, you disappeared into the night, leaving Hydra and the ghosts of your past behind.

__________________________________

The night was endless as you ran, the cold air biting at your skin and the weight of your decision pressing down on you. Every step away from the Hydra base felt unreal, as if the ground beneath you might give way and drag you back into the nightmare you’d just escaped. Winter led the way, his movements purposeful, his grip on your arm steady.

The sound of explosions and shouting from the base gradually faded into the distance, replaced by the quiet crunch of your footsteps against the frozen earth. Neither of you spoke, but there was a tension between you, an unspoken urgency that kept you moving.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Winter stopped. He scanned the dark forest surrounding you, his sharp eyes catching every flicker of movement, every shadow that didn’t belong. Satisfied you were alone, he turned to you.

“We’ll rest here” he said, his voice low but firm.

You nodded, too exhausted to argue. Your legs felt like lead, and your lungs burned from the cold air. As you leaned against a tree, you watched him pace the clearing, always alert, always ready for danger. He was like a coiled spring, his body tense, his eyes constantly scanning.

“Winter,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He froze at the sound of his name, then turned to face you. “What?”

“Are we safe?”

“For now” he said, though his tone didn’t offer much reassurance. “But Hydra won’t stop. They’ll come after us when they realize we’re gone.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Then why did you do this?”

His gaze softened, and for the first time, he hesitated. The cold, detached soldier you’d come to know seemed to waver, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.

“I couldn’t leave you there” he said finally, his voice low. “Not with them. Not after everything…” He trailed off, looking away as if the words were too heavy to say out loud.

Your chest tightened. He had risked everything, his life, his freedom, to save you. The man Hydra had turned into a weapon had chosen to defy them, not for himself, but for you.

“You could’ve escaped on your own” you said, stepping closer to him. “You didn’t have to come for me.”

“I did” he said, his voice firm. He looked at you then, his blue eyes intense and unwavering. “I couldn’t leave without you.”

The weight of his words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, the cold and the danger faded away. All you could see was him, this broken, haunted man who had fought so hard to protect you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice trembling.

He nodded once, then turned his attention back to the forest. “Get some rest. We’ll move again before dawn.”

You wanted to protest, to ask him if he would rest too, but you knew he wouldn’t. Winter didn’t trust the quiet, didn’t trust the stillness. So you sat down at the base of the tree, pulling your coat tighter around you as you tried to fight the cold.

As you closed your eyes, you felt him nearby, his presence a silent reassurance. He stayed close, his metal arm glinting faintly in the moonlight as he kept watch.

The hours passed slowly, the forest alive with the faint rustle of leaves and the distant call of animals. When you finally opened your eyes, the sky was beginning to lighten, the first hints of dawn creeping through the trees. Winter was still standing, his back to you, his body rigid as he scanned the horizon.

“You didn’t sleep” you said, your voice hoarse from the cold.

“I don’t need much” he replied without turning around.

“You should’ve woken me” you said, standing and brushing the frost from your clothes.

He finally looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You needed it more.”

There was no arguing with him, so you simply nodded. “What’s the plan now?”

“We keep moving” he said. “There’s a safe house I know of. It’s not much, but it’ll give us time to figure out what’s next.”

“Do you trust it?” you asked, your voice hesitant.

“I trust what I’ve seen” he replied. “Hydra doesn’t know about it.”

His tone left no room for doubt, so you followed him as he led the way deeper into the forest.

The trek was grueling, the cold biting at your skin and the weight of the unknown pressing down on you. But through it all, Winter stayed by your side, his presence a steady reassurance.

Finally, as the sun began to climb higher into the sky, you saw it, a small, dilapidated cabin hidden among the trees. It looked abandoned, the wood weathered and the windows cracked, but to you, it was a haven.

Winter approached it cautiously, checking the perimeter before nodding to you. “It’s safe” he said.

You stepped inside, the warmth of the enclosed space a welcome relief from the biting cold. It wasn’t much, just a single room with a rickety bed, a wood stove, and a few scattered supplies, but it felt like freedom.

As Winter closed the door behind you, you turned to face him. “What now?” you asked, your voice quiet.

“Now we rest” he said, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since you’d left the base. “And then we figure out where to go from here.”

You nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed. For the first time in years, you felt a spark of hope, a chance at a life beyond Hydra.

And as Winter sat down across from you, his gaze softening as it met yours, you realized you weren’t facing it alone.

________________________________

The snow fell heavily outside the cabin, the wind howling through the forest like a distant cry. It had been weeks since you and Winter fled Hydra, but the fear of being found still clung to you like a shadow. Yet, within these walls, there was peace. A fragile, tentative peace that neither of you fully trusted but both desperately needed.

Winter sat by the fire, sharpening a knife with methodical precision. His metal arm glinted in the firelight, and his face was set in a hard, focused expression. He rarely spoke unless it was necessary, but in the weeks since your escape, his presence had become a constant.

You watched him from across the room, your fingers busy weaving together scraps of cloth you’d scavenged from old supplies. He didn’t ask what you were doing, but you caught him glancing at you more often than usual.

“Winter” you said softly, breaking the quiet.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours.

“What?”

“Do you remember Christmas?”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he looked almost confused.

“Christmas?”

“Yeah. You know, the decorations, the tree, gifts… all of it.”

He shook his head slightly, his expression darkening. “I remember… bits and pieces. A tree. Lights. But it’s like looking through fog. Nothing clear.”

You felt a pang of sadness. Hydra had taken so much from him, stripping away not just his freedom but his memories, his sense of self.

“Well” you said, trying to sound cheerful, “maybe we can make some new memories.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“Why not?” you said with a small smile. “It doesn’t have to be fancy. Just… something to remind us that we’re still human. That we can still find some good in all of this.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze lingered on you, something softening in his expression.

That night, while Winter went out to check the perimeter, you got to work. You didn’t have much to work with, but you made do. You used pine branches to create a wreath, hung scraps of fabric from the walls like garlands, and even carved a small star out of wood for a makeshift tree you’d cobbled together from fallen branches.

By the time Winter returned, the cabin looked transformed, simple but warm. The fire cast a golden glow over the decorations, and the air smelled faintly of pine.

He stopped in the doorway, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “What is this?”

“It’s Christmas” you said, stepping forward nervously. “Or as close as we can get to it.”

For a long moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“You did all this?” he asked, his voice quiet.

You nodded. “I thought it might… help. Give us something to hold onto.”

He walked over to the small tree, his metal hand reaching out to touch the wooden star at the top. His movements were slow, almost reverent.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I wanted to” you said. “After everything we’ve been through, we deserve a little bit of light. Even if it’s just for one night.”

He turned to look at you then, and there was something in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. Not gratitude, exactly, but something deeper.

“It’s… nice” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Thank you.”

You smiled, relief washing over you. “Merry Christmas, Winter.”

He hesitated, then stepped closer to you, his metal hand hovering near yours. “Merry Christmas” he said softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the wind howled outside, but here, in this small, makeshift sanctuary, everything felt still.

Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand, his flesh one. He tensed at first but didn’t pull away. Slowly, his fingers closed around yours, warm and steady.

“We’ll make it” you said, your voice firm. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

He nodded, his grip tightening slightly. “Together.”

The two of you stood there in the quiet glow of the fire, the makeshift Christmas tree casting long shadows against the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was enough… a small reminder that even in the darkest moments, there was still room for hope, for connection, for something more.

“I wanted to give you a reason to believe,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He took a small step closer, then another close enough now that you could feel the faint chill of his metal arm and the steady warmth radiating from his other side. His eyes softened, and he hesitated for a moment, as if wrestling with some invisible force.

Then, slowly, he leaned in. His movements were careful, deliberate, as though he wasn’t quite sure if this was allowed, if he could have this.

His lips brushed your cheek first, a light, tentative touch that made your breath hitch.

Then, before you could fully process it, he shifted ever so slightly, planting the faintest, softest kiss near the corner of your mouth.

It was barely a kiss, a whisper of contact, but it sent a wave of warmth through you that chased away the cold of the winter night. He lingered there for a heartbeat longer, his breath mingling with yours, before pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I… I’m sorry if that…” he started, his voice faltering.

“Don’t apologize” you said quickly, your own voice trembling as you reached up to gently touch his face. “Don’t.”

He searched your face for a moment, as if trying to understand what you were thinking. Then, with a small, almost shy nod, he relaxed under your touch.

“Thank you” he said softly, his voice barely audible. “For this. For everything.”

And for the first time in years, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were both finally free.

And a night at Christmas had never felt so magical.