#among ust

[iiraoni]

i just played among us in proximity chat and it was literally the most fun i've had in such a long time.

i'm going to do proximity chat more.

i like vanilla among us where we try and sus people out because that's fun (when people aren't toxic), but proximity is a whole other game.

i literally won just by talking about dragon ball z

life is good :-))

[peachdues]

KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR

WIND AND MOON • Sanemi x tsuguko!Reader

A/N: or, Sanemi nearly murders Maeda to protect Reader’s honor, featuring Reader getting to wear Sanemi’s haori.

A snippet from an upcoming chapter of Wind and Moon.

CW: MDNI • light strangulation (deserved) • implied past sexual assault against Reader (not described) • implied assault of Sanemi’s mother (not described) • protective Sanemi • soft Sanemi • ust kiss already jfc • violence

Sanemi Shinazugawa was never particularly keen on visiting the Corps’ tailor. His hatred for the bespeckled seamster was no secret among the slayers, nor was his reasoning. Most of the Corps disliked Maeda — particularly those female slayers forced to endure his unwanted attentions, who, when presented with too-small and too-short garments, saw his feigned incompetence for what it was: perversion.

Sanemi, however, was the one of the only few who’d ever called him out directly for being a lecherous asshole. And he certainly was one of the only ones who Maeda genuinely feared — enough so, that he became remarkably adept at his job whenever he heard so much as a whisper of the Wind Pillar’s presence.

And yet, Sanemi knew that their previous encounter — one that ended with Maeda pissing his pants while begging for forgiveness Sanemi had been in no position to give as the female slayer he’d groped stood nearby, red faced and humiliated — didn’t seem to have inspired the tailor to make any permanent changes to his deviant habits.

So no, Sanemi was already not in the best of moods as he stalked through the hallways of the Butterfly Mansion, in search of the fitting rooms where Kocho had informed him Maeda would be fitting his new tsuguko — you — for your final uniform.

He was wryly optimistic that the lecherous tailor wouldn’t try anything knowing who you were and of your proximity to him. But still, Sanemi didn’t like that he’d left you alone with Maeda for any period of time, and he was eager to get you suited up so the two of you could return to training.

Training. Sanemi had been warned that your breathing techniques, though powerful, were about as stable as a barrel of gun powder near a lit match. He would need to prioritize your precision, your control, before moving onto anything to do with your actual movements and fighting abilities.

He scowled. It would be a long day, he knew. You had an attitude and a smart mouth he was fairly sure couldn’t be beaten out of you, and grudgingly, he thought he might have to just endure it. You’d probably spend most of your time bitching; of that he was certain. But unluckily for you, you’d been assigned to the Hashira with the least amount of sympathy when it came to training; one whose disdain for complaining was rivaled only by Iguro’s.

At least he only worked his trainees to the point of vomiting or passing out; Iguro tortured the poor bastards, and he relished doing so.

And so, Sanemi began mentally tallying up the various exercises and tasks the two of you would undertake as he rounded the last corner leading to the fitting rooms. He would start with breathing techniques, he decided as he reached for the doorknob. Breathing techniques, and then physical exercises — pushups, planks, perhaps even over a bed of tacks for motivation, and then —

All of the Wind Pillar’s internal planning ground to a halt the moment he swung the door to the dressing room open. In an instant, all thoughts of endurance and strength-enhancing regiments dissolved as Sanemi’s vision turned crimson at what lay before him.

His tsuguko; and though you’d proven yourself more than capable of testing his patience, for once, it wasn’t your smart mouth that was making him see red.

It was the sight of you, standing up on a small pedestal before a great mirror, clothed in scraps of fabric that could hardly be called a uniform as the Corp’s perverted tailor circled you like a vulture does a piece of felled prey.

He didn’t need to look at you for long before his vision tunneled in on the seamster startling back from you as though burned, his eyes wide with fear as he stared at the reddening face of the Wind Hashira behind you.

Because Sanemi didn’t have to linger; he’d seen enough to know.

Your skirt hung a solid inch shorter than even the Love Hashira’s, its hem barely extending past the tops of your thighs. Your shirt was easily two or three sizes too small, preventing you from fastening anything but the bottom two buttons.

But it wasn’t the egregiously little coverage of your uniform that loosened the lid he tried to keep on his rage. It was your face. Though your back was facing him, he could see every inch of you — exposed as you were — reflected in that great mirror.

There was a rigidity in your limbs that Sanemi clocked instantly as paralysis; and the empty, haunted look in your eyes as they fixed wide and unseeing at some distant point on the floor coupled with the way you’d hadn’t so much as flinched when the door flung open signaled to him that you were not truly present in that room at all.

You were back at your family’s estate, blood-soaked and half-dead as you were forced to endure whatever it was those bandits had take upon themselves to do.

And Sanemi disappeared from the room right along with you. In that moment, he instead saw the countless other female slayers forced to endure Maeda’s greedy, wandering fingers over the years as they stood exposed under his beady little eyes.

He saw his mother turning rigid under his father’s too heavy, too rough hands as he dragged them down her body. Ma, who would force her mouth into that distant, practiced smile she always maintained in front of her children who were too young to understand why Kyogo dragged her by arm out the back of their home as he barked at them to stay inside until she returned.

He saw you; broken and bleeding in the snow, your clothes askew, unable to be left alone even in death; used.

Red. Red. Sanemi could only see red as his feet carried him across the floor.

“M-Master Shinazugawa!” Maeda squeaked as he began trembling; loud enoufh for his voice to carry down the hall, a futile effort to alert any nearby Corps members of the rage burning in Sanemi’s eyes as the latter advanced on him. “How w-wonderful it is to see you a-gain —!”

With nothing but a faint buzzing in his ears and an anger-numbed mind, Sanemi’s hand snatched the tailor around his throat before he could think the better of it.

“I thought I made myself pretty damn clear the last time I saw your ugly mug of the need for you to keep those filthy fuckin’ hands to yourself.”

Sanemi’s voice was a barely more than a growl, low and dangerous and vicious. “And I thought I told you what would happen if I caught you makin’ a mockery out of our uniform again.”

The seamster’s cheeks were rapidly turning purple as Maeda sputtered. But Sanemi only tightened his hold around the tailor’s throat, lifting him from the ground until his toes only scraped along the floorboards.

“Y’know, I’ve had to hold my tongue for far too fuckin’ long about you.” Sanemi cocked his head in consideration. A slow, wolfish smile stretched across his mouth, all sharp teeth and a vicious promise that he could and would rip out his throat. “But you’ve got some balls for someone who’s too much of a rutting coward to fight the demons we give our lives to exterminate.”

A crowd of curious and horrified junior slayers had gathered out in the hall, nervously watching as the Wind Pillar threatened to squeeze the life out of the Corp’s sole tailor.

Behind them, you remained frozen on the pedestal, though your eyes had shifted away from the floor, focusing instead on him.

Sanemi wrenched the tailor closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose, his fingers digging harshly into the soft, fleshy portion of the tailor’s neck. “And you dare make a mockery out of our uniform? You think I’m okay that you’re putting female slayers at risk by not giving them proper protection? What sort of person does that to their comrades?”

Sanemi’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “You’re not even fuckin’ human. You’re no better than a god damn demon.”

The muscles in the Wind Pillar’s forearm rippled as his fingers crushed around Maeda’s throat. “And we’re required to put demons outta their fuckin’ misery. So, whaddya think that means for you, shitstain?”

There was a distinct wet dripping against the floorboards as Sanemi remained there, Maeda suspended before him.

Sanemi didn’t need to look down to know what it was; its scent alone was enough of a give away.

Urine.

That feral grin of his only widened. Good, Sanemi thought savagely. The bastard should fear for his life. And who gave a shit, really, if he took out the creep right then and there. It didn’t matter that he was the only tailor in their ranks capable of manufacturing their uniforms with speed and precision. Sanemi would trade his sword in for a needle, if it meant wiping away the stain that was Maeda.

But Sanemi’s wild, murderous rage was tempered by the sudden arrival of the Insect Pillar, who had appeared in the room in a blink of an eye, her small hand wrapped harshly around Sanemi’s wrist.

Her voice was hard and severe as she ordered, “Shinazugawa, stop!”

Sanemi only snarled in response, his hand squeezing tighter and tighter. Just a little more pressure and it would be over, Maeda would never harm another woman again —

Kocho wrenched on his arm once more. While her strength wasn’t enough to force his grip to relax, it did jostle Sanemi enough that he looked away, just long enough to catch the pair of eyes that watched him closely in the mirror.

Your eyes.

Sanemi found himself unable to look away as the two of you stared at one another in the mirror’s reflection. And though that haunted look remained, there was a newfound tightness in your gaze.

Pain, he recognized. There was pain in your eyes, too. And suddenly, Sanemi became all too aware of the fact you were still exposed, only now in front of a greater number of your comrades than before.

Sanemi held your eyes for one more moment before his hand opened around Maeda’s throat.

“Pissed himself like a little bitch.” He sneered, dropping the lecherous tailor to the ground where he crumbled like a napkin.

Maeda sputtered and heaved on the floor, color rapidly returning to his face as he gasped for breath.

Sanemi only looked after him with disgust.

The Butterfly Mansion’s mistress turned sharply toward the entryway. “Away.” She ordered before she turned back. But the instant the word left her lips, the gaggle of junior Corps members who had congregated in the hallway dispersed.

Sanemi cut his eyes to the Insect Hashira and saw a cold rage simmering in her eyes. Eyes that were not looking at him, but were instead glued to the sniveling mass on the floor, whimpering into a puddle of his own urine.

“P-please, forgive me, Master Shinazugawa! I must have packed the wrong uniform — I will sew a n-new one right away —“

“Save it,” Sanemi spat. “And get the fuck outta my sight.”

Though he wanted add in a kick for good measure, Sanemi held back. He was likely in deep enough shit as it was, once word reached the Master about what he’d done. He knew better than to continue testing the Corps’ limits.

Kocho inclined her head back toward the Wind Pillar. “I will see to it that a new uniform is prepared for her immediately.”

She made to step primly over Maeda’s shuddering form, but halted.

Kocho crouched down, low. “I think we both know that you’re better off keeping this to yourself and never mentioning it again, hm?”

Maeda turned his reddened face up toward the Insect Pillar and shrank under her withering glare.

Kocho’s answering smile was nothing but poisoned honey as she dropped her eyes to the wet stain that soaked the front of Maeda’s trousers. “If you wish to hold onto what’s precious to you, that is.”

She narrowed her eyes coldly, as though squinting for something, before she rose with a faint scoff, her threat hanging over Maeda like a cloud.

The Insect Hashira turned back to Sanemi. “I trust you will see yourselves out?”

Sanemi felt a rush of gratitude toward his comrade — likely only one of two among the Pillars who wouldn’t rat him out to the Master — and curtly nodded his head.

Kocho only gave him her usual, practiced smile. “Until next time, then.”

With that, the mistress of the Butterfly Estate departed. The moment the edge of her haori flapped around the corner of the doorway, Sanemi dropped his attention down to Maeda.

“Fuck off.”

The tailor made not a peep as he scrambled to his feet and he left the dressing room without a word.

——

Finally left alone, Sanemi turned to you.

“Y/N.”

You blinked, surprised. He’d addressed you by your first name — something that, until this moment, you’d been fairly sure he hadn’t known.

You made some noise in response, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, exposed as you are.

Shinazugawa didn’t seem to mind. “Let’s go.”

While you were just as eager to get the hell out of the dressing room and away from the Butterfly Mansion, you remained rooted in place upon that platform.

Not a moment had passed since Maeda had first unveiled your new attire that you hadn’t been acutely aware of your own exposure.

You gulped and cast your eyes around the room. You found the neat pile of the clothes you’d worn for the trip here folded in the corner of the dressing area. While Shinazugawa had made a point to keep his eyes on everything but you, you couldn’t fathom having to wear the scrap of a uniform you’d been given for the entire journey back to his estate.

But nor did you want to change again; you couldn’t, not when that would require you to be left alone, a possibility that seemed nearly as daunting as having to brave the trek home in little more than a loincloth.

You agonized over your options, especially as you felt Shinazugawa’s impatience mount. You shifted anxiously from foot to foot, arms wrapped tightly around your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your breasts concealed as you struggled to make the words — any words, really, dislodge from where they’d become stuck in your throat.

Annoyed by your lack of inaction, Shinazugawa looked back into the mirror. In its reflection, you saw him open his mouth, ready to snap at you, but the moment his eyes connected with yours, it closed.

An understanding passed between you right then, as heavy the silence that hung between you.

Shinazugawa considered you for a moment before his hands went to the front folds of his haori. A strange shyness fell over you while he shrugged out of it, causing you to drop your gaze as he rounded the pedestal, haori in hand.

He shoved the ball of white fabric at you, though he kept his gaze fixed pointedly at the ground. “Here. Use this to cover up.”

Timidly, you plucked the Wind Pillar’s haori from his outstretched hand and quickly turned away.

Though it sat cropped on him, the hem of Shinazugawa’s haori extended past the laughably short one of your skirt, providing your backside with a bearable degree of coverage.

It was warm; and to your surprise, it smelled nice, a familiar, grassy sweetness washing over you as you pushed your arm through one of the holes.

Shinazugawa had turned his back to you, his hands notched firmly on his hips as he waited. You tested the reach of his haori, relieved to find that you could wrap it around your front and hold it easily in place by folding your arms across your chest.

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror. The white fabric reached a good three inches down your thighs, all vulnerable areas sufficiently covered.

It would do, you decided. At least until you returned to the Wind Pillar’s estate.

“I’m ready.” You said softly after a moment. Shinazugawa only looked back at you and nodded, before the two of you quietly made your way through and out the Butterfly Estate, setting down the path that led home.

Neither of you spoke for the entire journey. Instead, you were left to stare at the broad expanse Shinazugawa’s back.

The Wind Pillar wore a slightly modified version of the Corps’ uniform, you realized. His top was sleeveless and without the presence of his haori, you saw that his biceps and shoulders were just as solid and well-defined as the rest of him.

No wonder he’d been able to lift Maeda so easily from the ground; Shinazugawa’s biceps were huge. Though, you noted with some mild interest, the skin of his arms was just as scar-specked as the rest of him.

Idly, you wondered whether the scars dotting his face and body were products of his years with the Corps — a tapestry of battles hard-won, or whether they, like yours, were part of a past he wished he could forget.

You arrived back at the Wind Pillar’s estate shortly before sunset. The moment he set foot inside the gate surrounding his manor, Shinazugawa turns to you and holds up a hand.

“Wait here.”

Without another word, he disappears inside of his manor, leaving you alone in the courtyard, slightly bemused.

The Wind Pillar returned a few moments later, a familiar, dark green fabric draped over his hand.

“Here,” he held out the material to you. “Still had one from when I was a Mizunoto. Might not fit you properly, but it’s better than nothin’.”

You accept his offering and then it over in your hands, eyes running over the crisp white destroy sewn into the back. Below the shirt is a pair of pants, in the same, dark-green tinted hue as the shirt.

“I know it doesn’t mean much,” Shinazugawa’s voice was gruff as he spoke. Curious, you lifted your eyes to find him rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “But if I’d’ve known what he was gonna pull —“

You shook your head. “Don’t. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Truthfully, you didn’t want his apologies. To apologize meant there’d been an expectation, and expectation meant there’d been some trust he’d broken. While he may have been your master — while he may have been the one whose face you could not forget from that day — nothing about either of those things meant he owed you anything.

Shinazugawa looked like he was going to argue, but he closed his mouth and turned away.

Good, you thought. At least he knew to pick his battles.

“We’ll start training once you get your uniform in.” He said after a moment, turning away to retreat into his estate. “Get settled here and once it arrives, we’ll start.”

You nod, your fingers clenching tightly around the front folds of his haori. Though you know you’re safe out here, that Shinazugawa has no interest in overstepping any of your boundaries, you still feel too exposed.

More than anything, you want to retreat to your small room at the back wing of his manor, and disappear under your covers.

The Wind Pillar seems to know, for he only gives you a curt nod, before he turns back to the great, sprawling Estate, and takes the entry stairs up two at a time.

You wait a moment before following. You’ll have to figure out how to return him his haori, you realize. Perhaps you’ll drop it off at his room later in the night, when he’s likely to be asleep, or maybe you’ll wait until breakfast —

“Y/N.”

Your foot halted mid-air as you lifted your head to him, waiting.

Shinazugawa lingered on his engawa, though he kept his back to you.

“I won’t leave you alone with another man again. That’s a promise.”

You wanted to snap at him that he shouldn’t do this — he shouldn’t create obligations that he couldn’t or wouldn’t keep. That was the only way this transaction between the two of you would work; Shinazugawa would train you and once you’d gathered enough of a grip over your own abilities, you’d fuck out of his life and pursue your own, greater ambitions.

That’s what you should say, and yet, his words strike at something soft in you. Reminds you, once again that for whatever reason, he is someone you can rely upon; someone you can trust.

The exception.

And it’s because of that, you only respond, “Thank you.”

[o-sachi]

Blue Lock Filo! AU Headcanons

𖤓 feat. isagi, bachira, chigiri, kunigami, barou, nagi, reo, sae, rin, karasu, otoya, hiori, shidou, oliver, yukimiya 𖤓 tags: college au, filo au, crack (kinda), sfw, written in Taglish because ???, not proofread lel

note: I'm sorry if your uni isn't here. My knowledge of universities in the country is limited to the big 4 and some others that participate in uaap sobbb

note 2: Send me your own hcs too plspls

note 3: filo moots sana magkaron haha what if

Isagi

He goes to UST and will correct you (nicely) about how to pronounce "Thomasian"

Goes to church with his family every Sunday without failure

He's close with his extended family too, especially the grandparents.

Golden child. Siya yung bata na example ng nanay mo na dapat gayahin mo raw.

A fan of indie Pinoy bands and watches indie Pinoy films.

Cup of Joe fan lol

Too shy to ask anyone out for the Christmas event sa UST (sorry limot ko na ano tawag).

Is in UST, but probably not taking up medicine. Parents were supportive of it though.

Mabilis mag-reply. He uses the 👍 and 😊 unironically

Friends with a lot of questionable/cancelable guys, but he's still genuinely the nice one among them

When he visits a friend's house, he's always chatting up their parents and helping around the house without being asked

Generic sinigang enjoyer :shrug:

Pretty much an average guy. Though he is definitely nicer than most. It shocks you.

(Sorry wala na ko maisip pero basta green flag siya).

Bachira

Goes to UP Diliman for fine arts

A manic pixie dream boy that girls gush about when they see him hanging out at the sunken gardens

Knows all the brainrot and even the Pinoy brainrot

Does the "Ha? Halaman" and says "Sinong nagtanong?"

Loves Jollibee because it's cheap and it tastes good

Spaghetti and Jollihotdog enjoyer

Social anxiety fears him. He'll do mostly everything you ask him for 20 pesos (sometimes for free)

Celebrated his 4th birthday at Jollibee and has a picture with the mascot lol

Bardagulan enjoyer

Has been casted in plays before and is genuinely good at acting

See him running in campus because he's always late to class

Puts too many songs in the karaoke but never finishes the songs because he gets bored halfway through

Runs a FB meme page...

Actually dresses nicely. Hindi mukhang pakboi

Not afraid sumabit sa jeep. Either sa tabi siya ni manong or sabit

Chigiri

Went to some fancy all boys like Brent, then is now in Ateneo

Could be studying business ??

Not conyo. Just straight up English with a really good accent

imessage lang daw mode of communication niya

Always wearing a button up, khaki pants, and loafers na Sperry or sandals from Birkenstock

Was featured in a commercial when he was younger

His mom was very active in the PTA. Their family was often the topic of chismis because yk maraming inggit sa paligid.

Does not listen to OPM or watch Filipino movies because 'corny' daw 'yun

Mabagal mag-reply since he's always busy doing something

Calls people 'baduy' or 'jologs' or 'jejemon' because he can

MATARAY SI ATE KO

Will never catch him on a dating app because, again, it's so baduy daw

Kunigami

I dunno but... UP Baguio vibes siya lol

Will always always always post on his story of him running along the campus

May post palagi ng gym progress at Strava stats niya

People think he's thirst trapping, but really, he's not

Also very close with family and they celebrate all holidays together no matter what

Karinderya food enjoyer (same)

Loves anything na lutong bahay tbh. He's not picky with food.

Mabagal din mag-reply pero that's because he's not chronically online

Does not get internet memes or references. Lolo po siya.

A really good kuya! The type to intimidate his sisters' boyfriends if they ever come to visit their house.

Probably also plays basketball too. They used to live near a gym/ring. He played a lot with the neighborhood kids.

Watches NBA and Manny's boxing matches

Shot puno. Red Horse. San Mig.

Pag nalasing nag-dadrama tapos kakanta ng malungkot na song sa karaoke

Laging naka sando LOL

Barou

UP DILIMAN TOO AND STUDYING ARCHITECTURE

Makes insanely good plates

Laging napapagalitan ni lola kasi nakasimangot palagi

Lola's boy by the way

Gets insane road rage because of the god awful traffic

"Putangina traffic na naman." / "Parang gago 'to mag-drive." / "Sige. Singit pa, hayop ka." (sa naka-motor)

Fan siya ng F1

Malutong magmura lmfaooo

Also a gym bro but doesn't care about sharing it on social media

Barely any social media presence

Tutors his younger siblings

Isn't ashamed of taking food from parties, stuffing it in a tupperware, and heading his merry way home

Argues with people on FB because he can

"Anong sinasabi mo. Bobo ka ba?"

Term of endearment niya ay "Tanga"

Nagi

Parents always get mad at him kasi nga tamad.

Also because he was a picky eater as a child. Would rather starve than eat that one ampalaya dish (was always served at his household which pissed him off)

Wanted to go to the same university as Reo but Ateneo is too serious for him. So he went with sports science in NU

They make sure to meet up still

Always misses his stops because he falls asleep or zones out

He's the guy in class who always has his airpods on no matter what

Hoodie, baggy pants, dunks

Mahilig umutang, pa-unti unti, pero madalas nalilimutan

"Ah. May utang ako? Sorry, nalimutan ko siguro."

COD player na palaging may battle pass no matter what. Nainis siya isang beses kasi sinabihan siya ng PC MASTER RACE. Eh cellphone gamer lang siya

Obviously, he had his ML phase

Trashtalker siguro. "Tulog ka na. Bata," type shi

Teachers always forced him to join the events in the sports fest

Reo

Siyempre, Ateneo 'yan. Management Engineering pa. 'Di niyo kinayaaaa

CONYO 'YAN FOR SURE

He's in a bunch of orgs and stuff because he's a social butterfly like that

May nanay na judgmental sa ibang pamilya lmfao

Was in one of those interviews on campus asking students about their daily baon

"Ah. Isn't 1k a day normal? It's kulang pa nga eh since I live sa condo."

Ayun. Nakatira sa condo pala.

Goes golfing with his dad and posts his swing on IG stories

Crypto bro. Shares his crypto stats(?) sa IG stories

Humble bragger kahit saan. Personal or on social media

Same porma with Chigiri pero mas madalas naka-polo shirt siya

Ralph Lauren and Lacoste boy

Laging VIP seats sa concerts. May napila sa SM tickets para sa kanya

Lowkey a D-list or C-list celebrity

Friends with Filo actors and actresses

Sae

Also Ateneo (Sorry ang daming Ateneo. Alam ko. Pero those are the vibes eh.)

Definitely went for medicine and is planning to study even more sa foreign country

The golden boy of their clan. Always receives the most praise and pasalubong from relatives

He hates hearing the "Ang laki mo na!" greeting

Never engaged in the pagmamano and saying of "po" and "opo"

SURPRISINGLY, he enjoys the dirty ice cream they sell on a cone (it's not actually dirty btw, it's what we call ice cream sold by carts on the street. it's edible dw)

Possibly a frat boy

Gets so many message requests on messenger and insta but he ignores them all

Strava enthusiast din

You'll see him running in all of the best gear

Not conyo. He actually speaks mostly Tagalog but there's that slight 'maarte' accent there

Hates being called 'rich kid' kesyo baduy din daw LMAO

They have a driver, so many yayas, a gardener... ay basta kumpleto staff nila

Ayaw nung staff sa kanya kasi suplado

Drives a BMW

Rin

Went to La Salle and got into LeapMed just to spite his older brother and prove to them that he is better

Relatives always compare them

Even though they're rich, he probably got a lot of hand-me-downs from kuya, which pissed him off SO MUCH

Not a fan of Filipino movies, but he likes the horror movies. He says some of them are really well-crafted and gives a good scare sometimes

Unlike Sae, Rin likes homemade food. I see him liking Menudo lol (I mean, who doesn't?)

Refuses to commute. He's driving or he's being driven. No buts.

Mas gusto siya ng staff sa bahay nila lol

He grew up with a specific yaya. They're actually still close now. He's closer to her than his parents.

The conyo one. Mahilig mag-mura pero exclusively English 'yan.

Takes the longest to reply kaya 'yan walang ka-talking stage lol

100% has beef with the younger members of his extended family. He has that annoying cousin that he tripped once because why not

He hates family reunions, of course

Karasu

UPLB. Fo sho.

Chemical engineering definitely.

Halimaw yarnnn (heart eyes heart eyes)

Bro pulls up to class in a shirt, basketball shorts, and flip flops

Not a fan of the nightlife there, but is a certified manginginom LMAO

Can outdrink his dad and titos. Kahit lambanog pa 'yan

Extra respectful to the ladies in his family. Gets ultra pissed off when someone jokes about getting with his mom or older sister

Malutong din magmura

His personal favorite is "gago" HAHAHA

Medyo dry mag-chat, walang emojis (pero 'yun ang gusto ng mga babae apparently)

Not a fan of Manila (smells weird daw there)

Secretly makes fun of conyo people lol

Street food enjoyer. His favorite is probably isaw or squid balls. Matamis and maasim sauce please !

He can cook, but his mom cooks better, so taga-saing na lang siya ng bigas lol

Mahilig siya sa tapsilog siguro.

Lives off of energy drinks to survive the semester

Crush ko siya. Hala headcanon ba yan HAHAHAHA

Otoya (Oh boy oh boy)

Engineering as well, but at Mapua. Probably electrical engineering or industrial

Gwapo na mabango HAHAHA

VAPES. Onti na lang naka-lanyard na vape niya

Listens to Zild and Hev abi...

Araw-araw may IG story ng car niya, ng music na pinapakinggan niya, or panibagong soft launch

Fan siya ng American Psycho at Blade Runner kasi he is him daw (akala niya siya si Ryan Gosling na may pinagdadaanan...)

Nasa Tinder at Bumble. Bio reads: "Let's see where it takes us."

Na-cancel na sa Twitter before pero wala siyang pakialam (unbothered king?!)

Favorite song ang FE!N

Rap fan 'yan eh

Nako... may Telegram 'yan

Valorant e-boy. Kailangan may duo palagi.

Says he's into cute chinitas probably

Laging may note sa IG or sa messenger lol

"Kumain ka na ba?" texts (hala siya)

Of course, good morning at good night texts din

Frat boy siguro (may frat ba sa Mapua? sorry hindi ko knows)

Drinks a lot, but he can't handle his liquor. Gigising na lang siya the next day may video siya sa boy's GC na kung anu-ano ginagawa.

Hiori

Computer Science probably. Also in UPLB. (Ang probinsyano?? HAHAHAHA)

Studying? Why study when he can be at the computer shop? He lives there, pretty much

Dorms because he wants to get away from his family

Can't be bothered with org/frat culture

Tambay sa forums like freedom walls/reddit/etc

Sumasali siya sa e-sports tournaments

LoL and DOTA player, of course

Also plays a bunch of stuff on Steam as well though. Pero babalik at babalik pa rin sa LoL

Also plays Valorant. Smurfs for fun because he likes crushing the hopes and dreams of people. "Sala ka pa. Haha, tanga," type shi.

Always down for the early morning runs to 7-11 or whatever's open at that hour

Puro pancit canton kinakain. Puro Mountain Dew iniinom.

He and his friends always talk about PC specs...

"Hindi, pre. Mas maayos pa rin 'yung ano..."

Shidou

Also from La Salle maybe? Not the Taft branch though. Hindi kasing yaman nung iba siguro.

Fine arts student! May art account siya sa IG

Napalabas siya sa McDo dati kasi masyadong maingay

Would probably vlog a day of his life at La Salle

Posts all the unhinged shit on their freedom wall and fucks with the people from the Taft branch lol

The reason why their group chat cannot be leaked under any circumstance AT ALL

Always has the weirdest nickname in their messenger group chat

Somehow I get the vibe that he enjoys inihaw lol (same)

Napunta rin minsan sa computer shop. But very rarely because he gets too heated and starts making a ruckus there (mapapalabas na naman)

Expert commuter. Baha has nothing on him. Waterproof siya.

Would probably engage in frat culture, but only for fun

A party animal. 10 seconds niya yung Cuervo ez

Oliver

Umm UP Manila Political Science? Maybe?

Always nominated for council positions or other important roles in university organizations lol

Major kuya vibes kasi

ANONG VAPE VAPE? DIRETSO MARLBORO RED NA

Which is giving out first? His liver or his lungs? Abangan.

Unlike Otoya, he doesn't really date girls at the same time, but more so, he moves faster than what you'd expect (may rebound palagi kumbaga)

Posts on his IG story always with the intention of capturing the attention of someone lol (lagi siya humahakot haha)

"It's not you. It's me."

Bro thinks he's the male lead of a Filipino indie romance film

Cannot shut up about I'm Drunk I Love You

Frequents BGC clubs as well. Aspired to be a DJ once

Lahat ng messaging apps meron 'yan. Replies very fast too.

Search up BGC Boy playlists on Spotify. That's what he does, at least.

Yukimiya

Maybe goes to Normal U. because he wants to be a teacher/professor

The typical softboi you see at a cafe reading a book or typing away on his MacBook

So many girls like him, but he's the type to be in a long-term relationship with a high school sweetheart or something

Most of his stories are of him studying (his notes, his coffee with his notes, his laptop screen)

Ben&Ben listener LMAOOO

Possibly also a lifestyle vlogger or podcaster

Keeps getting offers to model for local brands

Possibly religious (his whole family is)

He looks like he would like adobo. 'Yung may toyo, hindi ung tuyo (ANG RANDOM BAHAHAH)

Munimuni listener (he was sad when the vocalist left)

Wants to win a Carlos Palanca award eventually

Looks like the type to advocate for the local culture and is against colonial mentality

My brain ran out of ideas that's why some are shorter than the others lol

[lunastrophe]

BG3 Drow Lore 🕷️ Minthara's alurlssrin

Alurlssrin is a drow term Minthara uses to describe the bond she shares with Tav - but what does it precisely mean?

🕷️ Alurlssrin In BG3 - alurlssrin appears in some specific Minthara’s lines, when the player character romances her. According to Narrator, it is …a word used rarely, describing the deepest bonds of trust and love.

When asked about it, Minthara says simply that alurlssrin means “love” and confesses that she never really expected to use it. In another line, she seems to be convinced that alurlssrin is the kind of bond that can be life-lasting.

When Tav tries to reciprocate, saying: I alurlssrin you too, Minthara – with a hint of amusement – explains that alurlssrin is a noun.

The alurl- part may suggest that this word means “the best” kind of an emotional bond, or something close to it (alurl – “best, foremost” in Drowic).

🕷️ Alurlssrin And Ssinssrigg - in R. A. Salvatore’s The Legacy, it is stated that …there is no word in the drow language for love. The closest word (...) is ssinssrigg, but that is a term better equated with physical lust or selfish greed.

Ssinssrigg is another term that appears in one of Minthara’s lines, when the player character romances her, but does not have her high approval. She says then: What we share is no more than ssinssrigg, a passion that burns fierce, but has no foundation.

But... since according to drow lore, there is no word for “true” love in Drowic – and the closest term is ssinssrigg - where did alurlssrin come from?

🕷️ Drow Words For Love - alurlssrin was first mentioned by Ed Greenwood in his post (TheEdVerse, Twitter, Jan. 2023) about Eilistraee and drow words for love:

Eilistraee knows all the drow words for love, and the elvish ones, too. The Drow words are: alurlssrin = unselfish, deep love, raggath = act of love (lovemaking), lurraggath = act of love (sacrificial or noble deed), ssinssrigg = passion, lust, greed, longing, love.

(Among elvish words for love, apparently also known to Eilistraee, there is nor = love, essence of passion. It also appears in one of Minthara's lines, when she calls her lover ust-nor - thank you to @vspin for messaging me about this!)

It seems, then, that alurlssrin is a drow word that is known to Eilistraee and most likely to her followers...

...but Lolth-sworn drow – or at least Menzoberranyr drow – do not know / use it. 🤔 So how is it possible that Minthara, a (former) paladin of Lolth from Menzoberranzan, is familiar with it?

🕷️ Alurlssrin In Minthara's Vocabulary

I have a feeling that alurlssrin appears in Minthara’s lines simply because a drow word for deep, true love was needed for the dialogue. Still, I tried to come up with some more lore-adequate explanations:

🕷️ Some Very Old Word – perhaps in Menzoberranzan, alurlssrin is a half-forgotten archaism that is no longer regularly used, but an educated (or bookwormish) drow can still stumble across it in centuries-old books and figure out its meaning.

🕷️ Language Of Heretics – as a paladin of Lolth, it is possible that Minthara came to contact with Eilistraeans – or with their culture – at some point. She might be even trained to recognize this particular kind of “heresy”, learning symbols and words popularly used among the followers of Eilistraee... alurlssrin included.

🕷️ Not So Unknown Anymore – language tends to change over time, and between the quote from The Legacy and the events of Baldur’s Gate 3, there is a gap of over 130 years. Maybe during this time, alurlssrin term became less unknown in Menzoberranzan? Although considering its connection to Eilistraee and her cult, this may be the least likely explanation.

Regardless of everything, the fact that Minthara calls the bond between her and Tav alurlssrin is certainly meaningful. Typically, many drow like her might not be exactly (or at all) familiar with a sheer concept of deep, unselfish, lasting love...

For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

July 6, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUL 7, 2023

The payroll processing firm ADP said today that private sector jobs jumped by 497,000 in June, far higher than the Dow Jones consensus estimate predicted. The big gains were in leisure and hospitality, which added 232,000 new hires; construction with 97,000; and trade, transportation and utilities with 90,000. Annual pay rose at a rate of 6.4%. Most of the jobs came from companies with fewer than 50 employees. 

The Dow Jones Industrial Average, which is a way to measure the stock market by aggregating certain stocks, dropped 372 points as the strong labor market made traders afraid that the Fed would raise interest rates again to cool the economy. Higher interest rates make borrowing more expensive, slowing investment. 

Today, as the Washington Post’s climate reporter Scott Dance warned that the sudden surge of broken heat records around the globe is raising alarm among scientists, Bloomberg’s Cailley LaPara reported that the incentives in the Inflation Reduction Act for emerging technologies to address climate change have long-term as well as short-term benefits. 

Dance noted that temperatures in the North Atlantic are already close to their typical annual peak although we are early in the season, sea ice levels around Antarctica are terribly low, and Monday was the Earth’s hottest day in at least 125,000 years and Tuesday was hotter. LaPara noted that while much attention has been paid to the short-term solar, EV, and wind industries in the U.S., emerging technologies for industries that can’t be electrified—technologies like sustainable aviation fuel, clean hydrogen, and direct air capture, which pulls carbon dioxide out of the air—offer huge potential to reduce emissions by 2030. 

This news was the backdrop today as President Biden was in South Carolina to talk about Bidenomics. After touting the huge investments of both public and private capital that are bringing new businesses and repaired infrastructure to that state, Biden noted that analysts have said that the new laws Democrats have passed will do more for Republican-dominated states than for Democratic ones. “Well, that’s okay with me,” Biden said, “because we’re all Americans. Because my view is: Wherever the need is most, that’s the place we should be helping. And that’s what we’re doing. Because the way I look at it, the progress we’re making is good for all Americans, all of America.”

On Air Force One on the way to the event, deputy press secretary Andrew Bates began his remarks to the press: “President Biden promised that he would be a president for all Americans, regardless of where they live and regardless of whether they voted for him or not. He also promised to rebuild the middle class. The fact that Bidenomics has now galvanized over $500 billion in job-creating private sector investment is the newest testament to how seriously he takes fulfilling those promises.”

Bates listed all the economic accomplishments of the administration and then added: “the most powerful endorsement of Bidenomics is this: Every signature economic law this President has signed, congressional Republicans who voted “no” and attacked it on Fox News then went home to their district and hailed its benefits.” He noted that “Senator Lindsey Graham called the Inflation Reduction Act ‘a nightmare for South Carolina,’” then, “[j]ust two months later, he called BMW’s electric vehicles announcement ‘one of the most consequential announcements in the history of the state of South Carolina.’” “Representative Joe Wilson blasted the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law but later announced, ‘I welcome Scout Motors’ plans to invest $2 billion and create up to 4,000 jobs in South Carolina.’ Nancy Mace called Bidenomics legislation a…‘disaster,’ then welcomed a RAISE grant to Charleston.” 

“[W]hat could speak to the effectiveness of Bidenomics more than these conversions?” Bates asked.

While Biden is trying to sell Americans on an economic vision for the future, the Republican leadership is doubling down on dislike of President Biden and the Democrats. Early on the morning of July 2, Trump, who remains the presumptive 2024 Republican presidential nominee, shared a meme of President Biden that included a flag reading: “F*CK BIDEN AND F*CK YOU FOR VOTING FOR HIM!” The next morning, in all caps, he railed against what he called “massive prosecutorial conduct” and “the weaponization of law enforcement,” asking: “Do the people of this once great nation even have a choice but to protest the potential doom of the United States of America??? 2024!!!”

Prosecutors have told U.S. district judge Aileen Cannon that they want to begin Trump’s trial on 37 federal charges for keeping and hiding classified national security documents, and as his legal trouble heats up, Trump appears to be calling for violence against Democrats. On June 29 he posted what he claimed was the address of former president Barack Obama, inspiring a man who had been at the January 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol to repost the address and to warn, “We got these losers surrounded! See you in hell,…Obama’s [sic].” Taylor Tarranto then headed there with firearms and ammunition, as well as a machete, in his van. Secret Service agents arrested him. 

Indeed, those crossing the law for the former president are not faring well. More than 1,000 people have been arrested for their participation in the events of January 6, and those higher up the ladder are starting to feel the heat as well. Trump lawyer Lin Wood, who pushed Trump’s 2020 election lies, was permitted to “retire” his law license on Tuesday rather than be disbarred. Trump lawyer John Eastman is facing disbarment in California for trying to overturn the 2020 election with his “fake elector” scheme, a ploy whose legitimacy the Supreme Court rejected last week. And today, Trump aide Walt Nauta pleaded not guilty to federal charges of withholding documents and conspiring to obstruct justice for allegedly helping Trump hide the classified documents he had at Mar-a-Lago. 

Trump Republicans—MAGA Republicans—are cementing their identity by fanning fears based on cultural issues, but it is becoming clear those are no longer as powerful as they used to be as the reality of Republican extremism becomes clear. 

Yesterday the man who raped and impregnated a then-9-year-old Ohio girl was sentenced to at least 25 years in prison. Last year, after the Supreme Court overturned the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision recognizing the constitutional right to abortion, President Biden used her case to argue for the need for abortion access. Republican lawmakers, who had criminalized all abortions after 6 weeks, before most people know they’re pregnant, publicly doubted that the case was real (Ohio Attorney General Dave Yost told the Fox News Channel there was “not a damn scintilla of evidence” to support the story). Unable to receive an abortion in Ohio, the girl, who had since turned 10, had to travel to Indiana, where Dr. Caitlin Bernard performed the procedure.

Republican Indiana attorney general Todd Rokita complained—inaccurately—that Bernard had not reported child abuse and that she had violated privacy laws by talking to a reporter, although she did not identify the patient and her employer said she acted properly. Bernard was nonetheless reprimanded for her handling of privacy issues and fined by the Indiana licensing board. Her employer disagreed.

As Republican-dominated states have dramatically restricted abortion, they have fueled such a backlash that party members are either trying to avoid talking about it or are now replacing the phrase “national ban” with “national consensus” or “national standard,” although as feminist writer Jessica Valenti, who studies this language, notes, they still mean strict antiabortion measures. In the House, some newly-elected and swing-district Republicans have blocked abortion measures from coming to a vote out of concern they will lose their seats in 2024. 

But it is not at all clear the issue will go away. Yesterday, those committed to protecting abortion rights in Ohio turned in 70% more signatures than they needed to get a measure amending the constitution to protect that access on the ballot this November. In August, though, antiabortion forces will use a special election to try to change the threshold for constitutional amendments, requiring 60% of voters rather than a majority.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[felixora]

sooo I finally redesigned my dnd/bg3 OC Arnafein

(and this totally is not connected to me being annoyed at 20+ reddit comments under one of my artworks saying "omg your tav looks so much like mine" anywaaay)

All posts with him will be tagged #arnafein

An overview (because I'm not sure if I'll come around translating my twitter thread about Arno and his family from Ukrainian to English):

Rogue (Soulknife)

Comes from drow house Rilynghym, son of the Matron Nathiira. Main members of this family possess strong psychic abilities.

Spent most of his life with family on the road/as part of the criminal underworld, but in the last decade he and his family have been living in Neverwinter among high class.

Back when he was still a small child, but his family was already cast out from Ust Natha, he and his older sister Maliara were kidnapped on the surface world by slavers, and only by becoming a warlock to time entity Nathiira managed to save them. (Arno has scars from shackles as reminder of that)

After that Arno and Maliara have living under caring yet strict, and sometimes overwhelming watch of their mother, who wanted them to have a better life than she. With Nathiira's abilities to predict the future from her warlock pact, she often looked into her children's future, to stray them away from possible danger - yet her children knew nothing of this. (see "helicopter parent" for better idea) ("helicopter parent but make it drow")

On the one hand, Nathiira was protecting her son from dangerous things and activities of their family and guiding him to a normal carefree life. On the other hand, she severely suppressed any attempts he made to help the family, questioned his skills and ability to be useful in their outings, and (when they had already become part of high society in Neverwinter) literally pushed him to attend social events of aristocrats to secure the family's status (Arno hated them because of the excessive attention from upper-class representatives, but he could not go against his mother's word).

(mommy issues? yes-)

Before the events of BG3, Nathiira sent some spies to investigate strange activity in Baldur's Gate, yet none of them returned. Then Arno volunteered to discreetly check out their whereabouts. Ensuing argument with his mother (who prior to this once again foresaw her son's future and saw the possible abduction on nautiloid) led to Nathiira ordering to put Arno in a prison cell and chain him up for the night for him to "cool off".

As this reminded Arno of his childhood, he finally decided to go against his mothers will, and escaped both the cell and away from his home, determined to find out on his own what happened in Baldur's Gate and prove once and for all that his mother can rely on him and treat as an equal.

And yet, he did get captured by the cultists, and the following acquiring of the illithid tadpole messed pretty badly with his psychic abilities, leading to partial amnesia.

And that's where he is at the beginning of bg3.

[rebellum]

"Masculinity is always rewarded and that's why it's associated with privilege, which is why trans mascs have privilege"

Oh yeah no sure that makes sense. Like, that's why you only ever see butch women in power.

And why butches and trans men have SUCH low sexual assault rates

Image description:

A bar graph labelled Figure 15.17: Lifetime sexual assault among transgender men: RACE/ETHNICITY (%)

Overall (all participants): 47%

American Indian: 71%

Asian: 42%

Black: 51%

Latino: 48%

Middle Eastern: 67%

Multiracial: 58%

White: 52%

[USTS]

Image description:

A bar graph labelled Figure 15.16: Lifetime sexual assault GENDER IDENTITY (%)

Overall: 47 %

Crossdressers: 19%

Non-binary with female on birth certificate: 58%

Non-binary with male on birth certificate: 41%

Non-binary (all): 55%

Trans women: 37%

Trans men: 51%

Trans women and men: 44%

[USTS]

Image description:

A bar graph labelled Figure 15.18: Lifetime sexual assault among non-binary people with female on their original birth certificate RACE/ETHNICITY (%)

Overall (all participants): 47%

American Indian: 74%

Asian: 47%

Black: 65%

Latino: 55%

Middle Eastern: 62%

Multiracial: 67%

White: 59%

[USTS]

And SUCH low rates of being victims of violence in general 

Transgender men: 107.5 out of 1000 

Cisgender women: 23.7 out of 1000 

Cisgender men: 19.8 out of 1000 

Www.  ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC7958056/ (sorry, had to add a sapce to get around tumblr formatting)

and like, this isn't even covering housing discrimination, experiences of non-violent interpersonal conflict, rates of domestic abuse, rates of survival sex work, healthcare discrimination, etc.

like, oh, yeah, that makes sense, masculinity is rewarded *just throws a dirty towel over the bodies of all the butches, gnc women, trans fems who don't pass, trans mascs, queer men, men of colour, etc*

[teruel-a-witch]

5.15/5.22 Romance Is In The Air (and Other Appropriate Moments for Heightened UST Include Bonding Over Disposing Of A Body And Jokes About Divorce)

This parallel where it really seems like they have Kissing™ on the brain is just way too coincidental because not only do they have the same facial expressions, but shot blocking is almost the same, not to mention their flipped positions coincide with the flipped shirt colour. Dark Blue is the colour of Pining™ while Skye Blue accentuates their eyes, giving a reason for Intensified Pining™. (someone in the wardrobe department and among directors may have shipped it, I guess ;))

[soul-of-vengeance]

Cooler, Better Drow (and Lolth)

So this is a re-write of drow culture and the Lolth cult that I've had in my head for several years, ever since I played a Lolth-sworn drow in a friend's campaign. This is the first time I've refined it enough to write down. Hopefully someone will find it as fun as I do!

(A note: this is not part of my Anchored Worlds campaign setting, as Lolth technically doesn't exist anymore in that setting.)

The drow are not a "dark perversions" of surface elves, but merely another branch of the elven family tree. They are not as numerous as the elves above, but still number in the hundreds of thousands. Their population is fairly evenly divided among seven massive city-states in the Underdark, with a small number living in the world beyond and even, in a few special cases, above their brethren. How so many elves came to live beneath the surface is lost to history, a history most drow have no inclination to uncover. Even the oldest matriarchs remember only the comforting dark and hardship of the Underdark.

The four Lolth-sworn city-states are: Menzoberranzan (the “City of Spiders,” and the largest Lolth-sworn city,) Ched Nasad (the “City of Shimmering Webs”,)  Orlytlar (the “dark jewel”,) and Ust Natha (“the first.”) The three “free” drow city-states are Haundrauth, Erydndlyn, and Sshamath (the “City of Dark Weavings”.)

Drow Physiology

Drow at first glance resemble elves with their uniquely fey beauty, but with starkly different coloration. Drow skin tones range from jet black to light grey among one ethnicity, and from pale blue to pale purple in another. They typically have white or purple teeth. Their hair could be white, black, pale yellow, or occasionally coppery in color. Eyes could be various shades of red or pink, and some shades of near-white blue, lilac, or silver were not uncommon. 

Drow, having been so magically altered by their surroundings, cannot thrive in light. They are extremely sensitive to sunlight, so much so that only a day on a relatively cool day can cause painful burns. Those who must go above ground have specially-made balms to protect their skin. Their magic is weaker in the sun, and drow-enchanted items tend to lose their magic if they are above ground for longer than a week or two. Being in the sun too long can also cause "sun fever," which can be fatal if not dealt with.

Lolth-sworn Drow have been magically altered. They almost always have white hair and red eyes. This is a show of magical favor from their goddess, who has a fondness for those colors. They also typically have black or grey teeth, and bright red gums, tongue, and throats. Lolth-sworn women are also taller and stronger than their men. They may also rarely have some other interesting features.

Drow Culture

Drow are, of course, elves, and like all elves they are uniquely in tune with their surroundings. The Underdark is cold, harsh, dangerous, and unforgiving, and so too are the drow. The flora and fauna do not respond as kindly to elven magicks as those aboveground, so the drow have adapted without what is typically a cornerstone of elven culture. Cruelty is not seen as such, for their very circumstances are cruel, and so it is seen as perfectly normal. Softness and kindness are weaknesses that will get you killed in the wilds of the Underdark, and are discouraged even in civilization. 

When introducing themself, a drow will state first their House name, then their family name, and lastly their public name. Unlike other elves, drow do not have child and adult names, though they may change their given name if they dislike it. Drow have "public" names that are based on their true given names. Perhaps a remnant of their fey ancestry, they do not give their true given names lightly. For example, my drow character's given name is Shyam, and his public name is Sam.

Drow culture is matriarchal in nature and has a strict authority structure that begins with the family unit. Every family has a matriarch whose word is final in all matters. She may then have favored daughters who may make decisions in her stead. When she dies, her daughters will contest her position, in battles that can be physical, magical, or mental in nature. In the event that a family should ever be without a matriarch, the family name is recorded as being a "dead line," and the remaining men will petition to be adopted into another family. In the event that they are not adopted, slavery or exile to the surface are a man's only option.

Their culture is functionally caste-based, though the castes have no official names. The "castes" are, in order of authority: those of high religious standing (Houses), those of magical genius, those of artisanal prowess, those adept at combat, and those who make up the foundation. The entire family would be elevated (or lowered) to a caste depending on the skills and standing of their matriarch and her favored daughters.

Drow society is divided into Houses, which are headed by religious-caste noble families that take other non-noble families under their banner. Each House has its own distinct insignia, style, banner, and rules. Technically speaking, every drow belongs to a House even if they are born into a lower-caste family. Very rarely, a House may trade a family to another, either by choice of the House matriarch or, more commonly, by petition by the matriarch of the family. This is usually done to strengthen or elevate one's position, and requires proof that the family deserves the move.

Authority is very important to drow. They have absolute loyalty to their House matriarch first, family matriarch second, and blood mother third. Beyond that, the only other authority a drow will acknowledge is their god, if they worship one. They have no obligation to obey any other House matriarch, any other family matriarch, or even any female family member besides their mother. They will acknowledge no other law or order, even if they are in another city or country. Being in a king's country is not reason enough for a drow to follow his orders, especially an order she dislikes. A drow may play along simply to make her life easier, but she will make it clear where her loyalties lie. Even exiled drow will typically choose one individual to place their entire faith in, and will answer to no one else.

It is believed that every drow and every family has a "true place," or a "true calling," and that they are always born below their calling so that they can fight for it. In this way, the individual, and the family, become strong enough and cunning enough to survive. It is believed that eventually you will feel a sense of "divine contentment" that means you have found your place. Drow are in a constant struggle against one another to elevate themselves, and the harsh environment of the Underdark has made them harsh in turn. Violence, torture, extortion, and scheming are a drow's expected tools to advance in society.

Drow culture is, to outsiders, oxymoronic. On one hand, it is encouraged to view the drow around you as competitors to your true status in society, and it is encouraged to eliminate or humiliate them by any means necessary for your own advancement. However, there is also a strong importance placed on kin. A drow might view her sister as a bitter enemy for their mother's favor, but would still defend her from an assassin from another family. Similarly, a drow would always defend another drow from another species, but in the safety of their insular city-state, might stab her in the back in the street.

Artistry in all its forms is highly prized in drow society, and families will often strive to cultivate a favored child into an artisan worthy of elevating their family. Tangentially related to this is the hedonism that pervades drow culture. In the harsh environment of the Underdark, life and pleasure are not guaranteed, so it is said to take it wherever you can find it and enjoy it to its fullest.

Marriage is not very common, for loyalty to the family trumps other loves. Many drow may have one or even a handful of committed partners, but exchanging vows and names is extremely rare, and often seen as a betrayal of your birth family. The culture is extremely heteronormative. Due to the high mortality rate in the Underdark, having as many children as possible is encouraged, and to that end anything besides heterosexuality is frowned upon, if not punishable by religious law.

While a child will always be cared for by its mother's family, there is still good reason for the father to stay in the child and mother's good graces. A mother may pay a "child tithe" to the father of her child, which is usually based on the talent, beauty, potential, and magical ability of the child. A man who has exceptionally talented progeny may increase his family's wealth in this way. A mother will usually cultivate all of her children's talents, even her sons who cannot elevate the family. It is still a source of pride to have all your children be talented and worthy of praise.

Morality among drow is an interesting subject. The ruthless competition of their society lends itself to what a surfacer would consider deeply immoral behavior: political conniving, assassination, torture, and other "unsavory" behaviors are common. On the other hand, some things are forbidden by cultural norm. Rape and sexual violence are considered a disgusting act, as is desecration or disturbance of a dead (drow) body that has been laid to rest. Impersonating another drow by name or pretending to be of another House, even for the lauded purpose of elevation, is outright illegal and punishable by death at the hands of the slighted party.

The drow body is considered a masterwork of divinity, and extreme body modification is frowned upon. Tattoos, piercings, and dying one's hair are all seen as a form of desecration to the holy, and the punishment may be severe depending on how strict one's matriarch is. Hair is especially important to a drow. For one, hairstyle is an easy way to distinguish one's House. For another, their long hair is one of the vanities drow allow themselves. To cut one's hair dramatically (trims and accounting for style are permitted) is seen as cutting oneself off from the House. A drow will never cut her hair except under two circumstances: exile or certain death. The reasons to do so when exiled are obvious, but to do so before certain death is a superstition. It is believed that cutting your hair before facing your death is to ensure that the death doesn't creep into your family via your hair.

Slavery is one of the "unsavory" pillars of drow society that those within consider completely normal, and even natural. Their caste-based thinking extends past their selves and includes other species, which drow consider themselves above. That said, even drow (of lower caste) can be slaves. Slaves are considered part of a family's wealth, and can be obtained a number of ways. It is generally understood in the Underdark that to lose a fight against a drow is to forfeit your freedom to them. Slavery to a House is also a potential punishment for crimes against them. Slavery is a lifelong sentence, and slaves are given a magical tattoo that identifies them as such to drow. The tattoos are not House-specific, because slaves change hands as easily as currency.

The Dark Seldarine

The Dark Seldarine "pantheon" is not a true pantheon, but simply a group of gods worshiped by the drow.

Eilistraee is the most widely worshiped drow goddess, who oversees beauty, song, dance, freedom, moonlight, swordwork, and hunting. While she is typically thought of as a good-aligned goddess, she seems to have no issue with drow culture, which as stated is typically seen as deeply immoral. By contrast, she deeply loves her drow worshippers, whose love of life and pleasure aligns with her domain. 

Vhaeraun, the elder twin of Eilistraee, is a god of thievery and magic, and is seen as a patron of drow men. He is generally worshiped alongside his sister, though he prefers his followers to be more ambitious.

Selvetarm, also called the Son of Lolth, is a god of warriors and battle. His worship is chiefly among those who leave Lolth's cult and find sanctuary in other cities. He despises Lolth, and encourages those who leave to take up arms against her followers.

Kiaransalee has some small churches in the Underdark. A goddess of revenge and necromancy, her worship is controversial, as some of her followers will raise drow corpses, which is seen as desecration of the beloved dead.

Zinzerena is not usually openly worshiped. She is the goddess of lies and illusion, and shares patronage of assassins with Lolth, whom she despises.

Lolth

Lolth is a lesser deity associated with the Trickery and War domains. She is, by her own reckoning, a goddess of darkness, spiders, and chaos. She is the patron of weavers and assassins. Lolth is one example of a being that was raised to godhood. Originally a tanar'ri demon, she manipulated and schemed her way to such power that she was elevated to a god. This ruthless ambition and endless drive became the center of her divinity, as she demands the same qualities of her worshippers. She pulled her original fortress in the Abyss into its own divine realm known as the Demonweb Pits. She still has demons in her employ, the Yochlols, but is now chiefly concerned with spreading her worship.

Her former demonic nature is obvious in the way she approaches her followers. Though she does need them as any god needs worshippers, she views them as more like playthings, finding great amusement in all they do in her name and at her behest. Her tenets are almost similar to a demonic deal, as she offers power and protection in exchange for worship. To the educated, her priestesses are more akin to fiend-pacted warlocks than holy woman.

Lolth introduced herself to the drow (comparatively) recently, targeting priestesses at the head of powerful Houses to let her doctrine trickle down. She slotted her own worship neatly into existing drow culture, exaggerating what she liked and downplaying what she didn't. The Lolth-sworn city-states grew even more xenophobic and closed off than they already were, so much so that they do not even allow more than minimal trade with non-Lolth-sworn cities. Four of the seven drow city-states are Lolth-sworn.

Lolth is not as capricious or actively malicious to her worshippers as in D&D 5e canon, but she is by no means pleasant. She positioned herself to the drow as the ultimate matriarch, mother of the dark and chaos in which they lived. By allying themselves with her, the Lolth-sworn gain allies among other creatures living in the Underdark.

Lolth has extremely high standards and rigid rules that her worshippers must follow. She does change these rules at times, often waiting for someone to break the unknown tenet and making an example of them to spread the news. She encourages paranoia and sadism, and found the drow society structure one that fit nicely with her tastes. She amuses herself with the machinations and ambitions of her subjects.

Lolth's goal is to spread her influence as far as she can. She is currently looking to subjugate the entire Underdark, and then she plans to turn her gaze to the world above. She plans a two-pronged attack: invasion on the weaker nations above and indoctrination of the stronger.

The Cult of Lolth

The Cult of Lolth (though they call themselves a Church) is widespread, being practiced in over half of the drow city-states. Under Lolth's rule, some aspects of existing drow culture are magnified.

For instance, far past being matriarchal, Lolth has an active disdain for men due to several drow heroes who directly opposed her takeover…and were all, coincidentally, men. For this, she punishes all drow men. This bleeds through to her followers. In ordinary drow society, sons are not favored but are still cherished and allowed many of the same rights of women, but little authority. Under Lolth, however, men are close to second-hand citizens. A man is considered to be a caste below the women in his family. Men on the lowest class are essentially slaves. Though they cannot be traded as slaves can, they have little rights and are entirely at the mercy of their matriarchs.

To distinguish her drow from "the rabble," Lolth changed her earliest followers physically, and the changes slowly spread as worship did. Those in the Underdark can tell a Lolth-sworn from a mile away, and know to avoid them. Lolth is also far less strict on body modification and hair length, allowing tattoos, piercings, and even cutting one's hair. She delights in the inner conflict this causes, as the drow's cultural sensibilities clash with the freedom their goddess allows.

Another aspect she magnifies, which was the primary reason she chose the drow as her first worshippers, is the ambition. While drow culture believes everyone has a "true" place and your life's goal is to achieve it by any means, Lolth encourages her followers to always strive to go above and not settle, even if you feel what the drow refer to as "divine contentment" with your place. She delights in the sadism and chaos she sows among her followers.

While typical drow culture views violence as another art form to be perfected, Lolth favors brutality, sadism, and even desecration, pushing her followers to the brink of their sensibilities and beyond. Her followers have a reputation for treating those they kill and capture with a uniquely twisted form of sadistic torture.

Lolth is the patron of weavers, fiber crafters, and metalworkers. She placed a high importance on those particular crafts, and had a love of woven beauty. Of course, spiders and webs are a large motif that can be found in Lolth-sworn art, as well as the colors red and white. She favors these, and may even punish someone who creates a masterpiece that doesn't meet her preferences. 

Lolth desires to one day have all drow under her rule, and her followers sometimes attack other drow to be brought back as slaves and indoctrinated. Drow captured in this manner are an abnormality in society. These individuals (and only them) may be freed from slavery by marrying or being adopted into a House or family, only after swearing fealty to Lolth and passing a trial of faith. These drow are especially favored by Lolth and her worshippers, who sees them as the ultimate triumph of their faith.

One interesting, and potentially tragic, quirk of drow born into Lolth's cult is that, unlike all other elves including drow, they do not see their past lives when they meditate. It is unclear whether this is because they do not reincarnate or if Lolth is somehow suppressing their connection to their past lives. Some of the opponents of Lolth's cult believe that she takes her followers' souls when they die, though for what purpose is unclear.

As stated above, Lolth frequently changes the rules of her cult. However, three rules have never changed:

Worship only Lolth, and put her first. (Worship or fealty to any other god is forbidden, and Lolth demands total obedience. She even asks her worshippers to put her above even their mother and matriarchs, a challenging concept for many drow.)

Second to Lolth is the brood. (Protect kin at all costs. House first, then family, then all drow. She also demands they protect and cultivate spiders, including a demonic breed she created for this very purpose.)

Dig deeper into the darkness. (Be ruthlessly ambitious, do whatever it takes to survive and thrive. Take every avenue of power available to you.)

Driders

Driders are created when a faithful drow fails Lolth in a very specific way (more than simply not adhering to her tenets) or fails a test set by Lolth. They are transformed into a being that is extremely Lolth-like, a drow's upper torso with a spider's body below. It is a truly ironic punishment: although they now resemble their beloved goddess, the drow consider their body to be a sacred and beautiful thing, and any permanent transformation is a perversion of it. Worse, they are cut off from their family and exiled to the Underdark alone.

Driders are simultaneously pitied and reviled by Lolth-sworn and regular drow alike.

[galedekarios]

Oh wait now I’m curious what the backstory reasons behind Alton’s physical design are! He’s very handsome and I crave the oc lore.

thank you so much for asking about altonaufein. i really truly do appreciate it a lot! 🖤he's the favourite of my bg3 ocs.

his development and growth as a character is mostly tied to his hair and how he presents himself, so this is what i focused on for my choices throughout the game:

altonaufein was born as the third child but first son to matron ithrana of house hlarahel, a younger brother to his eldest sister nadriina and the second-born iraeae.

house hlarahel of ust natha has produced a long line of powerful clerics in service to lolth so altonaufein, with his natural talent and inlination for both the divine and the art of combat, was trained as a cleric to aid drow scouting and raiding parties:

this is how his hair would have looked then--perhaps even longer as the cc allows us--white hair worn long and open, symbolising lolth's demon webs, her reach and control on her drow, despite altonaufein's dreams of a bright moon hanging in a dark sky he has never seen.

i will put the rest under a cut because a) it's very, very long so sorry in advance and b) because it deals with some very heavy themes so if you aren't comfortable reading, you absolutely do not have to!

(cw assault/rape, cw mind manipulation, cw enslavement, cw drow society in general tbh)

drow society is a matriarchal society, where male drow are considered lesser, and it functions under a particular set of rules:

"The cruelty and injustice of Drow society are utterly familiar because they are constants, from the womb onward. Drow mothers punish and manipulate from the start, and Drow women rule each household. Typically, nobles are divided up into houses which jockey for position in the city, and each noble house is headed by a cleric of great skill. A wise matron mother will have several cleric daughters to ensure that her line and influence continues, but she will watch them carefully. Inheritance is passed through daughters, with children ranked in importance by gender, and then by age. A matron will guard against her eldest daughters and pit all of her children against each other to ensure her own survival." "Drow children are not coddled. They are raised together and sent to schools with high standards of conduct. Drow children are trained to compete with one another and to show no mercy. Some children do not survive the intense childhood games." "The Drow are infamous for their torture practices, as well they should be. Among the elves of the beginning times, they were the first to experiment with the sensation of pain. They have honed torture into science and psychological treatment. Drow parents will punish their children with pain and humiliation in very tactical ways. Drow students are publicly punished in front of their fellow students and class clowns are rare (although pranks for which no one was apprehended are remembered by Drow students as legends of a sort). Drow adults are not all masters of torture, but they have seen enough pain to know how to make others hurt. Not all Drow use physical pain as their modus operandi. A good many are adept at humiliation and terrible mind games. Some slaves are so broken mentally that all they can do is concentrate on the task at hand. Some Drow actually do not like to put forth the effort that torture requires and would rather kill someone than waste their energy. The worst punishments are said to come from those closest to Lolth - the yochlol and the clerics. They are whispered to be divinely inspired."

these are the circumstances that shaped altonaufein as much as it did nadriina and iraeae, who, in the tradition of house hlarahel, are both striving to become powerful priestesses of lolth in their own right, seeking to inherit control of the house from matron mother.

drow house politics are insane and it's all encouraged by lolth. lolth wants to determine who of her followers are worthy enough to be supported by her, so all drow have to pass a test of faith, a trial of lolth.

after altonaufein foolishly (he truly did love--in a way that drow are capable of--his sister iraeae and confided in her visions that spoke not of lolth or a great spider swallowing the world, but of a moon, shining bright silver.

iraeae felt conflicted. she, too, loved her brother in her own way. of course that weakness was what made her realise what she had to do: weed it out. so she told not only nadriina, but her her mother. it was then decided that altonaufein was not simply to die.

they would not further shame their own house like that. instead he would be put through his trial of lolth, to weed out that weakness and corruption within their own ranks. should he die, he'd be a sacrifice to lolth, should he live, he would prove lolth's favour to their house and advance them further in ust natha's society.

altonaufein with that was sentenced to undergo the test of strength. power and resourcefulness, whether or not the subject is strong and clever enough to defeat a powerful foe. the test is only fulfilled by a battle to the death between the test subject and another, stronger person, sometimes a creature.

the fight is usually difficult, and the test subject often has to expend all their resources to survive and vanquish their foe, who must be slain: the more brutal, the longer drawn out the fight, the more you've suffered and the more your foe has suffered, the more it will satisfy lolth.

altonaufein earned his first brutal kill like that. he had just reached maturity.

nadriina had hoped he would die. winning the trial had garnered favour and attention. a strong male could be just as dangerous as a scheming female. she devised a plan with iraeae to ensure that they would not be threatened and, with that, iraeae passed her own trial of lolth: chwidevbrii, or the test of betrayal.

it's a punishment that strikes particularly deep. trust is a distasteful concept to drow, though they understand that sometimes it does happen and is even necessary. to rid themselves of this, to succeed at this test, the drow must betray someone who has garnered her trust or in whom she has placed her trust.

mentors, teachers, leaders, friends, family members. as long as there has been a solid connection of dependence made in the past. the relationship between master and slave or servant does not count; the goddess knows that no betrayal can happen in such a relationship. it is simply a slave. the drow must utterly destroy the other drow in a way that allows her to advance in some manner. the method is not important: blackmail, slander, torture... magic. in the end, the victim must die or be thoroughly disgraced and dominated. usually, the victim is murdered by the drow herself, commits suicide, or is killed as a result of the drow's action.

so what better way to show to her goddess that she is a true drow, that she is worthy, what better way than to serve the house than humiliating and dominating someone who was once a little brother.

drow females are able to take over the mind of a male drow just like that, with a spell, akin to a thrall. all thoughts are gone, all will is gone. your mind is not your own anymore.

iraeae did just that: after he was beaten, whipped, mental and physical defences exhausted, the spell on altonaufein took hold and, as perhaps a final "kindness" in her utter triumph, altonaufein was discarded in ust natha's dark underbelly.

ust natha has a tavern. to entertain both those lusting for blood, for sport, and for more carnal pursuits. altonaufein still remembers szordrin and sondal, the keepers of the tavern. their taunting faces. mind gone, he and others were kept in a cage. he served there for a while. to fight. to please. to be of use. to those who asked. to those who had power or gold. for battle. for pleasure.

he was there, under that spell, until it broke: iraeae dead by her sister's hand. betrayed just like altonaufein had been by her. altonaufein doesn't remember how long it lasted, remembers only parts of it: the many hands, more than hands, the pain. he remembers fighting. other drow. other prisoners. the surface. running. the moon. fever. then nothing for a long time again.

and finally, karl:

karl is an ilmater cleric, a part of a small settlement built around a modest church of ilmater that, unknowingly, is very close to an entrance to the underdark.

during one of his patrols with another of the settlement, karl found altonaufein: delirious with fever, malnourished, ravaged by old wounds that never truly healed, hair tangled.

any other man might have killed the defenseless drow, thinking it to be a ruse, or perhaps to put him out of his misery, but karl is an ilmateri through and through, for better and for worse, and so he shouldered this suffering and brought altonaufein to the temple. he was tasked with caring for him. and watching him.

so karl came to care for the drow: he cleaned and dressed his wounds, sat by him. tried to talk to him, engage him in moments of clarity and despite the obvious language barrier. karl, an ex-soldier and deserter, was forced to fight for his homeland cormyr against sembia. he saw a lot of cruelty during that war. a lot of violence, both in battle and outside of it. in the villages and cities that were torched and conquered and pillaged. he saw a lot then and sees a lot of it now in altonaufein, who survived a different kind of war.

as for altonaufein himself, he tries to settle into that new life, tries to come to terms with what he remembers of his old one... it was incredibly violating. he remembers only snippets. moments. sudden movements and motions, that send his heart racing.

the clearest memory is a hand gripping his hair so tightly, pulling and guiding. it's not anymore, but he still feels it.

he hasn't brushed it or touched it since his rescue, it's a tangled, matted–and it’s also something that hasn’t escaped karl’s notice.

altonaufein goes to cut it with the only blade he could find (stolen and kept on his person from one of the meals karl had shared with him).

(ilmater clerics and priests are good and nice, but they are also no fools who would give a drow access to sharp weaponry. kindness goes only so far, even here, no matter how much karl vouches for altonaufein.)

so altonaufein begins to cut it with a dulled blade and it goes about as badly as you'd imagine: it's hard to do, it hurts, and the strands that he manages to cut are choppy (which is the least of his worries). he still manages to hurt himself simply by the virtue of hard he is trying and how badly his hands are shaking with it.

karl would find him, take one look at him and leave, coming back with honeyed tea to soothe frazzled nerves and a sharper blade, one of his own. he drinks the tea first from the little teapot, pouring himself one cup and another for altonaufein, to show him it's not poisoned or meddled with. he had noticed how skittish altonaufein was with things he hadn't seen being prepared.

they sit there for a while before altonaufein, too, calms enough to drink his cup, and it is only then that karl begins to speak, voice soft but clear.

he takes up the sharp blade, lets it rest on his hands just so, where altonaufein could reach out and take it at any time, and tells him of what could happen: he could leave the blade with altonaufein and he can try again, but karl would prefer it if he could help, clean the cuts and nicks and heal them, and help altonaufein cut his hair.

altonaufein looks at him for a long time, searching his eyes, still holding onto that dull blade as a last defense, but there is no deception in karl, none at all. only that strange kindness that he has come to associate with the human.

it was one of many, many small gestures, things, that karl did for altonaufein that made him trust karl. trust him enough to at first take food and drink from him, later to help fix injuries like this one--and finally, to let him cut his hair.

he turns his back on karl--even though the human might not realise fully how meaningful that truly is--so he can do as he had said he would. and karl does. he keeps his word.

time passes and altonaufein settles into his new life, bit by bit. he helps with that he can at the temple and the settlement: repairing fences, caring for the animals, the harvest, building and repairing things.

he still wears his hair short, but here and there, he allows it to grow just that bit longer than it had been for a long while now:

and it's this way when the settlement is attacked and he is captured on the nautiloid.

on his journey to find a cure, and to find karl, he meets another human, just as kind as the ilmateri. one who knows the goddess behind the light and moon he had dreamed of, prayed to, albeit not knowing just how to, and gives her a name that altonaufein had not known until then: eilistraee, lady silverhair--and a close friend to the man's own goddess, mystra.

this bond between them, beginning with a moment of connection, grows ever closer and brighter.

through them, karl and gale, with them and alongside them, altonaufein begins to heal and helps them heal in return, begins to find his purpose and helps them find theirs:

he is a cleric of eilistraee. he can be more than a tool for bloodshed and violence.

he's not kulg llarzoran ithrana qualla hlarahel (his designation as a male of his house). he's not auflaque (dog) as he was called during his captivity. he is simply altonaufein and that's what he is to gale, to karl and the friends he has made.

settling in waterdeep with them, altonaufein joins the promenade and its leader trelasarra zuind. to help others as he had been helped.

🖤

[spanishskulduggery]

In Spanish mannerisms, is it common to use the usted conjugation for your peer group? Then as you become well acquainted,you eventually transition to the tú form? Trying to gauge social norms with proper grammar. It's easy to offend when learning a language.

It is no longer common to use it that way, no

Bear with me because I'm going to have to explain how things were, and how things are now to make it make complete sense

For the purposes of general modern Spanish, usted is considered polite and formal, and tú considered more common among your peers and people younger than you. You don't usually have to use usted with someone your same age or in your peer group (like a stranger at university)

Sometimes people use usted with their bosses and superiors, regardless of their apparent age... but there are times when someone will say something to the effect of "use tú with me"

It's not a big social faux pas if you address someone about your age or younger with tú. It could be a bit rude to do it to a client/customer/judge/doctor depending on where you are, but it used to be a bigger mistake than it now is

A lot of countries have relaxed the social norms after moving away from a more aristocratic/feudal society... where usted is now a social courtesy for someone in a respected position, but not because they're "better" than you if that makes sense

-

In older Spanish it was more common to use usted with strangers as a courtesy. The roots of the formality/informality are related to title and acquaintanceship; where usted was more commonly used to address someone unknown to the speaker, and its etymology is related to saying "your lordship/ladyship" like saying "sir" or "madam" when speaking to someone

It was common to use this form of address in polite conversation to afford someone the respect that their title afforded them, or in cases of unknowns, it was to treat people with respect so as not to accidentally slight someone's reputation

The tú form was then more commonly used with people who were related to you [a sign of intimacy or kinship], and in older feudal settings, more commonly used with servants and people who were lower than your station

-

These rules have relaxed considerably since most Spanish-speaking countries either have different rules, or they're not so distinctly feudal in nature

In practice, usted is more commonly used for someone older than you; even with strangers, it's more common to use tú with someone who is your age or younger. And it is considered preferable to use usted when speaking with customers and clients

HOWEVER - this will largely depend on the country in question

As an example, I was taught [in the US] that you should talk to doctors and teachers with usted. However, I've been told by Spaniards for example that they use tú with their teachers, and their teachers use tú with them

Argentina is completely unique in that they use vos for everything and that tú and usted are less commonly used now

Some countries in Latin America prefer to use usted even with children or people they know

And many countries have some kind of use of vos which is in some places more informal than tú and vos is used among friends/relations

Chile, for example will use vos among peers and it's considered more common among the younger generation. But I've been told that vos is considered impolite, practically rude, when used with the older generation - sort of like if you called your grandmother "dude"

-

You will find a lot of variation in countries - everyone will understand usted and tú and they're understanding of you being a foreigner and not exactly fitting in with the country's particular social norms regarding formality

Still in a place like Argentina I would expect them to call me vos even if I'm using tú because I never learned the vos conjugation; if I were living/working in Argentina I would go out of my way to learn the vos to fit in better

[vermillioncrown]

ands snippet: fast and furious

Summary: Vivienne delivers on a promise and expected only the self-satisfaction of a “job well done.” His Dark Grace decides otherwise.

or tldr: the batmobile's first, official iteration gets its christening 😏 (making out + some d/s vibes) this is a write up of this post on how bruce (the batman, really) and vivienne "get together," originally written to entertain @rozaceous (and here's the link to the og concept) the gist is that it's pre-NYE party debacle, ros and vi are practically u-haul lesbians but it's no one's business (not even their authors') how involved they are with each other, and ros and bruce have not resolved their UST yet.

“—and there might be tolerance issues with the panels, but they should be resolved by next month.” Neel Singh, the Experimental Manufacturing lead, concludes his briefing and falls half a pace back.

“We’re not racing the clock, Neel.” Vivienne jots down her thoughts in her notepad, and adds, “The winter holidays are coming up. I don’t expect anything more until February, the earliest.”

“Y-Yes, of course.” After pressing him for continuous updates for the past few months, of course he’d feel discombobulated by the sudden release of the gas pedal, so to speak. Neel pulls out his phone to type a message. “Should I call anyone else to show you around, Vivienne? Someone from Facilities for the test track?”

Vivienne looks up and out past the glass, into the indoor test track where the subject of their discussion sits parked. All aerodynamic sleekness and curves, the diffused polish of a practical matte black coating, and the intuitive physical sense of power and nimbleness in its form…

Now that—that is her son, midwifed by the hardworking and circumspect members of her handpicked team.

A thought comes to mind. “We’re dealing with carbon fiber, yes? RTM process?”

Neel nods warily. “The team assessed it to be the best fit for purpose…”

“Let me see the molds. And I may have some thoughts on the trickier shapes.” At this point, it’s better to do things right than to play coy with knowledge. There aren’t any patents on the line, or papers to publish.

Bless Neel—he’s not the most inspirational team lead out there, but the man can get things done, keeps track of his flock, and does not put them in the line of fire if he can help it. It takes the entire hallway’s length to convince him that no, Vivienne isn’t here to take heads and draw blood. And yes, she does have some experience with composites. Thankfully, what she knows and has retained is relevant enough for their use case.

The setup tour and the technicians present are all of acceptable quality. There’s nothing wrong with their process, per se…

“I appreciate the team’s rationale in using vinyl ester. However, in application, the easier forming and mechanical properties with using epoxy should make it an appropriate trade-off,” she declares her verdict. No one is impolite enough to interrupt her (or they’re not green enough to), but the manufacturing team does exchange serious side eye among each other.

When dealing with technical experts, care must be taken to speak their language. Always acknowledge someone’s hard work, and give good faith that they’ve made their decision with good judgment behind it.

And, of course, one should give explicit reasoning when suggesting an alternative. “We won’t be seeing the same type of corrosion nor UV exposure on average, or most of the expected causes of catastrophic failure”—here, Vivienne meets their gazes directly, pausing deliberately so they get her gist— “will render long-term considerations, hm, superfluous.”

Various noises of scoffing and muffled chortles come from the team before her. “It’s likely to explode, GTA-style, before we care about actual sunlight in Gotham,” someone mutters. “Got it.”

Bonus: appeal to their good humor, show that you’re on their side. Show that if they work with you instead of against you, everyone benefits.

“Then, we’ll put the order in for epoxy instead?” Neel announces to the group.

“Let me liaison with the Testing guys, see which specific one they recommend,” one of the technicians answers while the others debate quietly between themselves. “And we need to check the MSDS for any changes needed.”

“Shouldn’t be much—I think we can relax some of the workflow, too,” another one calls out. “It’ll go a lot faster this round.”

Neel turns towards Vivienne, implicitly waiting for her approval.

“Go ahead,” she confirms. “No rush. You should have enough budget; if not, CC me on any requests.” She waits for Neel to nod before turning back to finish her notes.

One of the technicians whistles low and, undeterred by his coworker’s elbow to the gut, asks out loud, “How the hell are we getting the funding for this? It can’t be government.”

Vivienne pauses, looks up to raise an eyebrow at him. She gives it two seconds—enough to make it awkward but not enough to be aggressive—before answering nonchalantly, “Does it matter? As long as we can all go about our day without the mob brazenly shaking people down in public, or an attention-seeking wack job gassing the streets and locking down the expressway, I do not care.”

The emphasis nets her a “fair enough” gesture and no further questions, with the general atmosphere being one of jocular compliance and satisfaction.

Very good.

She turns to Neel, while announcing to the group at large, “That will be all. Everyone should make sure to confirm with my PA on their way out, so you all can receive your bonuses in a timely manner. Have a happy Thanksgiving.” Then, more directly at Neel: “I’ll meet with Facilities before closing the site for the holiday. Official half-day.”

He gets her unspoken “clear everyone out” order and turns to usher the technicians along, all while starting a phone call with other leads in the testing facility.

---

Vivienne takes the scenic route towards the direction of the Facilities Management suite, walking leisurely to keep her baby in her sights the entire time. She returns absent hums of acknowledgment to the people that greet her along her way, dismissing them when they try to ask if she needs anything, and eventually, the facility is empty.

Instead of turning into the Facilities suite, she goes to the nearby elevator to scan her card and wait.

The building lights dim to their low-occupancy standby state. Then, one of the shadows in the empty hallway distends into a vaguely humanoid form, stalking forward until there’s a glint of whited-out eyes.

Ever the dramatic. His Dark Grace’s penchant for positioning is comically perfect.

“I assume you’ve looped the cameras?” Vivienne tilts her head towards the Facilities suite.

The Batman gives a little, “Hm,” and continues towards her and the elevator.

Yes, duh. Vivienne doesn’t roll her eyes. It’d be wasted on this bat-shaped mime.

She instead flips her notepad to a later page, where she’s noted down the information received from Facilities via email a week ago. Meeting with them was entirely unnecessary. Her mind runs through what would be the most efficient loop of comprehensive testing—and if they waited until sunset, she could set up and open the outdoor portion of the track for “realistic conditions.”

It’s rather easy to ignore the looming shadow next to her—she’s had practice and more important things to think about. Normally, anyone impolite enough to look over her shoulder at her notes would be told to back off, but here she can hope that he’d absorb some proper methodology for fucking once. To be fair, any thought of “proper” leaves her head upon reaching the ground floor of the track.

The so-called “Batmobile” is gorgeous. If not in her heels, Vivienne would have sprinted over to him.

Her beautiful baby boy.

She tucks her notepad and pen away into her handbag, and loops the shoulder strap across her torso. All hands are needed for properly admiring this work of art.

“Ah—the slight ripples Neel mentioned,” she talks His Dark Grace through the visual inspection. “Project Lead Neel Singh,” she adds for clarification, letting him know who and what to satisfy his paranoia. “Yes, the matrix voids will be easier to mitigate with the modifications to their vacuum assistance setup, the tooling support, and of course, not using vinyl ester. More workable.”

She walks around the car, eyeing the front and back tires, noting the height of the chassis, and internally debates the optimum between aesthetics, performance, and practicality.

“Hm. This tire size is special order, but still commercial-off-the-shelf. The concern is that typical road conditions won’t allow for anything lower, but we need to balance the handling with the overall weight…especially since the chassis will be so lightweight.” She backs up and takes in the whole of the car’s form. “I…I’m actually a bit worried—we might not have the right balance between the aero and weight for the CG, being not for track purposes, so we can’t go as low as actual motorsport designs—”

“—then let’s test it,” Batman cuts through her fretting. He’s been following along with her inspection, practically hovering over her the entire time. The fingers of his gauntleted hand carefully trace where she was pointing out, trailing behind her hand’s path. “That’s why we’re here.”

Credit where credit is due—that’s true. At least he didn’t immediately demand to do so; his interjection is a polite ask, the bat and all things considered. And Vivienne wouldn’t have let him within a zip code of her new son if he wasn’t ready to handle. She can allow His Dark Grace some fun, for once.

She takes out the prototype key fob—slow enough to rile up the menacing furry next to her—and clicks. The doors unlock and pop slightly ajar before she dangles the fob in front of Batman.

He’s finally trained enough to be polite during their handovers; he takes the fob from her possession without force, and waits for her to situate herself in the passenger side before getting in himself.

“No helmets. Well, you better not get me killed,” Vivienne says blandly when Batman starts up the car. He purrs, lovely and smooth like a spoiled cat. “Or I won’t offer custom hubcaps. Ones with little bat decals.”

There’s a faint smirk on His Dark Grace’s face. “I’m better than that.” He teases with a brief revving of the engine.

The test track comes into hyperfocus in front of Vivienne; on a whim, she clicks an additional control up top near the rearview HUD of the car that opens up the gate to the outdoor track. She can recognize the adrenaline building up—it’s what follows a good challenge, either mental or physical, and she welcomes it with relish.

“Let’s see it, then,” she nods towards the gate, unable to help her toothy grin in return.

---

Her baby boy “handles,” is what Vivienne can say for now. She didn’t expect the response to be buttery smooth on first iteration, and for something experimental. The seeds of something are present—His Dark Grace pulled them into two hairpin turns in sequence—and coupled with the snappiness, she thinks they have an unpolished gem in their hands. The car is like having a barely tamed big cat, leashed up and ready to let loose on one’s orders.

It’s fucking exhilarating.

The stupid showoff figures out how to manage the car quickly enough. He pulls another turn that lets them slide perfectly against the side of the track into the bay that’s meant to be a small pit area. The uncovered half of his face is not as expressive as he pretends to be, day-to-day, but the expression present is full-on cocky as hell.

(Honestly, Vivienne can admit to liking it—or at least, this is much more tolerable than the public-facing himbo she needs to politely shake hands with whenever he deigns to muck around at the office.)

“Proven enough?” His typical growl is less forced, and more of a pleasant rumble that harmonizes nicely with the idling engine. In the full furry get-up, subtle side glances and all that aren't really possible. His Dark Grace turns to stare at her, goading for a response.

The cowl and the whited-out effect of the lenses are eerie up close, but dealing with the devil is much less intimidating when one has leverage. In Vivienne’s case—he knows she’s capable and motivated enough to possibly add something like a kill-switch to the car, just to fuck with him if he pisses her off. His Dark Grace wants her baby real bad, and with proof of concept she can probably get him to do anyt—

Hold up, Vi, say that again? Her inner Ros stops that train of thought.

“Differential adjustment shou—well. Acceptable,” she gives him the compliment, leaning back into the seat with a more relaxed posture. They never make the ergonomics of them fit for anyone of average height; her hairpin has slightly loosened from how the back of the seat rubbed against her updo, and she pulls the pin free to restyle her hair. She feels the Batman’s stare as he waits, and she keeps him waiting. “You’re competent and quick on the uptake. Adaptive.”

Wrangling the Batman was the equivalent of wrangling a division of egotistical engineers working at the cutting edge of everything—all very competent people that will step on each other’s toes, get in each other’s way, and are too used to being correct that they forget their purpose. The balance was slightly off here, becoming the classical joke of “one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses.”

But everyone has their leverage points, and all are susceptible to The Carrot versus The Stick in personalized ratios and applied judiciously. Vivienne didn’t aim to do anything as Machiavellian as put the Dark Knight of Gotham under her thumb, but that’s where he somehow ended up. She, by sheer grit, found the winning combo of getting him to listen to her—at least when it came to nonsensical designs—and actively soliciting her opinion. She’s not dumb enough to lose that leverage when she sees it in her hands. Maintaining it requires work: showing agreeableness to an extent, with the occasional reminder that he’s in her territory and he would do well to remember it. A little flick to the ego, occasionally.

It helps to put into perspective that, at the end of the day, Bruce Wayne the Batman is nearly five years younger than her. Engineers and technicians under her, the ones ranging from two to ten years younger, with a plethora of tertiary degrees between them—her mind can’t help flagging them as “children” until they temper themselves with a real project, from bid to deliverable.

So, of course her brain demoted the fucking CEO of her company and its parent conglomerate to being a “boy” as soon as he called her Lucius’s PA. She has found no evidence contrary to that ever since. With him neatly categorized, accounting for unique attributes and handling, Vivienne knows very well how to deal with “boys,” because she wouldn’t have gotten this far otherwise.

“Hah. If you had wrecked my shit, as with your typical M.O., maybe I could’ve gotten a nice dinner out of you tonight.” Her tone is intentionally sharper, diction and accent more crass with the habitual New Jersey attitude rather than her usual featureless cosmopolitan speech pattern. Dusk was here, steadily eating away the evening hours as autumn progressed. They’ve stayed later than she anticipated, but…

…for once, in a very long time, she was having fun. The evidence is on her teeth—she was grinning wide enough to catch some of her lipstick on her canines, which her tongue can clearly feel the slick of it.

“Well. We’re done here. Keep up with”—she gestures at the whole of him with a dismissive hand— “that well enough, don’t piss me off, and maybe you’ll earn your new toy by the end of next quarter.”

That whole posturing—after prolonged proximity and the hot-and-cold of seemingly hard-won praise versus snide dismissiveness—is supposed to make His Dark Grace harrumph and skulk away.

Today, he grabs her hand. It’s not violent or anything, but he doesn’t touch her. She’s lost her temper enough to jab her finger in his cowled face, and he’s been taken aback enough and in the position to let her. He’s never touched her.

That—that’s not in the script.

His Dark Grace continues to stare at her, his exposed jaw not quite clenched enough to denote a possible temper tantrum incoming. So, she minutely cocks her chin up, adding a slight challenging tilt to her expression with a raised eyebrow and the slight baring of her teeth in a sneering smile. What are you doing? Are you really—really?

He has her wrist with his left hand, and his full attention and facing is towards her. The right hand comes closer. And because he doesn’t pull her that she lets him, it’s so much closer until—of all fucking things—she feels the gauntlet leather past the corner of her mouth and pressure on her teeth.

The thumbpad has her lipstick stain on it from him wiping it away.

She scoffs, half-between a laugh and an incredulous squawk, and tries to tug her hand away. It doesn’t budge. “How badly do you want this car?” The tone isn’t right—wrong mix of scathing versus levity. And yet, it seems to draw him in closer, the tireless masochist that he is. “Didn’t I say ‘don’t piss me off’?”

“I’m hoping to do the opposite.” This close, he doesn’t bother with the growl at all. He’s almost inaudible over the engine. The lipstick-stained gauntlet cups her jaw, the thumb carefully avoiding her skin, and he leans in when she doesn’t resist.

What the fuck. What is happening. Did he bug the apartment, overhear the sleepover-bullshit talks with Ros?

It’s fascinating, clinically speaking. From what Vivienne’s heard of local gossip, especially among the secretary pool and their particular brand of romantic fantasizing, the Batman is expected to be rough. Wild. He’s supposed to fulfill all sorts of “tall, dark, and handsome” daydreams and lonely imaginings at night, along with fighting crime—what a busy guy.

So, to have him soft and insistent at her mouth, but more like asking for permission than forceful, is a fascinating gap between expectation and reality. He’s not a shabby kisser at all; the playboy types usually have something else going on that makes everyone else do the work for them, and they get to reap all the pleasure. That is apparently not the case here.

Eventually, he pulls back so they can breathe and reassess.

Vivienne looks. She really looks—his face may be mostly covered, he’s still staring, but he’s flushed, visibly steadying his breathing, and her lipstick stains his mouth in a viscerally appealing way that makes her want to lick her teeth. He’s paradoxically much more exposed than she is.

And with that, His Dark Grace is really such a pretty boy—something Vivienne has constantly lamented with Ros over for his pissy attitude. He’s perfectly amenable now, though.

“You really want this,” she says this again, her free hand coming down to pat the console between them and leaning closer.

He’s still a cheeky shit, though. “I want it,” and tilts his head again, ready to close the distance at her say-so.

She means the damn car, but— “Then you’ll have to work for it,” and she closes the distance herself.

[azraeldoesnotdispute]

crusades era joenicky recs

dana asked me to make a crusades era joenicky fic rec list when I mentioned how much I loved them so that no one would rec me what I had already read, so here you go (apologies, I can’t get the read more to work)

The Stiff Heart

I ALWAYS love dana’s fics and it was just by chance that hers was the first one that popped up in my search. This has them having already established a truce and working together to find ‘the dream women’, but it has such a lovely build up to when they get together, sprinkled with plenty of UST and world building as they learn more about each other and dashes of them coming together to a truce.

The Favored Son(s)

Crusade era Yusuf and Nicolo are transported to current time and the boys, Joe in particular, have a hard time reconciling who they were with the love they now share. It’s like having a slow burn, but your OTP is already there and happy together at the same time. Lots of Joe doting, which is always a bonus, and the other two learning about each other and overcoming their past.

The Land of Turquoise

The immortals dream of each other when the universe has decreed that they are not close enough to one another. Joe and Nicky start dreaming of each other a month and a half into their truce, when they are sleeping side-by-side every night in the desert. How much closer can they be?

Honestly, I can’t sum it up better than the actual summary. So much UST and trust building!!!

Ardeo In Te

Omegaverse and soulmates? My fucking JAM

Djinn’s Eyes

Man, this fucking fic. It’s so good, has so much build up and world building, learning to overcome preconceived notions and find love. I can’t even find the words, it’s such a wonderful fic.

 Lessons Exquisitely Crafted

Yusuf goes home, leaving Nicolo behind, but he can’t shake him off because these are dumbasses who are meant to be together. It takes time for them to come back together, but they do, because they’re destiny.

The Weight of Fear

mpreg fic, where they have a night of passion and then Yusuf runs away, only to learn that Nicolo is pregnant once the girls find him to kick his ass. I love the story, how Nicky’s anxieties are written, how much Joe is stressed once he finds out that he accidentally knocked him up.

Heavy with the Weight of Who We Are

Yusuf can’t shake Nicolo, no matter how hard he tries, so they’re stuck together, learning each others languages and trying to figure out how to work together despite their differences.

Beginnings, Middles, Ends

Wind_Ryder did an amazing job with this series! It showcases how PTSD can affect a person, what having someone who cares about you can do to help you heal, and wraps it up by showing that somethings don’t just magically disappear over time.

Pistachios and Rosewater

The food alone makes reading this fic worth it, all of it looks delicious and it’s worked into the story so well, showing the progress of time and how cooking can mean love.

Holiest Among The Living

 This actually has very little joenicky, but I had to include it because it shows Nicolo’s journey to understanding everything he thought was true, isn’t, and that even people you thought were good can disregard others just because they’re a different color/religion/etc

O Jerusalem

Has selective mute Nicky in it, because PTSD is a serious thing, and soft Yusuf caring enough about the man who killed him to not leave him abandoned in Jerusalem. This is definitely a story about kindness and healing.

Death is Just a Beginning

Plenty of hate and anger, and not all at each other. Includes Nicolo being found out for having revived and Yusuf saving him, but the road is paved with plenty of fighting before they find their footing and destiny.

[oneknightstand-if]

On a scale of least to most slowburn, where do all of the ROs lie? Can you tag this question with #slowburn, please?

Everything is Proceeding As Normal

Merlin : They're an incubus. You can have sex with them in Chapter 3! Although it'll take quite a bit more than that to establish a stable long-term romantic relationship with them, a lot of difficulties (of the 'squishy human hooking up with a near immortal ancient shapeshifting demon' sort) will need to be dealt with when you're already in the relationship.

Gwen : Not the type to let a little thing like the apocalypse and a real life game of Among Us distract from the real important things in life... like romance!

Cassandra : You know normally she's the type to just go for it when she sees something (or someone) that she likes, but the entire apocalyptic Among Us game would incline her to be even more cautious than normal. Well, at least compared to Gwen.

But What About My Subplot?!

Broderick : He and Lorelei are just full of suspicion during this part of the story and aren't inclined to trust you, which kind of makes a romance rather hard. (And then they both get smacked in the face with their relevant subplots).

Lorelei : Same as Broderick, but even worse. Definitely 'issues' to deal with here and her regaining her Camelot memories won't be helping there.

Adrian : Adrian has... issues. If he didn't, he and crush!MC would've hooked up years ago. So that's going to need to be dealt with before you can properly enter a long-term relationship with him. So he'll be consigned to lewd handholding in the dark for most of OKS like in the first chapter.

Uh...

404 Error Not Found : Yeah... that's going to have to be dealt with. Power of love, right?

Percy Doing His Thing

Percy : Besides Merlin, Percy is pretty much the only other RO who's sexuality will have any potential effect on the narrative. He's a demisexual with a high trigger point, so... it'll take awhile. He's really touchy-feely (especially with people he likes/trusts) so you can get very cuddly with him from the start, but anyone looking for anything spicier will have a while to wait. (You know you're on the right track when Percy starts mistaking Merlin for you.)

Not Actually in the Modern Age Yet

These romances are consideriner 'minor' in One Knight Stand because these RO's are literally sealed away and not present in the modern age yet.

Vivian : Sealed away at the edge of the Veil, so you'll be seeing her in the 'flesh' sooner than Arthur. You can totally have sex with her in one of the Camelot flashback scenes, however. (But that's not your current incarnation, so isn't helping the current relationship very much.)

Arthur : Not appearing until you finally successfully complete the Greater Circle. Unlike Vivian, probably won't be having any available sex scenes until after you've regained your Camelot memories at the end of the book. So have a heaping helping of flirting and UST instead?

*Note: One of these is a lie, because they're actually trying to kill you. (Well, 404 is definitely trying to kill you, but they can move on from that? Probably?)

[fanonical]

i want every fandom to have an among us au. ust show me all my blorbos attempting to kill each other in space, i dare you

[hawnks]

coincide pt. v

previous

series rating: r18 (explicit)

hawks (takami keigo) x reader

word count: ~4,800

[soulmate au, slowburn, UST as a plot device, avian keigo, allusion to depression, hurts hurts hurts until it doesn't anymore right?]

warning: canon-typical violence

Summary: You’ve got a talent for melodrama, huh?

.........................................................................

His sabbatical is lengthy and non-broadcast. They’d wanted him to take a respite, recuperate, maybe go sit under a waterfall. You’re not yourself, his handler told him. We need Hawks. Not whatever ghost has taken his place. It’s dangerous to keep masquerading as someone who’s heart is in it one hundred percent. That kind of half-assed heroing will get someone killed, one of these days.

They book him a room at a historical hotspring, set up an itinerary with huge swaths of time dedicated to “Rest.” He leaves the hotspring, and the country, without telling anyone.

He goes to Taiwan, to help with some underground hero work. Then France, then Egypt. Most of the jobs are espionage, kept under wraps, need-to-know basis. The rest are off the books altogether. He flies most of the way himself, just so he can pass out each night, bone-tired, and wake up in the morning with nothing but open air behind him. 

Everything hurts, the muscle strain and the altitude headaches and the canned coffee he mainlines just to keep from falling out of the sky on overnight journeys. There’s a pressure in his chest that won’t let up, a constant squeezing sensation that feels like shortness of breath, like drowning. Like all the air sucked out of the world, and Keigo, alone, fighting to stay afloat. 

Maybe he should get that checked out. 

But then, there’s no time to think about the future. He keeps his schedule tight, barely a second to blink between each mission, let alone book a session with his Commission appointed doctor. Besides, it’s pointless, anyway— 

All of it. 

He fights, draws blood, garners secret and dangerous intel. He sits down for dinner with ambassadors and heroes revered among their people. But there’s no glory to any of it, no reverence left in him. 

He imagines himself, a glassy-eyed, shiny little kid. How deeply he would have felt these accomplishments, these feats. Now all he feels is a vague sort of wistfulness. Like he’s already an old man, been through, seen it all. 

“What the fuck, Hawks,” his handler says over the phone. It’s been three weeks since he left, the first time he’s answered their calls. “You can’t just abscond without telling anyone.”

“Abscond?” he returns, with a genuine laugh. “Like I’m a thief?”

“You are an asset to the Commission,” the handler returns. “And you have responsibilities.”

“I’m on vacation,” Keigo tells him, and hangs up. 

And he tries (really, he does), to handle things in a productive way. He reads several (more than three!) listicles about top ten ways to get over a breakup, until he realizes that the two of you were never actually together. He’s not sure what to google for that. Unearned heartbreak? Severed soulmates? Miss her so much it feels like dying? But not even just the idea of her, or our apparent future, or the pretty thoughts about destiny? Miss the way she smells and the weird way she holds her chopsticks? Miss the way she laughs, and the sound of my name on her tongue? Miss her and miss her and miss her and miss her—

He tries the listicles. Does the self care thing, bubble bath, kitschy facemasks and all. 

And — he sees paramors in every country he visits. People from his past who fawn over him, praise him, adore him. They draw his jacket from his shoulders, and it smells like sweat and ozone. They find the tiny, secret clasps on the back of his uniform, unwrap him like a present.

“Pretty boy,” they call him. Coy and sweet. Hands so sure and eager as they caress his body. 

And he winces. Takes a step back. “Can we just—” he says, running a hand through his unruly hair. It’s getting too long. He’ll have to cut it soon. “Can we just talk?”

They all agree, sure, whatever he’s comfortable with. But the tension never leaves the room, no matter how long the small talk carries on for. Because he can claim fatigue or headaches or just not feeling it all he wants. But he could never admit the truth. How dirty he feels closing the door with another body in the room. How he cringes at the touch of another. How it’s— you. Always. On the back of his mind, at the base of his throat. Behind every turn and inside every decision. You.

You, you, you.

And the constant, painful reminder — 

The feeling isn’t mutual. 

...

The wedding is beautiful. 

Everything goes perfectly. The whole event looks like something off a trip-advisor page, beautiful but quaint, elegant yet intimate. The food is delicious, the cake so moist it melts in your mouth. Even the weather is sunny and mild, as if the powers that be wouldn’t even stand in the way of today. 

You wish you could give everything the attention and admiration it deserves. 

On the trip up, you imagined that maybe this would be just the thing to pull you out of your month long stupor. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but it’s hard to resist the rustic charms of this place, and the inherent joy of the other guests. 

Soulmate weddings are commonplace nowadays, but no less special for their frequency. There’s an indescribable quality of felicity to them. A rightness, like everything is happening exactly as it should, like everyone is exactly where they need to be. It’s something of a comfort to guests and to the couple themselves; what’s meant to be will happen. And there’s nothing anyone can do, no force of nature that can stop it. 

You try to enjoy yourself. Try to take in the ambiance, the good company. And it’s nice, for the most part. Really, it’s a lovely day, and if it weren’t for the strange tightness in your throat, constantly, you might even have been able to enjoy it.

You throw up in the bathroom, after appetizers, while the first plates are going around. You’ve been drinking, already too much, and on an empty stomach. You have half a mind to simply tap out for the night, but you can’t leave your friend tonight of all nights. Especially not when she keeps turning to you, elated, to make some silly joke, or to sigh and squeeze your hand with a dreamy smile. 

You sneak out when the party begins to pick up pace, leaving the revelry and crawling out a backdoor, into the insipid chill of encroaching night. You find a nice little staircase alcove, planning to settle down for a few minutes, but the sudden sight of another person on the stoop takes you aback. Even more so when you realize it's the groom himself, taking a drag on a cigarette.

You’ve never officially met, until today, and even that was just pleasantries, no time to talk. You’re not sure how to approach this situation; a part of you instinctively wants to apologize, but that would just make things even more awkward.. 

He peers at you, waiting for you to say something. But you don’t, so he does. 

“My last one,” he says, holding it up in salute. “I was thirteen, when I started. Thought I was a real rebel. It turns out I was just an idiot.” He looks at the cigarette, a strangely wry smile on his face. “Could never work up the nerve to stop, but… she hates it, so I’m quitting.” 

“A nice wedding gift,” you say, gathering yourself. You come to lean against the metal railing next to him. It’s cool against your bare arms, and you relish the sensation, the shock of it enough to keep you grounded, for the moment. 

“Ah,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Not a gift. Just… wanna make her happy.”

You look at his hand, the cigarette already halfway done. It smells different than any other you’ve encountered before, oddly mild, almost floral. And it makes something inside you well up, the thought that a life could be changed so wholly, so staunchly. 

You think, how special, to have someone who breaks bad habits for you.

It’s enough to cause you to burst into tears. Before you can stop it, your whole face is wet, and your breath is coming out in hiccuping gasps. 

The groom looks on, terrified. He stubs out his cigarette on his heel before handing you, of all things, a handkerchief.

He says, timidly, “Wanna talk about it?”

It takes a few long, awkward minutes before the initial wave of misery subsides, and you can speak. 

“Fuck.” You wipe your nose, unattractively, with his handkerchief. You shake your head. “Nah. It’s your wedding. Go have fun.” 

The groom shrugs. “I’m not one for spectacle. This is for her. Later, when we’re alone and eating pizza in bed, that’s for me.”

That’s nice, you think despite yourself. It just sounds — very nice. 

“She told me,” the groom says after a minute. “About your… soulmate, thing.”

You shrug. What else could you do? There’s nothing to be said. You’ve moralized and offered platitudes your whole life. You’ve lied and said you were content. But here, at your one best friend's wedding, alone, there’s no more slack to give. You’re faced with the truth lying at your feet, like a dead bird. 

You’re alone and it’s so hard. 

“She loves you. That’s never going to change,” the groom tells you. “Even if a lot of other things do.”

You think about that for a moment. Nod. “Yeah,” you say. “I know. Thank you.”

It takes you a few more minutes to calm down, fully. You’d tell him to go back inside, but you get the odd sense that he doesn’t really care that you’re crying in front of him, that he’s not as uncomfortable as you might have expected him to be. So the two of you hover there, on the stoop in the dark, until finally, you feel centered enough to rejoin the festivities. 

You brush off your dress. You offer him a hand up. 

“I can see why she likes you,” you tell him as the two of you make your way back inside. The instant heat upon walking through the door almost makes you wince. 

“Aw, nice,” he says, grinning. “Best friend stamp of approval.”

...

Keigo’s first stop, once he’s back in Japan, is a convenience store. The second is Enji Todoroki’s temporary, secret residence. 

It’s a small house, on the outskirts of a small city. Barely any thru-traffic on the streets. Most of the population is in their later years. No one recognizes Keigo as he trawls the street, looking for the discreet entrance. It’s hidden by a wall of laced kudzu vines. 

Enji is slow to answer the door. Keigo sent a text to say to expect him soon, but who knew if the other man saw it. He hasn’t been himself lately. 

When he finally opens the door with a grunt of surprise, Keigo just holds up his plastic bag in greeting. The outline of six tall boys is prominent. 

“I haven’t had alcohol in 20 years,” Enji says, his voice without inflection. Still, he takes the bag, leaving the door open in his wake for Keigo to shuffle in after him. 

The living arrangements are spartan. Hardly any furniture, and what comforts they offer is slim. Hard, cold surfaces. No throw cushions, or blankets, or pictures on the wall, or magazines bookmarked with old receipts. No sign of life at all, save for the single pair of shoes, tossed in a careless pile at the door.

The pair sit on the floor in the middle of what is probably the living room. There’s no furniture at all, here. The tatami is worn to softness beneath them, ages old. The combination makes everything feel stark, exposed. There’s a vulnerability to an empty house, no places to hide, no way to obscure yourself. 

They drink in relative silence. Keigo arrived in the late afternoon, and the day passes into night without obstruction. No one gets up to turn on the lights when the sunset fades into ashen stars, both of them content to sit there in the dark. 

It’s easier like this, almost a waking dream. Neither of them have been sleeping well, taking care of themselves. 

It’s been a long time since Keigo has drunk, too. Soberness was his default, an expectation of the job. Heroes don’t get days off, not really. There’s always the expectation that if some disaster should occur, they will be able to rise to the occasion. That doesn’t mesh well with substance use. 

Occasionally, Keigo will have a glass, to keep up appearances. But he can’t remember the last time he felt like this, tipsy, a mellow warmth settling beneath his cheeks.

Moonrise turns everything to shadow. Like this, tall, dark, and faceless, Enji finally speaks. 

“I wish I’d done things differently,” he admits. His voice is no longer booming, and proud. It’s quieter than Keigo has ever heard it. “I wish I could have seen that more than honor or strength, what they needed was… kindness.”

“It’s not too late,” Keigo says, but the words are empty. How would he know? He’s never had to consider these things before. Never had terrible, all-consuming regrets before. 

“In some ways,” Enji says. “Society would have you believe that amends are as simple as an apology,” he says. “But I will be paying for my mistakes for the rest of my life. And it still won’t fix everything. Some things are broken forever.” 

“That’s convenient for you, too,” Keigo says. He peers at Enji, eyes bright, intent. “In some ways.”

Enji peers back at him, expressionless.

“Now they’re tied to you forever, like you said,” Keigo explains. “You can’t fix things, but you can keep them.”

“That’s not my decision to make.”

Keigo’s response is quick, brusque. “Isn’t it?” 

He realizes he’s leaning forward, too tense, too defensive. This isn’t about what it’s about anymore. It’s not about anything, really. He sinks back into a relaxed posture, reestablishing his practiced nonchalance. He takes another sip of beer. His hand is trembling.

“No,” Enji says, simply. “It’s not.”

The pair fall back into silence. Enough has been said, for one night. 

...

Kirishima sends you home. 

It’s the last thing you’d expect, after taking several days off for the wedding. You come in early, ready to elbow through a backlog of work, only to find the floor already bustling with a small crowd of unfamiliar faces.

It’s about eight people, total. Some of them are heroes. You can tell from the way they’re dressed, the way they hold themselves. Kirishima is in the middle of them, more dour than you’ve ever seen him. 

He comes to you, when he spots you, skirting his way around the visitors to meet you at the door. 

“Ah.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing back at the group he left behind. “Why don’t you head home for today? This is all kind of, uh. Not safe for you.” 

“Should I be…” you try to glance around him, get an appraisal of the situation, but he’s such a mountain of a man that he takes up nearly your entire field of vision. “Like, worried?”

“No,” Kirishima is quick to say. “No, everything is going to be fine. But this isn’t quite your area of expertise, and I don’t want you getting caught in the crossfire.”

He’s taken on his hero mien, shoulders back, a little more tense than usual. His tone is kind, but unmoveable. Leaves no room for arguments, or questions.

“Okay,” you say slowly, still a little unsure about all of this. “But you’ll let me know if you need help, right?”

Kirishima smiles at you, but not in a condescending, what would a small-fry like you be able to do, way, like any other hero might. His affection is so stalwart and genuine, his friendship so gentle. It only makes you worry all the more, for anytime that the goodness of Kirishima Eijiro might be at risk, that humanity might be deprived of him, for any moment, in any way. 

He holds out a fist, and you knock knuckles, shakily. “Promise,” he says. 

Then he pats you on the back, subtly steering you back to the elevator, away from whatever catastrophe he now has to face, alone. 

You have a vague idea of what all this might be about, but who knows what might have changed in the three days you’ve been away. The hero world moves at a breakneck pace, and it seems like you’ve fallen out of the loop. 

You think about the classified documents you’ve sorted through, the cases piled up on your harddrive. You’ve seen enough of past villainy to know that it’s not all stars and stripes and showing up at exactly the right moment. There’s a lot of accidents. A lot of almost made it, so close. Sometimes, the heroes just aren’t fast enough. Sometimes they make mistakes. 

It’s a job that risks more than one life. A burden on all fronts. If a hero dies, odds are many other lives get taken down with them. It’s why Kirishima wants you kept away from whatever is going on. The big bold word of the hour — casualty. Someone adjacently related to the incident, an unnecessary death. You’re not strong enough to protect yourself, not the way you’d need to, to exist in the same space as the heroes. Not enough to protect someone else.

Everything feels strange and uneasy. Like you’re teetering on the knife point of something huge. But you can’t fit all the puzzle pieces together, no matter how long you mull it over. It’s been like this for so long, you can’t trace back the origin of this foreboding feeling. Maybe you’ve always felt this way. You try to recall a time you’ve felt completely at ease, comfortable in your own skin, but you come up short, unable to pinpoint a moment, unable to figure out why not. 

You spend the rest of your day in PJs on the couch, eating icecream straight from the tub, fretting and fretting. Wondering when the anchorpoint of your life became fear. 

...

His next stop is the Commission HQ. 

No matter that he hasn’t slept in forty-nine hours. The Commission has already figured out that Keigo is in-country, and there’s work to be done. 

Firstly, he’s reprimanded. Loudly, and for a solid fifteen minutes. 

This is interrupted by a handler conspicuously walking right between him and the higher ups, and dragging him bodily out of the room. Keigo allows himself to be hauled away, waving as he goes. 

He’s asked to report on a number of missions he underwent while he was away. Provide details, recall key facts. He took diligent notes, but a lot of things require his own explanation, or follow up information. This takes up almost the entire day. Suddenly he regrets keeping so busy, over the past few weeks. 

It’s already late, late into the evening by the time he sets foot in his own agency. Things are quiet. There’s not much work to be done when Keigo himself is not around, so it’s unsurprising that most of the night workers have taken off. 

It’s nice to have a little privacy, even with another handler tailing him as he takes stock of the building. Nothing much has changed. Even his office is spotless. For some reason, he’d expected dust to have gathered in his absence, but of course the cleaning people would never let that happen. 

It’s almost like he hadn’t left, at all.

Exhausted, he intends to make one final stop at his locker before heading home. He just needs to grab another flight suit, dump his dirty ones in the hamper, to be cleaned. 

He’s still carrying around the bag he traveled with. He hadn’t taken much; his mode of transport doesn’t allow for heavy packing. He took the essentials, a few toiletries, a few flight suits, one spare change of civilian clothes. He dumps all of it in the bottom of his locker, to be sorted through when his bones feel less likely to melt out of his body altogether. 

He took one personal effect, and it stares at him from the top of the pile. The sweater he’d nabbed from your place. On nights he did sleep, he slept with it. Wrapped around him, or bunched up in his arms. It’s no longer soft, handled so much that the fibers had been worn to crimped bone. It had stopped smelling like you after the first week or so. Even with his heightened senses, eventually all traces of you were lost, the altitude and his own body overwhelming your scent. 

It was pointless to hold onto. It didn’t stave off the cravings, only made him remember all the times he had actually touched you, your skin, your hair. Felt your breath, or heard your voice. Dead weight, unnecessary baggage for his long trips. Still, he couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how many times he told himself he would leave it at whatever hotel he ended up in that night. Some mornings he would slip it on, pull it tight around himself, until he felt the constriction, until he thought the threads might snap under his grip. But the craftsmanship of it was impeccable, and it survived his rough treatment, and he would spend those mornings with the not-quite comfortable fabric wrapped around him, watching the sun rise miserably.

He shuts the locker door. Maybe this will be the end of it, now.  

He sends the handler home, assuring him that he’d be up and at ‘em at the crack of dawn tomorrow. The handler doesn’t look especially reassured, but there’s nothing to be done now, and he’s ready to call it quits himself.

Alone on the office floor, finally, Keigo takes a moment to just breathe. He closes his eyes for a moment. Tries to shut out all thoughts. They’d taught him to meditate as a child. He’d alway thought it a pointless endeavor, but now he kind of wishes he’d paid better attention, that he could simply will away his mind like turning off a light.

He barely has a minute to try. Someone clears their throat, asking for his attention. 

He turns to them with a smile. “What’s up?”

He recognizes the young man. A PA, hired a few years back. 

“Intel for you, Sir,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to wait until tomorrow to take a look.”

Keigo motions for the file in his hands, flipping through it as soon as he has it. No sense putting things off.

The PA explains, “The task force has discovered a list of addresses. Around half of them are the residence of record for established heroes. Another handful are homes that heroes have kept off the books. The one connection they all seem to have is that they are currently occupied by at least one civilian, as well.”

Keigo nods, peering at the list. 

The PA says, “Right now we’re operating under the assumption that these are a list of targets.” 

Keigo had assumed. With the momentum gained from Rei’s attack it would figure that the villain would keep going. Attention tends to spur on bigger and more intense feats.  

“Who else knows about this?” Keigo asks. 

“Only heroes assigned to the task-force, sir.” 

“No one from the Commission?” 

“The intel came to us from Deku’s agency,” he returns. “The Commission will receive the information as soon as Deku has convened with his people.” 

Keigo nods again, then returns his attention to the page. The first step would be to mobilize the people at these residencies, but how to do that without alerting the culprit would take some creative problem solving. The page is nearly full, numbers reaching toward the margins.

Still, despite the massive amount of work to come, this is a step in the right direction. 

He’s about to hand the file back to the handler and pay a visit to Deku’s agency himself when something catches his eye— 

Your building address, and next to it your unit number. You. 

He’s out the door and in the air in ten seconds, flat. 

...

The last thing you expect is to see on your impromptu day off is your door literally being cracked at the hinges.

The second to last thing is the man you haven’t heard from in weeks, pushing past you, stalking straight inside like he owns the place.

He looks… not great. He’s definitely lost some weight. There are horrible, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is a little longer than he prefers. He smells like how he always smells after taking double patrols, like sweat, and the city, and the sky. 

Has he been taking care of himself? Has anyone been looking after him?

“Get what you need,” he calls. “We’re leaving.”

He starts grabbing things himself. Your cardigan. The book you’re reading. Your sturdiest pair of shoes. His arms are full by the time you can work up the nerve to respond. Even then it sounds like more of a squeak. 

“Keigo?” 

He glances at you. He’s breathing hard. “Why aren’t you packing?”

“Because,” you sputter, “what the hell?” 

You reach for him. Then pull away. You take a step back, but you’re too unsteady on your feet to do anymore than that. Your legs might just give out, anyway. 

You’re reeling from his appearance, not able to make sense of any of it. Maybe you’re dreaming. But —

He’s standing right in front of you, the brightest thing in the room. If he were a little closer, you could feel his warmth. 

It’s been so long since you’ve seen him, it feels like you should have forgotten what he looks like. But it’s just the same as always, him in your space. Feels so right, even when everything is all turned around like this. Recognition, in its basest form.

He leans in toward you. Opens his mouth, about to say something. From this angle, oddly, he looks like he might be about to bite you, the subtlest hint of teeth, his breath still leaving him in heavy drags. Like a predator, all keyed up and ready. 

Like if you run, he’ll chase. 

You can hardly get the words out. “What’s happening?”

An expression crosses his features, a flash of emotion that’s gone in an instant. A tick of remorse, disconsolate. Then he’s back to his unshakeable, placid smoothness. 

“You’re not safe here,” he says. It’s a tone he’s never taken with you before. Stern, cool. 

You have a hundred more questions, but they’re like little dragon flies, flitting around your skull. You keep grasping for them, but missing. You can’t figure out what to say. You can’t figure out what’s happening. 

Then —

You taste it, before anything. A metallic twinge to the air, like an ink blot of blood, coins on your tongue. 

Suddenly, your center of balance is off. You’re falling, bracing, falling. But not falling, because Keigo has you in his arms, hauling you, painfully, in some direction. 

A noise you can feel in your bones, that makes you think your teeth might fall out from the force of it.

You’re airborne. You think you might vomit. The night is whip-cold but also brutally, violently hot. 

—Falling. Again. For real, this time. 

You feel the soft brush of grass. He’s pressing you into it. He’s shifting you on top of it, rolling you.

“Are we on fire?” you gasp.

“Not anymore,” he returns.

His hands are all over you, bracing, touching, searching. Your skin is oddly numb. You can’t quite tell which way is up, anymore. You can barely hear anything, the whole world muffled, static. 

Somewhere, in the dark you catch a glimpse of molten light, and the sluggish neurons of your brain struggle to the conclusion that your home used to be there. Everything that’s yours used to be there. Now lit up, glowing like a midnight sunrise. Blinding you. But you can’t look away. 

Keigo’s on you again. All around you. He has a better grip on you, now. Not painful anymore. 

Two flaps and you’re airborne again, clutching to him with all your meager strength. Being clutched in return.

The heat from the flames follows you up, licks into the sky, and you think you must still be burning, you have to be. 

But Keigo has a hold of you, so tight and visceral it swallows all your thoughts, all your fear, and eventually you make it far enough that the ash is distant, and the night swaddles you like a cool blanket. 

“You’re okay,” Keigo is whispering, lips against your crown, your temple. “I got you. I’m sorry. You’re okay.”

Distantly, you realize he’s been saying it this entire time.