#any human made structure really

[anonymous-bastard]

Jfc you truly can't take me anywhere.

[drpicklesart]

they are going to mehnahnaroo

[bucephaly]

Basically. Gender and sexuality and race and a Lot of other things are social and cultural concepts that are not like Facts or intrinsic and honestly I wish more people would realize that these are things we made up and there are no actual rules and everyone's experiences are different

[jucomx]

Surprising absolutely noone except undergraduate math students, it turns out math actually is only about numbers in the end!

[themichaelvan]

litcherally me.at the beach

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for divorcing my vampire husband because he lied to me about his human job?

I (542 vampire) and my husband (260 vampire) have been together for a little over two centuries. There’s a saying in the vampiric community that it takes a century for a tryst to become an enduring partnership and another century to become soulmates. I thought that was true and that Matthew (using his real name because fuck you, Matthew) and I would be together forever…until this week.

First, let me explain a few things to the mortals here. I don’t mean that negatively – I came here specifically to get the opinion of those with a finite lifespan. However, I want to be fair to Matthew as much as possible and some of his decisions are very immortal-minded.

Both Matthew and I are vampires who have chosen to forsake some of our powers in exchange for the ability to daywalk. We made the transition together on our 100th anniversary almost 115 years ago. It wasn’t an easy transition for me. I was very dependent on human blood and I spent the first twenty years in almost constant sleep as my body adjusted to running off of less lunar magic and more solar magic.

It really felt like I was losing everything. My body got physically weaker and my powers began to disappear one by one. It felt like every time I woke, another part of me was missing. One day I could turn into a wolf, the next I could barely turn into a vapor. I could command a legion of undying servants, and then I could barely convince the mailman he didn’t see me levitate down from the second floor.

Matthew, however, took to daywalking like a werewolf to a sheep farm. He barely seemed to feel the pain of losing his power, maybe because he was so much younger than me. Whatever the case, he was out all the time once he stabilized. He would be gone for days sometimes and when he came back it was with fantastic stories about the humans’ new inventions or the new structures being built in whatever town we were in.

I’m not saying I regret transitioning. Just that Matthew and I had very different experiences. It felt like he barely changed at all while my entire being got rewritten. Being immortal makes you comfortable in your own skin. I never doubted myself or my power after I turned 100. But becoming a daywalker made me feel like I was being born as a human again. It was humiliating and vulnerable. I have to admit there were times I resented how easily Matthew did it. I blamed him for not supporting me like I thought he should. I would daydream about draining a human in front of him, showing him what I thought of his fascination with them. I had all sorts of vile and vengeful thoughts. I’m not proud of the person I was and now I’m grateful Matthew wasn’t there to see the lows I sunk to.

Despite all my awful thoughts, I didn’t quit. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. I stuck with it and, day by day, things got easier.

After 26 years I began to stabilize. The benefits of being a daywalker slowly blossomed before me.  Now I can say that I am completely happy with my daywalker status and all the changes it’s brought.

I am the most mentally stable I have been since my Turning in 1482. It’s like I’m awake. The fits of rage that used to consume me for months at a time have completely disappeared. I don’t experience the same level of obsession I used to which has freed up a lot of my time that I used to spend stalking my victims.

However, that drastic of a change would be challenging in any relationship. Matthew and I ended up together because of my obsessive nature. Our relationship became strained when that part of me went dormant. He expected me to follow his immersion into the human world just as I had followed him in his revenge quest against his Master. He expected me to support him wholeheartedly and with everything I was. He wanted sacrifices from me that I used to not even flinch at before making. But something was just…different. We wanted different things. I wanted different things.

Matthew was obsessed with being the perfect human. He craved full immersion. He still makes it a point to get a human job every twenty years or so. Me? I’m happy to live off our investments and some mild mind control while enjoying the art and theater community the humans have evolved.

It got bad. Some years, we spent like ghosts in our own house, drifting by each other without a glance. Other years, it was like we were spies behind enemy lines. He would do whatever he could to thwart me and I would go out of my way to ridicule him. Our vitriol poisoned the earth. Matthew didn’t speak to me for a full decade when that poison killed off an entire town.

About twenty years ago, it all came to a head. We had a serious sit-down talk about our relationship. It wasn’t easy. What they say about teaching an old dog new tricks is sometimes true. Matthew wanted me to be as involved with the humans as he was. He wanted me to care about them like he did. I wanted him to travel with me like we used to and not just hop from town to neighboring town (which he did to maintain a human identity with references so he could keep working). When it became clear that we were at an impasse, I brought up the idea of separation.

Separating in the vampiric world isn’t easy. There are a lot of alliances and blood oaths to be considered. Over the two centuries we spent together, we became known as a unit to a number of supernatural entities that we maintain an uneasy truce with. Separating would mean creating new oaths and alliances with the same individuals. And there was no guarantee that those individuals would make new pacts with both of you. A LOT of vampire couples end up in blood feuds while separating. Neither of us wanted that.

There was also, of course, the emotional side of things. While a lot of immortals tend to only feel muted emotions (especially vampires as old as me), Daywalking had made both of us more sensitive than we’d been before. We were both attached to the memories we shared and neither of us could imagine life without the other. After 200 years together, it felt like Matthew was my right arm, and I his. When I brought up separation, we both felt it like we were discussing an amputation.

After about a year of talking, we finally reached an agreement. We didn’t want to separate, and so we would compromise. I wouldn’t interfere with any of Matthew’s human jobs for the 15-17 years if he could hold them without arousing suspicion. In exchange, he would take a year off to go traveling with me before finding another town for us to live in. In between my trips, he would go to plays and galas with me to enjoy human artistry at least once a month.

Maybe our deal was in his favor. At the time, it felt practical and fair. A year of traveling wouldn’t undo Matthew’s string of connections. We would still see each other frequently by going on dates that I liked. Matthew would get to stay immersed in the human world at the level he wanted, and I could stay within my comfort zone.

Which brings me to my current problem.

We are currently at the start of one of Matthew’s work cycles. He’s been everything from a fireman to a politician to a subway worker to a barista. He craves knowledge and connection to a terrifying degree. If it weren’t for how we move every 20 years and he goes without protest, I’d call it obsession.

This cycle, Matthew told me he was going to be a teacher. I was hesitant. While the humans have become more tolerant and less violent over the years, that doesn’t mean they will tolerate us near their young. Enough humans know about vampires that staking in the modern era is a real possibility. Matthew could incite an angry mob against us or, heaven forbid, get a vampire hunter on our tail. I have yet to be shot, but I hear that they have silver bullets that hurt like Hell.

When I voiced my protests, Matthew reminded me about our agreement. He said that I wouldn’t interfere with his jobs and he’d go to all the plays I liked. He even pointed out that, as a teacher, he could get us into high school plays and expositions. I was uneasy, but agreements are penultimate to immortals. I silenced my objections and let him get a job as a science teacher at a local high school.

When Michael has had jobs in the past, I’ve never really paid attention. One time he was a state senator for ten years and I never even heard him speak. I didn’t consider it worth my time to hear whatever his facsimile of a human would say. Real humanity is in the art they create, not in the parody Michael enacts.

But this one…I couldn’t ignore this one. Maybe it was because I was still uneasy about his proximity to human young or maybe I could sense his lies even at the beginning. Whatever the case, I watched him.

The first thing I noticed was the hours. He would go to work early and would often come home when it was time for us to sleep. When I asked him about it, he said that he wasn’t used to grading and that he had underestimated what it took to put a good lesson plan together. I visited some online forums and that’s apparently reasonable for first year teachers.

He would also sometimes go in on the weekends. He missed one of our dates because there was a “grading emergency” that needed his immediate attention. Something about a student’s test getting lost and then found and he needed to input their grade before the deadline which was on Saturday. Humans like silly rules like that so I didn’t even look that one up. I just reminded him that he couldn’t miss our dates again or else he was breaking our deal. He apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again.

Then about three months into his new job, the phone calls started. We have a private room in our house for when we need to talk without any visitors overhearing. Michael moved all his school supplies in there, saying that he needed a silent space to concentrate on his grading. Whenever he got a call, he would never answer it in front of me. Instead, he’d say “Sorry, work” and just go into his office.

I also noticed that he didn’t dress very professionally. Human fashion changes quickly so it didn’t register at first. A sweatshirt here and there slipped past me, and also the Gucci slides. When he started wearing baggy jeans and jerseys to work, I noticed. I may not be up to date on all the newest fashions, but I do go to classy events. I know what a slob looks like and it didn’t sit right with me that he was wearing that to school. When I asked him about it, he always had an excuse. “This is what everyone wears” and “It’s a theme day” or, bafflingly, “It’s spirit week!”

I tried to leave it alone. The reason we have stayed together for so long is because of our agreement to not interfere in each other’s lives. But between his hours, the phone calls, and his appearance, something didn’t add up.

Then, last Thursday, he missed another one of our dates. We were supposed to go to the Nutcracker together. Even though I prefer matinees (when the cast is fresh), I agreed to get us tickets for the evening show so that he wouldn’t have to leave work early. When he wasn’t there at 7pm, I called him and he didn’t answer. Then, when I called him again, his phone was switched off.

I was furious. I spend nearly two decades in these tiny towns so he can live his human fantasy and he can’t even show up for one two hour show? It was the first time since becoming a daywalker that I felt that angry. I was scared about what I might do, so I made myself go home to wait for him.

Only, he never came home that night. At 3am, he sent me a text apologizing and promising to make up our date on Saturday. But the Nutcracker was only playing until Friday and that would be too little, too late. To be honest, it already was. I texted him that and he never responded.

He never ended up coming home last weekend. I texted and called him probably a dozen times and he never responded. I got angrier and angrier as the days dragged by. Did he think I was someone to be taken lightly? Did he not realize that the fragile agreement between us was all that was keeping us from separation?

Yesterday (Monday), I couldn’t take it anymore. If he wasn’t going to come home or respond to my messages, then I would go to him. If he was so obsessed with this new job that he would ignore me for it, then I knew exactly where to find him.

I arrived at his school at 10am. I researched enough to know how to go to the office and sign myself in. I asked the office assistant which room Mr. Duetto was in.

The lovely young woman looked confused. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give that information out to anyone but family,” she said.

“I am his only family,” I said.

She clicked a few more keys and looked more confused. “His paperwork only shows his mother, Delilah Duetto.”

That’s right. His mother. But I still didn’t understand then.

“That’s me,” I said.

“You are not the mother of 17-year-old.”

“I’m his wife,” I said.

She was upset by that. I won’t bore you with every detail, but I had to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call the police. I may not look like someone who has a teenager, but I also don’t look like a teenager. I ended up having to alter her memories so she wouldn’t call human CPS on an apparent adult swearing she was married to a minor.

I went home and broke into his office. There weren’t any lesson plans. There were no graded papers. There were syllabus from different classes, homework with his name on it, and a few polaroids taped to the bottom of his desk of him at a party with children.

Human children. I don’t honestly know which is worse.

(EDIT: I know the child part is the worst part. I misspoke because of my anger. It’s not the humans’ fault that my husband is a pervert.)

I broke into his laptop and used that to check his text messages. He’s been texting like a high schooler. He’s been to parties with them, listened to their problems and even fabricated a few of his own. He’s caught in some sort of weird love triangle where a freshman girl likes him but his “best friend” likes her. He has texted both of them about it, promising his “bro” that nothing is happening and then turning around and leading this girl-child on.

Some choice quotes: I should know better than to get close with you. You and I come from very different worlds

To which she replied, lol maybe we should let our worlds collide

!!!!

I find the entire situation disgusting. Matthew is several centuries older than them and he definitely knows better. He’s literally wearing the sheep’s fleece amongst the flock. He has no business forming relationships with human children and even less pretending to be one of them. He’s not a baby. He is over two centuries old!

What is he doing flirting with a child? It’s vile and disgusting and I was set to kill him for it.

I confronted him about it when he came home last night. I told him that he was sick and dangerous and if he loved humans then he needed to stop immediately. I told him we either left town today or I would make sure he never set foot back in that school in a way he really wouldn’t like.

 He threw a huge tantrum over my invading his privacy. He shouted at me that I had broken my promise to never interfere in his job. He called me controlling and crazy.

I told him he was the crazy one for chatting up a child. He told me he wasn’t, she was just his friend. I asked him to read their texts out loud if he was being so friendly. I also pointed out that there was no way a 260-year-old vampire is a child’s friend.

He told me I was a hypocrite because I basically cradle robbed him (we’re almost 300 years apart.) He said if anyone was disgusting, it was me for taking advantage of him.

I pointed out that he wasn’t a child, he was over 60 and had already been a vampire for four decades. He argued that that was basically being a child in vampire terms.

I was so angry at that point that the house was shaking. I told him if he felt that way, then we could get divorced right then and there. That that was what I wanted to do anyway because I couldn’t be married to a pedophile.

He asked me if I was seriously going to start a blood feud over him immersing himself in human society. I said no, I’m starting a blood feud because he’s become every predatory stereotype humans have of vampires.

He called me a hypocrite again and told me he was leaving. He said not to call him unless I was ready to apologize. I told him that the next time he sees me, he’d better run before I showed him the real difference between us. And it wasn’t just 300 years.

When I calmed down, doubt started creeping in. From an immortal perspective, what he’s doing isn’t really wrong. I hate to say it, but most immortals don’t view human lives as significant. I know a few vampires who would say that divorcing because he’s playing with his food is idiotic.

Plus, there’s the agreement to consider. During our fight, Matthew pointed out that being a student is a job to humans. So therefore I didn’t have the right to interfere. A big part of me thinks that’s bullshit, but a small part of me wonders if he’s maybe right about that?

I also have to ask myself why this even bothers me. I’m the one in the relationship that is aloof from humans. I’m the one that’s always saying we are from different worlds (Yeah, he stole that from me) and for good reason. 

But over the years, I’ve become fond of humans. No immortal makes art like them. I may not remember my time as a mortal, but there are works that give me a sense of nostalgia. Sometimes I think I can remember being a child myself, standing in a field like in Monet painting, staring at the wheatstacks and waiting for the miller to come. 

The thought of Matthew playing with them makes me sick. It’s like even after all the years of him living amongst them, he thinks of them as props in his twisted play. It’s even worse that he’s doing this to children. 

I can’t help but think something went really wrong with my husband when I wasn’t looking. At the very least, I’m planning on divorcing him. But would I be the asshole if I killed him too?

 Separating from him will be violent and messy. There will likely be human casualties. But I don’t see any other way. So, I ask.

AITA for divorcing my husband for lying to me about his human job?

----

Thanks for reading! I loved answering some of the responses I got when I first posted this over on my Patreon (X)!

These collaborative story telling pieces are the highlight of my week. Next week's story is about a witch who wants to know if she should attend her high school reunion even though she's responsible for stripping two former classmates of their magic...

Please check that out here (X) if you''d like early access! Otherwise I'll see y'all next week :)

[coffeeflavored-tears]

making new oc’s is like taking dolls and taking them apart and making them into news ones made out of old characters

[raynewolferune]

Meta Jazz, the Arkham Intern Therapist Pt1

Update 5/16/2024: Congrats guys, gals, and others! You have planted the seeds and they have grown. Today I wrote another 46 pages on this story (the first section was only 9 pages ya'll). I'm working on splitting it up into smaller sections so I can post it now because tumblr said no to doing it as one piece. I'll be using the tag #Meta Jazz Arkham Intern Therapist if you want to follow it.

Original Note: I'm going to go ahead and apologize for how OOC Bane is in this. It originally was Joker but I couldn't see Jazz tolerating his proximity for more than a single millisecond so Bane it is.

~*~*~

The hardest thing about being a Meta in Gotham was responding appropriately during a Rouge's attack, Jazz mused to herself. Or perhaps that was just the hardest part about being a Meta intern at Arkham while studying psychology at Gotham University. Or maybe it was just her, she considered watching the guards and Dr. Rylie whom she'd been shadowing for the past 2 weeks wide eyed, pale, and shaking as theybstared at Bane behind her. It must just be her, Jazz decided, newbie guard Kyle Jennings was definitely a Meta after all. She should probably give him some tips on hiding his enhanced strength considering how often he broke mugs, door handles, and other delicate items used in daily life.

"Weapons down or I'll snap her skinny little neck." Bane growled out, shaking her slightly for emphasis. She very much doubted that. Liminials were built different than the standard Meta, stronger, faster, better endurance, and senses even if they could mostly appear to be standard humans on the outside.  As such, their bones and muscles were much were much denser than regular humans or even Meta humans. Technically, she could be considered "invulnerable" much like the Kryptonians are.

"Back up! Let him through!" Dr. Rylie  shouted at the guards. "She's my student! Let him through!" His voice was higher pitched than she could recall hearing it before.

Ah. That was panic.

Jazz sighed involuntarily and glanced over her shoulder at Bane. Why the man had grabbed the only person close to his own height nearby was a mystery to her - no, nevermind, he clearly meant to use her as a shield - but it made looking him in the eye more difficult than necessary.

"Mr. Bane, remove your hands from my person, please." Jazz stated calmly, channeling what Danny called her inner mom as she spoke. "I will give you to one to comply."

Bane looked stunned for a moment then laughed.

"Five."

The laughing continued. Jazz could sense a stir of uncertainty through her colleagues as they looked on.

"Four."

"Did you really think that would work?" Bane snorted out, arms tensing more around her.

"Three." She continued, indifferent to his words from her experiences raising her brother. Once the count down starts you mustn't respond to anything the kids do or say until they comply or the count is done.

"What cab you even do if I don't?" Bane asked darkly breathing directly in her ear. She kept her face expressionless despite the urge to express disgust.

"Two."

"Jasmine..."  Kyle whispered halfway across the hall from her looking on with a pained and horrified expression. Gun tilting towards the floor. Sloppy.

"One." She finished and Bane gave a derisive snort.

Then she was moving. Hauling the enormous man up and over her shoulder using the arm that had been wrapped around her neck. Bane hit the cold tile hard enough that the tiles, subfloor, structural supports, and part of the concrete foundation buckled beneath him. His shoulder popped out of joint, his wrist cracked - a hairline fracture by the sound of it -  and his breath was punched out of him from the force of impact. She released his arm as soon as his was embedded in the tiles and moved forward. Kneeling over him, support most of her weight on her left foot resting on the broken ground, her right knees pressed firmly across his throat without supporting any of her weight. The position put more strain on her muscles than she would've liked but at least Bane couldn't risk fighting back without crushing his own neck in the process. He could hardly throw her while flat on his back with a mangled arm.

"Now," Jazz began, looking directly into the behemoth's pained eyes. "Do you know what you've done wrong?" She asked like she would have done with Danny as a child.

"Yes, Ma'am." Bane choked out. Jazz heard movement and murmuring behind her. She didn't turn to look.

"What did you do wrong?" She asked. It was important to make sure children correctly understood why they were in trouble after all. There was a long pause as Bane appeared to cast around for the exact right answer as if he feared getting it wrong. A bad habit Danny still uses as well, Jazz thought to herself.

"I tried to hold you hostage," He choked out in a rush, words tumbling over one another as he tried to get them all out. "I scared you coworkers and it was very disrespectful."

So he'd gone for the grab-bag response. It wasn't wrong per sey but it did indicate a past history of abuse. The type of answer given by someone who expected to be harmed or ignored if they gave the "wrong" answer. Danny tended to use that method also and their parents had always been negligent at best.

"And are you going to do it again?" She asked giving him a Look as she did. Bane's eyes widened and he tried to frantically shake his head as much as possible with the pressure on his neck.

"No, Ma'am." He promised fervently.

"Alright then," Jazz said giving him a warm smile. She gestured vaguely towards the guards without turning to look at them. "Kyle here is going to take you to see the nurse and then back to your room then. I'm sure you'll behave for him?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll behave." Bane said. Jazz stood slowly asking sure not to put any additional pressure on his neck as she did. Kyle came and stood next to her as the giant of a man slowly pulled himself to his feet then led him away with 5 other guards.

Jazz heaved a sigh. Well, time to find out whether or not she could play all that off as normal, non-Meta human behavior.

[kedreeva]

Today in measuring your peahen, Bug is casually 2 foot, 3 inches tall (she can stretch a little taller when she REALLY wants a treat). This is just tall enough to see over a tray table and pull things off of nightstands and end cabinets.

Bug is also a little over 3 feet long from tail tip to beak tip. Most of Bug is made up of tail and neck. There is a 6lb dead weight in the middle somewhere that she knows how to directly place onto the ball of one foot while standing on you.

Bug's wingspan is around 3.5 feet, thought I didn't get a measurement. It will be over 4 feet as an adult.

Bug is growing in her spurs. As a Spalding (hybrid) hen, Bug will likely have one inch bone knives conveniently attached to her tarsometatarsus. This is technically fused foot bones, not a leg bone. Curiously, pure Pavo cristatus hens have spurs, and pure Pavo muticus hens have spurs, but many domestic Pavo cristatus and low-percent Spalding hens lack them. This is one of the indications of domestication in the cristatus species. As I prefer the wild type, I prefer my hens spurred, so this is a good sign!

Bug's toes measure a smidge over 5 inches from the tip of her rear-facing to to the tip of her longest front facing toe. Try measuring that on your hand.

Bug's nails measure 1/2-3/4 an inch long, depending on the toe. That's almost as long as one finger section for most people.

When I had snakes, I got asked all the time if I was afraid of them biting me. The answer is no. I have been bitten by a 6 foot long, 20lb boa constrictor, and have no scars to prove it. Meanwhile I have so many scars from peafowl sitting on me, particularly on my forearms, that I have had to reassure people I am not a danger to myself.

I post these photos as a reference, but also as a precaution. This is a BABY peafowl, and a female at that. She is only 6 months old and weighs a little over 6lbs, which means she's about 2/3 of the way grown, and adult hens are typically 3/4 the size of an adult male. These are BIG birds that can do a LOT of damage, even accidentally. When they become aggressive, as in the case of hand-raised males or poorly bred birds, they become a potentially fatal threat to any other fowl you have. Unlike chickens, they are more than capable of (and prone to!) jumping to human face level before they flog (kick with their feet in a way that allows their spurs to hit home), which means they could easily take out an eye or cause other serious facial injury if they get a lucky strike. I have seen more than a few people end up with stitches, and more than a few birds end up euthanized because people think they are gonna be cute cuddly friends.

I know that Bug is a cute bird, but I also want to stress that a) she has an outstanding personality as a result of breeding choices and socialization b) she hasn't hit maturity, and won't do so for another 2+ years, so her personality could change considerably still and c) I have been raising peafowl one way or another for my entire adult life, which has been structured around keeping them. I love my birds, and I would love for more people to keep peafowl as they are great animals, but they are not casual animals. They are large and potentially dangerous farm fowl that take a lot of space, care, and knowledge to keep.

[windienine]

like most humans i have a pretty nuanced personality that can be easily barnum'd and as a young teen i was pretty open to astrology, mbti, and any other horsepiss that made me feel like i could rely on a higher power or a sorting system to help me get my shit together during a really stressful time. i regularly worsened my ocd by coordinating the appropriate healing crystal pendant for the corresponding day, hour, and moon phase, but the impetus for this was less specifically a suburban mom wellness scam thing (though this was where i sourced my finds) and more that i had extreme chuuni energy throughout my middle school years and was waiting for the correct magic crystal, hidden tarot deck, or dusty grimoire to grant me my magical wings and talking animal companion

anyway a friend did a double take at me when i nodded about their jewelry retail woes and went "yeah the moms buy amethyst for focus like hotcakes i used to press a geode to my head at age fourteen to try and treat my ocd before i knew i had ocd."

anyway anyway the actual interesting thing about amethyst is that it's purple because of iron impurities in the quartz structure

[euphoriaslux]

two’s a party.

summary: you recently transferred to stanford, and decide to tutor a tennis player in your class. he has a friend. severe indecency ensues.

word count: 3.3k

warnings : smut, threesomes, f!oral receiving, swearing, smoking, drinking. slight cuck energy if you squint (i’m sorry ((no i’m not))). no challengers spoilers!

a/n: this fic got away from me big time but this movie has rotted my brain and as a result i have written utter debauchery that i will not apologize for. just had to get this out of my head, enjoy!

-

stanford science hall. monday , march 3.

You swear the last thing you’ll hear before your body is lowered into your grave is the process of lactic acid breakdown.

It’s 2:30 PM. Kinesiology 189 with Professor Wilson, a lanky middle-aged man with a PhD in exercise science and a half-grown beard that you don’t think will ever fully grow in, is almost over. He’s teaching Extended Studies of the Human Body in a humid classroom filled with student-athletes, most of whom are trying to stay awake, trying to hide that they’re taking a nap, or making no attempt to hide that they’re on their phones. You don’t really blame any of them, because the professor’s voice is so soft and monotone that it feels like he’s begging everyone to pay attention to anything but him. You’ve managed to stay somewhat on course with the thread of today’s lecture, the notebook in front of you filled with scribbles of incomplete molecular structures and somewhat legible drawings of the muscular anatomy of a hamstring.

This class is required for your biology major since you’re on a pre-medicine track. You don’t know why you’re doing it, the whole doctor thing, but you’ve developed a weird fixation for this class. The functionality of the body, how muscles stretch and tear with each movement, and how amino acids work to build them back even bigger.

And, possibly because of the tennis player who sits four rows ahead of you every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

His last name is Donaldson. You know because of the faded label on the massive bag he throws on the floor every time he walks into class, at least ten minutes late with a backward Stanford Tennis cap on his head. His first name remains a mystery, partly because he never talks in class, and mainly because you’ve made no attempt to speak to him. You like to think it’s because you’re so focused on the curriculum.

Professor Wilson knows your name, though, since you’re in his office hours every Thursday at 11 A.M. In part because he gives out most of the answers to his homework, and because you just transferred to Stanford your last year and very desperately need a letter of recommendation for medical school. Hence why you agreed to tutor a student with lower than 60% in the class during one of your meetings. And why everyone in the class was staring at you right now.

“... first come first serve, so reach out to her sooner rather than later.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, glancing around the room. Most people have looked away, back to their distraction of choice, but you meet eyes with the fluffy blonde-haired tennis player.

stanford library. wednesday, march fifth.

It’s 11 A.M., and you feel like your brain is about to explode if you look at another practice set.

“Hey”.

Your head whips around to the harsh whisper, only to be met with the blue-eyed mystery from your class. He has that large bag slung over his shoulder, with the end of a tennis racket peeking out of it. His hair is slightly stuck to his face, and his compression tee is slick to his chest like a second skin.

“Hi,” you whisper back. He smiles before tossing his bag on the floor and sitting in the chair across from you, either unaware of or completely ignoring the glares he’s receiving from the other students studying.

“You know,” he pulls out some kind of nutrition bar from his bag, unwrapping it and taking an aggressive bite, “for someone advertising their services, you’re pretty hard to find.”

“You’re in Mr. Wilson’s class, right?” you ask, hoping your subdued voice will remind him that he’s in a notoriously quiet place. He hums, pointing at you with his half-eaten snack.

“And I’m trying not to fail, but you didn’t leave your number anywhere in the classroom, and you bolt after every class. So how am I supposed to patronize your tutoring services…” he trails off, his volume the same level as when he walked in. You furrow your brows as he leans back into the chair.

“That’s when you say who you are.”

You feel a burn on the back of your neck as you tell him your name. He glances down towards the problem set you’ve nearly finished.

“How do you turn in any of those, I can’t get halfway through one of them.”

You pause for a moment before leaning slightly across the table to whisper:

“This new weird thing called studying. I think it just got approved by the CDC.”

“Very funny,” he shakes his head as reaches for your binder with your class schedule printed out on the front of it.

“Why are you taking so many bio classes?”

“Because I’m a biology major,” you can’t help the sarcasm dripping from your voice, and he looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, you’re making this too easy for me,” you raise your hands in conceit.

“I have practice every day at five so you can tutor me for like an hour beforehand,” he says before standing up, crunching up the silver wrapper and stuffing it into the front pocket of his blue jeans. You scoff at his sentence.

“Well, thank you for so generously fitting me into your schedule,” you roll your eyes, turning the page in your textbook. He grins.

“Tell the coach you’re there for Art. They’ll let you through.”

stanford tennis courts. friday, march 7th.

It’s 4 PM, and the California sun is sweltering. Your shorts feel like they’ve become a part of your legs, and your bag feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. By the time you make it to the tennis courts Art is already on the green concrete, shirtless with beads of sweat dripping down his face and chest. You hear his grunts as he sprints across the court, hitting the ball toward a slightly taller brunette with dangerously short red shorts. You watch them at the entrance for a few minutes, slightly entranced as the two play so seamlessly, as if they know every move the other person is going to make. You force your eyes away as you walk up the bleachers, stepping over leftover water bottles and chip bags to sit down and grab your notes from your backpack. It takes a couple more minutes for Art to notice you, yelling your name after he turns around to grab a ball his partner had hit particularly hard. You wave, and he says something you can’t hear to the brunette before the two of them jog across the courts and up the stands to where you are, blocking the sun as the two stand side by side.

“Who’s your friend?” you ask as you stuff the problem set you were working on in between the pages of your notebook.

“I’m Patrick,” he says, with a toothy smile and his ears poking out from under his hair. He has a bit more of a boyish charm to him than Art does, whose eyes are glued to his brunette counterpart.

“Are you in Mr. Wilson’s class too?”

Patrick opens his mouth to answer but Art speaks first, slightly pushing his friend with his shoulder as he says “He doesn’t go to Stanford, too busy being a tennis pro.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but his smile doesn’t leave his face. You notice how different this Art feels from the one in the library, how direct his playfulness is and how close he and Patrick stand together, their sweaty torsos nearly melding together.

Interesting.

“Like, Andre Agassi level pro?” you smile as the two of them laugh. Patrick raises the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off of his forehead, and you can’t help but take a glance at the exposed skin just above his waistband.

“Sorry, he’s like the only tennis player I know.”

“No, no I’m taking that as a compliment that you think I’m on the level of Agassi. No takebacks if you see me play,” Patrick points at you.

“Will do,” you salute, turning over to Art.

“You ready to study?” you ask him as he makes a comically loud groan, his head falling back. Patrick laughs, reaching over to ruffle his friends hair.

“You do remember that’s why I’m here, right? Midterms are in two weeks.”

“I definitely have not forgotten that.” he says. You purse your lips just as Patrick’s eyes seem to light up.

“I’m staying at the Courtyard Hotel for the weekend. You two can come over and study, I need to review my last match anyway. Kill two birds with one stone,” Patrick suggests.

“Just studying?”

“Just studying,” Art says, wrapping his arm around his friend's shoulder. You glance between the two of them, trying to decipher the unspoken communication they seem to be doing. But you can’t crack it, so you shrug.

“Sure.”

“Let us finish this set, and then you’ll have me all to yourself. Sound fair?”

“Wow, what a privilege. Don’t take too long, it’s hell on Earth out here!” you yell the last part as Art jogs down the steps and back down towards the net. You look up once you realize that the sun is still being blocked, and Patrick is still standing in front of you.

“You ever play?” he grins, flipping the tennis racket in his hand.

“Tennis? God, no, that would not be a pretty sight. I’ll stick to what I’m good at,” you gesture to the books and notes in your lap. Patrick nods.

“If you ever want to learn, I could teach you sometime, you know if-” he’s cut off by Art yelling his name, and you both glance to see him with his hands on his hips.

“Go, don’t keep your boyfriend waiting,” you wave him off, and you swear you can see him blushing. Must have been the glare.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he runs toward Art.

courtyard hotel. saturday, march 8.

It’s 11 pm. There’s a cold shiver in the elevator as you wait to get to the fourth floor, your tennis shoes tapping against the floor as one hand plays with the handle of the pack of beer in your hand while the other crumples and re-crumples the piece of paper with the hotel room number Patrick scribbled on it.

what are you doing?

You don’t have time to think about the consequences of your actions as the robotic voice signals that you’re on the fourth floor, the elevator doors fluttering open. It’s like your feet have a mind of their own, as you find yourself almost mindlessly wandering through the hotel halls until you’re planted in front of room 4B. You raise your hand to knock on the door but before you can make contact with the wood it’s thrust open, and Patrick is standing behind it. His dark hair is slightly tousled around his face, his striped shirt unbuttoned and his black boxer briefs low on his waist. He’s smiling, that same big smile as before, but his face is a little flushed, a gentle pink hue touching his cheeks. The two of you don’t say anything for a few seconds, as if you were both testing to see who would concede first to acknowledge the other’s presence. You raise the pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in your right hand.

“I brought studying fuel.”

You were never good at waiting.

Patrick laughs before he moves slightly out of the way to allow you to walk into his room. It’s small, with a queen-sized bed and a tiny desk, and the A/C emits an odd rumbling sound as it smacks against the window. Clothes and scorecards are strewn across the floor, and the scent of cigarettes permeates the room. You place the alcohol on the floor before deciding to sit on the bed, kicking off your shoes as you cross your legs. Patrick seems to stall for a moment, smiling to himself before closing the door behind him. He doesn’t lock the door, but you didn’t notice.

“Art’s not here yet?” you ask, watching as Patrick walks over and tears open the cardboard case, cracking open a can. Taking a sip, he leans against the desk as he smiles.

“Art can be bad with time.”

“As I’ve noticed,” you reach your hand out to motion towards the drink and Patrick hands it to you, staring as you take a large sip.

“Well,” you wipe the side of your mouth, “I told him to bring the topics he wanted to study, so I guess we can’t do anything until he gets here.”

Patrick nods with a slight pout, his fingers playing with the pop tab of the can. “I guess we can’t.”

“How’s tennis… stuff,” you laugh as you finish the question, not sure of exactly what to say.

Patrick seems to tense a little at the mention of the sport, moving over to sit next to you on the bed. His knee grazes your leg and you feel a slight buzz at the contact as he takes the beer from your hand.

“I’m kinda fucking it up right now,” he says, and you furrow your brows.

“How? You were like, really good yesterday.”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. He hands you the beer and you finish it off, placing the empty can at the bottom of your feet.

“I’m good with Art. It feels so fucking natural and easy with him. But in my other matches, I don’t know. I just … can’t replicate it.”

You nudge him with your leg.

“Sounds like you two were made to play tennis together.”

He makes a noise of agreement, his hands slowly moving to ghost over your thigh.

“You and Art are pretty close?” you ask as he plays with the bottom hem of your shorts, but he doesn’t say anything. You take his silence as a yes.

“Do you ever get jealous?”

“Of Art?” he asks, almost incredulously. You shrug.

“Yeah, or jealous of the girls he’s with. Either or.”

Patrick sits on that for a few moments before smirking.

“What’s mine is mine, and what’s his is mine.”

You laugh at that, a real deep laugh, and Patrick giggles next to you, the both of you tipsy from the can of beer you finished. You reach over and put your hand on his flushed face, rubbing your hand across his cheek.

“What were you doing before I came?” you feel his face warm even more against your skin as you position yourself closer to him.

“Practicing- or, sorry, rereading my scorecards from my last match.”

You tutted as you moved your hand to the back of his neck, gently running your hands through his hair.

“You can tell me the truth, Patrick.”

He turns his head to press a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand before looking up at you as if to check if that was too much. Whatever your expression is gives him the confidence to move down to your neck, his tongue licking your skin.

“I think you know.”

You feel a pull in your lower stomach at his words, muffled by his mouth nipping at the sensitive spot just below your ear, and he sucks hard enough for you to put your hand around on his face at the pressure. Pulling his face up, the two of you stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, and his eyes glance toward your lips. You wanted to wait, to make him beg and plead for it, but your body seemingly pulled you forward as your pressed your mouth onto his.

You were really quite bad at waiting.

He tastes like tobacco and faintly of the fruit medley in the dining hall, and you sigh as his lips interlock with yours and his hand grabs the back of your neck, pressing you into him. The kiss gets messy and hard, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip and into your mouth as you lift your leg to straddle Patrick, grinding into him. He whimpers into the kiss as his calloused hands drop down to the waistband of your shorts, hesitating for a moment before dropping his hand into your underwear. You grind just a little bit faster as his fingers press circles into your clit, covering your mouth with your hand as you moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as he uses his other hand to guide your hips, and your move your hands down to tug firmly on his hair. You can feel your climax building, the pressure in your stomach getting closer and closer to taking you over the edge-

You both jump at the sound of the hotel room dor slamming shut. Art is standing there, in that damn backward cap and a Stanford tee shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest, saying nothing as you and Patrick sit up straight, him adjusting his crotch and you smooth down your shirt, avoiding his gaze. Finally, the silence is broken by Art laughing.

“Christ, I’m not the cops,” he slips out of his slides as he waltzes over and opens a can of beer, drinking about half of it in one go. You look at him, and at Patrick, and then back at him, not knowing what the hell you just got yourself into.

“You want to fuck him right?” Art asks, and you can’t help your small gasp at how easily he said that. You glance at Patrick, hoping he’ll know what to say, but he’s just staring at Art.

“I-um,”

“So, no one’s stopping you,” Art cuts you off, taking a final swig of his beer and moving to stand directly in front of you. You open your mouth to try and explain, but before you can talk Patrick’s mouth is on yours again, his hand roaming your body. His grip is firmer now, his fingertips digging into the side of your stomach. He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and you separate, breathless as you pull your shirt over your head and toss it on the floor. Patrick’s mouth moves down to your neck, then your collarbones, and then your chest as he reaches around to take of your bra, and you feel on fire from Art’s gaze across the room. As Patrick kisses down your stomach and yanks down your shorts, you turn over to meet Art’s eyes.

“Come here.”

Whatever resolve Art was holding onto crumbles as he quickly takes off his shirt and slips out of his Nike shorts, tossing his hat on the dresser. In a flash Art’s hands are on your neck, tilting your head around to kiss you as Patrick lifts up your hips so he can take off your underwear. Art’s lips are softer than Patrick’s but he kisses you a little bit harder, his hand cupping the base of your neck. Somehow, they both taste the same. You moan into Art’s mouth as you feel Patrick’s tongue swirl around your clit, rolling your hips into his mouth as Art’s cock presses into your back. It’s just so much so fast, and that familiar buzz starts to pool in your lower stomach.

“Look at him,” Art turns your head to Patrick and you look into his eyes as you cum, Art’s hands hold your head forward as a wave of euphoria crashes over you. Patrick’s hands are digging into your hips as he stares up at you and Art. Your chest heaves up and down as you try to catch your breath, leaning against Art as Patrick leans back up, his mouth a few inches from yours.

“Who do you want first?

[togglesbloggle]

It's interesting to me how much people struggle to intuit differences of scale. Like, years of geology training thinking about very large subjects, and I'm only barely managing it around the edges.

The classic one is, of course, the mantle- everybody has this image of the mantle as a sort of molten magma lake that the Earth's crust is floating on. Which is a pedagogically useful thing! Because the intuitions about how liquids work- forming internal currents, hot sections rising, cool sections sinking, all that- are all dynamics native to the Earth's mantle. We mostly talk about the mantle in the context of those currents, and how they drive things like continental drift, and so we tend to have this metaphor in mind of the mantle as a big magma lake.

The catch, of course, is that the mantle is a solid, not magma. It's just that at very large scales, the distinction between solids and liquids is... squirrely.

When cornered on this, a geologist will tell you that the mantle is 'ductile'. But that's a lie of omission. Because it's not that the mantle is a metal like gold or iron, what we usually think of when we talk about ductility. You couldn't hammer mantle-matter in to horseshoes or nails on an anvil. It's just a rock, really. Peridotite. Chemically it's got a lot of metal atoms in it, which helps, but if you whack a chunk of it with a hammer you can expect about the same thing to happen as if you whacked a chunk of concrete. Really, it's just that any and every rock is made of tons and tons of microcrystal structures all bound together, and the boundaries between these microcrystals can shift under enormous pressure on very slow timescales; when the scope of your question gets big enough, those bonds become weak in a relative sense, and it becomes more useful to think of a rock as more like a pile of gravel where the pebbles can shift and flow around one another.

The blunt fact is, on very large scales of space and of time, almost everything other than perfect crystals start to act kind of like a liquid- and a lot of those do as well. When I made a study of very old Martian craters, I got used to 'eyeballing' the age based on how much the crater had subsided, almost exactly like the ways that ripples in the surface of water gradually subside over time when you throw a rock in to a lake. Just, you know. Slower.

But at the same time, these things are more fragile than you'd believe, and can shatter like glass. The surface of the Earth is like this, too. Absent the kind of overpressures that make the mantle flow like it does, Earth's crust is still tremendously weak relative to many of the planet-scale forces to which it is subject- I was surprised, once, when a professor offhandedly described the crust as having a tensile strength of 'basically zero;' they really thought of the surface as a delicate filigreed bubble of glass that formed like a thin shell, almost too thin to mention, on the outside of a water droplet. On human scales, liquid is the thing that flows, and solid is the thing that breaks. But once stuff gets big or slow or both, the distinction between a solid and a liquid is more that a liquid is the thing that doesn't shatter when it flows. And it all gets really, really vague, which I suppose you'd expect when you get this far outside the contexts in which our languages were crafted.

[theartofwoompwoomp]

Hello! Me again! Ok, I saw this on a post however I can’t remember who originally asked for this prompt that got denied but I’m gonna write what I remember.

So the request was Human’s have been gone for a very long time, i think it was like hundreds of years or something

Anyway apparently one day Sonic, Shadow, Silver are in a unexplored area and get caught in a trap and out pops a female human child. The last of her kind, how do the boys react?

Cuz this is kinda a HUGE deal.

this took awhile lol but thank you for the ask it’s a really interesting concept, anyway silvers is shorters than the others mainly because I actually don’t know much about him regardless if I’ve been a fan for years.

As long as we’re together 

Sonic, Shadow, and Silver x human child reader (separate and platonic)

———————————————————————

Sonic

Now this wasn’t something he had expected when he went on his daily run. 

This part of town was usually isolated, just nature from that point on forward. Which is why this place was unnatural. 

He hadn’t noticed at first, but someone’s doohickeys were definitely out to get him.

Having to dodge and swerve many close calls. He was surprised it was making him break a sweat. But ofc, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

Quickly disarming many traps and setting them off for good, they were many of these things.. but, they had no logo.

Definitely not eggman’s then. Then who’s could it be?

Looking around, trying to find anything, there was nothing more than the usual. Oh, and the traps of course.

In fact he was considering that whoever left these had indeed left them for good.

Just when he was about to run off again he heard a creak. Tilting his head towards the source, he could feel his ears twitch.

someone was there.

They took small breaths and clearly made barely any movements. Taking slow steps forwards, creeping toward them he hears their breath fasten before abruptly stopping.

Speeding behind them, leaving dirt the air, he saw a tiny creature. They tripped forward from the impact.

Tbh he couldn’t see them to good thanks to all the dust he lifted. But that didn’t stop him from reaching out his hand towards them.

Finally having a hold of them, the saw face to face… those big eyes, facial structure,… and small body.

It was a human….a.human.child.

They didn’t blink once, breath halted in fear with tears threatening to spill. They were scared.

Quickly pulling a smile, trying to make them feel safe as positive he whispered to not startle you. “hey little one.”

You’re breath still a bit fast paced, but you were no longer cowering. That’s good. It means you’re warming up.

After finding out you were on your own out here he had already decided to take you. 

Though it seemed you had different plans. Clearly escaping every time you were almost in his grasp. He had to give you credit, you clearly knew how to use the forest to your advantage.

It’d take time to get your trust so he had to leave eventually, but he’d visit you every time he could. Bringing food, some games, and from time to time his friends like tails.

For a fast lived guy, he didn’t mind taking his time with you. Knowing you might be the last he was going to make sure you’d continue on.

———————————————————————

Shadow

One of the sad things about being an immortal was the immortality itself. 

Times were a lot different from back then. 

After everyone had officially slept in the forever slumber he decided it was worthless to make any connections again.

But, maybe.. he should’ve made more time for the humans. He never thought he’d see the day when they were no longer around.

It broke him to even think about it.

Was he truly alone on this planet now? The thoughts have eaten him up various times by now.

That’s why when he first encountered you he thought he was hallucinating. Especially since you were a child. He must have really missed Maria if his own brain was this cruel.

Only until he feels a small hand holding his own does he realize you’re not made up. You’re real. And he’s crying. 

Pulling you into a hug. Craving physical affection, company, and comfort. He hold you close, taking in all your warmth, and you do the same, your small arms wrapping around him.

Almost as if you understood the exact pain he was feeling.

He doesn’t know where you came from, or why you’re here, but he’ll be damned to let you go on your own.

He was going to make sure your tiny life was the best with him around now.

———————————————————————

Silver

The future was strange to say the least. Thanks to traveling back in time it was much better than what it used to be.

But one thing he noticed different from the the now to the past was the fact humans were no more.

He was indeed surprised, glad to have been able to meet some the few times he’s been in the past.

Which os why from the moment he met you he bombarded you with questions. Your small brain couldn’t keep up. 

Regardless, he was determined to be a good guardian for you when he found out you were completely alone.

In fact, he’s so serious about it. He even went back to the past to know how to take better care for you and bring you some stuff like food and toys.

He was prepared to do anything if it meant you’d live a long healthy life, as it should have been.

———————————————————————

masterlist

[moonselune]

Drow noble who's grappiling with the knowledge that she's falling for a very much not-drow person. Good lord it's a man, too. The whole surface men thing is really fucking with her. Thank you!

yes omfg i love writing drow reader aha

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

As a noble drow, sworn to the spider queen, your world had always been one of rigid power structures, ambition, and ruthless cunning. Emotions—particularly love—were seen as weaknesses, and the idea of falling for anyone, let alone a surface dweller, was unthinkable.

Worse still, Gale of Waterdeep, the very man you found your thoughts continually drifting towards, was the antithesis of everything you had been raised to value.

He was human. A surface dweller. And a man.

You grappled with this knowledge constantly, the war between your upbringing and the unsettling warmth that had begun to take root in your heart. Drow society would scoff at such weakness. Lolth herself would probably strike you down for even entertaining such an idea. Gale was kind, intelligent, and often annoyingly optimistic—traits that would be ridiculed among your people. And yet… despite everything, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

It was madness. He was nothing like the cruel, power-hungry individuals you had grown up around. Surface men were meant to be tools, meant to be used and discarded, certainly not respected. And yet, here you were, losing yourself to the idea of him.

Your thoughts churned as you sat quietly on a rock overlooking your camp. The surface was unsettling in its own way—the endless sky, the open space. It made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet, it was also freeing in ways you had never anticipated. Still, this love—or whatever it was—felt too dangerous, too uncontrollable.

You let out a long breath, trying to reason with yourself, when movement in the distance caught your eye. Gale was walking across the camp with his usual absentminded grace, his nose buried in a scroll as he meandered through the grass. You couldn’t help the way your gaze lingered on him—his messy brown hair catching the sunlight, his deep focus on whatever arcane theory had captured his mind this time. There was something calming about his presence, even if he was completely oblivious to the world around him.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, Gale tripped. His foot caught on a protruding tree root, and in the blink of an eye, he was sprawling forward, landing face-first in a particularly muddy patch of earth with a muffled thud.

You sighed audibly, feeling a mix of frustration and exasperation bubbling up inside you. Of course, this was the man who had somehow found his way into your heart—this clumsy, absentminded wizard who seemed more likely to trip over his own robes than navigate the world with any semblance of grace.

You could almost hear the cruel laughter of the other drow nobles if they ever saw this, and yet… despite it all, despite his ridiculousness, you felt something warm unfurling inside you.

Without even realizing it, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you watched him push himself up from the mud, wiping dirt from his face with a bewildered look. He glanced around sheepishly, trying to see if anyone had noticed his less-than-dignified fall. His eyes found yours across the distance, and he gave a half-embarrassed, half-amused shrug as if to say, "Well, that happened."

You shook your head slightly, muttering under your breath, “Idiot.”

But even as the word left your lips, there was no bite to it, no disdain. No, that was your idiot over there, bumbling through life with his mismatched socks and his endless passion for the mysteries of the Weave. As much as you wanted to deny it, to cling to the harsh, unforgiving rules of your upbringing, you knew the truth now. You were falling for him—maybe you had already fallen.

It was absurd. He was absurd. And yet, despite everything, you couldn't help but love him.

You rose to your feet, dusting off your armor as you made your way toward him. His eyes lit up with that familiar sparkle of affection and curiosity as you approached, but you could still see the streak of mud across his face, and it only deepened the exasperation you felt for him.

“You couldn’t watch where you were going?” you asked, your tone dry but laced with affection.

Gale chuckled softly, sheepishly brushing more dirt from his robes. “Ah, well, you know me. Too many thoughts in my head, not enough attention to the ground beneath my feet.”

You narrowed your eyes at him but couldn’t stop the small smile that played on your lips. “You’re hopeless.”

He gave a charming grin, wiping the last of the mud from his face. “Perhaps. But I’m your hopeless mess.”

There it was again—that warmth, spreading through your chest and settling deep inside you. The part of you that had been molded by Lolth’s cruel teachings wanted to scoff, to walk away, but the larger part of you—the part that had grown stronger since you left the Underdark—wanted to stay. Wanted to be with him.

You sighed again, shaking your head. “Yes, you are.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The undercurrents of tension in the camp were subtle but undeniable, a silent hum that hung between you and Minthara. The evening had crept in, the flickering of the campfire casting long shadows on the ground as you sat across from her, the crackling flames making her eyes gleam with a mischievous edge. You’d been grappling with a strange sensation lately—one that didn’t sit well with you. It was as foreign as it was unnerving, this pull toward Astarion. A weakness, you told yourself. A distraction.

And yet, there it was.

Minthara’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she watched you, her sharp eyes never missing a thing. The tension between the two of you had thickened ever since you’d let it slip, in some small, unguarded moment, that Astarion had started to mean something to you. She had, of course, latched onto it immediately.

"That pale elf of yours," she drawled lazily, leaning back on her elbows as her smirk widened. "He’d make a fine concubine, wouldn’t you say?"

You stiffened, your hands tightening around the ornate handle of the goblet you held. She said it so easily, as if Astarion’s value was something she could weigh and measure, as if he was a trinket, an adornment. You should have agreed with her. The logical, Lolth-sworn part of you should have seen it the same way—a useful tool, a possession to command.

But that thought twisted in your gut, and before you could stop yourself, a fierce protectiveness surged through you.

"Don’t," you snapped, your voice low and cutting, sharper than you intended. You felt your eyes narrow as you glared at Minthara. "He’s not a toy for you to play with, Minthara."

Minthara’s reaction was instant—an arched eyebrow and a slow, creeping smile that made your skin prickle. She was enjoying this far too much.

"Oh, have I touched a nerve?" she teased, her voice a velvet purr. "Could it be that our cold-hearted noblewoman has fallen for her vampiric elf?"

Her words twisted inside you, and you hated how easily she could see through your carefully crafted walls. This was a weakness, wasn’t it? Astarion was a tool, an asset. But the thought of reducing him to something so simple made you feel… wrong. And now, here was Minthara, teasing you with the very thing you couldn’t admit to yourself.

Before you could muster a response, you heard soft footsteps behind you. Astarion sauntered over with his usual grace, his movements smooth and calculated, his smirk as ever-present as the shadows that clung to him. He stopped beside you, a curious look flickering in his eyes as he glanced between you and Minthara. He could sense the tension—he always could.

"Well, well, what have I stumbled into this time?" Astarion drawled, his voice lilting with amusement as he folded his arms across his chest. "I do hope I’m not interrupting anything too… serious."

Minthara’s eyes gleamed with wicked amusement as she looked at you, silently daring you to act. Here was your chance—your chance to prove you hadn’t fallen for him. To show that you were still in control, that Astarion was nothing more than a useful asset, a distraction to be managed, not embraced.

But you didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, without thinking, you reached for Astarion and pulled him close, wrapping your arms around him in a possessive, protective embrace. The gesture startled him, and for a brief moment, you could feel the tension in his body as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. But then his arms slipped around your waist, holding you with a surprising tenderness, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

Minthara’s smile grew wider, her amusement clear as day.

"Ah, I see," she said softly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "You have fallen for him. How adorable."

You felt a heat rise in your chest, a flush of both anger and embarrassment. Your grip on Astarion tightened, and you pointed a sharp finger at Minthara, your voice firm as you growled, "Go away, Minthara."

She chuckled softly, clearly pleased with herself.

"As you wish," she purred, rising to her feet with all the grace and confidence of a predator who knew exactly when to let her prey simmer.

She sauntered off into the shadows, leaving you and Astarion standing by the fire. The air between you felt heavy, your heart pounding in your chest as you clung to him, still not entirely sure what had possessed you to act so… openly. So vulnerably.

Astarion, for his part, seemed to enjoy it. His lips brushed your ear as he whispered, "You do realize how fascinating you are when you’re all… possessive like that. Quite unexpected from someone of your upbringing." He pulled back slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto yours, a sly grin playing on his lips. "Dare I say, it’s rather endearing."

You scowled, pushing him away gently, trying to regain some semblance of your usual composure.

"Don’t get used to it," you muttered, but the heat in your face betrayed you.

Astarion chuckled, his voice low and warm. "Oh, darling, I’ll cherish every moment of it."

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The midday sun cast long shadows across the camp, where the sounds of practice swords clashing and the grunts of exertion filled the air. Your sharp, calculating gaze swept over the scene as you leaned against a tree, arms crossed in feigned disinterest. Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers, was at the center of it all, effortlessly guiding a group of refugees through rudimentary combat drills. His movements were precise, his words gentle yet firm as he corrected their stances and offered encouragement. It was a sight you should have found ridiculous, even pathetic. Yet you found yourself watching him—again.

The warmth of the sun felt like a strange, foreign thing on your skin, much like the warmth blooming inside you as you watched Wyll in action. He was so good—too good. Too moral. Too heroic. Everything you had been taught to despise in someone. Everything Lolth had warned you against. He was the antithesis of what a Lolth-sworn drow noble should admire.

And yet, here you were, your gaze lingering on the strong lines of his frame as he moved with that effortless grace that came from years of discipline. Wyll was just so… frustratingly kind. A champion of the downtrodden, always putting others before himself, always ready to leap into action to save those in need.

It was foolish. Self-sacrificing. Weak.

But that didn’t stop the traitorous flutter in your chest whenever he smiled, that disarming, earnest smile that made you feel things you shouldn’t—things that no drow noble should ever entertain. Lolth would never forgive you if she knew how easily you were falling for someone like him. A surface-dweller, no less. A folk-hero.

It was unthinkable.

Your grip tightened on your arms as you fought the feelings stirring within you. Weakness, you told yourself. This was nothing more than a fleeting distraction. Something to be controlled, suppressed, forgotten.

And then, as if sensing your gaze, Wyll turned his head toward you, catching your eye from across the camp. For a split second, your heart leapt into your throat, panic rising as you realized you’d been caught staring. His eyes lit up with that familiar warmth, and before you could even think to look away, Wyll smiled—one of those charming, roguish smiles that made your chest ache.

To your horror, he blew a playful kiss in your direction.

Your heart stuttered, your breath hitching in your throat as you felt a rush of warmth flood your face. It was a simple gesture, innocent even, but the effect it had on you was devastating. Your mind raced, torn between the instinct to glare at him, to scold him for being so foolish, so open—and the overwhelming urge to smile back, to let your guard down, to surrender to the inexplicable joy his presence brought you.

Lolth forgive you.

You bit down hard on your lower lip, forcing yourself to turn away, to tear your gaze from Wyll’s infuriatingly charming face. Your heart was pounding now, your mind racing with thoughts that should have been buried.

How could this happen? How could you be so enchanted by someone like him? He was everything you should despise, yet here you were, betraying everything you’d been raised to believe.

Wyll had gone back to his training, unaware of the storm he had ignited inside you. You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath your palm. The emotions you were grappling with—this strange, all-consuming pull toward him—were getting harder and harder to ignore.

You were a drow. You were supposed to be strong, calculating, superior. Love—true love—was a weakness, a vulnerability that Lolth herself had warned you against. And yet… Wyll’s goodness, his decency, was like a light in the darkness you had grown so accustomed to. He made you feel like you could be something more, something beyond the cold, ruthless confines of drow society.

And that scared you.

As you stood there, lost in your thoughts, you realized with a sinking feeling that you were already in too deep. You could no longer deny the truth, no matter how hard you tried. You were falling for Wyll, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

The question was: What would you do about it?

Would you embrace this unfamiliar, terrifying feeling? Or would you push him away, burying these emotions beneath the weight of duty and tradition, as you had been taught?

For now, you stayed rooted to the spot, watching him from a distance, unable to look away for long. You’d never admit it out loud, but in that moment, you knew.

Wyll wasn’t just a distraction.

He was your undoing.

And perhaps, just perhaps, that wasn’t such a terrible thing.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The campfire crackled softly in the evening air, casting shadows across the clearing. The night had grown quiet, the refugees settled into their makeshift shelters, and the others in your party tending to their own business. But you—your mind was in turmoil.

You sat alone at the edge of the camp, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, as if trying to ward off the whirlwind of emotions surging inside. You were a drow, a noble Lolth-sworn drow at that. You were raised in the darkness, taught to be ruthless, cunning, and strong. Yet here you were, grappling with something you had never expected, never wanted, and certainly never prepared for.

Halsin.

The very thought of his name sent a wave of frustration through you. He was everything you should despise—everything your kind was raised to reject. A creature of the earth, a druid who worshipped balance and life, someone who saw beauty in the natural world where you saw only the chaos of survival. He was gentle and kind, especially to the refugees you had originally deemed insignificant. His heart was far too soft for a world like this. And yet, it was that heart that had somehow wormed its way into your own.

You caught sight of him in the distance, helping a family reinforce their shelter. His tall, broad form moved with ease as he offered his strength to those in need, his calm voice carrying through the camp. You hated that your eyes lingered on him. You hated that the sight of him stirred something deep within you, something that made your pulse quicken and your thoughts spiral.

He caught your gaze, and your heart leapt in your chest. Halsin's warm, golden-brown eyes softened as he straightened and made his way toward you, his approach unhurried, but purposeful. You cursed yourself for not looking away, for letting him see the conflict etched into your features.

“Something troubles you,” he said gently as he reached you, his voice like the steady rhythm of the forest itself. He crouched beside you, his presence grounding and yet somehow deeply unsettling.

Of course he cares about you. That only made it worse.

You clenched your jaw, fighting to hold back the chaos swirling inside you. How could someone like him—so pure of heart, so rooted in kindness—make you feel this way? It was wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

“I hate you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion, though the words were filled with no venom. They sounded hollow, even to you.

Halsin’s brow furrowed slightly, but instead of pulling back, he reached out, his large, calloused hand resting gently on your arm. His touch was warm, comforting in a way that only fueled your frustration.

“What have I done to earn such hatred?” he asked softly, his voice devoid of judgment, only concern. He was patient, as always, willing to wait for your response, willing to listen.

And that—that was the problem.

You felt your composure crumbling. Every wall you had carefully constructed, every defense you had built was breaking apart under his gaze. The dam burst, and you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You—” your voice cracked as you banged your head softly against his chest, fists clenched, anger mixing with something far more vulnerable. “You ruin everything.” You pressed your head harder against his chest, as if somehow his strength could erase the turmoil within you. “Damn you, Halsin.”

Without hesitation, Halsin wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you into his embrace. His touch was tender, gentle, and it broke you in ways you hadn’t expected. You stood there, your fists weakly hitting his broad chest before they fell limp at your sides, tears stinging your eyes. You couldn’t even summon the strength to push him away.

“Damn you,” you whispered again, your voice muffled against him, but it held no true malice. It was a desperate, anguished confession. You hated him for making you feel like this—for making you care.

Halsin’s arms tightened slightly around you, his breath warm against your hair as he held you. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, simply allowing you to lean into him, to release the storm that had been brewing inside you for so long. His presence was unshakable, a solid force of calm in the midst of your chaos.

“Whatever it is that troubles you,” he said softly, his voice low and soothing, “you don’t have to face it alone. I am here. Always.”

His words cut through you like a blade. How could he be so good? So kind? It made no sense, and yet you couldn’t stop the flood of emotions that surged in response. You felt vulnerable, exposed in a way that terrified you, but you couldn’t deny it any longer. This man—this druid who was so unlike anything you had ever known—had become someone you couldn’t bear to lose.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“You don’t understand,” you whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t know what this means. I shouldn’t feel this way… not for you.”

Halsin looked down at you with that steady, unwavering gaze of his, his hand gently cupping your cheek.

"Perhaps not by the standards of others,” he said softly. “But the heart… the heart does not always follow such rules.”

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening at his words. The world you had known—the one ruled by darkness, deception, and power—was crumbling away, and in its place was something you had never expected: love. It terrified you, and yet, with Halsin standing there, holding you so gently, you realized that perhaps… just perhaps, it wasn’t so terrible after all.

And in that moment, as his warmth surrounded you, you allowed yourself to let go, if only for a little while.

“Damn you,” you whispered once more, but this time, the words were softer, filled with something closer to acceptance than anger.

Halsin smiled, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. “Damn me, then,” he murmured. “If that is what it takes.”

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you didn’t fight it. You allowed yourself to rest against him, to feel the peace that his presence brought. Because, in the end, no matter how much you tried to deny it, you knew the truth: you were falling for him.

And there was no turning back.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I loved writing this and hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[tritoch]

one thing I find neat about Emet-Selch is that his chauvinism is so intense that it actually prevents him from making the strongest possible case for the unique moral goodness of the ancients, and that this same mental distortion ties into his classic final fantasy need to turn into a Horrible Final Form Monstrosity for your final fight

(for my part I think any minor unique moral goodness the ancients possess they have due to their status as demigods living in eden before the fall. even if they really are morally/intellectually/spiritually/magically/etc. superior to every modern eorzean on a 1:1 level it still doesn't change anything because 1) they are mythical and impossible, that's the whole point and 2) even if they weren't, they still have no particular claim to existence that is superior to anyone else's, no matter how good they are. but the point here is the case Emet-Selch is trying to make, which is that they are more "worthy" of life.)

when he's setting you up for the final amaurot sequence, Emet-Selch hits you with this one:

it's a solid line! stops the party cold for a second.

it's also...not that impressive. do I think if we called a big world meeting that half of everyone would just jump up to be chosen? maybe, maybe not. but, sorry: we're having a big world meeting? are we also demigods with their every material need fulfilled in this version? do we have a one world government that almost everyone seems to fully trust telling us that it knows for real a way to stop the meteor heading towards earth? because honestly i think as soon as we start creating structural similarities like that, it becomes a lot more likely. and every step you take towards making the comparison happen on level ground makes the idea that the ancients were possessed of some unique moral fiber that made them capable of this sacrifice (as opposed to the undeniable abilities in magic and global governance that actually enabled it) seem less and less likely.

and especially if you consider it in the context of what actual people are like. human (and presumably eorzean) history is replete with examples of people sacrificing themselves to save others, even though none of us are immortal wizard philosophers. i don't know how the white-room thought-experiment "will half of you die to save the others???" turns out. but do i think, across a grand rolling catastrophe, that half our population would sacrifice itself to save the other half in a million individual acts of sacrifice to save a parent, a child, a lover, a friend, a stranger? that seems significantly more plausible. altruism and sacrifice for others is even pretty frequent in animals! it's not a very unique moral behavior!

(stanford encyclopedia of philosophy on biological altruism)

but that's not the only sacrifice the ancients made. roll the tape, hythlodaeus!

...Yet oh how the star had suffered. So many species lost. The land was blighted, the waters poisoned, and even the wind had ceased to blow. Once more did our people give of themselves to Zodiark. Another half of our race sacrificed to cleanse the world; to ensure that trees and grasses and myriad tiny lives would sprout and grow and flourish.

(every time I read this speech and hit the ff1/3/5 ref about the land and waters and wind i become mylongestyeahboyever.avi)

this is the step beyond, and it's what separates the ancients from modern humans. they viewed themselves as stewards of the star and really meant it; whatever other criticisms you might level, you can't doubt the depths of their commitment. and this i think really does make them morally distinct from modern people, or at least raises that possibility in a much more compelling way than the first sacrifice. half of the living population sacrificing itself not in a moment of duress and apocalypse but in a moment of calm? when the sacrifice isn't for anything but plants and animals and some tiny proto-eorzeans? that kind of cold, calculated, long-term altruism, aimed at people and living beings that are nothing like you...that does feel like something a little more unique, more worth preserving. even in just the text of the game, we can say with real certainty that the ancients were at least more capable of facing their problems and had greater moral integrity and care for the world than, say, the people who made ra-la.

but emet-selch can't ever say that because rejecting and dishonoring the decision the ancients made as stewards of the star is his primary goal.

like, "my people were uniquely morally good. half the living population sacrificed themselves not for their loved ones or for the survival of their people but simply for the world. for the trees and grasses and the wind and the water. for the humblest insects and for the summer breeze and the tides." that fucks! damn, you got me there! i watch enough people throw aluminum cans in the trash on a weekly basis that i find this sincerely moving and beyond the seeming abilities of my own brethren! oh no, i'm being persuaded by the fascist immortal space wizard!

"and therefore, because they are uniquely morally good, we are going to sacrifice and kill the very things they gave their lives to save, so we can have them back :)" well, shit. i'm experiencing some dissonance here.

but you can't actually lie to yourself as long as emet-selch without distorting your understanding of the truth. you cannot choose to see the world falsely half the time and clearly the other half. in committing to self-deceit and willful ignorance regarding the value of the modern world, emet-selch blinds himself not just to the world as it is but to the ancients as they were. if he could describe accurately the ways in which the ancients were genuinely noble and benevolent, he would also have to able to see clearly how he has entirely deviated from that ideal. and he cannot do that and stay on the path he has chosen, so he simply chooses not to see things accurately.

i cannot help but link this blindness of his to his trial. here, at what seems to emet-selch to be the last stand of the ancients, he says to you "to be clear this fight IS a metaphor, and in that metaphor i stand in for the Entire Unsundered World."

and yet, in standing against you, he betrays both the customs of the ancients and his very title, itself a direct signifier of the mission he was charged with as one of the convocation of fourteen: "to ensure that all is right in creation, that our star may know a brighter future." contra elidibus, for whom remembering his duty to the ancients is one and the same act as remembering his name, emet-selch declares his own to be mere pretense. and that's before we even reach the matter of his transformation.

emet-selch believes the only way he can save the ancients is to betray their principles, forget their greatest triumphs, and abandon their trappings. he renounces almost everything of the ancients, save for his pale and sad and faceless amaurot, in the hopes of bringing them back.

i am reminded a little of borges's three versions of judas, a short story which uses the lens of fictional literary criticism (appropriate for a story as interested in competing narrative interpretations as shadowbringers is) to recast the betrayal of christ by judas not as the greatest of sins but as the greatest of sacrifices.

The ascetic, for the greater glory of God, vilifies and mortifies his flesh; Judas did the same with his spirit. He renounced honor, morality, peace and the kingdom of heaven, just as others, less heroically, renounce pleasure. With terrible lucidity he premeditated his sins.

and, in turn, the sardonic footnote to that very same line, which unsettles that sentiment as soon as it has been presented:

Borelius inquires mockingly: “Why didn’t he renounce his renunciation? Or renounce the idea of renouncing his renunciation?”

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

When I watched OFMD this year, I literally knew three things:

It was called Our Flag Means Death

It was a pirate comedy

It had been cancelled

I didn’t know Rhys Darby (‘that Murray bloke from Conchords’) or Con O’Neill (‘the weird guy from Chernobyl’) were in it until they came on screen. And please don’t stab in me in the face, but I had never heard of Taika Waititi. I’m very much not the target market for this show. Although I will say I think it’s universal in its exploration of the human condition. So if you’re human, the show is for you.

I knew nothing about budget cuts, editing decisions, or even at this point any circumstances around why it had been cancelled. I had not an inkling it was a romance. I had no notion it was going to overtake my life to such an extent.

I watched one episode a night for 18 nights (I know, I know… I binge-watched it immediately afterwards over two days, and haven’t stopped since). I also had no-one to talk to about the show as I watched the 18 episodes. No-one I knew had ever heard of it. I really was a blank canvas.

And this is what I thought. Other than finding Calypso’s Birthday a little uncomfortable on first watch (and that’s largely because I find torture, even the OFMD variety, difficult to engage with - I always skip the opening of 206 now), I saw no difference between the seasons in terms of artistic merit. It’s possible that because I didn’t experience an 18-month hiatus, and build up my own version of what season 2 should be in my head, I didn’t have any expectations to be knocked down. I just engaged with what they asked me to watch.

I fell in love with this show at ‘My name’s Stede. I’ll be your robber here today.’ I fell in love with Stede Bonnet when he did his little Scrappy Doo air-punch in episode two.

With regard to season two, The Innkeeper affected me so much I honestly think it altered my brain at a structural level. More so than The Chain sequence which is when I think this show started affecting my brain chemistry.

I also loved the development of Stede and Ed outside of their personas. The couch scene in Fun and Games made me believe in them as a couple in ways I hadn’t quite in season one because they were growing and being real with each other. I thought their arguments were so well-written. Man on Fire has one of the most authentic representations of couple miscommunication I have ever seen on tv. And I think Mermen is really good in doing what it needed to do, and did it well. How do you end a tv series that gives a satisfactorily emotional ending, but doesn’t give away everything in case there’s another season?

Ed’s journey in particular just ripped my heart out and then glued it back together. And seeing Stede continue to develop his very nonlinear understanding of the power of his earnestness and gnc self, whilst still sometimes wrestling with notions of traditional masculinity… I needed to grow a second heart.

When I learned of the financial and time constraints later on, I was shocked they had achieved such a high standard of tv.

Imagine my shock when I discovered the Canyon…

It’s fine if you don’t like season 2, or season 1, or OFMD at all for that matter. But if you want me to say season 2 isn’t any good, or as good as season 1, then you want me to say something that I have never felt to be true. When you experience it holistically like I did, it all hangs together beautifully.