#but trust me its a good chapter

[homosekularnost]

condolences to murderbots very real emotional turmoil but the dynamic these two have in the first half of network effect IS hilarious

[popdrop]

The monk gave a small smile. “This is merely the result of my observation, but you seem to enjoy mentoring those young sorcerers.”

Sukuna groaned. “Not you, too. Did Gojo send you here?”

Chapter 35, A Gentler World.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

IN THE DREAM I DON’T TELL ANYONE, YOU PUT YOUR HEAD IN MY LAP ; SHOKO IEIRI

synopsis; ever since the battle in shinjuku came to its conclusion, nothing’s been the same as it used to. but you don’t think anyone is doing quite as badly as shoko. 

word count; 4.5k

contents; shoko ieiri/reader, gn!reader, canon-typical mentions of death (iykyk), angst, hurt/comfort (but not very heavy on the comfort), jjk spoilers (up to chapter 236!!), mild gore (mentions of blood, autopsies and general gore-ish imagery? nothing too bad tho), shoko ieiri deserves better, includes gojo slander (stay safe gojo nation)

a/n; first of all i just wanna apologize to the shoko girlies for writing angst when we’re already so starved of content, i have like 50 fluff drabbles planned for her but chapter 236 threw me into a mental angst pit so </3 yeah. i love my wife!!

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while.

the thought sneaks its way into your subconscious, as your feet carry you to her morgue — a rotten thought you just can’t seem to rinse away.

it’s not very hard to notice. she doesn’t talk as much, for one. not that shoko was ever much of a talker, but now the silence around her is deafening. thick and heavy like the spine of a knife. and she smiles even less.

you can’t remember the last time you heard her laugh.

the crescents beneath her eyes are darker than ever, darker than you thought possible. a murky purple that you’d find soothing in any other context, but like this it’s just revolting. her eyes are deep and dark, the same as ever, but now they’re glazed over with something you can’t quite put your finger on. 

apathy, maybe.

or bloodlust.

the scent of cigarette smoke that follows her is suffocating. indistinguishable from her natural scent. you don’t know if she’ll ever be able to scrub the tobacco stench off her skin.

(you’ve given up on counting the exact number of cigarettes she smokes each day. you’re not sure you want to know the answer.)

she doesn’t even look alive, anymore. like some part of her already reached its expiration date. a spectre, wandering the hallways, filling the air with the slow, ominous clacking of her heels.

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while — and it’s so obvious. her grief is so heavy, her sleep-deprivation so severe. you’d have to be blind not to notice it. 

so why hasn’t anyone said anything?

you gnaw at your bottom lip, trying to suffocate the bitterness swimming inside your veins. it’s a dumb question, really, because you already know. you don’t want to acknowledge it, because it’s so unfair, but you know. of course you do.

no one has the time to. it’s as simple as that. 

no one’s doing well, anymore. not since shinjuku.

not since gojo died.

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing. always with her, tucked away within those eyebags, in the pockets of her coat. in that smell of tobacco, never-fading, always lingering. it follows her like a ghost, like something she’ll never quite be rid of.

(like something she doesn’t want to be rid of.)

shoko’s grief is a fickle thing, and it always has been. but recently, it’s been downright overwhelming. it used to be subtle, the kind of thing you notice if you look close enough. if you squint. if you even care enough to try.

but now, it’s more like a haunting than a simple ghost.

(geto. nanami. yaga. and now gojo, too.

how many people does she have to lose before whatever’s watching is satisfied?)

shoko hasn’t been herself for a while, and it’s obvious, and it’s sickening. she still does her duty to a tee, but she isn’t quite there anymore. gaze always forlorn, as if she’s trying to convince herself of something.

and yet no one says a thing.

everything is one big mess, right now. you don’t want to blame anyone. everyone’s exhausted, completely and utterly spent, but they’re still planning it all out. even in the midst of their mourning. because they don’t have any other choice. 

this is not the kind of situation where you should be pointing fingers. a part of you is angry, livid even — but you know the others are doing just as badly. it’s not like you aren’t, either.

still, though. isn’t this just too unfair?

”i brought you coffee!”

making sure your voice doesn’t waver is tougher than you initially assumed. just the sight of her sends a tremor running through your ribs; sunken down in her chair, papers in hand, eyes scanning the pages methodically. papers of what, you’d like to ask — but you already know.

(she’s reading through the post-mortem examination report, again. searching for something you don’t understand. you’re not sure she does, either.)

and she looks exhausted.

try as you might, your voice ends up sounding a little stale, as it flows from your lips and reaches her ears. but the attempt is there — the attempt to sound cheerful, calm. normal. to give her something to hold on to.

shoko looks up at you, and her lips curl in a way you think is supposed to form a smile. it doesn’t. her eyes look into yours but it’s like she’s not seeing you at all.

when you go to give her the cup of espresso, your fingertips touch. only for a second, before she curls her fingers around the ceramic handle. she receives the coffee with a small murmur of thanks, but you don’t notice because you’re too busy thinking of how cold her skin feels.

(cold like a ghost. cold like death.)

shaking away the shivers down your spine, you allow your gaze to trail over the morgue. it looks the same as always. cold, empty. foreboding. today, you think it feels just a little chillier than usual. matching the temperature of the outside world, where everything lies buried in heaps of snow and frost.

hesitantly, you plop down in the seat right next to hers. with such a narrow distance, you can smell the tobacco sticking to her clothing. it makes you want to throw up.

(you try not to look over at the couch in the corner of the room, where a certain someone used to slack off. his awkwardly long limbs would dangle off the edges, and shoko would pretend that she didn’t enjoy his company. you were more than content with silently admiring the smile she was trying to hide.)

shoko doesn’t look at you, professional in the way her eyes run across the files. cause of death: damage to central intestines, subsequent loss of blood. from a cut to the stomach, right below the liver and spleen.

you look away before your eyes can read another line.

leaning back in your chair, you exhale a tiny sigh. desperate to fill the silence with something, anything at all. you scramble for topics, racking your brain.

(what could you possibly tell her that she doesn’t already know?)

”the others are still planning everything out,” you speak, playing with your fingers idly to distract yourself. ”i think it’s going well.”

shoko hums, unaffected. ”that’s good.”

she’s speaking to you, but that feeling of unease still won’t go away. her voice sounds still, flat. empty of emotion. but you can tell she’s trying to be polite.

that’s no surprise. shoko isn’t the type to ever show how she’s truly feeling. she’s not the type to ask for help, either. people come to her for help, not the other way around. that’s all she’s ever known.

(in that sense, the two of them were alike.)

but that just makes it all the more important for you to be there. even if you’re a little awkward, and even if you can’t do much. even if it’s only for a moment or two, you want to see her smile. you want to feel for yourself that she’s really there.

looking over at shoko, you wring your hands together, the cold air of the morgue nipping at your sweaty palms. she’s drinking from the cup, one finger around the handle as her other hand flips through the papers.

”does it taste okay?” you ask, softly. if only you could ask her that under better circumstances, with cups of espresso made with better coffee machines than those at jujutsu high. ”i made it myself, so…”

”it’s fine.” shoko takes a sip. dragging her syllables out, as if mustering the will to speak. ”don’t worry.”

short sentences. almost cold, but you know better than that. she just doesn’t have it in her to pretend that everything is normal, anymore.

and it makes you uncomfortable. this silence. 

a couple months ago, it would have felt comforting; a quiet, peaceful kind of solitude shared between the two of you. nostalgic, like the smell of morning dew. or the way moonlight feels on your skin when the world falls asleep.

the silence you had with shoko always felt so tender. a single moment of peace, before the other shoe dropped. just that one moment was enough to give you the hope you needed to make it through another day.

you loved being silent with shoko. you loved her silence, the way she could soothe your very soul without saying a thing.

but now it only stings your skin. you fear that you might drown in it.

there is nothing to say. you want to ask her how she’s doing, but you already know. you want to ask her why she’s still reading the files from gojo’s autopsy, but you already know.

you want to ask her if she can still keep going, like this. but you already know.

she doesn’t have a choice.

(something crumbles, deep inside your chest, like ashes cast into the sea.)

”hey. shoko?”

she hums, again. weak. quiet. absentminded, acknowledging your words but not really hearing them.

you take a deep breath.

”i think i’m going to quit being a sorcerer.”

silence.

for a moment, nothing happens. nothing moves, or speaks. the air is cold and crisp and carries no meaning, no words, nothing at all. 

like time is frozen. frozen like all the bodies shoko’s had to dig inside these past few months. frozen like gojo was when she found him in the snow.

frozen like your youth, a glass marble kept in your pocket for moments when you feel as if the ground beneath your feet is about to slip away. then you’d take it out, and look deep inside it. watch the swirling of greens and blues and purples. that streak of indigo right in the middle of the glass. memories of the past, to give you comfort.

to remind yourself of why you’re doing this. to give you a reason to keep moving forward.

(south or north, it doesn’t matter. stay as you are or move forward, look to the past or to the future — none of it matters if you aren’t alive. that’s the conclusion you came to.)

shoko’s expression, too, is frozen. it doesn’t change, even as you let those loaded words fall from your tongue. you watch her carefully, out of the corner of your eye. she doesn’t even look at you, gaze still glued to the tiny letters detailing exactly what gojo’s pulse was at when he got cut.

but something flickers, in the depths of her irises, so fast you barely catch it. something you can’t identify, but it’s still something. it’s movement. it’s alive.

”not right now, obviously,” you elaborate. suddenly a little nervous, now that the words have been made manifest. ”but… you know. once all this is over.”

not sure what else to say, you trail off, fidgeting with your fingers again. voice wavering pitifully towards the end of the sentence, because deep down you know it’s not a question of once, but a question of if.

(if this ever ends. if i don’t die tomorrow, or the day after that.)

you swallow the lump in your throat, and look at her. trying to find her eyes. trying to keep her alive for as long as you can, this sequence of motion, this moment frozen in time.

trying to reach her.

”you won’t ever have to worry about me dying,” you throw in, like the words are light and not heavy as bricks. but you know she needs to hear them. ”i’ll leave, and then — and then…” 

staring down at your lap, you link your hands together. exhaling, a little breathless. sheepish, in a way. ”… well. i don’t know. i haven’t thought that far ahead, yet.”

you never had the chance to. you didn’t even really think of it as a possibility, as something you could do. and you know it’s not a possibility for shoko. the choice to be a sorcerer was never hers, from the very beginning.

a user of the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing almost any wound, more power and capability than a child should ever have. invaluable. she’s saved so many lives you’re sure she’ll be reborn as a god.

but the choice was never hers.

a soothing kind of ache blooms in both your palms, as your nails dig into the soft skin. hard enough to form crescents, like the ones under shoko’s eyes, that she’ll never be rid of no matter how much she sleeps. the choice was never hers.

isn’t that just too cruel?

they don’t deserve her. none of them do. the elders didn’t, the jujutsu world doesn’t — not even the students. no one deserves it; everything she does for everyone, day and night, just slaving away in the morgue or her office. cutting up curses and old friends. every second of the day, always that same buzzing of her name being called. 

shoko, someone needs healing, come quick! 

shoko, i know it’s 2 am and you have work tomorrow, but there’s a curse that i need you to dissect.

shoko, i think i got a paper cut, would you mind taking a look?

none of them deserve her.

you think of gojo. a flash of white hair, a grin brighter than the sun. a bloodstained smile — one shoko had to wipe away.

something ugly claws its way up your throat.

none of them deserve her. especially not him.

what were you thinking, leaving her all alone like this? so much for being the strongest. you couldn’t even stay alive.

why would you die with a smile on your face? do you have any idea how cruel that is to her?

you idiot. don’t you know how much she missed you?

— yeah. none of them deserve her. gojo doesn’t, the world doesn’t, and neither do you. no one does. 

what shoko deserves is to live a normal life. 

and she never will.

it’s foolish. it’s naive, a juvenile daydream. but you wish for it so, so badly. so much that even just the thought alone feels like too much to bear.

you wish you could bring her with you. 

you wish you could take her hand in yours, and run away. leave it all behind, every single thing, without caring about the consequences. you’d hold her hand and never let it go, and then you’d run and run until you were both high on adrenaline and breathless laughter.

maybe you could go somewhere, together. somewhere better. outside of japan, where there are less curses. money wouldn’t be an issue, you both have more than you know what to do with — one of the perks of having a job that’s bound to kill you. you could settle down in some smaller town, peaceful, maybe a little secluded. just to make sure no one finds you. 

maybe you could open up a little shop, together. or spend all your days tangled up beneath the blankets, catching up on lost sleep. talking and whispering, like you’d do back at the sleepovers you used to have. you’d make her coffee every morning, and tea every evening. you’d spend the rest of your life trying to make her laugh as loud as possible.

there’s nothing you want more. absolutely nothing. there never will be.

— but you can’t ask her.

you can’t ask her to come with you, no matter how much you want to. that’d be the cruelest thing you could possibly do to her.

she would never agree. you’d only be hurting her more. so selfish, all of these wishes. it was so much simpler back when you were just kids. when you didn’t have to care about duties or responsibilities. when your cognitive empathic abilities were just a little more lacking. 

a sigh flows from your lips. resigned, but somewhat hopeful, all the same. tainted with the murmurs of a memory that’ll never happen.

”maybe i’ll open up a bakery, or something.” you tap your fingers against the desk, smiling a little to yourself at the thought. or trying to. ”then you could come visit.”

shoko looks into her cup of coffee. watching the swirling of the vortex, the abyss that gazes back at her. she doesn’t look at you but you can tell she’s listening. then she puts the cup down, and you glance at her now-empty hand. 

shoko’s hands have always been pretty. even when they’re covered in grime, or stained with blood. thin, a little bony, smooth skin obscuring clear blue veins. moles litter her hands like stars in the sky; one right beneath her pinkie, another by her wrist. the more you look, the more you find.

tentatively, you broach the distance between you. curling your fingers around her slender ones, where they rest on her lap. linking hands. it’s a slow movement, drawn out and careful, accompanied by the heavy beating of your heart. 

(her skin is cold to the touch. your skin buzzes with unease, but you don’t let go.)

then you smile. a small thing, not really optimistic, but the attempt is there. something for her to hold on to. looking deep into her eyes, admiring the hazel glow that never quite left them.

”i’ll give you free pastries.”

a moment passes. shoko’s fingers squeeze around yours — weakly, but it’s there. movement, motion, life. a way of reaching out. a way to hold on.

her eyes continue to trail over the page, but you know she’s not reading any of the contents. you’ve caught her attention. a small victory, but you’ll take what you can get.

”i don’t like sweets,” she reminds you, leaning back a little in her chair. allowing her eyes to flutter shut, at last — and it’s not much but it’s something. a moment of relief for those tired, tired eyes. more tired than any 29 year old’s should be.

”i’ll change your mind,” you promise, mustering up enough will to sound smug. ”my pastries will be out of this world. you’ll get a sweet tooth in no time, sho.”

she exhales a breath, vaguely amused. your smile widens, hopelessly. her happiness was always the root of yours, wasn’t it?

then she looks at you, one eyebrow raised in lazy scepticism. ”can you even bake?”

”nope,” you deadpan. ”but i’ll learn. you’ll see.”

this time, shoko almost chuckles — and it’s more than you’ve gotten out of her in recent memory. god, you missed that sound. a little raspy, from all the cigarettes, but still so honeyed and smooth. hearing it makes you feel as if everything will turn out fine, in the end.

(what a powerful thing, for a voice to do. one so lovely it anchors you to the earth.)

a faux pout curls its way to your lips, and you squeeze her hand lightly. ”don’t laugh, i’m being serious!” your pout shifts into a soft grin, a little teasing. ”i’ll get you addicted to sugar instead of nicotine.”

”haha…”

shoko laughs. shoko laughs and it’s beautiful.

shoko laughs, a genuine laugh, and it’s so beautiful that you almost don’t notice the tears in her eyes. almost.

and then you realize your mistake.

a memory comes to you, then. you recall a hushed conversation, beneath a cloudy summer sky. the air was heavy with the scent of lilacs and cigarette smoke. two people were beside you, and all you cared about was listening to the tilt of their voices. that, and nothing more. a time before everything and everyone went south.

(”you know, shoko. you really should drop those death sticks of yours.”

”i don’t want to hear that from the guy who needs 40 grams of pure sugar every day just to function.”

”rude! and as far as addictions go, sugar is a cut above nicotine, don’t ya think?”

”whatever. just worry about yourself, gojo.”)

by the time you realize, it’s already far too late. the tears have already begun to fall. little droplets of grief, sticking to her skin.

they trickle down the contours of shoko’s face, and fall onto the paper in her hand, smudging the letters. she clutches it tightly, crinkling it, just to make the damage worse. her other hand is still holding yours, chipped nails digging into your skin gently.

but she keeps laughing. low, hazy laughter — pained. she sounds like she’s in pain, and that’s because she is. even if no one ever cares to mention it.

(how cruel, for her to be born with the reverse cursed technique. capable of healing any physical wound; leaving her with too many mental ones to count. never to be healed or acknowledged, in this life or the next.)

you can only stare. helpless to her sadness. her eyes are a little red, and she’s biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood — a drop of scarlet falls onto the paper, and you think of gojo again.

you think of shoko finding him. running to his side. doing all she could to heal him, to patch him up — getting blood all over her hands and clothes. red everywhere, staining the pure white of the snowfall. like something out of a painting.

she did all that she could. pressing down on his chest, positive cursed energy pouring out from her fingertips in tandem with the snow. pressing two shaky fingers to his pulse point, just in case. just to find any sign of life, absolutely anything. hoping so tenderly that she’d feel the flutter of his pulse. that he’d get up, and laugh obnoxiously, and ask her if she really thought he’d leave her behind so easily.

you’d never seen her look so scared. so desperate, a primal kind of fear you’ve learned to associate with self-driven survival. the way some animals can claw their way out of a predator’s stomach if they’re swallowed whole. but she did that to save him. trying to claw him out, herself. from the belly of the beast.

she did all that she could.

but gojo didn’t do anything. he just laid there, split in two. frozen in time, eternally young. watching the sky. smiling.

(what a wonderful way to die. what an awful thing for an old friend to find.)

before your mind can catch up, your body acts. muscle memory, in the way your arms curl around her midriff to bring her close. tucking her into your side while she sniffles and cries. still laughing, like she’s still trying to convince you that she’s fine. like she’s isn’t falling apart at the seams.

the dam breaks. the ice shatters. everything comes crashing down — and you’re there to pick up the pieces. despite everything.

it’s not enough, it never will be. but at least it’s something.

it’s heart-wrenching, the way she clings to you. like you’re the only thing she has. the dry laughter that spills from her throat devolves into sobbing, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, nails clinging to the fabric of your clothing like she’s trying to anchor herself. broken sniffles fill the space between you as she hides away, in the crook of your neck.

(the sound makes you feel like someone drove a knife from your sternum down to your stomach.)

all you can do is hold her. quietly, delicately. as if she could break if you squeeze her too hard. as if she’d shatter like a sheet of glass if you were to say the wrong thing again.

you hold shoko like she’s fragile. because she is, regardless of what anyone else says. because she’s a human being, and she’s grieving, and she needs this.

eventually, she musters up the will to speak — and it’s awful, raspy, broken syllables she has to force out of her throat. 

she chokes on the words like they’re poisonous. like she’s been carrying them around for decades, bubbling beneath the surface, waiting to be let out.

“don’t — don’t end up here,” shoko pleads, voice wavering through the syllables. full of fear. “please.”

you know what she means. she doesn’t have to say it, because you know.

don’t end up in my morgue. don’t end up on my autopsy table. 

shoko sounds meek. she sounds close to falling apart. you’ve never seen her like this before, clutching onto your sleeves as if begging you to stay. 

“you’re — you’re the only one i…”

she doesn’t finish, cut off by a broken sniffle. but she doesn’t need to. 

you’re the only one i have left. i can’t lose you, too.

please don’t die. please don’t leave me behind.

a shaky inhale. your arms tighten around her waist, tugging her closer. praying that she’ll feel the steady beating of your heart, the undeniable proof that you’re alive. that you haven’t left her yet. 

you blink away the tears in your eyes, grasping for control over your wavering voice.

“i won’t.”

and maybe it’s cruel, maybe it’s the cruelest thing you could do to her — making a promise you know you might not be able to keep. but you do so anyway. helpless to her sadness. at the complete mercy of her grief. you’d do anything to stop the tears from falling, to soothe the turmoil in her chest.

“i won’t let you be alone, shoko,” you murmur into her hair, with all the comfort you can possibly muster. ”not now, or ever.”

three words yearn to be spoken, resting on the tip of your tongue. three little syllables, desperate to be heard after living in the back of your throat for so many years. 

and for a second, you think you might say it. 

you think you might say it, breathe life into the statement. you can almost taste it, can almost hear it. can almost see what her expression would look like.

but shoko sniffles, and hugs you tighter. protective, like you’ll leave if she doesn’t. so tightly that it hurts a little.

and you swallow the words, once more. 

right now, this is enough. it’s enough that you’re alive, that you’re here. that’s what shoko needs, right now.

she doesn’t need your love. she just needs you to stay alive.

so you will. you decide that you will, no matter what. you’ll leave, and you’ll open up a shitty bakery that won’t get any customers — and you’ll give her free pastries for the rest of your life. you’ll get her so addicted to sweets that she’ll have no choice but to come back for more.

shoko cries like a child. filling the silence of the morgue with her shaky breaths and quiet sniffles, little hiccups and whimpers. the tears never seem to stop, and you wonder how long it’s been since she last let them fall.

you hold her in your arms, smoothing a palm down her back, counting the bumps of vertebra — and don’t say anything. there’s no need to.

for now, the soft patter of your heartbeat is enough.

ijichi stands just outside the morgue, unmoving. not saying a thing.

it’s muffled, hushed and quiet, but still audible. the sound of childlike crying. the kind all sorcerers do their best to keep to themselves.

in his arms lie a bundle of papers. the final pages of gojo’s autopsy report. it’s important that shoko sees them — vital, according to her. something about the six eyes, the possibilities they hold. the hope that maybe, just maybe…

— he clutches them tightly, and then walks away.

[feedgarf]

i didnt finish rendering this one cause i ran outta steam but i spent too long on it so fuck it we ball 💪

chapter 33 from ABoT was my aaabsolute favorite. i love Ritsu suffering from his own bad decisions he is so silly

[fictionadventurer]

"If the structure of your world ever evaporates, I will still be here."

I think The Q might contain one of the greatest declarations of friendship/love ever.

[odysseys-blood]

literally how i feel any time i read this line. absolutely NOT

i think he's a great mirror type character for the mc depending on how much you draw on the default ra-on and their characterization, but more specifically their feeling of inferiority to solomon (which i take for my mc loyal). both the mc and bael are stuck filling in for a role for a king that neither feels they're well equipped for or were even born to hold and the fact that bael's so used to taking the fall that he's automatically ready to do it for you too is just. man. orz

[acourtofquestions]

Overhead, the stars shone clear and bright, and though Mala had only once appeared to him at dawn, on the foothills across this very city, though she might be little more than a strange, mighty being from another world, he offered up a prayer anyway.

Then, he had begged Mala to protect Aelin from Maeve when they entered Doranelle, to give her strength and guidance, and to let her walk out alive. Then, he had begged Mala to let him remain with Aelin, the woman he loved. The goddess had been little more than a sunbeam in the rising dawn, and yet he had felt her smile at him.

Tonight, with only the cold fire of the stars for company, he begged her once more.

A curl of wind sent his prayer drifting to those stars, to the waxing moon silvering the camp, the river, the mountains.

He had killed his way across the world; he had gone to war and back more times than he cared to remember. And despite it all, despite the rage and despair and ice he'd wrapped around his heart, he'd still found Aelin. Every horizon he'd gazed toward, unable and unwilling to rest during those centuries, every mountain and ocean he'd seen and wondered what lay beyond... It had been her. It had been Aelin, the silent call of the mating bond driving him, even when he could not feel it.

They'd walked this dark path together back to the light. He would not let the road end here.

[prjctdiva]

me 250+ chapters deep into a 1000+ chapters ongoing webnovel I could never casually recommend to anyone going absolutely insane but having no one to talk to

[nomsfaultau]

(Potentially) Daily ask №5

Philza edition!

Stares at him with a mix of hesitation confusion fear disgust respect and concern, hhhhhh I have some feelings about that guy. I put him off as the last character to get an ask cause I genuinely didn't know much about him and cause I didn't really like him either. But here we go!

I can't tell how powerful he actually is. Because the foundation has these things called reality anchors which it canonically traps the reality bending entities with. And Phil was still walking around freely and was powerful enough to make contracts with. But if the reality anchors didn't work on him cause he's so powerful, why didn't he just, yk, break his collected out immediately?

Does he genuinely not understand how traumatizing is a lot of the lovely murder sprees he goes on are, at least for Tommy from what I've read? Like, yeah he's a god but surely he must've researched psychology enough to understand that it's highly stressful?

Are there any repercussions to using his godly powers? Perhaps that's why he doesn't use them often. Loss of humanity?

Why does he actually cling to his humanity via collecting people? Seems like a very illogical and unproductive thing to do if you don't want to get manipulated or hurt in other ways over it.

..I don't have any gift for him but uh.. 👍 good job keeping them alive, dude?

Thanks! I wrote him to be a very complicated guy. This one will dip into some of the deep lore behind the magic system that isn’t entirely explored in Fault bc well the main characters have more pressing problems.

1 and 4 since theyre impossible to untangle. What scp lore I use is up in the air honestly, but Philza is not a reality bender. The Blood God would count as one, though that’s mostly in the ‘unfortunate accidents’ department, and Wilbur very much is a reality. Well breaker but still. Luckily the Foundation doesnt realize he’s an Apollyon since Wilbur keeps that thing locked down anyway. Creatures like Phil are what I personally call Conceptuals, which are personifications of two ideas. They get a lot of names in Fault tho, since it covers Philza, The Blood God, Wilbur’s voidlings, etc. These entities are not real* in the same way a person is, as they lack a body and usually have to anchor onto a vessel. They are beings purely made of a soul, and thus are more controlled by the components of a soul -Memories, Emotions, Name, Bonds. People and Real things meanwhile are more than their essence, and can do stuff like change, act out of character, and most pertinent to this question, break their promises. A person has a body to anchor them but an unbound soul is compelled to complete it be it a bargain, challenge, vow, pulled along by their Bonds. Voidlings to their bargains, The Blood God to his challengers, so on.

Philza is a special case, because he is an entity so powerful that he made himself Real. That’s not a vessel he’s using like The Blood God; he made himself into an actual person. And because he has made himself Real, unlike every other god/void/entity he technically can break his promises. But he doesn’t, because Bonds with his Collected chain him to personhood (and it would be a crappy ethical dilemma if he doesn’t have an actual choice). Philza is like actually billions of years old, and humanity is a blink to him if he doesn’t force himself to live in the present. He can’t care about everyone because they’re dead so fast, but he can become attached to a very select few to anchor him. It took millions of years to overcome his essence enough to even be fully sapient, let alone feel human enough to become one since his form reflects how he feels. Like imagine trying to get in the head space of an ant so completely that you become one. Without Collected, it’s harder for Phil to maintain his personhood though he can probably manage a couple decades without one. And having fought so hard to be a person, Phil isn’t willing to lose it, since again it took millions of years last time and humanity could be gone by that point. As a person he gets to be so much more than an embodiment of fire and fury, is able to change who he is, has purpose and goals and cares beyond the mindless rage he used to be. He gets to be real, all for the low low price of loving and being loved by others. Who the hell wouldn’t? So Philza would sacrifice anything to maintain the Collected system, his promises, and thus his personhood.

And unfortunately his current Collected are suffering for that long term goal. Philza made the Collected Contract with the Foundation because all his Collected were captured and short of setting the entire world on fire he couldn’t find them. Philza is a very destructive guy, but he adores humanity, so that wasn’t really on the table. So he made a promise to the Foundation, and had to follow it or risk unraveling himself. It’s a slippery slope fallacy, but in eternity once you’ve done something once you’re guaranteed to do it infinite times, or so goes Phil’s logic. In his own words: “Morals are a slippery slope. That’s why I made myself a ledge. A precipice so I can know where I need to stop before I fall entirely.” In his mind to snap even one promise gives him free rein to break the next, and the next, each easier to justify than the last until there really is nothing tethering him to his own sapience. The only tenet Philza has is to keep is promises, because he doesn’t know if he can remain a person otherwise.

He doesn’t break his Collected out. He can’t unless he breaks himself.

2. Philza has no morals because in his opinion an immortal can’t have any; what is considered ethical will only shift out beneath you like sand as society changes. He generally aligns with the ethical framework that his Collected have at the time, and Wilbur and The Blade are pretty fine with murder so he’s lenient on that front currently, whereas with his last Collected he was a clean and proper stay at home roommate, his white picket fence completely free of blood stains…until the Foundation ruined that. Philza personally doesn’t have much care for human lives beyond his Collected given they’re just going to die in not even a century anyway. That isn’t to say he isn’t aware of murder being bad/ traumatizing to some people. In fact, prior to the Foundation Philza and the rest took pains to sanitize themselves for Tommy’s visits, cremating the evidence, burning the blood off their hands, etc. They were being actively hunted down and are trying to protect themselves, but also letting a kid see what that life is fully like, all the fear and violence of it, is messed up. Perhaps they sheltered him too much. Tommy didn’t know how to recognized he was being followed.

Once in the Foundation, Philza is less cautious about it, though technically is committing far less murder due to the Collected Covenent. He’s practically behaving himself. Philza makes two mistakes in the Hallway Massacre: 1. Tommy’s killed like so so many people at that point so he doesn’t think it’s a problem, especially as he’s murdering Foundation workers who have hurt Tommy. 2. Philza thinks the Foundation has broken their promise and so he’s free. Technically he’s correct, but the Foundation lies well enough that he later regards the Hallway massacre as a mistake, mostly for political rather than traumatizing Tommy reasons. Philza views the Foundation as a far greater source of trauma for Tommy, and all the murder was for the purpose of breaking Tommy out and so justified to him.

In truth, Tommy had already caused as much carnage as he saw during the Hallway Massacre by that time, albeit likely in smaller, more spaced out batches. The reason that moment stuck with Tommy so much was because he saw it as the consequences of choices he made rather than something he was forced to do. Moreso, all his time in the Foundation he’d been told they were violent monsters that would slaughter humanity without reason. This directly conflicted with Tommy’s experience of being forced and forcing others to be violent; until, of course, Philza proved the Foundation right.

In Later massacres during the amnestic arc Philza wasn’t aware he even had Collected that could be traumatized, and anyway only Tubbo was really there to see it. Any later murders on Phil’s part are typically in battles. He does recognize that Tommy doesn’t prefer to fight, and honestly Phil prefers that he doesn’t too since Tommy getting captured mid battle is how the whole group got picked off one by one. Tommy tends not to see most of the fighting. Philza recognizes that Tubbo abhors murder and would ideally solve that through smoking them to sleep through battles so they don’t get traumatized via their partial omnipresence. But Tubbo refuses bc of moral principles or whatever, and so Phil can’t minimize much trauma there without acting against their expressed boundaries, and since the majority of his Collected want to fight and he refuses to let them be killed/hurt/captured, murder time it is. Potentially if they were on better terms he’d smoke Tubbo anyway on the grounds that it’s better for their mental health, but Philza feels ant present Tubbo wouldn’t understand he’s ‘acting in their best interest’.

3. One large factor is that it’s very hard to be a mile long dragon inside of a itty bitty room, although much like he pretends to be human Philza is likewise only pretending to be a dragon. And also it’s hard to hug his tiny little mortals when he’s big. Plus while his Collected are immune to his fire, the smoke generated from burning matter can be hazardous unless it’s hot enough to be a complete combustion.

And unless his human form is killed (which takes an awful lot of effort) Philza can only switch forms through reframing his entire mental schema. His inner world controls his body, and switching between believing you’re a human and a dragon is quite difficult, let alone reverting to his uncontrolled true essence which Philza takes great pains not to do. It’s a tricky balance between loosening his self imposed reigns and fully unbridling his self. Too much and he might lose sapience altogether. When feeling untethered to his humanity, he does also become more draconian. Philza finds it easier to go from dragon to human since all that’s doing is adding more chains, and you can’t really go overboard with that. Though it is certainly easier to go between a human and dragon, which are pretty similar if you think about it what with their brains and meat and what not, than between an animal and fire/fury incarnate.

4. Answered above. And yes it is all illogical to some extent, since love rarely is purely rational. But immortality would be hell without other people. Going insane is even less rational, so Philza picks the former.

5. Philza sweeps a bow. It is unclear if it’s sarcastic. He then pulls out a wallet, which upon opening dumps out long rows of photos, and tries to corner you to gush about his kids. He is a dorky dad first and a deplorable threat to society second.

[mxtwister]

Same Old Story - Part 1 of Discordant Days

Chapter 1: The Stranger

Rating: Teen and Up

Characters: Player Character, Kayleigh, Dr. Pensby

Warnings: N/A

Summary:

| Well, we all fall in love, but we disregard the danger Though we share so many secrets, there are some we never tell | When Cass awakens to find themselves stranded on the strange and fantastical New Wirral island where man and monster intertwine, they soon become entangled in their new friends' longing to find a gateway back to their home worlds, and escape this land once and for all. Their only clue? The fractured song of a fractured being-Morgante, an Archangel with desires of her own-whose lonely music leads Cass and their companions on a journey across New Wirral that will change the fabric of this world, and their lives, forever. ...That is one version of the story. But Cass doesn't know where "home" is. In fact, they can't even remember who they are. And as they struggle to find their identity in a world suspended in animation, they may just discover that their story-this same, old story-stretches across time in ways they could never have imagined.

Read on AO3

Well, I guess we're doing Cassette Beasts now

Preview under the cut

The morning The Stranger came to town was the morning the light fell not-quite-right on the gleaming pearl of New Wirral island. Lonely in the ocean, awash in air of a milky blue tint that was held as still and bracing as breath between teeth, it swelled imperceptibly–anticipatory, but of what?–the ground rising and stirring and groaning softly with the ache of forgotten motions. Within it, something pressed under the skin. Its pressure cracked the ground. Softened like sores left untreated and rotting, the earth bucked and crumbled away in soft black chunks with grass tearing like tangled hair and from under it cold masses budded and rose–

–and just as suddenly, an unseen palm opened and pressed the ground back into shape. Its fingers curled and, finding what it was looking for, gently cradled the figure lying alone on the shore.

“It’s time to go,” it seemed to whisper. “It’s time for us to begin.”

The Stranger awoke. 

Immediately, they clutched their stomach and retched a gutful of saltwater onto the sand, clouded with mucus and blood and tasting like a sour wound. They gasped for breath. Salt heaved in their lungs and stung where it rubbed against the cracks in their lips; when they were finally empty they massaged their sore throat, wincing at the long, scratched-up streaks they could feel running down to the pit of their stomach. How much water had they swallowed? Or, better question, when had they even swallowed it?

Why couldn’t they remember?

Why, when they wiped their mouth with the back of their sleeve, was the fabric completely dry despite the waves that had torn their stomach and still now lapped at the back of their heels?

They shook their head in an attempt to clear it. There had to be something inside to uncover, something that would tell them where they were, how they’d landed alone in the sand surrounded by dried beachwood and limpid seaweed strips and pieces of shells as fractured as their own memory. But there was nothing. They were alone, even inside their own mind. The only company they kept was the whistle of wind that curved under their ear and along the line of their jaw towards their chin, lifting it up with the gentle touch of a friend saying, “Look. Come see the world that you now live in.”

The world….

It was dawn and everything was soft. The sandbanks rolling into hills of sweet grass and flowers were sparkling pink with white particles like flecks of glass or snow, above which trees fluttered teal-shaded leaves and bushels of pine that crispened the air with their sharp smell. Undergrowth leapt between their roots. Fresh, spring green, they were filled with babish curls of new growth and the small heads of newborn anemones already taking on their distinctive star-like shape, mingling with dog rose and daisies in a bed of leaves that intertwined like hands and fingers searching for the comfort of a warm grasp. 

Sometimes there’d be a twitch of a petal or the clatter of a pebble tumbling down the side of the dunes. Birds twittered, but there wasn’t once a flash of wings. Insects buzzed in their ears, and yet not a fly came to land on the stinking pool of blood and vomit beneath them. Here they were seeing the world, but somehow they seemed to exist just outside of it, like a hasty scribble etched into the wrong layer. 

Really, the only proof they had that this wasn’t some elaborate farce or hallucination was…

…well, there was none.

All they could do was trust their senses as they flooded, renewed, into their body. Lifting their head, they sniffed the air for anything other than brine or blood or plant decay, but the thickness of the odor swamped everything. Even if there was civilization close by they wouldn’t be able to catch scent nor sound of it until they got away from the roar of the sea and its bubbling, crashing, hissing waves. Squinting past the salt that fuzzed up their vision, they glanced around. To their right, the line of beach ended in a wall of craggy cliff rising high enough above the sea to vanish into the thick soup of early-morning fog. Not ideal. To their left, though, it seemed to go out much farther, and in the not-so-distant distance three shapes of a strikingly bold orange stood out against the dimmer, more natural colours of their surroundings. Could they be man-made? A sign that there were people close by, that they weren’t totally alone in the wilderness?

It was worth a try.

The Stranger staggered to their feet and began to drag themselves across the sand. Their body ached as if it’d been pummeled by the waves for hours, a strangely uniform pain that pulsed through their muscles just beneath the unbroken skin. Every now and again they felt something fidget inside them. The twitch of an organ, maybe, the righting of a rib knocked askew. They tried to slow and give their insides a chance to reassemble themselves, but found themself quickening anyway when the objects ahead came into sharp enough focus for them to make out their distinctive, pyramid-like shape.

The Stranger came to an abrupt spot as the traffic cone closest began to quiver. Its base lifted up like a flap on a jack-in-the-box and from within it two large, almond-shaped claws emerged, guided by a sickly green flame of an eye lit up with a supernatural intensity. The creature stared at them, motionless. They stared back. Was it intelligence they saw in that glimmering, bulb-like eye? Or was it aggression clacking along those sharp, ridged claws? They couldn’t quite tell, but either way they didn’t like it when the creature began to creep towards them.

Traffic cones. Unexciting on their own, but a sign of life.

Just not the kind of life they were expecting.

“Greetings,” they said. “Get out of my way.”

As if in answer, the creature’s eye flooded a nasty-looking red.

“Fine. If that is what you wish.”

[jamiethebee]

Fully caught up on the manga (minus spoilers for the last chapter) and..... Ya know what maybe I am a villain stan because I just.... Don't trust that anything really changes in society. Everyone outside of heroes, when given speaking parts, seems to indicate that they'll step in or do something in order to protect themselves - not out of any sense of responsibility or community, but to safeguard their lives in case the other person ends up a villain. Or maybe I'm just pessimistic? But we've seen irl time and again that this ending attitude doesn't work. Doesn't have change. Certainly not long lasting change. I really really wanted to finish the series still liking Deku but throughout the fight, every cut back to someone other than Deku, talking about his heart and how good he was and how much he was doing to fight for the person - and the cut back is just "punch". He never responded to Shigaraki's words. He never engaged with the man himself. And at the end of the day, I feel more trust in Uraraka. More trust that she'll actually work on saving people's hearts. And she's back in construction work like her parents. And of course the camera dies and no one sees Toga's heart. Because how dare anyone think a villain could be a person (paraphrased that one interview guy).

I really really wanted to end this manga happy with it. I'm not stupid enough to conflate the reality of the story with fandom. I'm not. I really wanted to enjoy it for what it is. But when they directly ask "how do we fix villains being made" the answer is "you don't. We can't" and ???? That's supposed to be what the manga was working towards this whole time? I - .....

[kaiser1ns]

OMG GUYS THEY FINALLY UPDATED THE WINDBREAKER WIKI YAYY I HAVE BEEN WAITING!

Chika is 183 cm tall 🎀 Hmmm cute mmmmm 🎀 Having a description of his personality won't stop me from writing fluffy things about him, nuh uh, he is going to show his more 'human' side to you and only you. I said what i said :3

[isoobie]

yall are not reading for the next lmb chapter....

[cowboy-robooty]

MANHWA WHY ARE YOU ALLERGIC TO LETTING THE YAOI BOYS HAVE A SEASON TO BE ESTABLISHED AND EXPLORE THEIR RELATIONSHIP TOGETHER. WHY DOES EVERYTHING HAVE TO END ONCE THEYRE TOGETHER OR THEY HAVE TO KEEP GOING BACK N FORTH SO THE MANHWA CAN CONTINUE. JUST FUCKING GIVE ME THAT SLICE OF LIFE SHIT YOU HAVE GOOD CHARACTERS YOU CAN WORK WITH THEM WHEN THEYRE ESTABLISHED I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT

[lunalunawillow]

Just read Kick It Up a Notch and while the event's story was good why did it do the thing that a good chunk of VBS stories do (especially the more recent ones since Walk On and On) of just dragging the fuck on certain points 😭

Project Sekai's pacing is overall pretty great considering how story heavy and extensive it is! With Leo/Need and Nightcord being perfectly paced and WxS and MMJ having minor yet negligible hiccups but then Vivid Bad Squad's is just all over the place?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying their story is bad (trust me they do have banger,good paced stories and I'm excited for the heartbreaking plot twist coming up in June) but some of them just drag on for far too long

For example, Toya getting inspiration from the hospital guy is interesting but it loses it's appeal when it feels like 75% is focused on him and not Toya making music (and later getting to appreciate his bond with Akito) which was supposed to be the plot of the event??

And also the aforementioned recent Kohane event with the middle just feeling like meandering to have the ending randomly feel like her version of Vivid Old Tale minus the nostalgic undertone turned sad by more recent info and the much better pacing that event had

I have more examples of this but I don't want make this rant(?) much longer but TLDR vbs please stop making parts of your events go on for far too long 😭

[cloudbends]

I'm gonna be honest I never expected pokemon horizons to be up there as one of my favorite shows currently when I was first intrigued by it last april, but it keeps surpassing my expectations. I'm emotional.