#does this classify as long post?

[wildstar25]

My brain whilst getting ready to head off to work: so what if that "sweet, two cakes" meme but the cakes are arsay and yshtola comparing one another and then kea shows up going "sweet, two doms"

My brain must be stopped.

such an image has now been brought to reality (to the best of my abilities) (a slight remix in that I added g'raha cause lets be real he'd also be equality excited >w<)

[marsprincess889]

Uttara Phalguni_ the bonds, the tribe, the family bussiness

Part 1

A lover AND a fighter

How to create bonds that last, how to build an empire, how to rule a kingdom

☀️

Intro/note:

Hi everyone, so this is the teased Uttara Phalguni women trope post.

A lot of these examples in media are the ones I love and have come to me in times and moments when, now I can see it in hindsight, they were relevant.

In the aftermath of claire nakti releasing her video on Uttara Phalguni men and the fairytale/story trope associated with it, I want to share my observations on this nakshatra (which is also my ascendant) and especially the women who carry it, which have been sitting and simmering in my head for a long time, longer than I knew at first, because a lot of this is kind of also my life.

I had to split this into two parts. Part 2 is right here.

This first post overviews Uttara Phalguni in general and then connects its themes to Uttara Phalguni women in various films and tv shows. The second part continues that theme, and then it ends with another review.

The main focus of these posts is Uttara Phalguni women.

Uttara Phalguni on the zodiac/nakshatra wheel

To overview this nakshatra a little but, Uttara Phalguni is a Sun ruled nakshatra in the second (out of three) stage of the civilization, bridging the signs of the Solar, fiery Leo and the Mercurial, earthy Virgo, the signs of the 5th house (pleasure, creativity, children, worship, recreation, self-expression) and the 6th house (everyday life, the mundane, health, routines, work) respectively.

The deity ruling it is Aryaman, one of the adityas, god of partnerships and contracts. Uttara Phalguni means "the latter fruitful/reddish one" 🫒, completing the fertile duo with Purva Phalguni and setting the stage for arguably the most materialistic nakshatras thematically_ Hasta and Chitra.

It's classified as warrior ⚔caste, stable/fixed in nature, and its yoni animal is the bull 🐂(male cow, yoni consort of its opposite Uttara Bhadrapada).

All of this associations have some kind of relevance to the themes I discuss later.

Setting the stage for the Uttara Phalguni story: ties, loyalties, family bussiness

5th house is coorelated to the offspring. The other two nakshatras in Leo_ Magha and Purva Phalguni, rat yonis, both relate to family trees in some way. Magha relates to them directly, connecting to ancestors and their power to give them the "claim to the throne". Purva Phalguni is about procreation and continuing the family line.

Uttara Phalguni, the last nakshatra of Leo and the first nakshatra of Virgo, is about the completion of that pattern, the fruits being ripe for harvest, the stability after the passion, the abundance and relationships within the (extended) family that carry to the work life.

Uttara Phalguni natives, having this energy in them, know and understand that all kinds of relationships should be built on honesty, truth, loyalty and support, and that takes work. They know that fun comes with responsibilities, and they know that being part of a family is a real job...

The Uttara Phalguni woman ⚔☀️🐂🫒

The family darling, the good girl, or is she?

The Uttara Phalguni woman begins as a beloved daughter or a daughter like figure in many stories. She's often privileged, good-natured and willing to help, and has the reputation of a sweet, somewhat innocent figure.

Uttara Phalguni's basis above is "wealth gained from one's family", basis below "wealth gained from one's partner", these bring about the accumulation wealth.

They are portrayed as supportive and loved by the whole family, like the person in the family that nobody can completely hate.

Despite their reputation and "princess"-like status, they always have a spirited and adventurous side to them, a strong and stubborn character that never clashes with their goodness and niceness, but, as we will see as we go on, it does often clash with her family.

We see her remain kind-hearted and sweet through time, but in almost all of their stories, she secretly (or eventually, not so secretly) feels out of place in her own family or in the imposed role.

The Sun_ Uttara Phalguni's nakshatra ruler (also its sign ruler in the Leo portion), as discussed by many in vedic astrology, is the planet of the individual in its unapologetic and radiant state. It represents the soul, as its constant and immortal. Uttara Phalguni natives live by their integrity and hearts. They have to be true to themselves, but as family and community is important to them, they never want to hurt the people they consider to be in their tribe.

This is the beginning of the dilemma of Uttara Phalguni that is the running theme in the stories discussed: do I abandon so much of what is dear to me and hurt my tribe to follow what I feel in my heart?

Her image of a "good girl" is often tied into this story. Uttara Phalguni women, as the archetype of the nakshatra on its own, are not devil-may-care femme fatales, nor are they ethereal, almost mythical feminine figures, they're not the nonchalant "black cats", skilfully/secretive and manipulative women or the completely submissive, infantilized "babygirls". They're "real", kind, open, bright, spirited and honest women with honor and integrity who know themselves and their values by heart, who follow their hearts and stick to their convictions, who stand among their tribe and support the people they love. They are driven by their personal fire and guided by their bright light within. They have generous, golden hearts, ready to give to those who deserve it, ready to forgive those who they consider family, ready to stand by their loved ones' side forever, to shower their people with happiness and beauty.

All Virgo nakshatras represent the female/feminine in the most literal, earthly sense, and Virgo women are embodyments of that. Uttara Phalguni, being the abundant and giving/ripe one out of the three, has a unique role which has to navigate both generosity and receptivity.

All of this sounds poetic and beautiful when said like this, and it's true, but those who fail to see the worth of these women often crudely label them as "boring", "vanilla" or as "good girls" who have nothing interesting to offer other than being sweet and good. Their Earthy, grounded and stable nature along with other classic indicators, often push Uttara Phalguni women into the role of a "girl next door"_ the easily available/accessible girl who is known for being "normal" (Lili Reinhart's Betty from "Riverdale", Olivia Newton John's Sandy from "Grease", Emma Watson's Hermione from "Harry Potter" films are great examples of the archetype, and all of these actresses have Uttara Phalguni in big three).

This image and role is also often unconciously imposed on her by her family, which dims her true light and consequently makes her desire to distance herself from them stronger and stronger. The role can be something considered "ultra-feminine"_ unrealistic standards that were born out of twisted masculine projections or the opposite_ something masculine and giving, where the Uttara Phalguni women constantly adjusts to male whims and dims herself, so that unhealthy masculine energy is satisfied. This can easily turn into silently tragic circumstances for Uttara Phalguni women, as I explore it in part two.

So, unfortunately, these women often feel misunderstood, used and taken for granted.

Uttara Phalguni's connection to family extends to friendships and partnerships, where they treat each relationship with serious intentions but loving, lighthearted energy. With friends, they value understanding, support and loyalty. With romantic partners, they value all those things too, but since they often feel like something is always missing when viewing themselves just as a part of their family, a romantic interest serves a different kind of role.

In these stories, the choice of her love is different than what people would expect from her. She wants to state her choice and "prove" to everyone that she's more than what most make her out to be, to be seen and appreciated for who she truly is, not for the role she was pushed into.

The interesting and extremely common pattern is that, often, her partner is the one who understands her deeply and sees her for who she actually is, and often, the partner is considered to be "less than" her in one or more ways. In a lot of those stories, a big factor or indicator of her choice between duty and self-interest is a man she chooses to love, who is in some way always less privileged and often, in one way or another, part of a completely different world.

I want to mention how perfect Saturn ruled individuals are for them as romantic partners. Saturn people, in my opinion, are really the only other planet type(this can also apply to other Sun-ruled individuals..) that notice and recognizes her for who she actually is. Refer to the Sun women part in this post to read my take on it. Saturn is also connected to hardships, representing which type of individuals Sun women feel best with, as two of the Sun and two of the Saturn nakshatras are yoni consorts.

Sybil Crawley (U.Phalguni Sun Jessica Brown Findlay) in Downton Abbey, Sarah Cameron (U.Phalguni Moon and Asc Madelyn Cline) in Outer Banks, Queen Clarisse (U.Phalguni Asc Julie Andrews) in The Princess Diaries, Elena de la Vega (Uttara Phalguni Sun Catherine Zeta Jones) in The Mask of Zorro, Princess Isabella (U.Phalguni Asc Sophie Marceau) in Braveheart, Winnie Foster (U.Phalguni Sun Alexis Bledel) in Tuck Everlasting_ all fictional women who are in love with lower class men/men considered "below them". Their love for them is clashed with their love for their family of birth or the obligations that they feel come with their status in the family.

Since her choice of a partner is often not approved, Uttara Phalguni women often fall into the trope of "dating what daddy hates", which combines her desire to follow her heart with the willingness to defy her family.

There are more examples, you'll see them throughout the post.

In "Downton Abbey" a kind-hearted daughter of an Earl falls in love with the family's chauffer. They bond over their shared ideals and values and she decides to marry him, even though she knows her father is going to disown her.

Uttara Phalguni Sun native Jessica Brown Findlay plays Sybil Crawley_ the youngest daughter of the Earl of Grantham. She's known to be kind, helpful and supportive, adored by her whole family (that is not exactly the case with her two sisters and two of them are at each others' throats constantly, but they both love her).

She treats the servants like her friends, gets interested in politics and attends rallies and meetings. She's open minded and supportive to people around her, and her traits make her parents smile at first, but later they turn into a reason for conflict.

Spoilers: she ends up marrying him and after she herself passes away, her husband becomes an essential part of the Earl's family. He also helps to save the estate and becomes a brother to her two sisters, being genuinely loved by everyone, just like his late wife wished. In the end, she brought a blessing to the family, even if it seemed like the opposite at first.

In "Outer Banks" the daughter ("kook princess") of the wealthiest man of the island_ Sarah Cameron (played by uttara phalguni moon and ascendant Madelyn Cline) falls in love with leader of the "Pogues"_ a friend group of the poor kids from the other side of the island. Her turbulent relationship with her father is one of the highlights of the show, which is not uncommon for Uttara Phalguni women in real life (I asked my followers and others publically and you can see the comments for yourself).

Like in many stories feautring Uttara Pahlguni women, she's seen as too proper or boring from distance/from most, or even seen as a spoiled and stuck-up by some. Only her love interest_ John B sees her as who she is (something that is extremely common among U.Ph women in fiction and I think in real life too): spirited, brave, compassionate and full of integrity.

Uttara Phalguni women are rarely, if ever hesitant to fight for their true values, especially when it comes to love, and they're always ready to to stand by their partner. As I have said many times, they take their bonds seriously and conciously or unconciously view all of them as "marriage", in the sense that they consider all parties bound by both mundane and cosmic law.

In Vedic texts, even on websites that can be easily found online, moon in Uttara Phalguni is considered a great day for couples to get married, one of the rare ones to be so, and according to some, the best one.

"In sickness and in health", they are ready to stand by and fight alongside their beloved. Being a fixed nakshatra, having a bull yoni and ruled by the radiant Sun, these women are steady and reliable sources for people in their lives, especially their romantic/sexual partner.

In "The Mask of Zorro" the daughter (secretly adopted) of the governor of California meets a rogue rebel and people's hero_ Zorro, falls in love with him and gets on his side, standing against the man who raised her in order to do what she felt was right.

Uttara Phalguni Sun and Ketu native Catherine Zeta-Jones plays Elena De La Vega (known as Elena Montero), daughter (secretly kidnapped and adopted) of Raphael Montero, governor of California, powerful and influential politician. She falls for a masked men fighting for the freedom of people, against the man who raised her. Once again, her love for and attraction to someone "below" her is in conflict with her traditional duties and obligations.

This story also has an important element of feeling out of place in your family, like the examples before, but here the issues with a father figure is even more apparent.

Sun rules the father, and the sign of Leo (and the 5th house), in which Uttara Phalguni begins, relates to linages and procreation. 6th house_ the house of Virgo (where most of Uttara Phalguni falls), relates to work in its traditional and hyper-mundane sense, as it's the place of "the material" in every sense of the word.

In Uttara Phalguni, there's a theme of family feeling like a job or a chore, even if money and "privileges" are theirs because of it, just because the emotional connection and support isn't there.

To go back to the "good girl" image that these women feel trapped in, Elena herself expresses her struggle during a confession:

Elena: I dishonored my father.

Alejandro (Zorro/the masked man/her love interest, pretending to be a priest): That is not so bad. Maybe your father deserved it.

Elena: What did you say?

Alejandro: I said, tell me more, my child.

Elena: Well, I try to behave properly, the way my father would like me to. But I'm afraid my heart is too wild.

Alejandro: Too wild?

Elena: Yes.

At the end of that scene, he tells her something_ the conclusion that Uttara Phalguni natives eventually have to reach:

"Seorita, you have done nothing wrong. The only sin would be to deny what your heart truly feels. Now, go."

Catherina Zeta Jones has Uttara Bhadrapada moon too (and yoni consorts do share many traits) but in this film I think that her Uttara Phalguni Sun and Ketu are emphasized, due to the themes of her character and the fact that Antonio Banderas only has Uttara Bhadrapada (yoni consort, Saturnian) as moon.

The full scene (please watch):

The theme of complicated or strained relationships with fathers or father figures among Uttara Phalguni women is depicted really nicely in this film. This often overlaps with the theme of defining family as bound by blood or from the heart. We could also connect this to the idea of "chosen family" as family through marriage to see why exactly marriage and relations (and other gains) through it is such an important theme here ("Wealth gained from one's partner").

In "Tuck Everlasting", a teenage girl named Winnie Foster, played by Uttara Phalguni Sun Alexis Bledel, falls for a young man from a family of oucasts, despite knowing that her rich parents would disapprove. In this story too, the Uttara Phalguni heroine wants to experience something "more" than what the confines of her obligations offer, as she feels inadequate or miserable there, and in even in cases where she does not, it's still not something she's ever fully satisfied with.

A more tragic example is Princess Isabella from "Braveheart" (1995) who falls in love with a foreign rebel despite being promised to a prince.

As Uttara Phalguni women are often depicted as privileged, they're also often depicted as literal royalty, as the themes of Uttara Phalguni are all important for powerful families.

"Wealth accumulated through one's partner"_ Royal through marriage

In "The Princess Diaries" Uttara Phalguni ascendant Julie Andrews plays Queen Clarisse. She's responsible and reliable (Earth element, sthira/fixed/stable nature, Bull yoni) but also giving and kind, loved by her people (a general pattern among Uttara Phalgunis, especially women, is love from the community).

In the second film it's revealed that although her marriage was arranged (she became royal by marriage, another U.Ph theme), she and her husband King Rupert were great friends who truly cared for, supported, and in a unique way, loved each other. The Queen describes it like this: "We became very fond of each other... he was my best friend". 

But all that time, she and the head of royal security_ Joe, were not so secretly and quetly in love with each other.

Uttara Phalguni women are often the embodyments of "marriage/wife material", the best candidates on the marriage market who, for one reason or another, many men want/is the best choice.

An interesting example would be Cora Crawley for Downton Abbey, played by (most likely) Uttara Phalguni moon Elizabeth McGovern. In this text she's talking to a newfound admirer who she enjoys spending time with, not because she has any ill intentions towards her husband, but because he gives her more (and much needed) time and attention than what her life as the wife of a Count and mother of grown women cannot offer. Early in the show it's revealed that Robert Crawley (played by Purva Phalguni sun Hugh Bonneville, making them a "Phalguni" pair) pursued her for money, to save the estate, but within in a year he was head over heels for her. It's shown many times and in many ways that their marriage is remarkably strong (no matter the challenges) and that Cora is incomparable as a wife and even as daughter-in-law to a notoriously harsh/critical (and a force to be reckoned with) Dowager Countess Violet Crawley (played by Uttara Phalguni moon Maggie Smith, a character who also joined the family by marriage).

The lack of true appreciation that Uttara Phalguni women get used to in their families, blood or otherwise, is shown well in her story and arc. Despite coming from privilege and marrying into privilege and having nothing but sweet intentions towards everyone, Cora is still mistreated multiple time throughout the show. She also posesses strong will and character similar to other Uttara Phalguni women, showing that despite their kindness and giving nature, Uttara Phalgunis are not the kind of women to be underestimated, underappreciated or disrespected.

Cora: London scared me at first. I'd only been in a school room a few months before. But my mother was eager. Why especially? We weren't really in the first rank in Cincinnati. Still less when we moved to New York. My father was Jewish and the money was new. But there was a lot of it and I was pretty, I suppose I can say that now I'm an old lady. She thought you'd make a better match over the Atlantic. And suddenly, here I was in these vast ballrooms, and all the other girls seemed to know what to do and what to wear and how to flirt.

Her admirer: I bet you were more beautiful than all of them. More original, more real.

Cora: I certainly got a lot of names on my dance card... Listen to me bragging! Please forgive me, I never talk about myself.

This storyline eventually ends with her husband, as he becomes extremely jealous, finally realizing that he should have been more appreciative of Cora and not taken her for granted.

The feelings or life events that Uttara Phalguni women often go through is depicted amazingly in the show "The Great" through Uttara Phalguni moon Elle Fanning's character, Catherine.

She starts of as an Austrian lady, about to marry King Peter of Russia. She seems too "sunny" and optimistic about it, maybe even naive, but when she arrives there, despite trying to stay kind and be the best wife she could, her spirit is soon broken.

Elle Fanning's moon is in Leo and so the rulership aspect of this lunar mansion is much stronger in this story.

After she realizes that she won't be treated like she wants to, she starts her search for like-minded people who can be friends/allies in that hostile environment that seemed to constantly and overwhelmingly be against her.

Catherine made the impression of a naive young woman, perhaps what people call "vanilla" today, and she was in truth sweet, but she soon learned to use that reputation to her advantage as she started plotting against her abusive husband.

"The Great" is a highly exaggerated and over-the-top dramedy that contains many themes, which include the dynamics between Sun and Saturn individuals (more specifically cow yonis as Nicholas Hoult is Uttara Bhadrapada moon), the compromise and fusion of energies through marriage (creator_ Tony McNanamara has Ketu in Vishakha) and the story of the Uttara Phalguni woman archetype as she navigates family dynamics, communities, bonds, love and personal power. Those who have watched the later seasons know that Peter is not exactly the villain, but he certainly starts out that way and for all intents and purposes, he WAS abusive to Catherine at the start.

Catherine learns to adapt (Mercury/Virgo influence) and use her cunning to gain power in little ways, through connections.

In this show too the Uttara Phalguni woman becomes royal by marriage, but even when she was the one who gained privilege and benefitted more from the marriage on paper, her partner is still the one considered "below" her, even by Russians at court, especially the ones who know Peter well: Catherine is depicted as extremely intelligent, well-read and generally more capable than Peter in many ways, while Peter is shown as contrastingly crude and dim.

Elle Fanning's Catherine is a perfect example of an Uttara Phalguni woman: kind, intelligent, beautiful, down-to-Earth, self-reliant, giving, ready to compromise, but she's also strong, unafraid to fight back, ruthless when overstepped.

Even though she started out in a weak position, barely tolerating the place, she naturally became the Queen who was truly feared and respected by her people (not unlike Queen Clarisse in The Princess Diaries, who reigned after her husband passed away and was greatly loved).

I highly suggest watching this show if you can.

"Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story" is similar to "The Great" and shares many themes with it. The titular heroine is Queen Charlotte of England (based on the real Queen Charlotte), played by Uttara Phalguni Sun (and possibly moon too) India Amarteifio, starts out as a foreign noble lady who is off to be married to King George of England, without her consent. She feels deeply betrayed because her own brother had an active part to play in it and failed to consider her wishes.

She feels unnatural in the new country, even just because she's the subject of rude and improper discussions about her appearance. Despite this, like Catherine, she tries to settle in by beginning to find allies. She finds a lifelong friend in her servant Brimsley (although she does not know it yet) and in a new peer_ Lady Agatha Danbury, who she immediately bonds with because of their similar age and the shared struggles (being the only black women at court when it was rare and pretty much unheard of, even though they were privileged in other ways).

She's kind but sassy (like Catherine) and values loyalty in every bond she makes.

Which leads us to George_ who she tried to run away from right before the wedding.

In this story too, even though on paper she's the one who benefits more from the union, George is still viewed as someone "below" her, because of his mental health struggles. He was hidden away by his family and tortured to "heal" but Charlotte stood by him despite getting a welcome that was way less than ideal. She defied everyone who tried to "help" George and helped him truly.

Again, the Uttara Phalguni woman proves to be a real blessing to her partner and his family and in this case, his country too.

Her friendship with Lady Danbury is interesting too because it just reminded me of Catherine (from "The Great") and her friend Marial: Charlotte and Agatha befriend and understand each other easily and they are, uniquely, equals, but Charlotte is seen as more naive and "vanilla" (again, I do not know how else to describe it 😭), perhaps because she's younger. She did not even know about her "marital duties" at first. All of these were the case with Catherine and Marial.

Despite all of this, both Charlotte and Catherine find their footing and end up as beloved (more feared, in Catherine's case) and important figures. Later in her life Charlotte is shown to be exactly as sassy, kind and fun-loving as she was in her youth, but much more beloved and respected than before. Her friendships and love for George endured and the community she built is the whole backdrop for the "Bridgerton" seasons.

The beauty in this story lies with the true love that grows from their union (same is the case in "The Great" and with Lady Grantham from "Downton Abbey"): Charlotte's efforts to save and protect the marriage resulted in an enduring and unconditional love between them. As George's mental health struggles worsened with time, Charlotte became the only real person for him to rely on.

I am genuinely getting teary-eyed remembering the ending

This is another story of the Uttara Phalguni woman being a bringer of prosperity and love to their community, and another one where she did so by following her convictions and her heart.

But as much as they can give, they need the at least the same amount given back to them, which is seldom the case, especially when these women are younger. They learn lessons about reciprocity and loyalty, and they deal with heartbreak from close people (Elena from her false father, Sarah from her father, Catherine feom her mother, Charlotte from her brother...) and the betrayal cuts them deep.

...

End of part one, part two is here.

[mockerycrow]

Emergency Contact (1/2) (Ghost x GN!Reader)

>> emergency contact concept here << PART TWO HERE!!

Summary: Simon is your roommate, and you haven’t seen each other in months, considering Simon’s job. An unfamiliar number pops up on Simon’s phone, and answering it makes his world turn upside down.

A/N: How you two moved in together is very vaguely inspired this ghost fic right here. please give it a read! If you finish the song above, I highly recommend listening to the entire album while reading. i’m not the happiest with this, but i’m happy enough to post!

[WARNINGS: Blood and injury, traumatic events/trauma brought up, gore, little comfort, medical inaccuracies, tbh ooc simon but it’s ok.]

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since he’s been home, since he’s seen you. That’s how long he’s been stuck on base, or thrown into a foreign country to complete some mission, or to gather some intel, or to kill someone, just somewhere, anywhere but with you.

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since you softly asked him to stay as safe as he can, and to come back alive, and to come back with at least eight fingers. It was a running joke between you two, a way to relieve the terrifying reality of his job; as long as Simon came home alive and with majority of his fingers, he could consider it a job well done. You didn’t know much of his job, of course—only that he’s military, and he’s gone a lot. You already guessed it was a lot of classified stuff, probably down top secret government type of things. That did make you scared, though. You didn’t want the day to come, the day where people in fancy uniforms show up at your doorstep like you’re some widow. The thought of someone informing you of Simon’s death makes your stomach twist.

Eight months is admittedly a long time. Simon.. he missed you, but he’s rather die that verbally admit it, but he sure as hell felt it. He missed the way he could hear you walk through the house, the weight of the floorboards creaking up your feet. Simon missed walking by the bathroom and the air vaguely smelled your shampoo and body wash, a clear indicator you had just taken a shower. Simon missed the way you carelessly have your shoes next to the shoe rack, not even on it, and despite his annoyance of your laziness? He misses it every single time he’s away. He never really realizes the difference of living on base versus being home with you, and he’s comfortable in both environments for completely different reasons. Simon is comfortable with you because you’re safe, you aren’t associated with anyone he has to deal with on a near daily basis. You don’t scan the kitchen to see which household items could be potential bombs in the vicinity like he does. On base, Simon finds comfort in the familiarity of being constantly on alert, the need for a gun to be against his hip—it’s not the best, considering he’s in fight mode majority of the time, but it’s comforting. It’s familiar. It’s.. home, in a way.

You and Simon call at least once every three weeks—it’s not more because you’re both busy, you have your life to tend to while he has to do something like protecting an American Embassy, or sneaking into a compound to retrieve some vital information. You two talk about all kinds of things; you complain about the neighbors for the nth time, or you talk about your job, just something that he hasn’t heard about in a while. Simon.. he’s limited on what he can talk about—what he wants to talk about. It’s a bit difficult, keeping details of his job hidden away from you. He also keeps you hidden away from them; his team. Price vaguely is aware of your existence, but all he knows is your name and your phone number—someone to alert when he eventually would pass away.

It surprised Price when he requested access to his own file to make a change. Simon went for years without anyone in that section, leaving it blank—and then suddenly ‘[Name] [Last Name]’ is written down, along with your phone number. Simon doesn’t want to die somewhere and then you sit at home, dreading the fact that you haven’t received a call from him for over six months. Other than that, no one is aware of your existence and he wants to keep it that way. It keeps you safe, and he doesn’t want the one thing he has going in his life to be taken away from him—not like everything else has been.

No, you and Simon aren’t together. You just are the one constant he cannot allow to die. How you and Simon became close was rather funny, really—before you were roommates, you bumped into each other at the local stores, the bank, even several public spaces like parks and such. You didn’t see him too often and you weren’t aware on why, but you didn’t really wonder why either. By this point, you knew each other for a couple of months. He introduced himself as SR—not Ghost or Simon, but as SR. You didn’t bother to question it because this tall, bulky man seemed like he was trying keep himself as anonymous as possible. Without fail, you always saw him wear dark colored clothing that hid any identifiable markings—tattoos and scars, that kind of thing. He usually has his hood up with a black face mask covering his nose down, but you do know one thing—he has to have bright blonde hair. Why else would his beautiful eyelashes and eyebrows be that bright? It would catch your eye every time you’d see them. Sometimes you would see him with a beanie on and the mask, with his hood down. This wasn’t too often, as it exposed some scarring he has on the back of his neck, as well as his forehead. This also silently lead you to believe he has a tough past of some sort, which is confirmed when you run into him somewhere you never expected to—your therapist’s building. You bumped into him right outside, and you apologized profusely before looking and going silent as you made eye contact.

A silent agreement was made between you two that day, one that you could never put into words. Something in that moment that dragged you two closer together. You had been through some shit in your life, shit that had permanent effect on you, shit that you wanted to work through. It was horribly tiring, but you knew you needed to work through it—so you could live a life you felt was worth living. Simon, was on the other side of the spectrum. He didn’t want this. He never wanted to tell anyone about anything, but Price, Price fucking made him. Simon spends his days and nights plagued with nightmares and memories—he’s woken up in the middle of the night enough times to know that he needs help, but he was so adamant about not talking to anyone about it. But seeing you there? Someone who he hasn’t known for long, someone who had always greeted him with a smile on your face, laughter spilling from your beautiful vocal cords, and someone who doesn’t touch him without permission? It made him so angry and hopeless about this world. Not even you, a stranger who he sees as the best human being he’s known in a while—despite not knowing you for long—could escape from the cruel and sharp jaws of the world. You found out you two accidentally scheduled the same days, so it became an unspoken agreement to wait for the other outside of the building so you can both go in. Even when you weren’t sure when his next appointment would be, you’d be right outside of that building, waiting for him. You would always be right there, and that’s something he quickly learned.

You lost your house to a fire, everything went with the burning embers that raged inside of the 4 walls of your previous home, the structure collapsing in on itself. You had gotten out in time, and you numbly watched the fire roar, the crackling burning it’s memory in your ears. The piercing sound of different sirens were approaching, but all you could do is stand there with your phone in your hand, watching the home you worked so hard for burn to the foundation built years ago. You felt a hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t bother to turn to see who it was. Everything was going so slow, almost like a movie scene in the worst way possible. Your nostrils burned from the smell of burning wood, drywall, and installation. The hand squeezed your shoulder and you slowly looked at who it was—and was him. Simon. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyes ever so slightly panicked and it was obvious he was asking you something, but you didn’t hear him. All you could focus on was that he was here. You blinked rapidly as your eyes began to burn from the smoke and from that choked feeling going from your chest to your throat. “I..” You croak ever so slightly. You couldn’t hold it back—you quickly grabbed onto Simon desperately, letting out a heart-wrenching sob because you just lost everything you owned, every memory, every piece of furniture, everything.. but he was here. He was the only thing was wasn’t crumbling away from your grasp, the only constant. Once you clung to him, Simon’s senses were flooded with you. Fuck, your touch burned, just like everyone’s else’s but he liked—no, loved how it felt. Despite the image of a burning house in his wake making dread bubble in his gut, your sobs and touch were the only thing he could focus on. Simon hesitates for only a second before pulling you into his personal space, his arms wrapping around you and weighing heavily on your body. Neither of you spoke, he just let you scream into his chest and sob, your fists gently banging against his chest—the anger, the sadness, everything was too much. Simon knew exactly how you were feeling, so he didn’t mind the twinges of pain your hands produced. Simon was the one who helped you while you chatted with the paramedics and the police. He was the one who helped you find your words when you had none left to share, the smell of the smoke imprinted on your clothes.

Without question, Simon took you to his house. He did not have another bed set up, so he had you sleep in his room while he slept on his couch. He hated the hollow look your eyes held, the way you were delayed with your answers, the ways your hands shook. Your everlasting smile had dissipated into a wobbly frown and he.. Simon couldn’t handle it. He grabbed you some of his clothes and helped you into his bathroom, quietly telling you to take a shower. He’ll take care of your clothes. Simon left you alone, and you showered for a long time. He didn’t count, but it was over an hour and a half. Simon didn’t say anything about you possibly racking up his bill, how could he when you had just lost everything? He wanted to.. to help you, and he wasn’t sure why. Even when he found himself scrubbing your smoke and tar covered clothes in his kitchen sink, he couldn’t find an exact reason why he wanted to help you. Maybe it’s because you made him feel human when he needed to be, maybe you were the one thing that kept him coming back to this town, the one thing that kept him from completely pulling away from the civilian world. You had found him in a corner like a dog, lips curled back and snarling—sharp teeth clashing together, and without a word, you gave him reasons to trust you. Although they may not be.. normal reasons to the regular eye, but they were enough for Simon.

You’re enough for Simon. He scrubbed your clothes until his arms burned, and then some.

That’s when he found out that you too, were also someone who could not stay asleep for long. When Simon awoke with his adrenaline pumping from the muffled sound of vomiting, he had to calm himself down because he’s safe, and you’re safe, most of all. Simon isn’t sure when he began to think that way, but it’s one of the many things he’s decided to not question—which also new for him. Simon is man who demands answers, yet with you? it’s like everything naturally falls into place, which is why he doesn’t complain when your stay at his house—which you swore would only be until you gathered enough money for an apartment—turned from a two week stay, to Simon carrying in an IKEA bed frame to put and assemble in one of his empty rooms. Many sleepless nights came and went, and each and every one you spent them with each other, sitting by a windowsill together, other times spending it in the backyard and looking at the sky. Sometimes you would wake up first, sometimes it would be him. You somehow always knew when he had woken up from a nightmare, his heart pounding in his ears—until your hands grab his and squeeze, to ground him. You burn him, and he welcomes the tickle of your ever-glowing flame. A year into this arrangement, Simon finally shows you his face and he appreciates that you don’t look at him any different. He usually hates the searching eyes, trying to memorize every inch of his face—but he’s greedy when you do it. When your eyes roam over every scar and acne scar, when you point out his messily cut hair and half-assed shaven stubble, he doesnt get angry. Simon doesn’t feel suffocated by your glances. He doesn’t wear his mask at home anymore, not when you’re there.

Then Simon gets the notice about his three month leave ending soon; and he knows that you need to know about his job. Or at least, the bare minimum you need to know. In reality, it’s how much he wants you to know, but he doesn’t want to admit that. He sits you down one morning, a cup of tea in his hand and he had a mug of your favorite morning drink on the other side of the table he had bought a few weeks you started staying here. Simon explains that he has a job in the military, that he can’t tell you much, but it means he’s going to be gone for weeks, even months at a time. You’re at a loss at first, because who is going to have an extremely positive reaction to “by the way, I work an extremely dangerous job and I can’t tell you anything and I’ll be gone for a while.. Oh yeah, you likely won’t know if I die!”? Despite your initial reaction, you grow to be okay with this situation. Or, we’ll, as okay as you can be with it. You also find out that he was here for way longer than he originally is, due to his boss demanding him to take a break—AKA, “go to therapy you dafty”.

For a little over two years, you two fell into a good rhythm. A call every three weeks, him coming home and you becoming the safest space he’s ever had in his life.

Which is why when his personal cell phone begins to vibrate in his pocket during some fuck-all meeting, his eyebrows furrow. The number is unfamiliar, but the area code is not. Simon quietly excuses himself from the extended round table, taking his call outside of the meeting room. Price’s eyes follow his figure as he exits, noticing it’s his personal cell phone in his hand. Simon answers the call and presses his phone against his masked ear, muttering a low, “Hello?”

A high-pitched, soft yet serious voice filters through the speaker, a woman. “Hi, is this Mr. Riley?”

Simon pauses, and so does his heart. “Who’s asking?”

He honestly regrets asking that in the moment—one part of him genuinely wishes he never answered this call, and the other part of him is glad he did. “I’m a nurse from Northern Manchester Community Hospital, you’re written down as [Name]’s emergency contact. They’ve been a victim of a hit and run situation, sir. They’re alive, but they’re in the ICU.” The nausea that suddenly bubbles inside of his guys, the stomach acid mixed with whatever he had eaten previously, threatening to travel up his esophagus, burn every inch and then exit with a horrific sound. Simon’s head began to spin—he’s your emergency contact? A hit and run, you were fucking hit?? By what, a car? A pick-up? A semi? God, Simon has seen the most horrible, gruesome, fucked up shit you would ever see in his entire life, yet he isn’t sure if he can handle the image of you spread out in a hospital bed, with one too many tubes circulating around you. His mind plagues him with intrusive images, ones he never wants to actually see played out. Fuck, his head hurts. It feels like someone is physically shoving a knife into his chest and twisting it, like God is laughing at him and playing with Simon’s pain for his own gain. How could he not think that, especially with everything that has happened to him? His friends, his family? His old CO? The fucking abuse he endured??

It’s like Simon lost his hearing for a moment, because he cannot bare fucking losing you, too. There’s a vague ringing in his ears, almost like there was an explosion and he stood too close. And then suddenly every sound comes rushing back to his eardrums, and everything suddenly everything is so fucking overwhelming. “Mr. Riley?” The nurse calls over the phone, her tone laced with worry. He clears his throat and when he speaks, he sounds wrecked, which he fucking hates. “I.. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Simon hangs up, not giving the nurse a moment to speak. He drops his phone and if he doesn’t sit down, he’s going to fall over like a tree that’s been cut down. Simon lets out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way his stomach is screaming and twisting as he puts a hand on the wall, and he crouches down. It’s the first time he doesn’t look around to see if anyone is watching his sudden display of emotion. When he’s suddenly rocked with the feeling of home at work, especially with the news that you’re fucking injured—he’s overwhelmed and twisted all over the place. Simon finds himself stumbling back to his barracks.

Price finds his way to him after Simon never returns to the meeting. He knocks on the door, but his knuckles pause before they can knock against the door for the third time as he discovers the door is open—which is very, very, odd. He slowly opens the door while calling for Ghost, and is met with the sight of Simon shoving some of his clothes and belongings into a duffle bag, as well as his military travel documents. “Ghost?” Price questions, who stopped in his doorway to watch Simon lose his mind while packing. Simon doesn’t respond as he practically rips his phone charger out of the wall and stuffs it into the bag, zipping it up. He slings it over his shoulder and he turns around, pausing when he sees Price. Simon’s eyes tell everything he’s feeling—that something’s happened, something bad, and he needs to leave. Price bites his lip and quietly exhales, his fingers rubbing at his chin. “I’ll approve your leave. Just shoot me a text of how long it needs to be, yeah?”

Simon makes sure to note to send Price a thank you of some sort, because within the next two hours, Simon is boarding a plane, heading for Manchester, wearing some black clothing, a jacket, a black face mask, gloves, and his beanie. The entire time, he could not stop thinking about you—and how you could possibly die before he got there to send off his final goodbyes. Is that something he would actually want to do, though? See you in the hospital, knowing it’ll be the last place you’d ever be alive in? Go home, see how you left the house exactly as you left it? A house, but without his home in it? Simon stares out the airplane window blankly, his hands curled into fists, and his nails would be digging into his palms if he didn’t have gloves on.

He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

The next part for Simon, it’s a blur again. Got off the plane, got his luggage, provided documentation, blah blah blah—he didn’t give a fuck about any of it. His focus was you. He didn’t bother to stop home to drop his stuff off, he took an Uber straight to the hospital from the airport. It was a fairly expensive Uber too, but he could worry about the costs of everything later. It took another half hour to get there.

His heart began to hammer in his chest as the sight of the hospital’s signs began to pop up on the road, the anxiety taking hold in his stomach and his head begins to hurt again. Simon quietly thanks the driver, tips them, and exits the car with a swiftness once they pull up. Simon walks through the main entrance’s sliding doors, going up to the desk. A woman behind the counter hangs up the phone, murmuring a goodbye, and then she looks at Simon with her pretty blue eyes. “How can I help you, sir?” She murmurs sweetly, noting how anxious he is. She can see the sweat on his brow line. Simon clears his throat, his voice rumbling in his chest when he speaks. It takes everything in him to not yell at this innocent woman and get thrown out. “My.. My name is Mr. Riley, I was called ‘cause my friend is here,” Simon manages to push out. “[Name] [Last Name].” The woman turns to her computer and clicks the couple of buttons and types a couple of words and holy fuck, Simon just wants to go to your wing already—“Ah, yes, I see you’re listed as their emergency contact,” The woman grabs a sticky note and writes with a pink pen your room number and elevator floor, handing it to Simon. He barely gets a “thank you” out before he nearly jogs to the nearby elevator. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283—it’s the longest minute long elevator ride in his entire fucking life.

Simon changes face masks whilst facing the wall, and then he finds your room number—and his heart is beating out of his chest. There’s cops standing outside of your room who stop him from entering. Simon’s anger flares up so quickly, he nearly makes a scene until a doctor exits your room. She’s wearing her usual blue scrubs, her coat, and she’s dawning a N95 and some sterile gloves. She’s holding a clipboard. “Mr. Riley?” She questions, holding the clipboard close to her chest. Simon nods without hesitation, and she responds, “I’m sorry, but due to the nature of this case, you’ll have to provide some identification for me and these officers.”

Usually, Simon would hesitate—he gives anyone outside of his team the bare minimum, hell, he only introduced himself as SR until he knew you for a while. This time, he takes out his military ID and shows it to the officers. He ignores their looks of surprise, and ignores the murmurs that come from them. Simon puts his ID away and he holds back the urge to shove them out of the way as he glares down at the doctor on accident. “Come in,” The doctor opens the sliding door and steps into the hospital ICU room with him. Simon follows behind her and he immediately smells the sickening smell only the ICU gives off. There’s a small wall blocking his view from you that he hasn’t past, and he can already hear the machines working. A heart monitor, a ventilator, combined with other machines he doesn’t know too well. The doctor flips through the papers pinned to her clipboard. “They were hit by a vehicle of some sort, the scene suggested they were walking home from the local corner store. [Name] has multiple broken bones and fractures, a punctured lung, a fractured jaw and internal bleeding. They lost a lot of blood at the scene.” Simon doesn’t respond as he slowly walks forward, and he finally lays his eyes on you. It’s.. traumatizing, to say the least. You were never supposed to be in a hospital bed like this, hooked up to machines he can’t even name. He slowly walks over to you, dropping his duffel bag somewhere on the floor. He doesn’t care to look where. Simon barely pays attention to what the doctor is saying—his hands tremble as he stands by your side, his heart thumping harshly in his chest. Fuck.

He drags over one of the chairs next to your bed. Simon takes off one of his gloves slowly, and then he tears the other one off in a frenzy. He feels so unlike himself, so.. different.. human. He reaches over to your hand and his fingers grab your wrist, so gentle as if you’re glass. Simon presses his fingers against your pulse point, counting your heartbeats despite the monitor. The thumping under your skin makes it more.. real. Feeling you, your heartbeat, your warmth and your skin—it’s comforting. Simon clears his throat and fights the urge to vomit once a gain, watching your chest rise and fall, produced by the ventilator.

He moves his hand to intertwine with your fingers and he uses his other hand to feel your pulse. Simon closes his eyes, muttering the beats per minute under his breath.

At least you’re alive—you’re here, you’re alive, and you’re with him. And that’s all he asks for.

tags;; @alwaystired--neversleeping @handsomeunderwear-art @indefenseofkara @kaysav608 @1-is-loneliest-number @rosee-sensuelle @kitty-satan1 @k4marina @rahmown @royalty-purple @bowtruckleninja — if you are not tagged, it’s not allowing me :-)

[sunshineyrosie]

and in the silence, there’s us

summary: she would never have expected bringing her boyfriend a coffee after a long shift to be the moment that changed everything.

pairing: Viktor x reader (no use of Y/N; no physical description but she works as a nurse and grew up in the undercity like him)

w/c: 2.7k

notes: 3rd person POV, allusions to smut at the end, but nothing too explicit. this is my first time posting fanfiction in nearly 10 years, and my first Arcane fic, so please be kind <3 feedback would be very appreciated. also, i’m posting this using the tumblr app, so please forgive any formatting issues.

read on ao3: here 2nd person POV version here

She slips into the lab, balancing two to-go cups in one hand, while pushing the door open with the other. The scent of the coffee curls into the air before she speaks, announcing her presence.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” she says, setting the cup beside him on the workbench. He glances up at her, his face lighting up just enough to make the exhaustion in her limbs worth it.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before returning to the delicate circuit board in front of him. She watches him for a moment—so absorbed in his work, fingers deftly adjusting the tiny components with careful precision.

“Funny you should say that,” she says, dropping unceremoniously onto the stool beside him, stretching out her sore legs. “Because I actually did save a life today. Well… kind of.”

“Kind of?” He hums, taking a sip of his coffee as he adjusts a resistor.

“Well, mostly because I resisted the urge to strangle a new resident with my bare hands.”

His smirk is instant. “High bar for heroism these days, no?”

“Trust me, if you were there you would understand.” She deadpans, taking a swig of her coffee before continuing. “This patient comes in, right? He’s pacing around, clutching his chest like he’s auditioning for a medical drama. Then the brand new just-out-of-med-school cardio resident struts in like he owns the place, and immediately declares that the patient is having a heart attack. Orders every cardiac test known to man, meanwhile I’m standing there going ‘Hey, maybe it’s just indigestion,’ but apparently my Tiny Nurse Brain wasn’t worthy of such insight.”

Viktor lifts an eyebrow in anticipation. “And?”

She huffs, stretching to get a crick out of her spine. “When I kept insisting, he finally sighed, looked at me like I was a nuisance and told me to give him an antacid ‘if that would make me happy.’ Like he was indulging a toddler!”

“Did it work?” Viktor asks, his smirk widening.

“Oh, beautifully. Two minutes later and the guy lets out a burp so aggressive it could be classified as a seismic event, then suddenly felt amazing. Meanwhile, Dr. Smug, MD was suddenly very fascinated with the ceiling tiles.”

Viktor chuckles, shaking his head. “Did he at least apologize?”

“Of course not,” she replies with a snort. “He’s a doctor. Pretty sure admitting a nurse was right would void their medical license.”

“Well, I hope you were gracious in your victory.”

“Oh absolutely. I smiled, nodded and let him marinate in his shame. A picture of a true professional.” She responds with a cheeky grin.

That earns a full laugh from him, a sound she never tires of. “You could write a book. Things I’ve Had to Say to Medical Professionals That Should Be Obvious.”

“Maybe I should, it would sell millions.” He shakes his head, amused.

She leans into her seat as he returns to the work in front of him, and they relax into their normal routine—the easy back and forth, the familiarity. She talks as she always does, effortlessly filling the silence with whatever happens to be on her mind—recounting the chaotic moments from her day. Her patients. Some absurd interaction with a coworker. And as always, he listens.

He doesn’t interrupt much, mostly responding in low hums, nods, and half-smiles as he works. Occasionally letting a quiet chuckle or a cheeky quip escape his lips. But mostly, he just lets her talk. It’s always been like this between them, chattering from her, contented silence from him.

She knows he’s focused—his mind occupied by whatever invention he’s creating, adjusting, fixing—but he never makes her feel like a distraction, or acts like she’s intruding on something important.

Even if she’s rambling about absolutely nothing, he lets her. Because he likes hearing her talk. She knows that he is listening even as his hands move with precision. His quiet attentiveness is one of the things she loves most about him—not that he simply listens to her, but the fact that he wants to.

The hum of Hextech machinery fills the lab, a steady backdrop to their conversation as she watches him tinker with some new prototype. At this, she realizes the absence of his partner. “Where is Jayce today, anyway?”

“Out with Councilor Medara.” He responds, curtly. “Something to do with finalizing their venue choice for the wedding.”

“Did he tell you about the venue?” she says, tipping her head back to finish the rest of her coffee. “It’s ridiculous—ginormous chandeliers everywhere, some garden straight out of a fairytale, a twelve piece orchestra. I swear, it’s more of a spectacle than a wedding ceremony.”

Viktor chuckles. “Jayce does love going all out.”

“Mel, too. They want it to be unforgettable.”

“Seems like they will get their wish.”

She sighs, absentmindedly rubbing at a stain on her scrub pants that won’t come out. “I don’t think our wedding would ever look like that. It’d be simple. Just something small and meaningful.”

She suddenly realizes what she’s said—that she’s referred to it as their wedding, as though it’s a certainty. She doesn’t expect him to react, hoping he wasn’t listening that closely or would take it for what it was—another passing comment, an idle thought. One that she’d never even considered seriously because, well, she assumed it wasn’t on his radar.

Then, suddenly, Viktors hands still. The tool in his grip falls onto the metal surface with a soft clatter. He turns to her, studying her carefully, like she’s just said something that rewired his entire world. “Is that what you want?”

She blinks. Oh.

She hadn’t expected that response. Hadn’t expected his full attention, the weight of his golden-eyed gaze. She hadn’t expected the way his voice turned heavy and serious. “I—”

Before she can get an answer out, he abruptly stands up, grabs his cane and strides—well, as closely as one who walks with a cane can stride—into a lone storage room on the opposite side of the lab. Wait. What just happened?

Panic sets in fast. Her stomach clenches. She hadn’t meant to drop some grand revelation, and certainly had not expected anything more than a hum of acknowledgment. He didn’t react negatively, but now he was gone, and silent. A foreign, uncomfortable kind of silence her brain struggles to interpret. I ruined everything, didn’t I? Scared him off?

Marriage was something she never bothered dwelling on. His work consumed him most of the time. Marriage almost seemed like a silly afterthought in his world—a world of progress and Hextech research and scientific deadlines. And yet… he’d gone quiet and then left the room.

She grips the edge of the counter, already bracing herself for a polite change of subject when he returns. Backtrack, quick. Fix it.

Maybe she could laugh it off, shake her head, say something about it being a hypothetical. Obviously I wasn’t serious about it being our wedding.

Or she could change the subject entirely—a ridiculous shift into something, anything else. This was certainly an area she excelled at. Hey, did I tell you about my patient who thought she could cure her appendicitis with lavender oil?

She scrambles to think of something, anything to pull herself out of this mess.

She’s just about to get up and find him, to force the words out of her mouth before the silence swallows her whole, when he returns—his expression unreadable, something clutched tightly in his palm.

Without hesitation, he makes his way back to her, stopping close enough that she can see the flicker of determination in his eyes. Anything she planned on saying was suddenly lost in her throat.

Then, gently, he takes her hand, turning it over before slipping something onto her finger—a thin, delicate loop of twisted wires. “I’ll get you a better one,” he says, watching her reaction intently. “But I couldn’t wait another moment to see a ring on your finger.”

Her breath catches, alternating between glancing up at him and back at the wire now wrapped snugly against her skin. The makeshift ring is a delicate twist of copper wire, with thin strands of blue and silver cables weaved through it. It fits perfectly, and it’s threaded in a way that gives it a quiet elegance so beautiful that it shouldn’t be possible for something crafted in mere minutes. Yet, somehow, it is.

It shouldn’t surprise her, really. Not when it’s his creation. Not when those meticulous hands of his could never make something carelessly, even if he tried.

“You—“ her voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re serious?”

“I am.” His voice is steady, sure, like he’s just made the easiest decision of his life. “I’d like to formally apologize for not getting down on one knee—bad leg and all. I figured proposing without completely wiping out on the floor was the better choice.”

A relieved laugh bursts out of her, the tension melting instantly. Then, voice full of warmth, she nods. “Okay.”

His relief is instant, undeniable. Before another word can be said, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in—so tightly, so fiercely, like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go. She hears his cane clatter to the floor.

She presses into him, fingers clutching the fabric of his well-worn vest, her scrubs still wrinkled and stained from a day that now feels insignificant compared to this. Viktor, the co-creator of Hextech, the man who never rushes, never jumps without thinking, somehow did just that today. This man—her fiancé—was going to be her husband.

Neither of them ever thought they would have this—this moment, this certainty, this absolute rightness that never seemed possible growing up in the Undercity. No one had ever expected much from Zaunite kids like them, but they both refused to let their circumstances dictate the limits of their success.

She fought her way into the world of medicine, earning respect in a field that wasn’t always kind to her. And Viktor—he had built something incredible, something groundbreaking, with a brilliant mind that never failed him, even when his body tried to.

They found each other in spite of a world that didn’t seem built for them. But now, here they were. Standing in a city, in a lab, that once felt like a distant dream, holding each other like the world finally made sense, and neither of them would let go.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

Later, much later, they lie tangled together in bed, still sweaty and out of breath.

Their bodies were pressed closed together like the space between them didn’t have a right to be there. He’s been stripped of the braces he wears throughout the day, his back and leg finally free of the rigid support. Just skin against skin, warmth without barriers.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the night outside in Piltover, and an occasional creak from the old apartment settling around them. His fingers trace slow patterns along the bare skin of her back, absentminded; a habit more than a conscious thought. She has her left hand placed on his chest, unable to stop staring at the ring. Hardly believing it was real.

She exhales, shifting against him, pressing a chaste kiss onto his bare chest, right over his heart. “What if we just elope?”

His fingers still for half a second before continuing their path. “Skip the whole thing?”

She hums, placing two, three more kisses against his warm skin. “Think about it—no stress, no planning, just the two of us.”

Viktor considers it. He can picture it easily—just the two of them, slipping away, exchanging vows in some quiet place where no one else exists. Incorporating Zaunite traditions into the ceremony. It’s tempting, ridiculously tempting.

But then—

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I think it would be nice to have our people there. The few we have, that is.”

She exhales, tilting her head back to look at him, pleased to see his amber eyes looking right back at her. “Yeah. It would.”

Neither of them have families in the traditional sense—no parents, no extended relatives waiting for an invitation. But they do have people, as few as they might be. “I guess if we do that, it will barely even be a wedding. No ridiculous venue, no big fluffy dress, definitely no twelve-piece orchestra.”

“No chandeliers?” He asks with a smirk.

“Absolutely not.” She responds with a playful glare.

He chuckles, tightening his arm around her bare body. He places a contented kiss at the top of her head. “Besides, if I were to elope without making Jayce my best man, I think he might cry.”

She snorts. “Cry?”

“Oh yes, full on devastation. Probably will shed real tears just to guilt me about it for the rest of my life.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Alright, fine, we can’t have that. I will not have our marriage haunted by a lifelong grudge.”

A comfortable silence settles between them again. Then, he curls his fingers underneath her chin, a silent request to look at him again. “It doesn’t need to be big. Just ours.”

“Yeah,” she breathes, softly pressing her lips against his. “Ours.”

After a beat, his chest shakes with a quiet chuckle, as if he just realized something. “What?”

He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “I was just thinking about Jayce, and how he is going to lose his mind when he finds out.”

She laughs in response. “He will probably think we’re messing with him at first.”

Viktor sighs dramatically. “And when he finally realizes it’s real—“

“Oh, he’s gonna cry.”

“Do you think we’ll get the quivering lip?” Viktor asks, smirk widening.

“Absolutely.” She nods. “But the moment he wipes his eyes, it’s all over.”

He groans, rubbing his hand down his face. “And then, after the waterworks, he will pivot immediately into planning mode.”

“Oh without a doubt. Give it thirty seconds and he’ll be listing venues, caterers… probably finding some way to put fireworks into the budget. Viktor, I swear, if he starts planning anything with a theme, we’re shutting the whole thing down immediately.”

“This is what I get for letting him meddle in my love life in the first place.” He grumbles, poking her in the side, making her jolt with a startled laugh.

“Hey!” She swats at him, grinning.

“I should’ve known better,” He teases with another quick poke to her ribs, making her regret ever letting him find out she was ticklish. “Letting a scientist play matchmaker? Dangerous.”

“Oh please,” She grins, swiftly pulling him toward her by the back of his neck so he lands on top of her. “You didn’t ‘let’ him do anything. He probably treated us like an experiment—ran the calculations, probably put together an entire hypothesis about why we’d end up together.”

Viktor scoffs, a breath of laughter beneath it, leaning down to begin trailing kisses along her neck and collarbones. “Fortunately for me, his data turned out to be shockingly accurate.”

“I bet there’s a whole spreadsheet somewhere proving our compatibility. Probably laminated.” She giggles, her hand sneakily making its way down his torso.

His groan is immediate. “There absolutely is. And if he tries to present it at the wedding, I am banning him from speech making.”

“Oh come on,” she laughs as he pins her wrists against the mattress and begins leaving teeth marks on her skin. “You’re a scientist yourself, mister. A little scientific validation never hurt anyone.”

Viktor doesn’t argue with this. They both know without Jayce introducing them, they might never be here now. He pulls away to look at her, his gaze lingering down at her for a long moment. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” she responds, looking back at him with nothing but devotion. “I love you, too.”

They would tell Jayce soon—tomorrow, perhaps. But for now, he wanted to ensure that no man except for him would be on her mind (or mouth) for the next few hours.

Viktor leans down and presses a wet kiss against her ear, spreading her legs apart gently and slowly pressing himself against her until they’re one. And just like that, the world again shrinks to nothing except for the two of them.

—

please feel free to comment any feedback below, and reblog to share with others, if you feel so inclined 🖤

you can find a 2nd person POV version here

[heliza24]

Consent and Abuse in The Vampire Chronicles (and how it explains things like Daniel and Louis's disappearances)

TW: discussions of abuse, sexual abuse and rape, and CSA throughout this meta.

I’ve now read the first six Vampire Chronicles books, and I want to talk about the role that consent, or more importantly, the lack thereof, plays in the morality the books espouse. When I was a few books in, I discovered this post by @diasdelasombra, which uses excerpts from several scholarly texts to create a schema that helps us understand who Anne Rice considered a “worthy” victim of abuse. To summarize, the characters that Anne favors and who are featured in the narrative were violated against their will, but don’t whine about their misfortune. Instead they extend grace and forgiveness to their abuser. (Think of David or Lestat) The characters who are portrayed as conniving, wicked, or who are punished by the narrative are those who don’t adequately protest their assault, or who harbor anger or plans of revenge towards their abuser (think of Claudia).

When I say abuse here, I am specifically talking about sexual abuse and rape, but also being turned into a vampire against your will. Being bitten by a vampire is obviously sexually coded, and being transformed into a fledgling vampire nonconsensually is a metaphor for a rape. So I’m going to spend this meta talking about nonconsensual turnings interchangeably with rape.

When I read about the dichotomy of victimhood detailed in the original post, the books suddenly shifted in my mind, and I felt like I understood Anne as a writer for the first time. I love these books and their resulting adaptations, but I do believe that Anne had many flawed beliefs, and this insistence that the only proper response to assault is complete and total forgiveness of the perpetrator is certainly one of them. I want to take the theory put forward by the original post one step further, and propose that in addition to imperfect victims, Anne also struggled to write about characters that engaged in sex/vampirism consensually. This feels very Catholic to me; you’re allowed to enjoy sex, but only if you didn’t ask for it. It’s the lust and the longing that’s sinful. It’s this discomfort with consensual desire, along with the insistence that victims must forgive their abusers, that is at the heart of many of the most frustrating aspects of the Vampire Chronicles. It also drives some of the conflict I see in the fandom, and has the potential to impact the TV adaptation in interesting ways. I talk about all of that in detail below the cut:

We can see this central belief about abuse and worthy victims easily in the characters Anne chooses to feature. Lestat, David, and Marius were all turned against their will, but crucially do not linger, protest, or whine once the act is done. Lestat is incapable of holding any kind of grudge, Marius approaches vampirism and eternity with calm stoicism, and David immediately forgives Lestat for turning him against his will.

I think this is key when we try to understand why Anne wanted to replace Louis with David as a companion for Lestat. Louis’s turning is complicated; you get the sense that he did consent to it, even as he tells Daniel that he “can’t say that [he] decided” to become a vampire. And even though he does forgive Lestat at the end of IwtV, the telling of the story in that book is filled with resentment and anger. Louis is not a perfect bastion of forgiveness by any means. Anne talked about how she wanted to move on from the grief that Louis represented and also the passivity he embodies as a character (which she classifies as uniquely feminine, which adds another dimension of meaning to who is allowed to consent to sexual acts and remain angry at abuse) but I also have to assume that she wanted to move on from his anger. Which is actually a huge disservice to Louis, Lestat, and the complexity of the narrative.

The other characters who are turned consensually are all abandoned by the narrative. Madeleine is killed, Gabrielle largely disappears after TVL, Nicki kills himself, and Daniel goes mad and is then simply forgotten.

My love of Daniel is the reason why I started stringing this theory together. Daniel is the most clear-cut case in the entire chronicles of a consenting adult who deeply desires to become a vampire. He has no reservations, no resistance. The Devil’s Minion chapter is unique in that it lingers on Daniel's love and desire. Daniel is briefly allowed to want something unabashedly that is also coded as sinful and evil. And once the consummation of his desire happens, Anne simply doesn’t know how to continue to writing him. Armand’s insistence that fledglings will come to hate their makers seems in some ways to be a result of Anne’s worldview, that desire cannot cannot endure unpunished, rather than something Armand would believe in-universe (he never hated Marius, after all). When fans rail at the way Daniel’s story seems to disappear from the page, this is what we are protesting: Daniel’s desire deserved to be shown, Daniel deserved to evolve, and Daniel’s willingness does not require rebuke.

There is of course another interpretation of the Devil’s Minion chapter, which is that it is Armand playing out his and Marius’s relationship, but this time with Armand in control. In some ways I think the Devil’s Minion chapter is the one successful attempt Anne makes to subvert the cycle of abuse. Yes, Armand is re-enacting many of the things done to him, but Daniel is happy to do this role play with him, at least for a while. While far from perfect, their relationship manages to turn abusive history into present day kink, and exist in a context of mutual care.

Armand himself is probably the most interesting edge case in terms of Anne’s dichotomy of worthy and unworthy victims. He asks to be turned into a vampire, but he’s also a child, which makes his ability to consent unclear. (Whether Anne even believed that child sexual abuse was possible at all is up for debate; she wrote a message on her “fan voice mail” that is still transcribed on her website that defends a convicted pedophile and seems to argue that 14 and 15 year olds are effectively adults and therefore cannot be abused. Yikes yikes yikes.) This kind of uncertainty seems to be reflected in the changing way Anne writes Armand throughout the series. He’s evil at first in the same way that Claudia is evil; a conniving forever child who is smart and vicious enough that what was done to him can be justified. But Anne softened on Armand after Queen of the Damned. As the series goes on, Armand comes to resemble Anne’s perfect victim more and more. He forgives Marius relatively quickly, for instance, for turning Benji and Sybelle without his consent.

For Marius (and Lestat) overcoming victim status also means becoming the abuser, the rapist, the perpetrator of the dark trick. The only way to not be trapped under the cycle of abuse is to perpetrate it. Even though it is hidden in a lot of language about love and forgiveness, this theme is ever present in the Chronicles and to me it’s where the true horror of the books lies.

We see these values begin to be applied to world building and the book’s overarching philosophy more and more as the series progresses. Akasha is the big bad in Queen of the Damned because she represents the ultimate lack of forgiveness. She is angry at all the men in the world for their collective abuses (a world view that seems to originate at least partially from the overly protective and restrictive way Enkil treats her, in my opinion) and seeks to kill them. She is an unquestioned evil, in a way that most characters aren’t in The Chronicles. And Maharet and Mekare, who are much more forgiving towards Khayman, one of the perpetrators of their own rape, are the ones able to defeat Akasha. Forgiveness and grace trumps righteous anger every time.

Memnoch the Devil is an interesting book (even if it is not a *good* one, imo) because it spends its pages interrogating this idea of abuse and forgiveness, but blows it up to a theological scale. Memnoch’s main argument with God is that he lets humans suffer needlessly. Memnoch feels that all that is good and holy amongst humans can be found in the way we love each other and find joy in sex, art, food, and celebration. But God requires humans to suffer through disease and death, and sometimes even violence brought about by religion. When Memnoch is put in charge of hell, he makes souls worthy of heaven by working on them until they are ready to forgive God for the suffering they had to endure during life. That’s what makes you worthy of heaven: forgiveness. I find this so interesting because it almost feels like Anne is arguing with herself over philosophy and religion. Memnoch is very convincing and his belief that joy without guilt is good is given due weight by the narrative. In some ways it’s what these books are about- sensual pleasure without guilt. But on the other hand, Memnoch is the devil (if that- Lestat is never quite sure if he’s really the devil or just a malignant spirit) which means we shouldn’t trust what he says. The idea of God as the ultimate abuser— the person who puts humanity through unspeakable horrors on a wide scale, and then requires our forgiveness in order to find peace— really chimes with the way that Anne writes about abuse in the rest of the series. According to this view, the cycle of abuse is absolutely inescapable. It is decreed by the almighty, and the only way to not be completely crushed by it is to accept its omnipresence and embrace its perpetrators without anger.

This focus on forgiveness is clearly a huge part of Anne’s (and therefore the vampires’) worldview, and I of course find that pretty problematic. But I also think it hurts the reader’s ability to connect to the characters and can have the unfortunate side effect of draining the books of the conflict needed to create a propulsive plot. The vampires’ inclination to completely forgive those who have wronged them, and to not linger at all in any feelings of anger, grief, or resentment, sometimes leads to baffling situations where conflicts that loom large in one book are completely forgotten in the next. The most jarring example of this to me is Armand casually playing chess with Santino in Queen of the Damned. Santino! The vampire who kidnapped him, forced him to eat his best friend, and generally tortured him. And they simply never address this. They just start playing a casual game of chess on Night Island after Akasha has been defeated. Situations like this can make character seem like they are acting completely out of character, and it makes it hard to understand their motives. Yes, there’s the in-universe explanation that time heals all wounds and eventually vampires just live long enough that they can’t hold any grudges. But I still think it’s reasonable to assume that Armand would hesitate before casually engaging with Santino again, no matter how long has passed. This kind of automatic forgiveness also means that we skip over so many conflicts that that would be fascinating to read about. If Armand and Santino really do need to reconcile, I want to see what that looks like. I want to see Armand remember Ricardo when he looks at Santino. I want to see what David and Lestat mending their relationship after Lestat’s violation looks like. But we don’t get any of that and instead the vampires move seamlessly on to something else, which is often much less interesting than these interpersonal conflicts that Anne ignores. And because of that, I think this focus on forgiveness creates books that are less fulfilling than they could be.

I think this focus on forgiveness is also at the heart of some of the conflict I see between book readers and show-only fans. I often see book readers talking about how Armand and Louis come back to each other later in the books, that Louis forgives Armand enough to live with him again for a time. And this makes sense in a book universe that prioritizes forgiveness above all else. In fact it actually signifies positive character growth for Louis, as it means he is becoming closer to Anne’s definition of a worthy victim who can forgive those who wronged him.

Fans of the show insist that the TV version of Louis will never forgive Armand, and for all I know they might be right. The TV show has shown that it’s very capable of taking the events and themes that Anne presented and reframing them. The show is already presenting a more critical depiction of CSA, in my opinion, by doing things like eliminating the incest subtext between Louis and Claudia and making it clear that Marius groomed Armand. I also think the show does a better job of keeping emotional stakes consistent. Louis may forgive Armand, but something more substantial than time passing will have to happen to facilitate that in the TV show. So show Louis may indeed never forgive Armand, given those new parameters.

In its efforts to reframe some of Anne’s themes, I believe the television show is shifting the emphasis on forgiveness slightly. Louis’s arc over the first two seasons depends on him reaching a state of forgiveness, not for an abuser, but for himself. He extends grace to Lestat as part of this process, but I really believe that the catharsis comes from Louis embracing his own failings and his own power, and moving forward with confidence. He has not forgotten his anger or the things that were taken from him, but he has the ability to face the rest of eternity now without self-recrimination. I imagine moving forward that this is going to be a major theme of the show. No matter if you sought vampirism out or had it thrust upon you, you must learn to how to deal with its horrors and its perks. You must learn to embrace your own monstrosity and not shrink from it. And you must find a way to accept the love that those around you are willing to offer, whether or not you always perfectly deserve it. I think these are lessons that Lestat, Armand, and even Daniel have yet to learn in the television show. Those character arcs are going to fuel the show through its coming seasons, and I for one cannot wait to see it unfold.

I’m interested to hear from other readers to see if they picked up on these themes, and how they anticipate the show will adapt them. Please tell me your thoughts! And thank you for reading this far.

[darqx]

[It's going down] I'm yelling timber

Several doodles in this one!

❗️For commonly asked qs please see my BTD FAQ

Everything is similar but she wears a dress version.

Yes (after becoming a Royal) but it's more of a "formaility" as he hasn't had any reason to use it yet. There's a lot of gaps since he relies more on mobility than brute force, and he can also rapidly fill in any areas with harder ichor if need be.

He used to work for the previous King as a Collector.

I think it depends, since he's a Royal now they tend to use some variation of their demon signs as an official "signature" so it might look like the first pic. His prior signature might look something like the second (fancy cursive).

Base: [x]

Rire's ichor tentacles are directly controlled by his consciousness/sub-consciousness so yes technically they could do such things XD But that is something that would have happened more when he was a child/learning how to use the ichor powers - he has such fine control now that the likelihood of it happening anymore is negligible.

...you could kiss them if you want I suppose, he does have some feeling through them lol.

I once described Rire's ichor as existing but not existing at the same time (ah, dichotomy haha). Basically if the ichor is not connected to the manifestation point on Rire's back all trace of it will eventually disappear. So that's handy in more ways then one :d

This post goes into more detail about the ichor consistencies:

Rire was born 973 years ago and was primarily raised by his mother after both his father and then later his stepfather died when he was a child/teen.

He would raise a child similarly to how he was raised. 🤔 YMMV whether this would be considered good parenting but he does have affection towards his own parents so there's that.

Well i did draw the baby!BTD in that same picture so...however i drew them as lol XD; Thanks muchly and keep at it!

Yes the years are the same. As stated in my BTD FAQ "I don’t know if you could classify what he feels as “love” in the same definition we are used to…" :d

Short answer: no.

Long answer: if you consider real world biology it would be like this

SOME species of demons are close enough to humans that they could reproduce with them. If the offspring is viable it's usually infertile like a liger (cross between a lion and a tiger) or a mule, though sometimes/rarely it could result in fertile offspring.

This works similarly between different demon species (different ones are more compatible with certain species compared to others etc), though the likelihood of fertile offspring is greater. Also depending on the species some genes are way more dominant so a child might end up basically being more or less one species type.

[An excerpt from a World War letter. Several similar letters have been documented from both Allies and Central/Axis Powers]

My dearest, I witnessed the most peculiar scene several days ago. Honestly I am not sure if it actually happened or if my mind was playing tricks on me. I was on my evening sentry duty over No Man's land when I saw him - a man, standing alone in the fog past the razor wire and amongst those poor souls neither side had managed to retrieve. Dearest, I swear that man had not been there a second ago! At first I thought this was enemy activity, but his uniform was clearly not German and neither was it one of ours - maybe the oddness is what stayed my tongue at the time. Out of a morbid curiosity I watched as he crouched near several bodies for a long moment - perhaps to pay his respects? - before walking off and disappearing out of sight. I am honestly surprised no one had shot at him! The next day there was a large shout as a grievously injured Johnson - whom was lost in No Man's Land after a failed trench raid - was suddenly within reaching distance just over our trench walls! It was a miracle! He was delirious and had no idea how he had made it back by himself, but mentioned a "General" who had offered help in his lowest moment. Clearly he was unwell as there were no Generals around...but dearest...I can't help but wonder --

[Johnson would survive his injuries and go on to become a well decorated soldier before returning home a hero. He would die 10 years later from "idiopathic anaphylaxis" with an odd look of fear on his face.]

I'm not sure why some of you think this but to put it as clearly as I can (since this is not the first time I've been asked this):

Cain is not my character.

I would hope that you guys understand that just because someone doesnt seem to be on the internet anymore it doesnt mean their character is suddenly an adoptable/up for grabs???

No - I have enough of my own characs I dont need to actually steal someone else's. (Also see above answer)

IMO in any universe Rire and Cain are like oil and water. So, i would say yes there is a way that they could get together but it would probably involve kidnapping and criminal confinement on one of their behalfs :d

I never read Warrior Cats so I have no particular thoughts about this lol.

Demon!Strade is a Gatoverse creation XD; - meaning Gato created him and so it has no correlation with my demon types. He would probably be like a level 4 or 5 maybe (aside from being LARGE, idk about his other power sets lol) and a clear case of needing an exorcism :d

Both of them are naturally charismatic (though, Demon!Rire can dial his up to noticeably unnatural levels). Human!Rire can be considered more manipulative and subtle than the demon version since in his 'verse "real world" consequences are actually things he has to consider. He is also a bit less interested in mind games than Demon!Rire.

-...gestures at humans, which he prefers to mess with for the sheer variety of reactions-

That is not part of his skill set, no :d Also much in the same way that animals with sharp teeth don't willy nilly bite their tongues off, demons with sharp teeth are like...used to having/biologically designed to have sharp teeth.

THANKING YOU \o/

It wouldn't lol. Also if i saw Rire IRL i would immediately pretend to have NOT seen him because that would mean that I've somehow had a hand in creating a tulpa.

[kingkruell]

PULSE MEMORY | CHOSO KAMO

SYNOPSIS - in the aftermath of the shibuya incident, a researcher finds herself sifting through the remnants of cursed bloodlines, her focus now fixed on the death paintings. under the watchful gaze of choso kamo, the last of his line, the weight of history presses against them both. as the layers of the past unfold, so too does something quieter, more fragile: a bond between two souls bound by secrets— a bond created between the crevices of the mundanity that blurs into something soft, slow, and inevitable.

CONTENT- researcher!reader x post-shibuya arc! choso, post-shibuya au, canon divergent au, very slight angst, insecure choso, found family-type, intimacy, mutual pining, friends to lover, lingering trauma, hurt/comfort, soft choso, awkward choso in love, major fluff.

WORD COUNT 5335

[read in dark mode]

now playing: risk-deftones, i'm not in love-10cc

LATE DECEMBER

cursed energy lingers like mildew.

that’s one of the first things you learned as a junior field researcher working under the tokyo jujutsu tech archives division. not a sorcerer, not even a grade 4 semi-trained assistant;  just one of the “non-combat staff,” as they put it. the ones who combed through bloodstained scrolls and transcribed fragmented oral histories from battered curse victims. you studied patterns. names. and the way those names persisted.

your current assignment isn’t just an anomaly, it’s practically sacrilege.

you're assigned to the death painting wombs.

or what’s left of them.

after the shibuya Incident, what began as basic post-conflict documentation turned into a high-level classified program under a new special division, one that suspected the death paintings were more than just failed cursed womb experiments.

you were the youngest non-sorcerer granted access.

and choso kamo, the only one left alive, was placed at your side.

 “he won’t talk much.”

that’s what ijichi told you, escorting you through the ruins of the old auxiliary training center. It was converted into a temporary lab space, walls still warped from residual cursed energy. the makeshift archive/research room isn’t built for comfort. the air is cold, stale, and smells faintly of old blood. shelves lean with age. cursed scrolls line the walls in crooked rows. each one hums with a faint, leftover energy — like a breath held too long.

you walked in expecting a monster

you found him instead — choso.

the request actually came from yuuji’s end: someone to assist with lingering questions about the death painting wombs. your job, as far as anyone can explain, is to help verify claims that a fourth womb — never accounted for — may have existed. you’re not even sure you believe it yourself.

arms crossed. eyes dull like old ash.

he didn’t look at you when you introduced yourself. didn’t move when you explained your research: tracing the cursed bloodlines used in the death paintings to determine the origin of their hybrid nature.

you’d expected hostility. Instead, you got apathy, and you don’t know if that is any better. 

“there might be a fourth womb,” you said after the deafening silence, voice barely louder than a whisper, “unrecorded. or sealed. somewhere they didn’t want anyone to find.”

cursed wombs aren’t born.

they’re built.

that’s what your research implied. a jarring contradiction to what most jujutsu records claimed: that the death paintings were failed organic hybrids of human and cursed spirit cells. you dug deeper.

noritoshi kamo had created the first three wombs using the blood of women impregnated by curse energy-infused embryos. a violation in every sense. but what you had found in the sealed texts was stranger.

there were four original subjects.

one disappeared from the records mid-process. redacted. scratched out in black ink, even in the most secret archives.

at that, his eyes flickered, just for a heartbeat,and he shifted his weight. “i’d know,” he said, voice flat and low.

you tilted your head, brushing back a strand of hair. “maybe not,” you replied, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “they didn’t want you to.”

for a moment, he seemed about to retreat into silence again. instead, he uncrossed his arms, hands opening at his sides. “i have fragments,” he murmured, gaze drifting upward as if recalling a distant memory. “dreams that aren’t mine. faces i can’t place.”

you leaned against a battered table, chest hollow with curiosity. the flicker of lamplight traced the curve of your cheek. “that’s why i think you’re resonating with something,” you said gently, tapping your pen against your notebook. he blinked slowly. “resonating?”

you nodded, warmth creeping into your tone as you explained. “in cursed memory theory, when an object or being is near a fragment of its origin, the memory responds—like a tuning fork.”

his lips parted, as though he wanted to argue, but the pause stretched into silence. finally, you asked, doubt threading your words, “and you think if we find the fourth, I’ll remember?”

his shoulders loosened fractionally. he met your eyes, and for once, there was something in them beyond ash. “no,” you added softly, letting the words settle between you, “i think you’ll feel.”

BLOODLINES, TEA STAINS, SOFTNESS

he doesn’t talk much, not at first. you spend your days parsing through old scrolls, obscure court records, kamo family history — most of it half-burned or politically redacted. he stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. You’re not sure if he’s observing you or guarding you.

then it becomes a routine.

you spend your days bent over ink-faded scrolls, tracing the jagged lines of kamo genealogy with a trembling fingertip. he stands just behind you—silent sentinel—arms folded, every muscle coiled like a spring. when a passage trips you up, you clear your throat and read it aloud, voice echoing against the chipped concrete. sometimes he hums under his breath, the note low and uncertain, as if testing how sound lingers here. other times he simply watches, eyes softening ever so slightly at the curve of your concentration.

one evening, the lamplight blinks out mid-sentence. your eyelids flutter shut before you can register the darkness. when you wake, your cheek is glued to the spine of a cursed register, and the room’s edges glow faintly in the after-hours lights. a paper cup blooms warm against your elbow.

“you were drooling on the 19th-century register,” choso says, voice hushed like he’s reluctant to break a spell.

you sit up with a soft groan, brushing crumbs of parchment from your sleeve. he’s cross-legged on the floor across the table. candlelight flickers across his face, revealing the barest lift at one corner of his mouth.

“you stayed?” you manage, voice thick with sleep and something like relief.

he shrugs, eyes shifting to the steaming cup. “didn’t want you to freeze.”

you tuck the scarf around your shoulders, careful not to disturb its pristine folds.

is this his scarf?

a gentle warmth settles in your chest, part gratitude, part something you don’t understand yet.

in daylight, you begin to fill that space with small curiosities. one afternoon, you twist in your seat and ask, “do you like sweet tea, or should i steep it longer next time?” your lips curve in a hopeful smile.

he glances at the scribbled teacup chart you taped to the wall—your makeshift flavor guide—and presses his lips together before answering. “sweet. just enough.”

you mark it down with a flourish, humming in approval.

another morning, you find him folding parchment scraps into neat piles. you lean over his shoulder, brushing a loose strand of hair from his braid. “what do you do when you’re not… here?”

his breath catches, as if surprised by the ease of the question. he pauses, fingers stilling on a corner of brittle paper. “train,” he says quietly. “or—” he hesitates, then adds, “think.”

you chuckled in amusement, , eyes bright. “thinking can be hard. sometimes it helps to talk it out.”

he doesn’t meet your gaze. you keep talking anyway, describing the way the sun falls across your favorite reading spot, the taste of your grandmother’s rice crackers. eventually, he looks at you again, each syllable of your stories turning the angles of his face a little gentler.

and then one afternoon, you offer him one of those rice crackers — golden studded with sesame seeds, cupped in your palm like an offering. he studies the simple snack, brows knitting, before lifting it to his lips and tasting. his shoulders loosen as he crunches softly, and a spark, uncertain but genuine, flickers in his dark eyes.

in that moment, the room feels smaller, warmer.

THE MOUTH OF FEAR

you don’t rush the research. you take your time. you go through the files together. on the nights it gets too heavy, choso makes tea without being asked. you cook plain meals and leave half out for him, knowing he probably won’t eat until hours later.

choso, on the other hand, is terrified, paranoid.

choso doesn’t sleep much. when he does, it’s never for long. he dreams of blood, mostly. the kind he understands: spilled, dried, humming with the memory of violence. it coats his hands, his mouth, his lungs. sometimes he wakes up choking on it, the taste of copper on his tongue. but lately, something’s changed.

the dreams are shifting. still fragmented, still dreamlike, but warmer. quieter. a thread of gentleness instilled through the carnage. there would be images of hands that cradle rather than crush. voices not screaming, not commanding, just… saying his name like it means something.

and always, he wakes feeling worse.

“i think your discomfort near certain artifacts isn’t coincidence, but resonance.” it was in the middle of the afternoon, another day in the research room.

he stares at you, pulse flattening under his skin like a drum caught in mid-beat.

“you think my body remembers things i don’t?”

you look at him then. steady. not like you’re trying to solve him, but like you already have a few pieces of the puzzle, and you're simply being patient with the rest.

“i think your soul does,” you say, voice careful but clear.

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t let it show that the word hits like a curse.

he wants to laugh. wants to sneer. wants to disappear into the walls. but you’re still watching him, not flinching, not mocking.

soul. like he has one. like what’s left of him could be more than muscle and memory stitched together by blood and rage.

he crosses his arms, not out of defiance, but defense.

“you think i’m incomplete.”

it’s an accusation and he means for it to push you away.

but you don’t retreat. you soften.

“no,” you say, and it’s gentle in a way that guts him. “i think you were never given the full story.”

he looks at you, really looks — and for the first time, choso feels seen.

not as a cursed object. not as an echo of noritoshi kamo’s violence. but as a being caught between memory and blood.

and it terrifies him.

you terrify him

he tries not to watch. fails.

he tries not to listen. fails again.

he tells himself he’s just observing — staying alert. just in case.

but that’s not the truth. not even close.

the truth is: something about you terrifies him.

not because you're dangerous. but because you aren’t.

because you look at him like he’s more than a weapon. like he’s a question you want to understand. like he’s not beyond saving.

then, he starts walking you home.

it’s not official or discussed. it just begins one night after the cursed spirit incident; when it cornered you near the station, and you froze, and he stepped in like it was instinct. because it was. and ever since, something in him refuses to let you go alone.

you’d tried to laugh it off at the time, said it wasn’t a big deal, that you had it under control. you’d said it with your head tilted up like you believed it, but your hands had told a different story. shaking, tucked into your sleeves. he noticed. he notices everything.

he couldn’t sleep that night. not because he was afraid of more spirits or some unseen threat. no, what kept him awake was how his hands had trembled, not out of fear for his own life, but because something had snarled in your direction and he hadn’t been fast enough.

he didn’t know what that feeling was. not then. but it unsettled him more than anything else had.

so now, he walks beside you.

you argue the first few times, lightly, like it’s routine. “you really don’t have to do this,” you say with a little wave of your hand. “i’m not made of glass.”

“you’re not a fighter,” he replies, blunt as ever.

“you’re not a babysitter.”

the third time, you roll your eyes and say, “this is overkill, you know.”

the fifth time, you mutter, “you’re going to get bored of this.”

the seventh time, you sigh and say, “you could be doing anything else.”

you expect that to make him leave.

it doesn’t. he shrugs, barely looking at you, and says nothing more. but the next night, he’s there again, waiting at the same spot near the back exit of the research room. he’s always there now.

you get used to it faster than you expect. you even start adjusting your pace so he doesn’t have to slow down as much. sometimes you fill the silence with odd facts you picked up during the day. sometimes it’s a story about a cursed object someone mishandled or an old scroll that smelled like vinegar and regret. and sometimes… you don’t talk at all. just walk together, your steps syncing without effort.

he listens more than he speaks, but when he does speak, it’s real. not empty filler. when he hums in agreement, it’s because he’s thought about what you said. when he corrects you on an old name or a bloodline detail, he does it gently, never to embarrass, just to help.

he’s never been good with softness. not with receiving it, and definitely not with giving it. but it’s different with you. slower. quieter. and it scares the hell out of him.

tonight, it’s colder than usual. you blow into your hands and mutter something under your breath about forgetting your gloves again. he hesitates, wants to offer you his, but doesn’t. not because he doesn’t want to, but because he’s not sure what it would mean if you accepted.

you walk slower than normal, and he matches your pace without thinking. when you reach your apartment building, you dig through your bag for your keys, muttering about how you always lose them at the bottom. he waits beside you, silent.

and then, without looking at him, you say it—like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t land sharp between his ribs.

“you don’t have to walk me every time, you know.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

“i know,” he says. “but i want to.” he looks away, blushing.

you go still. fingers frozen on your keyring. you don’t look at him, but your breath catches just slightly, and he catches it. he always does. you unlock the door, but you don’t go in right away. your hand lingers on the knob. just for a second. maybe two.

he says nothing. he doesn’t ask for more. but when the door finally swings shut behind you, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

then he turns around and walks back into the dark. his hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward, like he’s bracing against the cold—but it’s not the cold that unsettles him. it’s not fear the way he used to know it. not the kind that comes from danger or death or memory.

no, this fear is quieter. it waits behind his ribs and curls around the edges of his thoughts.

it’s not the fear of being haunted anymore.

now, it’s the fear of wanting to stay.

CHANGES AND THE SHAPE OF QUIET THINGS

they've shut down the fucking research.

all that time and energy was for nothing, wasn't it?

when they shut down your research, you weren’t surprised. not really. you'd been waiting for the day someone told you to stop digging.

they didn’t even try to hide behind bureaucratic pretense. not fully. the committee’s statement had been thinly veiled, draped in language like “too dangerous” and “ethically irresponsible.” some claimed it disrespected the dead. others said your work “blurred the line between reverence and obsession.”

but you weren’t naive. you knew exactly what this was.

it was political.

it wasn’t the theory itself that scared them. not the part about residual memory or cursed bloodlines. no, it was what your findings implied. the idea that choso and his brothers were not aberrations, not tragic footnotes, but the intended outcome of something far uglier. something deliberate.

they didn’t want to rewrite history. didn’t want the sorcerer world questioning what it meant to be “man-made.”

you were supposed to pack it all up. leave quietly. pretend it had been an academic misstep. write something more palatable next time. something soft and unthreatening.

instead, you found yourself standing in front of choso in the archives, holding out a worn, overstuffed folder.

“i have nowhere else to take this,” you said, voice low, hands steady. “but i think you do.”

he didn’t take it right away. just looked at the folder like it was burning in your hands. like it was both too heavy and too familiar. his eyes were hard to read — they always were. not because he was cold, but because he had learned to keep his grief folded inside, like a letter he didn’t dare open. but you’d been around him long enough to know the silence wasn’t disinterest. it was consideration.

finally, he said, “you’re coming with me.”

you blinked. “sorry?”

he looked up then, brows drawn. not annoyed, just confused, like he couldn’t understand why that needed clarification.

“you know too much,” he said. “they’ll come for you. you’ll need someone to protect you.”

you opened your mouth to argue, to tell him you could handle yourself, that you’d lived among cursed records and forgotten truths for years without needing a bodyguard. but the words didn’t come. because the truth was, you hadn’t felt scared until now.

on that night, you packed what you could into a duffel bag and followed him.

he didn’t rush you. just stood by the door, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes somewhere distant. not impatient — just alert. like he couldn’t let himself settle until you were out of that building, and out of their reach.

the apartment he brought you to was in the outer edges of shinjuku — the kind of place no one paid attention to. third floor walk-up. rusty balcony. cursed energy traces so low you had to actively search for them. the front lock stuck if you didn’t jiggle it just right. the water pressure was terrible.

choso didn’t say much as you unpacked. he stood near the door like he’d only just arrived too, arms folded, eyes scanning the walls like they might shift. like he was still waiting for something — someone — to come crashing through. even in stillness, his body braced for violence. you didn’t mind the silence. you filled it carefully, humming under your breath as you shelved your books, folding clothes into corners, trying not to disturb the odd peace that hovered between you.

your mind is going insane. you don't know how you had agreed to this living situation; to a guy you know you are weak to. you're used to being calculated, never taking chances impulsively. but with him, it feels like everything will be alright. it's because of him.

just like you, he wasn’t used to sharing space. but somehow, it worked..

choso didn’t crowd. didn’t hover. didn’t ask why you sometimes left notes in the margins of your own research like you were talking to yourself. he just started sitting at the edge of the table while you worked, arms draped over the back of the chair, watching the way your brow furrowed when you were deep in thought.

sometimes he’d pick up a page and study it in silence. his fingers were gentle with the paper, as if it might bruise.

“what does this part mean?” he’d ask, voice low, thumb resting on a line like it mattered.

you explained patiently, even when you were tired. even when the words felt too big or too broken. he listened like listening was a form of worship. like your theories were scripture and he was trying to relearn the world through them.

you started noticing the little things.

the way he always washed his cup after using it, even if it was just water. the way he swept the balcony without being asked, even though no one could see it. the way he never slammed a door. like loudness made him ache.

and slowly — clumsily — he started trying.

one morning, there was a piece of fruit on the counter you hadn’t bought. another night, a pair of slippers had appeared beside yours. he never mentioned them. just looked away, a little too fast, when your gaze lingered.

one evening, as you sat hunched over your notes, your head aching, he returned from a grocery run and set down a small, beat-up box in front of you. inside: a cheap heat pack, a pack of those terrible-but-comforting convenience store cookies, and a bottle of green tea.

“you were frowning yesterday,” he said, like it explained everything. “i thought maybe this would help.”

it was stiff. awkward. but...painfully sincere.

you just looked up at him and smiled — soft and slow.

“thank you,” you said.

he blinked. then nodded. once. briskly. like he wasn’t used to the words being for him.

after that, he got bolder. in his own way.

a hand resting on your back for a second too long when he moved past you in the kitchen. a folded towel left on your desk after you spilled tea on yourself. once, when you fell asleep on the couch with your notes still in your lap, you woke up tucked under a blanket that wasn’t yours.

he pretended not to notice when you smiled at him the next morning.

you didn’t push. didn’t name it. love, for people like you and choso, had never come loud. it arrived in pauses, in half-gestures, in the space between breath and language.

and choso — for all his quiet, all his grief — began to soften.

not all at once.

but slowly, gently.

like winter learning how to become spring.

he said goodnight once. whispered it when he thought you were already asleep. the word caught in the air like it had startled even him.

you heard it. didn’t move. but the next morning, you left him half a mug of coffee, black, just the way he drank it.

he didn’t say anything. just drank it quietly. and stayed close the rest of the day.

you stopped keeping your research in piles. started keeping it in a single binder marked with both your names. he noticed. didn’t say anything. but you found him flipping through it that night with the softest expression on his face, something like reverence, something like fear.

the apartment was still falling apart. the ceiling still leaked when it rained. the wind still howled through the thin walls like a curse waiting to return.

but when you looked over at choso, shoulders finally unbowed, eyes soft with something he hadn’t named — it didn’t feel haunted anymore.

it felt like home.

spring has came, but still, the nights felt almost as cold as winter.

you’d been living there for weeks now. maybe months. it was hard to tell. time moved differently when survival wasn’t the first priority.

choso had softened in increments. it didn’t come easy, not when he was built from grief and blood and the weight of too many memories that weren’t entirely his. but he tried. in his own way.

he brought home groceries when you forgot. set your favorite mug on the table when you looked tired. asked if you’d eaten, but only when you weren’t looking at him. and sometimes in the rare, quiet moments, he’d sit across from you at the table and just… be there. in the same room. breathing the same silence.

you, on the other hand, had grown louder. not obnoxiously so but lighter, easier with your words. you joked more. nudged his shoulder with yours when he was being too serious. sometimes you sang under your breath when you were cooking, just to see if he’d react.

he never did. not really.

tonight, the draft through the cracked bathroom window had gotten worse, and the space heater choso kept in the corner of the main room clicked uselessly when you tried to turn it on. the landlord didn’t respond to messages. not that either of you had expected him to.

still, the apartment had taken on a strange kind of warmth, not from anything mechanical, but from the rhythm of two people learning how to be around each other without armor. your socks drying by the heater. his jacket hanging by the door. mugs left out on the counter in pairs, not one.

the living room had become a shared space, half cluttered with your research, half overtaken by whatever scraps of domesticity you both allowed yourselves to claim. choso never said it, but you’d caught him fixing a broken table leg once, muttering under his breath. he still refused to take the bed. insisted the couch was “fine,” even though he barely fit on it.

you didn’t argue anymore. not with words, at least.

and still — still — it ached. the feeling you’d been carrying. this soft, constant wanting. the kind that didn’t ask for permission. you’d grown used to the sight of him, tired and thoughtful and quietly kind, but never enough. he’d brush past you to reach a book, and your breath would hitch. he’d glance at you during breakfast like he wanted to say something, and your chest would tighten.

you loved him. you knew that now. and you weren’t sure when it had happened — only that it had rooted itself in you like a quiet, stubborn bloom.

tonight, the power flickered once, then died entirely.

you lit a few candles and found the emergency blanket. choso was sitting by the window, arms folded, staring out into the dark city. the glow hit the side of his face in soft orange, and for a second, he didn’t look like a weapon. he looked like something quieter. something tired and beautiful.

“no update from the grid,” you said, settling down beside him on the floor. “could be out for hours.”

he grunted in response.

you sat in silence for a moment. the kind that wasn’t awkward, just heavy. full of all the things neither of you had said.

then, after a pause — “come here,” he murmured.

you blinked. “what?”

he didn’t look at you. “you’re freezing.”

you hesitated. then crawled under the blanket he’d opened, tucking yourself beside him. your knees touched. then your thigh. you felt his breath falter the second your shoulder pressed to his.

you didn’t move away. neither did he.

you turned to look at him, your face too close. his eyes flicked to your mouth for the briefest second — so quick you almost missed it.

“you’re shivering,” he murmured.

“no shit,” you replied, but it came out softer than you meant it to.

and maybe that was it. maybe the softness was what broke something open. because the next second, his hand rose, tentative, slow and brushed your cheek.

his fingers were cold. and you leaned into them anyway.

“you don’t have to—” he started.

“i want to,” you said.

the look he gave you then made your stomach twist. like he’d been holding his breath since the first night you showed up with a duffel bag and tired eyes. like he was scared touching you might undo him completely.

you kissed him first.

it was clumsy. a little too fast. his nose bumped yours, and your teeth clicked, and you laughed against his mouth because of course he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

but then he kissed you back and everything slowed.

his touch was reverent. unsure. like you were something he’d found, not something he could keep. he held you like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

but you answered it anyway.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him in again, and felt the way he exhaled like he’d been waiting years for this.when you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. quiet. breath warm against your skin.

“you’re still shivering,” he said.

you smiled. “then maybe we should get even closer.”

his ears turned red.

choso sat stiffly beside you, arms still tight around himself like he didn’t quite believe what had happened. like he was worried you’d disappear if he looked at you too long.

“you okay?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

he nodded once. then again, like he had to convince himself. “yeah. just… thinking.”

you let the silence stretch.

he was always like this, heavy with thought, cautious with words. you’d learned to read the quiet between his sentences. to wait. so you did.

he shifted a little, turning toward you, eyes flicking to your face and then away again. he was blushing, you could see it even in the dim light, the faint red creeping over his cheekbones like warmth he didn’t know how to hold.

“i’m not good at this,” he said suddenly. “this—” he gestured vaguely between you. “being close to people.”

you smiled gently. “you’re doing fine.”

he huffed. a little sharp. but not annoyed ,embarrassed. “you say that, but you’re… easy to be around. and i’m—”

“a little weird,” you teased.

he blinked. then, to your surprise, he laughed. soft and low, the sound curling in your chest like a match catching flame.

“yeah,” he admitted. “a little weird.”

you nudged his shoulder. “i like weird.”

his smile faltered, just a little. and when he looked at you again, something unguarded flickered across his face.

“when you first moved in, i thought it’d be temporary,” he said. “that they’d come after you. that i’d have to protect you, then… send you somewhere safer.”

your heart clenched. “and now?”

he hesitated. swallowed hard. “now i don’t want you to leave.”

the words landed with a kind of softness you hadn’t expected. just honest.

he ran a hand through his hair; nervous, a little twitchy. “you make the apartment feel different. lighter. like… i don’t know. like it’s not just a hiding place anymore.”

you felt your chest tighten.

“you make me feel different,” he added, quieter now. “less like a curse. more like—someone.”

your fingers reached for his without thinking. he didn’t pull away. just stared, wide-eyed, as your hand slid into his.

“you are someone, choso,” you said. “you always were.”

he looked down at your joined hands. blinked slowly.

then, clumsily, awkwardly, he said, “i think i like you. i mean, i know i like you. but it’s not just that. i think about you a lot. not in a weird way. okay, sometimes in a weird way. but not bad-weird. good-weird. like… i want to make you tea before you wake up, kind of weird.”

you snorted. actually snorted.

he groaned and dropped his face into his hands. “fuck. that was so bad.”

“no,” you said, laughing now. “that was...adorable. you want to make me tea before i wake up?”

“not anymore,” he grumbled into his palms. “now i want to evaporate.”

you leaned into him, rested your head on his shoulder.

he froze.

but only for a second.

then slowly, carefully — he tilted his head until it rested against yours. not perfect. a little stiff. but real.

“i like you too,” you said softly. “even when you talk about tea like it’s a grand confession.”

he let out a shaky breath. “it kind of was.”

you smiled into his shirt. “i know.”

outside, the wind howled down the narrow alley. the broken heater clicked once and gave up again.

but inside, everything felt warm. maybe not from the blanket. maybe not from the tea he swore he’d never make now. but from him. from the way his pinky hooked around yours. from the way he pressed the tiniest kiss into your hair like it took everything in him to do it.

and from the quiet that followed: not awkward, not tense.

just full.

like a silence you could live inside.

and maybe you would.

[cometcrystal]

pondering a lot about THAT'S THE NORM! and now i'm formulating an actual suzy & norm friendship. here are some scenarios

SCENARIO 1

suzy has just turned 16. candace is no longer her nemesis (because having a nemesis is a two-way street - suzy learned that during a seminar). she is applying for an internship at LOVEMUFFIN (she would have applied earlier and easily been accepted, but for legal reasons, they don't accept interns under 16). as part of her application, she has to carry out and document an evil scheme of her choosing.

idk what the exact scheme would be because this is just a conceptual post about character dynamics but she begins looking at classifieds for henchman listings. she'd much rather do it all by herself, but she is still Tiny and not physically strong at all, so she needs some muscle on short notice. she sees a "henchman for hire - will accept hamster food as payment" listing under the name Norm Doofenshmirtz, and gets in touch with him because he can lift up to 15 tons

when they first meet, she's initially put off by his general norm-ness, so she just assigns him to his muscle duties and goes on with her plan. but throughout the day, he suggests ideas and does things that actually ENHANCE the plan's evilness, and she is very impressed. hypothetical episode ends with "norm, i think this is the beginning of a beautiful henchmanship"

SCENARIO 2

suzy works towards helping norm become a Real Boy because it's something he's wanted for such a long time, and she doesn't mind doing him a favor. she generates him a brainless, soulless, humanoid flesh vessel from DNA she obtained from a barber shop, and transfers his consciousness to a mechanical brain which she puts in the vessel's skull.

he very quickly finds out that being a human sucks actually. he doesn't like actually HAVING to sleep instead of just shutting off. he doesn't like the sensation of chewing food. etc etc. PLUS, he still feels the same on the inside. he still thinks the same as he did in his original body, still feels the same emotions.

he goes back to his robot self pretty quickly and very happily says "let's never speak of this again!" and suzy is like "agreed" and dissolves the flesh vessel in a vat of acid. yes i recognize this is like a horror movie. yes i think the dwampyverse is messed up enough for this to be plausible

SCENARIO 3

suzy saves norm from being permanently deactivated/destroyed somehow. as they're fleeing the scene, norm is like "ms. johnson, you saved me!" and she's like "of course i did. you're my best friend."

(suzy is not very popular in school and she prefers it that way, but norm is the first time she's ever experienced having a long-lasting friendly relationship with someone that wasn't related to her)

she pauses. "we are friends, right?" he cries a motor oil tear. "now i know i have a heart. because it's growing!"

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Bad Weather LADS Drabbles

Word count; 837

Warnings; fluff, reader is scared of bad weather

Notes; hey guys! I thought I'd just post something small and I've never tried my hand at drabbles before, so I hope they're actually decent enough. I'm also not sure how long they're supposed to be or if this is classified as a scenario instead? Either way, I felt bad for not writing anything new in my one-shots this week, so I hope a random little drabble will suffice!

Either way, I was just a bit inspired since I have a tad bit of bad weather coming my way (mostly just thunderstorms and high winds, a storm surge from the hurricane but it's not going to come anywhere close), and I was inspired to write since I don't particularly like bad weather. Big things in the sky scare me, to be honest.

Anyway, yall be safe out there if there's any bad weather near yall and I hope you have a good day/night!! 🩷

Sylus

“Hmm?” Sylus would wake up in the middle of the night with you in his arms, trembling from the sound of rain harshly hitting the windows. Wind whistling and whipping while your head was buried in his chest. 

“Kitten?” He would chuckle. “You're a mighty and proud Hunter, but this is what scares you?” 

A flash of light illuminates the room and your nails bite into the skin of his shoulder. 

Sylus would count out-loud how long it took for the lightning to follow behind the thunder. The low timber of his voice helps you calm down with your ear against his chest. 

His arms would tighten around you every time you jump from fear. 

“Calm down now, sweetie. Do you want me to have Mephisto fly out there and check the damage? Or should I have Luke and Kieran go out there and stop the storm?” 

A small caw is echoed through the room– a sign that Mephisto clearly did not want to go outside. 

You would laugh and shake your head. The thought of the twins trying to physically fight the storm, and Mephisto being blown around in the high winds, calms you down to where you can finally fall back asleep. 

Rafayel

“Hey…the studio isn't going to flood or anything right?” You would be worried, having heard on the news that Linkon would be hit with the storm surge coming off a hurricane. The hurricane wouldn't hit Linkon, however you were more worried about tsunamis– especially when you were at Rafayel's studio on Whitesand Bay. 

“It better not.” Rafayel would grumble as he tried to quickly put away any paintings he really cared about. “But if it does, you'll be safe by my side.” 

“That's…very reassuring..” you would say, not feeling very reassured because what could Rafayel do? He couldn't very well tell the raging waters to just stop…or could he?

As you excitedly turn around to ask Rafayel this, he puts his hand up in front of him. “I know what you're going to ask and my answer is no.” 

“Aw..” You would sigh before you'd nervously look out the window, keeping a close eye on the distant tide and the clouds in the sky. 

“Cutie..–” Rafayel tugs on your arm to pull you away from the window. “Seriously, don't look outside. You'll just stress yourself out, Miss Hunter.” 

He mischievously smiles, “Come on, let's go paint something together to pass the time or…I could distract you.”

Xavier 

“Xavier, does that cloud look weird to you or is it just me?” You would squint up at the sky, staring at the large bundle of clouds. “Mm…it's called a wall cloud.” Xavier would say from your couch, fingers tapping against his phone. 

“It usually means thunderstorms are on the way, and it can cause tornadoes.” The silvery-blonde haired man would shrug as if this wasn't a big deal, but it was. A big deal, that is. 

“Xavier, this is seriou–” 

A sharp noise would slip from your lips when a loud boom shakes the whole apartment and the lights go out shortly after. 

“Xav..” You would dart back inside from your place on the balcony and quickly shut the doors, trying to search for him in the dark. 

“Right here, starlight.” 

You would notice a tiny speck of light before a dozen others lit up the room. It almost felt romantic, if it wasn't for the rain pelting the windows and the distant sound of thunder. 

“Come here, we can hide out from the storm together in our own little world.” 

Zayne

“We gonna die–” you would blurt out the moment you began to hear sirens. Bundled up in a blanket on Zayne's living room floor, eyes locked in on the weather report coming from the TV. 

“I– Snow angel…” Zayne can't help but laugh as he returns to the living room with two mugs in hand. “Be careful, it's hot.” He would say as he sets your mug on the table in front of you. 

“Are you not worried at all!?” Your gaze would turn to him in a panic and Zayne would sit down next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. 

“If we die, I'll die with the person I love. That doesn't sound too bad, all things considered.” He admits. 

“You…What–” 

“I think we'll be just fine, angel. You fight wanderers daily, so I didn't expect you'd be this scared of bad weather.” Zayne leans forward and rests one arm over his propped up knee. 

“You know, even though I've known you since we were children, I'm still constantly learning new things about you…” A smile tugs at his lips as he reminisces on the past for a moment. “I hope we survive this ordeal so I can continue to learn more about you in the future.” 

“Zayne, you're not helping!” You would hit his shoulder and try to cover up your reddening face. But you do appreciate the way he was trying to get your mind off of the weather outside. 

[sierrabravoecho]

I want to talk about Hodor's communication, and I'm making it your problem.

Long post below the cut!

Hodor is one of the most prominent characters with a language difference that we see in the ASOIAF books.

In the books (so far!) we get very little information on the root cause of his language difficulty beyond being told that he's "simple".

We can accept that people living in Westeros don't have the same language to describe communication disabilities and differences as we do in the modern age. Typically, it's assumed that Hodor has some form of intellectual disability (congenital or developmental disorders which [1] begin in childhood [2] affect intellectual functioning and [3] affect adaptive functioning).

That being said, the show presents Hodor's communication difficulties as acquired following a seizure brought on by Bran warging into the mind of a young Hodor.

This gives us another possibility: rather than presenting with an intellectual disability, Hodor is presenting with some form of aphasia. While it's usually best to separate show and book canon, I thought it might be fun to analyse Hodor's communication in the books through this lens.

Unlike my previous posts discussing communication difficulties in ASOIAF (x, x), I do specialise in adult acquired communication disorders such as aphasia.

Aphasia is an acquired language disorder. Aphasia is heterogenous in its presentation, and can affect people in many different ways, including deficits in:

Spoken language

Written language

Reading

Understanding the heard word

Gesture

While intellectual disability is genetic, prenatal, or early developmental, aphasia typically occurs as a result of damage to the language centres of the brain (e.g., stroke, trauma). There is an existing link between experiencing seizures and acquiring aphasia.

Another important difference between intellectual disability and aphasia is that aphasia purely affects language, and does not affect cognition. While a person who experiences a stroke may present with both aphasia and cognitive impairment, aphasia does not cause cognitive impairment. Cognitive impairment is a key feature of intellectual disability.

Because aphasia is such a broad term, there are many different ways through which we can categorise the types of aphasia. The most universally employed method of aphasia categorisation is the Boston Classification System, which classifies aphasias as receptive or fluent (more difficulty understanding language) or expressive or non-fluent (more difficulty using language).

As we know from the above, Hodor can only use a single word. We are also shown that Hodor is able to follow simple instructions:

Because of this, we can assume that Hodor is presenting with an expressive aphasia. I'm not the first person to come to this conclusion: this post by the National Aphasia Association also deduces that show!Hodor's communication aligns with the characteristics of expressive aphasia.

Another article goes one step further and diagnoses show!Hodor with a severe form of Broca's aphasia, a subtype of expressive aphasia.

There is a possibility that book!Hodor is presenting with Broca's aphasia. However, I'd also like to consider that Hodor is presenting with another, more severe form of non-fluent aphasia called Global aphasia.

Here's a comparison of both subtypes:

We can see based on what we have previously said about fluency that Hodor aligns more with Global aphasia. His verbal output also shows us that he aligns more with Global aphasia in terms of naming and grammar. In particular, people presenting with Global aphasia tend to use neologisms (a series of sounds which do not form a real word) more often than those with Broca's. We know from Bran that Hodor is not an existing word in the Common Tongue, and therefore is a neologism:

In terms of what we've seen above relating to comprehension, Hodor aligns more with Broca's aphasia. However, there are some instances where Hodor doesn't seem to comprehend what is being said to him:

Unfortunately, we don't have data from the books relating to his repetition, reading, and writing. The lack of data is unsurprising for the latter two given Hodor's station and upbringing.

Hodor does not seem to be aware of his communication difficulties. Typically, people with an awareness of their communication difficulties tend to show frustration when their message is misinterpreted, or make efforts to fix communication when it breaks down. In contrast, Hodor is depicted most often as smiling and genial, showing little awareness of his difference in communication.

Finally, in terms of prognosis, we see that Hodor's communication does not change over the course of the books. Hodor's first word to us is Hodor; as is his final word.

Given all of the above, I would argue that Hodor is presenting with Global aphasia. He doesn't tick every box, which isn't all that unusual - only ~ 30% of people with a diagnosis of aphasia fit neatly into the Boston classifications.

In terms of the other criteria needed in order to differentiate whether Hodor is presenting with an intellectual disability, it is difficult to fully rule these out because of the severity of his language difficulties. However, in the below paragraph we can see that he is capable of both efficient adaptive functioning and skill learning (though this is one instance, and doesn't rule out intellectual disability in the slightest):

In order to give a definitive diagnosis, we would also need confirmation from GRRM whether his communication difficulty is acquired or developmental. And in the long run, a definitive diagnosis isn't all that useful for Hodor. Diagnosis is often used as a tool to pinpoint areas where a person may benefit from additional support, or input, in order to maximise communication in a way that best works for them. As Hodor is currently locked in a cave of horrors beyond the Wall, I don't think that this is a priority for him or his support system at the moment.

TL;DR: Hodor.

[llyfrenfys]

I'd like to preface this with that this is a screenshot of a post I saw a few days ago in the #welsh tag and that the OP has since deleted this post, but the sentiment is something I'd like to address since I see a lot of parallels with this kind of thinking in other contexts, such as in LGBTQIA+ rights conversations.

So, the most obvious elephant in the room is the idea that Welsh is super widely spoken in Wales now and that it isn't in as much danger as other Celtic languages. This idea is wishful thinking at best and erases the very real danger that Welsh is in and that it could be lost just as easily as Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Cornish (which is related to Welsh) actually did die out and has had to be revived. To make a metaphor out of this, we classify languages on a scale of non-threatened to endangered in a similar way to how we classify species.

Here are the statuses of Welsh and Irish as of 2010 (above) and the statuses of Lions and Tigers (below).

On paper tigers are more 'in danger' than lions. But that does not mean that lions are suddenly not in danger at all. The little bracket above CR, EN and VU labels all of these classifications as threatened. It isn't (and definitely shouldn't) be a competition of 'who is most in danger' because you do not want the thing you care about (whether it be a species or a language) to be in danger.

To come back to the original screenshot "they* [Welsh speakers] have always had the means and the ways because the English didn't beat or slaughter them for speaking it"- on the most basic of levels, this is just incorrect. The Welsh Not was a wooden token hung around schoolchildren's necks if they spoke Welsh in school. If someone else spoke Welsh the Not would be hung around their neck. At the end of the school day, whoever was wearing the Not would be beaten and caned by their teachers. I needn't go into much detail but there have been concerted efforts to beat Welsh out of schoolchildren. With the lions vs tigers metaphor, making the claim Welsh speakers have never been beaten for speaking Welsh because they always had the means and ways, while Irish speakers were beaten and never had the means or ways is like claiming poachers have never shot lions, only tigers. Bottom line is, lions and tigers are both victim to poaching and both species have suffered as a result. Similarly, Welsh and Irish have both suffered language loss and both need conservation efforts in order to survive.

(*sidenote- the consistent use of 'them' and 'they' in the original post is definitely indicative of a 'us vs them' sentiment which is a deeply unhelpful attitude to have when it comes to endangered languages and the Celtic languages in particular)

I see parallels with LGBTQIA+ rights in this situation. When equal marriage came in for gay and lesbian couples in the UK in 2014, many allies began to act like gay rights had now been achieved and that gay issues had been done, they're solved. Except, they really weren't (and aren't). Progress has been made in Wales and undeniably Welsh is doing the best out of the living Celtic languages. But that doesn't mean Welsh has been saved or that full equality for Welsh speakers has been achieved. It very much hasn't. The sentiment of the post in the screenshot is not conducive to helping Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Putting down Welsh speakers and erasing Welsh-language history will not save Irish or Scottish Gaelic. Pretending Welsh has had it easy in some kind of lap of luxury is a deeply harmful and bogus claim.

I'll address the tags under the cut as this post is getting long.

To address the tags, personal feelings ≠ an accurate reading of a situation. Nor is it praxis, for that matter. Why is pride in Welsh different/less good than pride in Irish? Is it the assumed proximity to England? If so, that's a terrible claim to make. Not only that, but Scotland is also next to England- does that make pride in Scottish Gaelic the same as pride in Welsh according to this metric? It's a ludicrous thing to say and deeply insensitive to the needs of Scottish Gaelic and Welsh speakers, who cannot help any current or former proximity to England.

Additionally, proximity to England ≠ worse. I know it's a popular internet joke to hate on England because of English attempts to eradicate the Celtic languages, but when the joke becomes praxis, it does not help. England ≠ a place devoid of Celtic languages either. Many English counties near the Welsh border actually have communities of Welsh speakers, such as Oswestry (Croesoswallt) in Shropshire. Cornwall is also home to many speakers of revived Cornish. It does a disservice to Celtic speakers in England to insinuate that proximity to England taints or corrupts them somehow. This is how ethnonationalism starts and we ain't about that.

And "#it feels a little.... blehhhhh you were seen as sophisticated and english enough and you assimilated however the Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled". So, this is arguably one of the worst things to say about a Celtic language- or any threatened language in general. First of all, the 'you were seen as' - 'you' is very telling. The switch from 'them', 'they' to 'you' indicates that this sentiment is aimed at Welsh speakers directly. This was likely a subconscious thing that OP wasn't thinking about when they wrote this. But it does indicate unhealthy feelings of jealousy and bitterness unfairly directed at Welsh speakers, who are also struggling. This righteous anger at the decline of Irish and Scottish Gaelic would be better directed at efforts to help promote those languages- some useful things to get involved with are LearnGaelic, similar to DysguCymraeg but for Scottish Gaelic or supporting channels such as Irish channel TG4 by watching their programmes.

The idea that Welsh speakers were or are 'sophisticated and english enough' is insulting and carries with it a lot of baggage of how any of these assumptions came about. Welsh speakers were definitely not seen as sophisticated. Where Welsh was 'tolerated', it was treated as a curiosity, a relic of a bygone age. Classic museification which all Celtic languages and cultures suffer from as well. Welsh was not tolerated in any legal sense since 1535- with English becoming the only valid administrative language and the language of Welsh courts after England annexed Wales into its Kingdom. Monolingual Welsh speakers suddenly had no access to any legal representation, unless they learned English. This is no voluntary assimilation- it is an act of survival for many speakers of minoritised languages to 'assimilate' into the dominant culture, or else risk losing access to legal security and other kinds of infrastructure. You need only ask any non-native English speaker living in an Anglophone country what that process is like. Welsh people did not see English incursion as an opportunity to become 'sophisticated and english enough', they had to assimilate in order to survive.

The "Irish and the Scots? #brutish animals that need to be culled" is also painfully misrepresenting a very complex social and political process that unfolded over the span of hundreds of years. The phrasing itself of 'brutish animals that need to be culled' speaks to righteous anger at the damage done to these languages and cultures, but it reinforces negative stereotypes about the Irish and Scots themselves. It also is more complicated than a simple English hatred of anything non-Anglo, since the English conception of particularly the Irish changed a lot over the centuries. It was (and still is) rarely consistent with itself. See: the enemy is both strong and weak. The very earliest Celticists were by and large, Anglos or French.

Ernest Renan (1823-1892) for example, was an early French Celticist who published La Poésie des races celtiques (Poetry of the Celtic Races- English translation) in which he says:

"... we must search for the explanation of the chief features of the Celtic character. It has all the failings, and all the good qualities, of the solitary man; at once proud and timid, strong in feeling and feeble in action, at home free and unreserved, to the outside world awkward and embarrassed. It distrusts the foreigner, because it sees in him a being more refined than itself, who abuses its simplicity. Indifferent to the admiration of others, it asks only one thing, that it should be left to itself. It is before all else a domestic race, fitted for family life and fireside joys. In no other race has the bond of blood been stronger, or has it created more duties, or attached man to his fellow with so much breadth and depth"

Yeah. This guy (unsurprisingly) was a white supremacist. Note that this sentiment is being applied to all people considered Celtic by Renan- Irish, Welsh, Breton, Scottish, Cornish, Manx etc. None unscathed by the celtophobia of the day. In this period, Celticity was romanticised (yet disparaged at the same time). It is less 'brutish animals' and more 'archaic, time-frozen peoples' in this period. Of course, 'brutish animals' attitudes towards Celticity did still exist, but it is disingenuous to act as if it was this attitude alone which drove English celtophobia. Like many things, it is always more complicated and never clear cut as it might seem.

I'll bring this to a close shortly, but returning to OP's suggestion that the Welsh assimilated and the Scots and Irish did not, is also incorrect in that some Scots did have to assimilate to survive as well. The Statutes of Iona (1609) required Scottish Gaelic speaking Highland chiefs to send their sons away to be educated in Scots and/or English in Protestant schools. Many did as the statutes required, which led to further language loss in the Highlands of Scottish Gaelic. These are acts of survival- and not ones always taken willingly.

This has been a long post but it's one which I felt I wanted to address. There's no need for infighting between speakers of Celtic languages over who has it worse. There isn't any answer to that question, nor is it a good use of time or energy. All in all, the Celtic languages have suffered greatly over the years and its only just now that some of them are turning a corner. If you care about these languages, put your energy into something good. Only through active work will these languages be saved for generations to come.

[jingerpi]

theres more to this than i can properly express right now but theres something interesting about how "awareness" efforts interact with mental health/disability issues within a wider oppressive society. People have rightfully brought attention to the way that some disorders are now seen as less serious due to their normalization, things like depression, anxiety, adhd, etc... are often made out as quirks rather than conditions which can be disabling. To some extent, this awareness can still be helpful, and I think many would default to being in favor of it, viewing the de-emphasis of these disorders as an unfortunate byproduct. I'm not here to say that awareness is bad, but I do think we should take a look at the other side of the coin and consider what that tells us about the situation. When some disorders are accepted as normal, as acceptable to have, what does that say about those disorders that don't reach the same status? Are they brought up along side those other disorders? or are they pushed down into the depths of social taboos? I would argue in many cases its the latter. Look at how popular sentiment treats schizophrenia or NPD. These conditions are deeply dehumanizing labels which people treat in a way so vile its difficult to even describe. the terms for diagnosis themselves become synonymous with evil or bad people. If you're being rude or uninformed you're "psychotic", if you're abusing someone you're a "narcissist", similar can be seen with ASPD and how people use the term "psychopath" and "sociopath" These disorders are pushed so far away from any form of real acceptance that its hard to believe psychiatry and these awareness efforts are working to truly destigmatize mental differences and help people. Rather, what it appears to be doing is simply shifting the line. Shifting the line of whats considered acceptable, whats a normal human (dis)order, and whats an evil disorder thats exclusive to inhuman caricatures. In the process of moving the line like this, changing the boundaries for which disorders are accepted, not only does it enforce that the boundary deserves to exist, and that these set of disorders are really extra special bad™, it also loops back around to where I started this post, to issues like anxiety and depression. To become accepted in a deeply ableist society, we can't simply change what we views as acceptable behavior or disorders, we have to change the disorders themselves, reshaping them to fit into the existing accepted standard. We mold conditions into pretty little shapes to allow for their acceptance. This might sound strange in some ways, but its really nothing new. Many other social groups have long been fighting the battle between assimilation and liberation, where you either give up part of your distinctness to fit into an oppressive system, or you fight the system as a whole to fundamentally change it and who its for. What I'm saying here is that the same struggle between liberation and assimilation applies to mental health awareness and disability rights issues. We can't simply fight to have depression recognized as a "normal person disorder", that puts down people still classified as having "bad person disorder"s, and it white washes realities of depression and just how serious it can be.

We have to actually work to undo the systems that classify people as fundamentally not deserving of respect or autonomy in the first place. Its a dialectical "unity of opposites", people are pushed out of personhood for the sake of reifying those who are accepted into it - and conversely, accepting certain specific groups into the accepted class actually enforces the barrier further, legitimizing it as a real distinction, when its entirely constructed.

[viridianriver]

'Artificial Intelligence' Tech - Not Intelligent as in Smart - Intelligence as in 'Intelligence Agency'

I work in tech, hell my last email ended in '.ai' and I used to HATE the term Artificial Intelligence. It's computer vision, it's machine learning, I'd always argue.

Lately, I've changed my mind. Artificial Intelligence is a perfectly descriptive word for what has been created. As long as you take the word 'Intelligence' to refer to data that an intelligence agency or other interested party may collect.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back when I was in 'AI' - the vibe was just odd. Investors were throwing money at it as fast as they could take out loans to do so. All the while, engineers were sounding the alarm that 'AI' is really just a fancy statistical tool and won't ever become truly smart let alone conscious. The investors, baffingly, did the equivalent of putting their fingers in their ears while screaming 'LALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU"

Meanwhile, CEOs were making all sorts of wild promises about what AI will end up doing, promises that mainly served to stress out the engineers. Who still couldn't figure out why the hell we were making this silly overhyped shit anyway.

SYSTEMS THINKING

As Stafford Beer said, 'The Purpose of A System is What It Does" - basically meaning that if a system is created, and maintained, and continues to serve a purpose? You can read the intended purpose from the function of a system. (This kind of thinking can be applied everywhere - for example the penal system. Perhaps, the purpose of that system is to do what it does - provide an institutional structure for enslavement / convict-leasing?)

So, let's ask ourselves, what does AI do? Since there are so many things out there calling themselves AI, I'm going to start with one example. Microsoft Copilot.

Microsoft is selling PCs with integrated AI which, among other things, frequently screenshots and saves images of your activity. It doesn't protect against copying passwords or sensitive data, and it comes enabled by default. Now, my old-ass-self has a word for that. Spyware. It's a word that's fallen out of fashion, but I think it ought to make a comeback.

To take a high-level view of the function of the system as implemented, I would say it surveils, and surveils without consent. And to apply our systems thinking? Perhaps its purpose is just that.

SOCIOLOGY

There's another principle I want to introduce - that an institution holds insitutional knowledge. But it also holds institutional ignorance. The shit that for the sake of its continued existence, it cannot know.

For a concrete example, my health insurance company didn't know that my birth control pills are classified as a contraceptive. After reading the insurance adjuster the Wikipedia articles on birth control, contraceptives, and on my particular medication, he still did not know whether my birth control was a contraceptive. (Clearly, he did know - as an individual - but in his role as a representative of an institution - he was incapable of knowing - no matter how clearly I explained)

So - I bring this up just to say we shouldn't take the stated purpose of AI at face value. Because sometimes, an institutional lack of knowledge is deliberate.

HISTORY OF INTELLIGENCE AGENCIES

The first formalized intelligence agency was the British Secret Service, founded in 1909. Spying and intelligence gathering had always been a part of warfare, but the structures became much more formalized into intelligence agencies as we know them today during WW1 and WW2.

Now, they're a staple of statecraft. America has one, Russia has one, China has one, this post would become very long if I continued like this...

I first came across the term 'Cyber War' in a dusty old aircraft hanger, looking at a cold-war spy plane. There was an old plaque hung up, making reference to the 'Upcoming Cyber War' that appeared to have been printed in the 80s or 90s. I thought it was silly at the time, it sounded like some shit out of sci-fi.

My mind has changed on that too - in time. Intelligence has become central to warfare; and you can see that in the technologies military powers invest in. Mapping and global positioning systems, signals-intelligence, of both analogue and digital communication.

Artificial intelligence, as implemented would be hugely useful to intelligence agencies. A large-scale statistical analysis tool that excels as image recognition, text-parsing and analysis, and classification of all sorts? In the hands of agencies which already reportedly have access to all of our digital data?

TIKTOK, CHINA, AND AMERICA

I was confused for some time about the reason Tiktok was getting threatened with a forced sale to an American company. They said it was surveiling us, but when I poked through DNS logs, I found that it was behaving near-identically to Facebook/Meta, Twitter, Google, and other companies that weren't getting the same heat.

And I think the reason is intelligence. It's not that the American government doesn't want me to be spied on, classified, and quantified by corporations. It's that they don't want China stepping on their cyber-turf.

The cyber-war is here y'all. Data, in my opinion, has become as geopolitically important as oil, as land, as air or sea dominance. Perhaps even more so.

A CASE STUDY : ELON MUSK

As much smack as I talk about this man - credit where it's due. He understands the role of artificial intelligence, the true role. Not as intelligence in its own right, but intelligence about us.

In buying Twitter, he gained access to a vast trove of intelligence. Intelligence which he used to segment the population of America - and manpulate us.

He used data analytics and targeted advertising to profile American voters ahead of this most recent election, and propogandize us with micro-targeted disinformation. Telling Israel's supporters that Harris was for Palestine, telling Palestine's supporters she was for Israel, and explicitly contradicting his own messaging in the process. And that's just one example out of a much vaster disinformation campaign.

He bought Trump the white house, not by illegally buying votes, but by exploiting the failure of our legal system to keep pace with new technology. He bought our source of communication, and turned it into a personal source of intelligence - for his own ends. (Or... Putin's?)

This, in my mind, is what AI was for all along.

CONCLUSION

AI is a tool that doesn't seem to be made for us. It seems more fit-for-purpose as a tool of intelligence agencies, oligarchs, and police forces. (my nightmare buddy-cop comedy cast) It is a tool to collect, quantify, and loop-back on intelligence about us.

A friend told me recently that he wondered sometimes if the movie 'The Matrix' was real and we were all in it. I laughed him off just like I did with the idea of a cyber war.

Well, I re watched that old movie, and I was again proven wrong. We're in the matrix, the cyber-war is here. And know it or not, you're a cog in the cyber-war machine.

(edit -- part 2 - with the 'how' - is here!)

[sagan-starstuff]

XF Meta: Scully's Medical Training Timeline

At the request of @randomfoggytiger, I wanted to do my damnedest to make Scully's education and training timeline make even a little sense. I'm a physician (specifically a specialist in adult infectious diseases), and it's fairly clear to me that CC and Co probably didn't actually talk to any doctors about how medical training works. Love my girl - I'm a Scully Effect kid, I don't think I'd be a doctor at all if it weren't for the inspiration of Dana Scully. But her timeline is...iffy at best.

Disclaimer: My medical school and post-med school training occurred from 2009-2018, Scully's occurred in the 1980's-90's. From what I can tell, the durations of many residencies and fellowships don't seem to have changed much, but I can't say that for certainty for all programs at all institutions. I am also from the US, so I cannot speak to medical training in other countries.

Our girl was born in 1964, and so unless she skipped a grade (which some schools would do if students were classified as "gifted" or otherwise exceptional, she would have graduated from high school at age 18 in 1982 and went straight to college. Let's assume she didn't skip a grade, for the sake of argument.

You have to have a Bachelor's degree to apply to medical school. These degrees typically take 4 years, though if someone arrives at college with credits from dual-enrollment high school classes or AP exam credits OR if they take summer classes some people can complete them in 3 years. I don't know what the availability of dual enrollment or AP classes was like in the early 80's (and like CC, I'm too lazy to do the research to find out), so we can assume that Scully graduated from college in 1986.

Medical school is 4 years long - no shortening this at that point in time, and even now in almost all cases. So that puts medical school graduation in 1990 IF she's following a traditional timeline and went straight from college to medical school.

Now, if someone is going to go into practice they have to do a residency in at least one of a variety of specialties (Internal Medicine, Pediatrics, Surgery, etc.) in order to be board certified and practice independently. There are very, very few job options in clinical medicine if you DON'T do a residency, so if you want to practice, you have to do it. Residencies can be anywhere from 3-5 years, depending on the specialty. You can also further subspecialize after a residency by doing one or more fellowships (typically 1-3 years depending on the fellowship) before sitting for your board certification exams and starting independent practice. For example - after medical school I did a 3-year residency in adult internal medicine, then a 2 year fellowship in adult infectious diseases to be eligible to sit for the boards and enter my specialty, so 5 years further training after medical school before I could get a job, get board certified, and practice.

Scully is a forensic pathologist. She would have had to do a 3 or 4 year pathology residency (both were options at the time) followed by a 1 year forensic pathology fellowship. You CANNOT perform autopsies right out of medical school, if you are going to be a forensic pathologist you HAVE to do this training. So, following a traditional timeline this puts her as having completed forensic pathology training in 1994 or 1995. Pilot starts March 7th, 1992, so this is loooooong after she's canonically already an FBI agent and teaching at the academy.

But our girl's a smart cookie, so let's take a little leeway with her timeline. Let's say she skipped a grade some time in K-12. This puts high school graduation in 1981. Let's say she ALSO graduates with a bunch of AP credit and does summer semesters and finishes her undergraduate degree in Physics in 3 years. This puts her as starting medical school in 1984, with graduation in 1988. She'd still need to do that pathology residency and forensic pathology fellowship - let's assume a 3 year residency, then 1 year fellowship, so she'd finish training in 1992.

Still doesn't fit.

Let's go totally off the rails here - we know Scully was recruited out of medical school to the FBI, so she didn't do a traditional residency at all - UNLESS the FBI has an internal forensic pathology residency. It would HAVE to be accelerated in some way - some programs combine residency and fellowship by giving less elective time and more focus to the fellowship content. It's not common but they exist. Let's say in theory the FBI has an accelerated forensic pathology residency that takes 3 years, in addition to the 20 weeks of the FBI academy training. This has her finishing residency AND FBI academy training some time in 1991.

This is the ONLY way she could have finished forensic pathology training AND the FBI academy with enough time to be a fully certified forensic pathologist and FBI agent with some time left to teach at the FBI academy before being assigned to the X-Files on March 7th, 1992.

I can suspend my disbelief enough to be on board with this. You'd have to be pretty damned special, which we know she is, to get recruited out of medical school by the FBI. Maybe they even developed the accelerated combined residency/fellowship just for her! She's Dana Katherine Motherf***ing Scully, people!

Now, IWTB is where things get REALLY unbelievable. (Disclaimer: I have not watched IWTB since seeing it in theaters in 2008. I'll get around to rewatching it someday soon. Probably with a bottle of wine. Not a glass. A bottle.)

Mulder and Scully go on the run in 2002. We don't know how long they were in the wind, but by 2008, she's been allowed to resume a career and is practicing at Our Lady of Sorrows. Clearly in pediatrics - but general pediatricians sure as hell don't do stem cell transplants, so she'd almost certainly have to be a pediatric oncologist. We aren't told what her specialty is specifically, but that's what she'd have to be to do a stem cell transplant.

(That scene in the OR isn't even what stem cell transplants LOOK LIKE but that's a rant for another day, back to my point.)

MEDICAL BOARDS DON'T JUST LET YOU CHANGE YOUR SPECIALTY FOR FUNSIES.

(Deep breaths. Serenity now. Ok, let's do this.)

Scully would have had to do an ENTIRELY NEW residency AND fellowship in order to practice as a pediatric oncologist. Pediatrics residency is 3 years long. Pediatric Hematology/Oncology fellowship is 3 years long. In order for this to be even remotely possible, she would have had to START residency in 2002 to finish fellowship by 2008 and start her job at Our Lady of Sorrows.

And she's a former FBI agent harboring a known felon, on the run from government officials and alien hybrids who want her and Mulder dead.

There is absolutely no way even the smallest, most hard-up pediatric residency program is going to accept her with that hanging over her head. I'm not going to get into all the details of how rigorous and stressful the post-medical school residency application and match process is, but even if she didn't apply until she KNEW it was safe to come out from underground, she'd still have to explain a multi-year gap in her resume/CV to the program directors. Multi-year gaps in career and training without a reasonable explanation like a medical issue, time off to care for an ailing family member, time off for research, time away in a different, legitimate career are NOT looked on kindly when applying for residency positions. She would have a HELL of a time getting into a totally different residency.

It could happen - if anyone could do it, she could. But there's absolutely no way there's enough time for her to complete that training by 2008.

"But sagan-starstuff, it's CC, it's X-Files, we know there was no show bible and no one but the fans gave a shit about continuity or things making sense, there's no logic just vibes"

I KNOW, OK. I KNOW. And I love this insane, beautiful masterpiece anyway. I love exploring the possibilities of how and when it all could have happened with my fellow insane Philes who work so hard to glean meaning and order from this perfect mess of a show.

But couldn't CC have talked to one (1) doctor about what medical training is like at some point between 1993 and 2018? Just one?

Anyway. Yeah. That's my meta. Scully's training timeline makes no goddamned sense. Compels me, though.

@randomfoggytiger, this is for you. Honorable mention to @precedex-files who I ranted about this with in messages a while back.

[selenesnighttime]

"good night!"

sleeping with leonidas and thor

I based it on another post here, so just in case, credit to that person!

English is not my first language and I'm using the translator on my keyboard, so I apologize for any errors!

Leonidas

● There are two reasons why you end up sleeping on top of him:

● 1. he is comfortable

● 2. this man is a giant, so he probably doesn't leave much room for sleeping

● but seriously, he's like a pillow, so you have nothing to envy for not sleeping in the bed

● there are two ways in which you two can sleep, face up (with you on top of him) or side

● if you sleep on your side, he will hug you burying you more in his chest (for your enjoyment)

● you use him as a pillow and he uses you as a stuffed animal, a fair deal

● He needs to feel you, it's his way of knowing that you are safe, he is your protector after all.

● By the way, it is very likely that before going to sleep you two will have a cuddling session, especially if he is stressed, you are like his anti stress toy

● you can hug him, give him kisses, play with his beard, and He won't let you go, his arms will always be around you.

● Although the king always enjoys showing you his love, the bedroom is one of the only places where he will completely let his guard down.

Thor

● first of all, unless you are some kind of god/goddess of winter and your body is always cold, you don't need a blanket, this man is a fucking stove

● Of course it is not unbearably hot, but it is hot that can make you run out of air if you stick too close for too long.

● like Leonidas he also needs to feel you close, although he doesn't need it to be so direct, feeling your hand is fine

● You normally sleep side by side, you on your side, he on his, but there is a special occasion in which you do sleep cuddling.

● a stormy night, although not many know it, sometimes these are a sign of sadness or stress on his part, so when it is one of those cases you are ready to shower him with love

● This man is not used to receiving so much attention, so don't be surprised when he turns just as red as his hair.

● Yes, he's going to get nervous, but he's not going to stop you, just because he gets nervous doesn't mean he doesn't like it.

● the only problem is that being nervous makes him even hotter, so you'll probably have to take a cold shower before going to sleep.

● Thor is not very good with words, so his thing is actions, Normally they are things like small gifts, but if you are cuddling he will hug you and caress your hair.

● It's not much, because, again, he's not very used to this kind of contact, but he does the best he can!

● Thor doesn't usually show much affection in public, so appreciate these little moments where you can snuggle with him for as long as you want.

Is this a Valentine's Day special? Technically not since I was supposed to finish this yesterday, but I guess I'm going to classify it as a special because I finished it in time for it to come out today

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[qqueenofhades]

Hi! This question has been noodling in my head for a few weeks, and I’ve been really curious to hear your opinion. I’ve appreciated your very thoughtful commentary on the ways the online left in particular have hurt the real and concerted efforts that have been made to navigate through the Gaza war in support of Palestine. I’ve seen a lot of outrage online about Biden bypassing congress in order to make another emergency weapons sale to Israel, which does indeed read as counter to helping to the Palestinians facing endless and indiscriminate violence. I understand that you might not want to answer this ask, because the work that you already do in your life offline and the work that you do here on tumblr to respond to and explain these issues is exhausting enough. Thanks so much for your time and your thoughtful contributions! It’s always really helped me remember to slow down and think critically about the media I consume.

Because you have asked this thoughtfully and in good faith, I will return the favor and give you a careful and extensive answer to the best of my ability. However, obligatory top-of-post disclaimer that I will disable reblogs at the first hint of any wankery in the notes and I will not answer any follow-ups or secondary asks at this time (unless I decide to do so, but I engage with this topic sparingly, judiciously, and only in small doses, so don't count on it).

First, let me say that the moment, I disagree with substantial portions of how Biden is handling the two main foreign-policy crises (Ukraine and Gaza). In regard to Ukraine, I think he's backed off, taken his foot off the gas, and otherwise given Republicans ammunition to keep delaying or watering down a new aid bill, is refusing to disburse military aid packages from the $4 billion of funding remaining that was previously approved by Congress, hasn't sent long-range ATACMS and other critical military hardware that might bring the war to an end sooner, and is not (as of the moment, though recent reporting suggests this might change) pushing hard enough for frozen Russian assets to be transferred to Ukraine for military and/or humanitarian financial assistance. However, I am also aware (unlike, it seems, much of the left-leaning internet) that I am basing these judgments only on my personal impressions, on what is reported (or not reported) in the media (which has plenty of its own problems) and otherwise what is formed in my role as an ordinary American citizen without any kind of special, classified, high-level, or government access. I know nothing more than any of you, and I also know that a lot of what goes on behind closed doors does not appear on Political Twitter and/or the Washington Post or the Guardian or Daily Kos or whatever other aggregate sources of information I or any left-leaning person typically consumes. So it's highly possible (and this is my cautious academic instinct speaking) that I do not, in fact, have a full picture of events. There are also contributing factors that Biden cannot simply handwave aside, even if he did, say, dip back into the $4 billion pot in the meantime. Congress will need to pass a new funding bill for Ukraine aid and the MAGA Republicans have been enthusiastically blocking it to the point where Putin's cronies on Russian state TV praise them effusively for it. We all know about the Republicans and Russia's mutual love affair. So.

The same goes for Gaza, and even more because we have already had reporting about how the Biden administration is walking a behind-the-scenes tightrope in a number of seemingly impossible tasks: keeping the war from spreading to a larger theater, pressuring Netanyahu to dial down, y'know, the rampant genocide (when Netanyahu notoriously doesn't like Biden, was very close with Trump, and would be happy to keep the war going in order to boost Trump's chances of being re-elected and save Netanyahu himself from his own criminal prosecutions), and pursuing a complex policy toward the state of Israel that does not follow the antisemitic Western Online Left's fever dream of "Israel suddenly disappears overnight and falls into the ocean and all Jews die or disappear." We have had multiple credibly sourced reports about this. Blinken is back in the Middle East right now trying to keep the war from spreading. The US under Biden has criticized Israel's essentially empty policy document for post-war Gaza as not being remotely feasible (because it's so vague) and gone so far as to voice support for a two-state solution with Palestinian self-determination (which is itself quite radically different from previous administrations). However, they have also vetoed UN ceasefire resolutions and other essentially meaningless political theater (the UN as a whole has been ruthlessly exposed in the last few years for being completely useless) that are easy to gin up outrage about, and that's what the internet focuses on, rather than any of the other complicated actions taking place.

All of this is to say that no, in fact, I don't blindly support everything the Biden administration is doing in regard to either Ukraine or Israel right now, but I actually have a sense of real-world perspective about it and understand that there are certain immutable realities that we are working with and which will not be erased by some absolute jackasses yelling at Biden in a historically black church at the commemoration of an anti-black terrorist attack. Likewise, as I've said it before and I'll say it again, and as plenty of other people have noticed and pointed out, the Western left is using this as an orgy of pseudo-revolutionary fervor that focuses on using Hamas as a proxy for their own fantasies of violent uprising against their own governments. Because while yes, anti-zionism and antisemitism are two distinct things and represent different aims and goals, it's become more or less irrelevant in allegedly pro-Palestine Western leftist spaces. It's just increasingly rabid, accelerationist, and nihilistic antisemitism all the time, or the obvious usage of "Zionist" to mean "Jew." It's not good. There is no concept of actual restorative justice for Palestinians or other people, such as Ukrainians, Syrians, Uyghurs, Taiwanese, etc, either undergoing genocide or facing the threat of it, because Western leftists have latched onto this cause solely as a stick to beat the Democratic Party with and have no actual moral interest or concern in stopping genocide elsewhere in the world or repudiating it as a method overall. They just want the state of Israel (which they characterize as a "proxy state for white western colonialism" despite the many, many things historically, religiously, and politically wrong with that statement, because it means it now Contains the Right Buzzwords to Oppose It) to be destroyed altogether in the name of "opposing colonialism," but it really seems to be all about opposing Jews. Hmm.

Simply put, Biden is not ever going to pursue a policy of "let's totally abandon Israel tomorrow, never sell it any weapons or allow it to defend its own civilians, and agree that Hamas is actually a good representation or advocate for the Palestinian people" in the way a number of Western Online Leftists seem to think he should do. There is still the fact that Israeli civilians do exist and that Hamas has continued to launch missiles at them daily, inconvenient as that fact might be for the Hamas fanboys (and fangirls) who now populate much of what passes for Western leftist discourse spaces. (Either that or they don't care, because in their view, Israeli civilians are fully acceptable collateral damage by virtue of simply living in Israel in the first place, which -- yikes. Fucking yikes. That is all.) The number of people professing to be lifelong leftists who are Just Shocked at all the antisemitism, or thinking that any and all antisemitism is just artificially introduced into leftist spaces by bad-faith right-wing/Nazi psyops either has not spent any actual time around leftists, or (more likely) simply does not listen to what they openly say. The antisemitism is virulent, constant, and only getting worse. On the most basic level, regardless of the other difficulties around the founding of Israel as a state in 1948 and the fact that doing so on some of the most bitterly religiously, politically, ethnically, and culturally contested territory in the world for over two thousand years was always going to be a massive clusterfuck, the fact of its immediate post-Holocaust creation simply cannot be ignored the way many Online Leftists do. Israel exists because of the worst antisemitic mass murder in recorded history (and that's a high bar). That fact must be incorporated into any actual discussions about its right either to exist or to protect its own civilians. But this gets turned into "Israel exists only as a puppet state of white western colonialists" which is just bad on so, so many levels.

The collective Western Online Leftist feeling seems to be that Hamas are innocent and wronged freedom fighters who are begging for a ceasefire and the cruel Israelis aren't granting them one. This is not true. Hamas has rejected multiple ceasefire opportunities, and continued to launch missiles and retaliatory attacks, because they are terrorists and they do not want or represent any serious opportunity to negotiate in the framework of western liberal democracy. They are treated as helpless woobified blorbos by much of the Western leftist-leaning internet. They are not. In that case, Biden bypassing Congress to sell Israel weapons (which was just something like 100 million of artillery shells, which is not nothing but still not a huge systematic thing like, say, Reagan's Iran-Contra scandal) is not great. I do not support anything Israel is doing to Gaza. It is abhorrent. However, there are reasons for Biden to provide some limited amount of weapons to Israel without congressional approval that do not automatically and mindlessly equate to BIDEN SUPPORTS TOTAL GENOCIDE IN GAZA!!!!!!1 Especially when as I've said, the Online Leftists only care about stopping genocide when it fits their political self-righteousness, and absolutely not at all the rest of the time.

This is representative of the fact that Western Online Leftism has now completed its all-out descent into blind Noam Chomskyism. Chomsky has never met a "leftist" or "anti-Western" genocide he couldn't deny, excuse, or openly cheerlead (going all the way back to the 1970s and Pol Pot/the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia and going up to the minute with Russia/Ukraine and Israel/Palestine). Noam Chomsky is the leftist Henry Kissinger. His ethics and morals are equally abhorrent, he's just as willing to justify total genocide in the name of advancing his preferred political ideology, and while there were (justifiably) celebrations and gloating memes across Tumblr when Kissinger finally bit the dust, Chomsky's beliefs are replicated with slavish adoration in many other Tumblr spaces and spread in some form or another to the rest of the website, which now takes them as leftist gospel (and let's not even talk about Twitter). This represents my absolute frustration with the fact that Western Online Leftism has devolved to such a degraded, mindless, useless, and malevolent level that "cheerlead for any anti-western/Leftist TM terrorist group or state" is taken to be the be-all and end-all of their moral philosophy. Someone remarked that ISIS peaked too early; if they were still at the height of their powers today, they would have a legion of devoted white so-called progressive Twitter users shilling earnestly and angrily for them, and Christ, isn't that the fucking truth.

I know we live in a hard, frightening, complex, and difficult world, and it's hard to sort out what our moral responsibility and action should be at any given time, especially since the answer is always so frustratingly partial and incomplete. Nobody of basic good sense and decency wants to see Gaza leveled while the Israeli state continues to apply a number of violently cruel collective punishments even outside the actual daily bombing of civilians. But for the love of god, let's get rid of the idea that the continued mindless violence doesn't benefit Hamas (because it does; unsurprisingly, sympathy for their cause has soared in Gaza) as much as it does Israel, or that Hamas is some kind of benevolent peacemaker that is being thwarted by the cruel imperialist US/West. And going back to the incident that prompted you to send me this ask: white leftists have often and repeatedly demonstrated their withering disdain for black people, Democratic voters, "mainstream" Americans, and anyone else doesn't buy into the twisted tankie fantasy land where getting rid of Biden would somehow be a massive coup for social justice (by getting Trump, now openly announcing at every turn that he will be a dictator, back into office! Very praxis, much justice. Wow.)

In short: if you, a white person, stand up in Mother Emanuel AME -- one of the most sacred sites for Black churchgoers, who are indeed often heavily Democratic voters -- in the middle of a remembrance service for victims of white supremacist terrorism, after the Black pastor has asked you not to protest inside the church out of respect for the Black community coming together to relive its trauma -- just so you can heckle Biden and feel good about yourself, then Jesus Christ. You don't care about restorative justice for people of color, or literally any justice at all, much less "stopping genocide." You just want to use them as props for your Chomsky cosplay revolutionary fantasies and your sense of self-righteous superiority over literally everyone else, regardless of the real-world consequences. So I have no hesitation whatsoever in telling those people to get fucked. Often and repeatedly.