#finally may i find a common experience? of many?

[dissociative-misinfo]

"If you really had DID, you wouldn't know!"

Says who?!

The idea that people with dissociative identity disorder (DID) can't be aware of their symptoms until they're diagnosed... This is a huge myth about DID and similar experiences; one that has been debunked again and again by experts. Yet it remains! Here are a few examples of this misconception being spread around online: source.

People with DID can be, and often are, aware of their DID symptoms before ever speaking to a clinician.

Where is the proof? Khan (2024) states that, while it's normal for dissociative people to not realize the full extent of their symptoms, trauma, or alters, they can still become aware of any of these things at any point. Source. Dell (2006) actually considers the awareness of alters before diagnosis to be a "common occurrence in DID" which has been widely documented in studies. Multiple diagnostic screening tools inquire about awareness of alters for this reason. Source.

Additionally, alters can have varying degrees of awareness of each other and their symptoms. To quote Howell (2011) from her book, on pages 3-4: Source.

"Different dissociative parts may or may not have knowledge of the affects, behaviors, histories, motives, and thoughts of other parts. How coconscious patients are also varies—that is, the extent to which they have knowledge of and are privy to the thoughts, history, and affairs of the other parts varies. Often, the part of the self that is in executive control is unaware of the thoughts and activities of other parts (often called one-way amnesia). However, this is a tricky topic to try to make clear. For example, coconsciousness may be minimal before beginning psychotherapy for DID but tends to increase considerably in the course of appropriate psychotherapeutic work. Although parts other than the part who is most often in executive control (often called the “host”) are more likely to know of each other and of the host, this is not always the case and is not always the same for different parts of the same patient. Some parts may be unknown by many of the others. The dissociative structure of each patient is different."

Even in the case someone has no memory of their symptoms, they can be made aware through external evidence such as finding purchases or notes that other alters made, police reports confirming traumatic events, someone pointing out their dissociation, etc.

Now let’s talk about something that I feel goes frequently unrecognized: becoming aware of symptoms is often a positive thing! For many people, recognizing their own symptoms is the first step to seeking help for them. As mental health awareness and access to useful information increases, we will likely see an uptick in people with DID developing more awareness of their symptoms and getting help sooner. That’s incredibly positive!

Finally, a small note about diagnosis... Diagnosis is its own loaded topic for a different day. However, I want to point out that people diagnosed with DID still had the DID before their diagnosis. The symptoms were still there, whether they were aware of it or not.

Furthermore, not everyone with DID can obtain a diagnosis or even wants one. There are a myriad of potential reasons for that and I encourage you to do your own research on it. These articles can be a good starting point: source, source, source.

Thanks for reading!

[probablyaseamonster]

Hey so this happened to come up on my feed seemingly randomly but for once I'm not complaining /enthusiastic because I did in fact have a Wreck it Ralph phase last month! Helped me feel better when house became hostile lol. I wonder if I forgot I had the tags saved or something, cause I don't remember what I did to have this pop up on my dash lol. Sorry for anyone who has to see it, but honestly, this was the best way y'all could've found out, lmao. I have Seen Shit, and I made a Spotify playlist about said shit. It is, mercifully, only 8 songs long lol

Anyway, remember I said "topical times do exist, but never feel embarassed to like something years after everyone else seemingly moved on! It's both valid to grow out of something, as well as valid to keep it in your hearts! I mean, that is the basis of the retro genre after all..."

Happy 10th Anniversary to the movie that fundamentally changed my brain chemistry and made me unbearable to be around in 2012!!! <333

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Know Your Place 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, power dynamic, age gap, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall, destroyer!Chris [for the purposes of this AU, I will give him the last name Jackson] (Professor AU)

Summary: after a life time of home schooling, you finally get to experience the real world in college. (petite reader)

Part of the Bad Professors AU

Note: Please leave some feedback and reblog <3 As always, I love to chat with you all. 

The noise all around has you reeling. You’re not used to so many people. So many voices and smells and sights. The frantic action of it all reminds you of a mid-00s movie about a high school. The coeds are like animals milling about in groups with the odd single body rushing between with a mission stitched between their brows. 

You sit with your thermos of tea and try to focus on your schedule. You have a campus map from the Student Support Centre next to it, trying to map out your route for each day. Momma said you should try to get ahead, figure out where you’re going. She’s always right. 

You have two classes that day. As you find the buildings on the map, planting a finger on each, you find that they are on completely different ends of the campus. Of course. Well, momma didn’t know that where they would be, did she? She said you have to balance your load; if you’re going to be an English major, make sure you take some math and science for your electives. 

You circle the two buildings and put lets beside them denoting which day you need to be there, numbering them in the order the classes occur. A burst of laughter breaks your concentration and you look around, trying to find the source. You almost miss the calm isolation of your childhood living room. 

No, you’re grown now and you begged Momma to let you go to college. Not online, but in person. You even worked all summer at the deli so you could live in a dorm. She was proud but worried. She’s never been good at letting go. She’s already called three times today and it’s not even noon. 

As the crowd blurs around you, a sudden gust blows over the table as someone sits across from you. You stare back at them with a gasp. They must’ve mistaken you for someone else. You blink as the man tugs on the front of his letterman jacket and smiles. He doesn’t seem mistaken. 

“Hey,” he leans forward on an elbow, “you waitin’ for someone? Got some cute girlfriends on their way?” 

He’s so forward, he has your brows as high as they can go and your cheeks are on fire. It’s not much of an introduction. 

“Excuse me?” You eke out. 

“Ah, I’m sorry, hon, I’m getting ahead of myself,” he smirks as he crosses both his arms on the table. “I’m Colin. You looked lonely.” 

“Oh, uh, I’m just... figuring out my schedule,” you utter dumbly. Yor brain isn’t clicking. Why is he talking to you? 

Your ears tweak and you notice a group in similar jackets, sitting just across the dining area, gabbing loudly, snickering. You wonder why he isn’t over there with them. You wiggle your pen anxiously. 

“Ah, you’re not gonna give me a name for that pretty face?” He says. 

“Huh?” Your brows drop, “what?” 

Your momma’s voice echoes in your head. ‘Be careful of those college boys. They only want one thing.’ You didn’t believe her. They don’t want that from you. You were sure once you saw the other girls in their tight leggings and short tops. 

“Your name, baby? Gotta be something sweet, huh?” 

Your face ripples as you wade through surprise, confusion, then something else. You’re almost giddy. This man, with his mussed blond hair and bright blue eyes, and his chiseled features, is asking you your name. It’s flattering. 

“Mauve,” you can’t help but smile as you answer. 

“Oh, yeah? That’s pretty, well, Mauve,” he takes out his phone, “me and my buddies are having a party tonight and we’re supposed to find a hottie to bring with us. I’m having no luck but if I show up alone, well... I might not get to stay in the frat. You get it?” 

You stare at him. You're confused. You don’t really understand frats and whatnot. They just seem like clubs people join so they can drink. 

“You wanna do me a favour? Come with me?” He asks. 

He’s bold. Bolder than any one you’ve ever met. You sputter but can’t come up with any words. 

“Please,” he pouts, “promise, I won’t try anything, I just gotta get these guys off my back.” 

He looks over his shoulder at the table of rowdy guys. You squirm in your seat, uncertain. You’ve never been to a party. Wow. 

“Here, I’ll get your number,” he taps on his phone screen, “I’ll send you the details--” 

“Leave her alone,” a grizzly voice undercuts the frat across from you. 

A thick man stands behind him. He has a cardboard cup in his hand as he glares down at the coed. His burly figure is swathed in a dark green sweater and grey slacks. He’s older and his dark curls are threaded with subtle twinkles of silver. 

“Huh? Who the hell are you?” 

“Why don’t you show her those pictures you were snapping of her? The ones you and your pals were laughing about?” The other man growls.  

You frown. What? You don’t understand what’s going on. You look from one to the other. The younger man sat across from your sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck it. Whatever. Lots of pigs to go around,” he shakes his head and stands, facing the other man. “You know, bro, just cause you’re too old to get with any ass around here, doesn’t mean you gotta ruin it for others.” 

“Get out of here,” the thicker man snarls. The other winces just slightly before puffing up his chest and stomping away. 

You remain as you are, aghast and lost. The man with the dark curls looks at you. You shrug at him. 

“I’m sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?” You ask. 

The harsh angles of his scowl ease and he lets out a long breath, “uh, no, not you. That boy, you know, any one that wears one of those jackets, they’re no good. Just some advice.” 

“Oh, right,” you look over at that guy, Colin, “sorry, I didn’t know. He just started talking to me. I was being polite.” 

“Seem like a nice girl. Just tryna look out for you.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” you chew your lip and sniff. “Are you... are you teacher?” 

“I’m a professor,” he confirms as he holds his cup close to his chest. He's one of the biggest men you’ve ever seen. And his eyes are as blue as the ocean. “Professor Marshall but unless you’re a psych student, you can call me Walter.” 

“Walter? My neighbour is Walter. At home. He’s eighty-one and he collects baseball cards,” you let yourself smile. You always felt more comfortable around older people. You never had many friends your own age. 

“Don’t mind some baseball myself,” he dips his chin. “Well, you look out for yourself and avoid the Greeks.” 

“Greeks?” You make a face. 

“Fraternities,” he says. “And sororities, if you can help it.” 

“Oh, okay. Thank you, sir,” you feel a little better. You think he’s right and he is a professor. He would know. “I’ll do that.” 

“Sir? It’s Walter,” he corrects you. 

“Oh, sorry, Walter,” you smile. “I’m Mauve.” 

He nods and shifts his cup, “Mauve,” he repeats, “well, nice to meet you.” 

“You too, sir, er, Walter. Thank you,” you say. 

He hesitates then steps back on his heel, “yeah, no problem.” 

He slowly retreats and you watch him, your heart playing like a drum. You did it. You spoke to strangers and you didn’t melt. Things are getting easier. If you could get through that, you’re sure you’ll make lots of friends in your classes. 

[yan-lorkai]

Hi hi

So, I was talking to a friend about a scenario in which Lilia is obsessed with his beloved wife and their unborn child.

Do you think you can do something like this?

(obs:eu duvido 👀)

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: Well, it's done. Dad Lilia always make my heart beats a little quickly, he is such a funny dad imo. Duvida, é? 👀 Bem, espero que goste!

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Yandere content, pregnancy, afab!reader

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Lilia suffered a lot because of the war. He lost Meleanor, he lost Levan, he had to travel for years on end to search for a way to hatch Malleus's egg. But finally after so many years, he got his happy ending with you, his beloved and your child, growing inside your womb slowly. It's refreshing in a way. He is a father, he got all the experience but it's his first time being a father to a child who got his blood and genes.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ He is very helpful. He likes to fluff your pillows, to wrap your blankets around you burrito style, to help you bathe and dress, he massage your feet and shoulders, he even spoon-feed you if you let him. He gets overwhelming very quickly because he doesn't let you do anything alone or the way you want if he consider too "dangerous" - which is... Pretty much anything. He is a helicopter dad, watching your every move, reading the slightest secret hidden on your voice. He won't have you getting injured because you are stubborn, he is glued to you for nine whole months.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Lilia know that the pregnancy hormones may make you sad or angry, but he knows just how to soothe you, having already dealt with Meleanor years before, even if you two are a little different in temper. And he is very good at calming you down. He wipes your tears while professing his love for you again and again, kissing your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, everywhere his lips can touch.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ He loves staring at you. He loves watching how your body is changing, how you're glowing, he specially love your bump. He compliments and praises you a lot, he can goes on and on for hours on end.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ He has a list of names already. There's plenty of variation between names, some tend to have a more fae-ish origin while others are more common, he is sure that you will be able to find a name that suits the little one growing inside your womb. He also like to talk to the little one too, he cracks jokes and tell them stories about him and their brothers, he even sing to them when they start to kick.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ When you go into labour, Lilia is there, holding your hand, encouraging you to push, wiping the sweat from your forehead, and when you do give birth to your firstborn, he watches you hold your child and he burst crying loudly, hiccuping. It's too beautiful to take. The domesticity, the warmth feeling on his chest, he can't take it. And he loves it.

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Be your child a girl or a boy, Lilia will take good care of them. He'll guide you through every step of motherhood with happiness, loving to see you holding your child carefully against your chest as you two lay on your bed. It's a sight he will never forget about, he even take a photo. He even make an album full of them. He is that obsessed.

[dotster001]

Hi! May I request the reaction of the twst boys, if they already have an S/O but they meet their soulmate? What would they choose between, their S/O or their soulmate?

Summary: Ace/Rook/Sebek/Sam/Leona x. Gn! Reader

A/N: this got long, but I had souch fun thinking about this. So feel free to request other boys for me to look at!

3k followers masterlist

Ace knew just as well as anyone that in modern day society, it was common to not end up with your soulmate. Some people never met their soulmate, some people's soulmates were just not a good match, some people seemingly didn't even have a soulmate. It was fine. Nothing to get butt hurt about. 

Ace's soulmate mark on the palm of his hand had never even sparkled, let alone lit up. And he'd found someone that he had fun with. He wasn't sure if it was really love, but that was fine since he couldn't be sure if he was even capable of love.

He probably wasn't. His only other relationship, he'd ghosted them once he got bored. So a fun relationship, with no love, was probably all he deserved.

Until the day the you'd poofed into the mirror chamber, and his soulmate mark had glowed for the first time in his life. He saw you looking around in confusion, and at the time, he had assumed you were looking for him. Later he would realize you were too scared to even notice your mark. He was so god damn selfish.

He quietly slipped a glove on that was supplied with his uniform, and decided to wait and scope you out.

….

You'd both just defeated a monster of some kind, and you, Deuce, and the cat monster were laughing together, but he was just thinking of you.

You. You were too good.

He couldn't do this with you. You'd be hurt at first, but it would be better than knowing your soulmate was a heartless asshole who would leave you when he got bored.

You never had to know. He'd take solace in what he had, and give you your best chance for happiness. 

His string of fate had finally become a natural color. And during the SDC auditions, he'd found it belonged to you. 

He'd told you the truth. That he'd been seeing many people, believing that you were dead, or he'd never been destined to meet you. He was practically pleading with you to forgive him for the crimes he'd committed against you, but you told him you'd done the same thing once you'd realized your string wasn't the correct color.

He fought back a wave of intense jealousy, by kissing you, and telling you he'd break up with the one he'd been dating immediately. Hell, he'd be doing it right this moment, if you hadn't told him it'd be cruel for him to do it over a call.

How could he even care about cruel when you were right in front of him? Ready to help him find his happily ever after! 

Lilia had always told him about soulmates, and how they would change your life. When you saw them, your world would literally expand, the otherworldly "colors" flooding your vision, but all you'd be able to focus on is their eyes.

He'd started at NRC, and Riddle Rosehearts had brought up the fact that a marriage of convenience would help Malleus more than being with his soulmate would. Silver had stepped in, repeating what master Lilia had always repeated. But Rosehearts was one that his lord respected dearly. There was no harm in trying it.

And one date with the rich merchant's kid had turned into two, had turned into three, had turned into a full relationship. For Sebek, the connections were very helpful to his king. For his partner, connections to the fae court, which were normally hard to come by, were completely open to them. 

While Lilia often gave the disappointed dad look,  and Silver wanted no part in the relationship, Sebek saw no reason to end it.

At least until the two of you made eye contact, and he finally got to experience color. 

You were ecstatic! But he was torn… could he give up this boon he had for his master, just for his own happiness.

He told you he needed time. You looked disappointed. Perhaps you had your own Lilia back home who had filled you with beautiful promises. But you told him you understood. Albeit with tears glimmering in the corners of your eyes.

He spent three days straight training. He didn't think to stop, even with the sweat streaming into his eyes, causing them  to burn more than they already were. 

It wasn't until he felt his Lord's calming presence entering his periphery, a steaming mug of hot cocoa, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream floating in it, in his hands.

"It would be foolish to work yourself to death."

Sebek halted his moves, sheathing his sword, and quietly grabbing the mug.

"It is not often you are rendered speechless," Malleus smirked,but Sebek could barely nod.

Malleus sighed. "Humans do not live very long. To have one for your soulmate is a blessing few get to share. You will have centuries to be bound to someone you do not love.Do not lose your chance to hold them while you have them."

Malleus vanished as quickly as he appeared. Sebek stared at his hot cocoa, before running to find you, while he still had the chance.

He was always so cold. No matter where he was, he never could find the warmth of his soulmate. He'd ask his friends every once in a while to see if there was a soul that was destined to truly belong to him. The answer was always no. So he lived in eternal winter.

Those trapped in the cold seek warmth. And he'd found solace in a simple witch. There was no love. The relationship was purely to bring warmth to one another.

Then one day, he felt a moment of relief, as his friends came running for him, all of them speaking over one another. The only word he could consistently catch was , "Soulmate". The worst part was that he was literally in the arms of his little witch.

It wasn't that he didn't want you. He desperately did. Especially when Everytime you walked into the room, the cold numbing his fingertips dissipate, and he'd feel like he was in a warm embrace.

But you never pushed him, because of the conversation he had with you the moment you walked into his shop for the first time.

"I can't."

"Huh?"

"Not yet. I have someone relying on me. I'm their only source of warmth. Can you wait for me?"

You truly were perfect for him, because you never brought it up. And if you were anything like him, you desperately wanted the warmth you would feel if you held him close to you. But you were so patient. Pretending everything was fine, while he searched tirelessly for a soulmate that might not exist, for a potion that would simulate the warmth. 

One day though. He promises that one day, he'll have it figured out. And then both of your patience will have paid off.

no one could ever love him. Which is why he wasn't bothered that no one's name was scrawled on his arm. And why he wasn't bothered when his brother had nervously asked if he'd be opposed to a betrothal to someone from another country. It's not like anyone was waiting for him.

It was a comfortable relationship. They definitely didn't love each other. But at least there was someone who had to at least pretend they cared when you complained about something. Comfortable. That's all he could ask for.

Until he'd felt pain on his arm, and found a name scrawled onto it for the first time. In a sea of new freshmen, he could pretend he didn't notice. He could pretend he didn't see.

And he hadn't run into the person the name belonged to, until you stepped on his tail in the greenhouse.

And after that, you were trying. You were trying so damn hard. It was endearing, and he almost let you in.

But deep down, he knew you'd one day seem him for who he was.

So one day, on edge from you asking him questions about himself, he snapped and told you to stop wasting your time, and get out of his life. Stop lying. No one could ever love him.

You glared at him. You called him a coward. And he growled back at you.

"I don't need you!"

For a moment, you seemed startled. Then you glared at him, and held your head high as you told him you wished him the best but doubted he'd find it.

And as he watched you storm off, a part of him knew you were right.

[tinycheesecakedetective]

Character Files #1: Blueberry Milk Cookie

Hello again! It's been a while. Today I'd like to waffle on about Blueberry for a bit. If you'll allow me to. In the past I discussed his trajectory, but I wanted to take the opportunity to update a few things and add some fun details. This post is meant to cover Blueberry's past. What will become of his kingdom will be discussed when I get to the aftermath of the Dark Flour War. Now let's begin! ~~~~~

Personality & Early Life Blueberry Milk is a scholar with a taste for thrill and has an insatiable curiosity. He's kind to others, however he has a tendency to be overdramatic and cocky. He always pushes beyond boundaries despite the consequences or risks it may pose. He's an adventurer specifically because he found traditional studying too boring and would much rather get his hands dirty with experiments. But before Blueberry Milk became the illustrious founder of the republic, he was just a student at the Parfaedia Institute of Magic. Many teachers considered him a prodigy due to his prowess and intelligence, however others dreaded teaching him due to his penchant for troublemaking.

He would graduate at the age of 17, and took on a job as a professor before quitting years later. Many would cite a lack of stakes as one of the reasons for his departure, though that was common knowledge to anyone that was close to him. Blueberry Milk would then become an independent researcher, exploring the world and doing field research.

The Kingdom's Beginnings With months of travelling under his belt, it became very clear that he needed somewhere to store all of his findings. Initially he planned to establish it back at Parfaedia, but found it too stifling for him. So he packed all of his things and began moving north. Some old colleagues heard about this and followed suit, joining him up north in what would be called "The Land of the Studious." Alongside his colleagues, they established The Congregation, a meeting hall where they could all discuss the progress made with each of their projects.

Over time, more cookies heard of this place up north and had began seeking it out to perform their own personal projects. The Land of the Studious became known among Parfaedians as a wizard's getaway, a place where students could perform magic more freely than in the Institute. With the surge of visitors, the Gelato Villas were built for incoming travelers and eventually permanent residents, and the Wafer Train Station was built soon after for easier access to and from Parfaedia, and a new school began construction. As the area expanded more and more, the Land of the Studious had changed from a small community of scientists to a bustling city-state. The Congregation evolved, with the original founders becoming council members and gaining more political power over time. Soon even the name itself had changed, now being known as New Yogurt City.

A City in Crisis As the city developed, Parfaedia began to recognize NYC as a legitimate entity outside of "tourist destination." With competition on the rise, the magic city was forced to evolve to stay relevant. More technology was implemented into daily life as a result, with new experimental magic being tested. It was all going well until everything came screeching to a halt.

The incident happened outside of the institute. It started as a few electrical malfunctions inside some of the classrooms before quickly spreading to the rest of the building. Strange rifts opened inside one of the classrooms before letting in a legion of cake monsters. Even with all wizards pushing back, they were unable to stop the rifts. More appeared, wreaking havoc across the magic city. In a final attempt to get outside help, the wizards looked to the legendary beacons and lit them.

Dozens of wizards saw the lights and answered the call, including Blueberry Milk. With additional backup, they all began to go around the city, fighting the cake armies with staffs and wands. The city lit up with magic spells and potions as the streets were enveloped with smoke. For a moment, it looked like victory was near for the wizards, until the smoke parted with a mighty shriek.

Flying over them was their last and greatest opponent: the roll cake hydra. A horrible beast with cream cheese frosting bleeding through it's teeth and seven heads to boot. While the wizards and townsfolk fought long and hard, it kept coming back harder and more angry. The terrible beast forced them to retreat into the nearby forests.

A Glimmer of Hope Tired and exhausted, the cookies tended to their wounds. Many of them had passed out from spending too much mana, and others didn't know how much longer they could go on. Splitting from the group, Blueberry Milk wandered through the woods. He began flippantly going through spell after spell, trying to find one that could stop this before he never could. In his darkest moment, a voice beckoned to him. He tried to find the source, moving further inside before it spoke again.

It asked him if he was truly determined to save Parfaedia, and he responded with a nod. Sensing his desperation, the voice offered him a deal. It would give him the power he needed to stop the hydra in exchange for defending Earthbread as a whole. With dwindling options, he agreed, and his powers were amplified. Using his newfound strength, he left to face the hydra alone.

The fight was intense. Standing in front of the hydra armed with only his staff, he launched the first blow. Taken aback by the sudden attack, the hydra was struck, backing up before lunging it's heads at the cookie.

Move.

Blueberry Milk jumped out of the way, heart racing as he looked down at his hands. He felt sharper, quicker. The hydra tried again, snapping it's neck at him as it attempted to swallow him whole.

Roll.

His body acted on impulse, rolling away from it before sending a shockwave at the monster's body. A direct hit. A grin curled up onto his face as his teammates returned, mouths agape in shock.

Again.

The fight raged on as Blueberry Milk effortlessly weaved through each attack while dealing blow after heavy blow. More onlookers came, cheering him on as the hydra grew tired and sloppy. Another set of attacks came as he pushed the hydra into a corner.

Once more.

Pouring his remaining mana into his staff, he sent one final attack aimed at the hydra's chest. The hydra, desperate to live, fought back with all it's remaining strength, but it would be of no use. The attack speared through it's chest, pushing it back into a wall before it erupted in a beautiful collage of colors and sounds.

His finest work yet. And one that made him faint. His body was quickly ushered into a recovery room. When he woke up, he found himself surrounded by friends and acquaintances. If he didn't shoo them away, they would have killed him with kindness. He also wouldn't have noticed the gleaming blue gem resting on his chest.

The Aftermath Since the attack, Parfaedia immediately began reconstruction efforts, and with the help of the NYC was able to recover almost completely. After intense discussion and meetings, the two cities agreed to join under one entity as the New Yogurt Republic. The new republic recognized the efforts of the brave wizards that defended Parfaedia as heroes, and Blueberry especially began to grow in popularity. He was eventually appointed as the leader of the republic, with a new and improved council by his side, and with their combined efforts helped to usher in a new golden age for both cities.

For now.

Blueberry Milk, now a wielder of the soul jam of hope, began doing research into how exactly it worked. He knew that it helped him during the fight, but something about it felt.. foreign. But Blueberry wasn't one to give up, and he began to seek out others like him for his research. His curiosity knew no bounds, and he was determined to unlock the secrets of the soul jam.

[aziraphales-library]

Hi team! I was wondering if you might have some recommendations for Aziraphale-centric fics? Not really looking for whump, or fics where his feelings for Crowley are his sole focus (though I'd still enjoy it if were a significant part of the story), but moreso fics that look at Aziraphale holistically. First fic that comes to mind as an example is "Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens: An Integrative Approach" by Nnm. Thanks!

Hello! Here are some Aziraphale-centric fics for you...

Could you breathe with me? by Euny_Sloane (T)

Aziraphale goes to counseling/therapy with an unnamed therapist and spends some time exploring his feelings related to love, loss, and family. Note that this is an imagined counseling session, and so may bring up uncomfortable feelings, regardless of how many tags I place, especially if you have the unfortunately common experience of feeling unloved by your family, or unworthy of love. Nothing graphic happens except a reference to Pompeii, though.

In a Perfect World, I would Hold your Hand and Kiss your Cheek by boredom (T)

A chance encounter with a young man leads Aziraphale on the path of healing and discovery. Maybe now he can finally admit to what he wants, without guilt and without fear. Maybe now he and Crowley can finally move forward, together.

Human Labels, and Angelic Discovery by Hemlock_Holmes (G)

Aziraphale discovers autism, and goes on a one-angel mission to learn everything he can about it. This is a purely self-indulgent fic about discovering yourself after many years, because I am so tired of reading books (not fanfic!) where the word autism is skirted around and treated like taboo, even when everyone knows that's what the author means. Just say it people! Also because nothing gives me greater joy than watching Aziraphale stim.

something wretched about this by IvyOnTheHolodeck (T)

You might wonder why Aziraphale can't seem to enjoy his retirement in peace. You could ascribe his distress to the series of terrifying thoughts that haunt his days, or the only book he wishes he'd never read, or even the wound that still hurts after six thousand years. Really, though, you should blame the fact he's never learned to talk about his feelings.

The Other Arrangement: or, How the Angel Got so Hungry by burnttongueontea (T)

‘It’s just… funny. Don’t you think it would be funny, if it turned out we’d had it the wrong way round all these years? If I ate all the time, and you hardly ever?’ Crowley discovers that Aziraphale has been strictly and obsessively limiting his food intake for millennia, due to fear of punishment from Heaven if he gets caught eating too regularly. The angel’s confident facade comes apart at the seams after they move to the South Downs, as he struggles to cope with new-found freedom while still keeping his past a secret. With the future of their relationship soon hanging in the balance, Crowley must find a way to convince Aziraphale that he is a safe pair of hands to collapse into – and that they can rebuild things from the ground up.

My Favorite Ghost by cassieoh_draws, DiminishingReturns (T)

Decades after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell got their war — and nearly destroyed everything in the process. When Aziraphale finally manages to reacquire a corporation and return to Earth, he discovers he was gone longer than he thought and the planet has become unrecognizable. As he searches for Crowley and tries to figure out how he fits in a world that Heaven, Hell, and God have all wiped their hands of, nature works around him to reclaim the bones of an old civilization as the scraps of humanity build a new one. A lush and optimistic post-apocalypse story, told from the POV of an immortal who can't let go of the past.

And the one you mentioned...

Angel-Centered Therapy Through A Multicultural Lens: An Integrative Approach by Nnm (G)

“I’d love to meet with you,” Davey said, apologetically, when he had been called up by a fellow looking to initiate therapy, “but I’m all booked up for months.” “Are you sure?” The fellow said, through a poor connection that crackled. Davey had been sure. And yet. Right there in his calendar was a blank spot, just a few days away, which he had somehow completely overlooked before. “How about that…I’ve got Wednesday at eleven, if you can make that work.” “What a miracle,” the fellow said, “that would be just the perfect time.”

- Mod D

[3hks]

How to Create a Unique Character

As authors, we should want our characters to stand out, to be unique, and to have an everlasting impression on our readers! However, there are simply too many other characters out there to make our creations one-of-a-kind. But in this post, I'll give you some ideas and tips you can use to create a memorable character!

What really sticks out about your character? Appearance wise, it's admittedly easier if your character has some truly unique features, such as heterochromatic eyes, scars, different hair color(s), accessories, etc. If your character doesn't have anything too distinctive about them, then pick out some of their most important traits and embellish them! Notice that I said important, the features that matter to your character should matter to the reader. And finally, if your character is simply just average, then state that. Take time to really describe your characters and the respective parts of them!

What about their backstory? Honestly, a backstory can do a lot! They can change the readers' perspectives on the character and provide reasoning for their actions. With that being said, a backstory can really stick to the audience, so let your imagination run wild with their past! Naturally, you should decide on what influence their background had on them and build a story around that. Does your character live in an orphanage? What type of orphanage is it? What did they learn from it? For quite some writers, their main characters are orphans, but how did they become one? I'm going to be honest here, it's rather common for authors to have their protagonist watch their parents die, and have their motives built around that. Don't just settle for something bland! If they have been through some sort of traumatic experience, depending on the situation, I suggest involving that character, make them a part of what they went through, more than a simple bystander. Maybe they could've helped, but didn't, and that regret was what changed them! If you want your character to have an impression on your audience, the backstory is a part of the foundation for that!

What about their emotions? For a mentally healthy character, this is a pretty obvious answer: they are perfectly cognizant of their feelings and accept them. However, I suspect that most of you won't create a mentally healthy character, and that might work to your advantage! Think about how they would deal with these three feelings: sadness, anger, and stress. Does it differ from a "normal" person? Then at some point, include your character battling one (or more) of the emotions they find it difficult to deal with! How they respond will stick out to the readers!

What about their mental stability? Does your character have some sort of mental health disorder? These don't have to be flat-out depression, but can include OCD, mysophobia, (more commonly known as germophobia) anxiety, ADHD, etc. A disorder or obsession will definitely make your character stand out, but make sure to do some research on the topic! Mental health is no joke; some people may actually have the disorder, and falsified facts could really be offensive.

And lastly, what about their own, private problems? For example, a character's significant other has been distracted with work, and doesn't pay much attention to the former character. Thus, they feel abandoned and not prioritized. How does the character fight to overcome those feelings? How a character feels in specific events can reach out to the reader because they find it relatable!

These are some things to consider when creating a unique character! Every little part counts!

Happy writing~

3hks ^^

[mysteria157]

Moment One: An Old Flame

Rating: Explicit 

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

CW: fluff, profanity, explicit sexual content (whole lotta smut, I’m talking: vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, creampie…lol you get it).

Word Count: ~6k

Summary: When Nanami has no choice but to work overtime, you bring him dinner as a surprise. But you unexpectedly find his ex-girlfriend already keeping him company. 

Takes place a few weeks after Chapter 15 of It Had To Be You!

Notes: I had this idea way back when I wrote chapter 15 weeks ago and I finally made it a reality last night LOL. I don’t have a beta reader, so sometimes there may be a mistake or two. I have a habit of being way too detailed when I write, and that includes smut. So hopefully you enjoy it! 

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome! Happy reading!

Divider: @saradika | Header: myself

Those Moments In Between Masterlist | Moment Two

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

MINORS DNI

Nanami knows better.

He knows that his ex-girlfriend, Pia, is just as devious as she was when they were in undergrad. 

When they were younger and together, she gave sweetness and tender love that made Nanami stick around a bit longer than he should have. Though they had nothing in common and she was far too outgoing, she helped him embrace many different things that were normally out of his comfort zone.

She taught him how to express public displays of affection in his own way. She taught him how to express what he felt when it came to romantic love. 

He was grateful for it. Truly.

Indirectly, her personality only made him realize just how ill-suited they were for one another despite her good intentions.

Pia was spiteful to those who disagreed with her, disrespectful to those who did not have the same values as her, and outlandishly rude to those who came on to Nanami. She covered it all up with smiles, jokes as a means of apology, and an innocent glint in her eyes that Nanami at the time, didn't have the experience to see through.

Gojo had tried to warn him, year after year.

But he was young--his disdain for Gojo was five thousand times more intense than it is now--so Nanami treated everything that fell from Gojo's lips as a ploy to annoy anyway. 

Nanami remained oblivious to her behavior, caught in the haze of young love, until their final year of college.

That haze had gradually become easier to sift through. The complaints from his friends finally began to register in his mind. Then, one day between classes, a significant moment allowed him to finally blink away the fog.

Every action that he had once dismissed, enticed by the flutter of her lashes and the touch of her lips, rose to the surface from an ocean of naivety--loud and unfiltered.

He despised himself for having to come to the painful realization that Gojo had been right all along. 

Nanami allowed Gojo to mock him for a week before reverting to his habit of telling him to shut up unless he had something meaningful to contribute to their conversations. 

Despite feeling embarrassed and heartbroken, he cut ties--clean and simple--moved on with his life, and never heard from her again.

Until now, that is, as she is currently in Nakameguro for a project to market her wine enterprise. She specifically chose his company to assist in expanding her business in the Japanese market, and he despises every minute of it. 

Pia clearly wants to make up for lost time because she goes to great lengths to be close to him. 

She has a habit of discreetly slipping into the elevator just before it closes, coincidentally finding herself alone with Nanami every time. With a simple smile and a polite greeting, she faces the front and they ride in silence, but with every encounter, she subtly edges closer and closer to him. 

Like clockwork, without fail, she makes a point to peek into his office every morning, disregarding his attempt to keep the door closed. She greets him, extends an invitation to lunch—an invitation he consistently declines—and continues with her day. 

Being a recluse by nature, he rarely leaves his office except for coffee runs to the breakroom or when Yuji relentlessly calls for his presence. But with Pia’s presence, he can hardly focus when she’s around. He refuses to engage in conversation or give her an opening to pursue him romantically. Because he knows she will. So now he makes Yuji come to him and will bring his own coffee from home. 

He chooses not to confide in you about his struggles.

You had only met her once, but it was more than enough. Because to you, Pia is overwhelmingly beautiful, with a well-traveled life and wealth. You are an amateur ceramic artist with modest savings, a mother that you can’t stand, and a body that had recently been stretched and marked by childbirth.

You thought Kento deserved better—deserved someone like Pia. 

You were grappling with the overwhelming responsibilities of taking care of Ulani, trying your best to navigate through postpartum depression in a healthy way, and coming to terms with a body that seemed alien to you.

So the sight of Pia for the first time, radiant and flaunting a badge of honor for dating Nanami, did nothing but throw you into a deep pit of insecurity.

Kento lifted you out of that dark place, demonstrated to you again—without fail—how devoted he was to you then and always.

He made it abundantly clear that he was yours. 

He’s determined to never make you feel unsure of yourself again. 

So it's not a big deal. She’s just a nuisance that he has to dodge for the next week. 

Just another week until she goes back to Italy where she—hopefully—will never return.

What’s the worst that can happen?

It turns out, a lot.

He tries to stay one step ahead, deliberately exchanging a brief greeting with her in the lobby to prevent her from slithering into his office. He even waits until the office is deserted, and the day is nearly over before stepping into the elevator. 

He doesn’t know how he got out scot-free, but Friday rolls around and he thinks that he just might pull this off.

But Yaga chooses today of all days to ask Nanami to stay behind to consolidate a few contracts that only Nanami—unfortunately—has access to. In normal circumstances, Nanami would decline and suggest pushing it off until Monday.

It’s even more unfortunate because he has plans tonight. He wants to help you make dinner and spend time with his daughter and he shouldn’t even have to think about excuses because he hates overtime. But, the consolidation is due Monday, and he wants to get it done now so that he can avoid the hassle later on.

You don’t sound upset when he calls you to break the news. Your usually calm voice is slightly downcast with a gentle sigh that you think he can’t hear.

“I guess it’s rare so I shouldn’t be mad but,” you complain weakly, your words tinged with a slight whine that makes Nanami smirk to himself. “I made Katsudon.” 

He groans, mouth instantly watering at the mere thought. 

“I’ll be home as soon as I can, my love. I promise.” 

You grumble a reply that makes him chuckle, a tender sound resonating deep in his chest as he listens to you tell him that you love him before hanging up the phone.

***

It’s seven o’clock and he’s fighting a migraine. But he’s almost done, and he’s determined to finish the last stack of contracts that require organizing before he can make his way home to you and Ulani.

As he pens his signature on the bottom of one contract, there’s a knock on his office door, prompting him to invite them in—assuming it’s merely the janitor since everyone else on the floor left hours ago. 

That’s all he thinks to himself; he focuses his attention on yet another clause, preparing to initial his name on the side when everything comes to a screeching halt. 

Because standing before him isn’t the janitor—it’s Pia.

Pia, clad in a tight black dress that not only defies workplace etiquette but also starkly contrasts the one she wore earlier in the day.  

Earlier that day, he followed her every movement as she got into her car and drove away, silently relieved that he could finally relax. Yet, here she is; her dark brown wavy hair hanging over her shoulder in a manner far too seductive for his comfort, and black heels clutched in her hands instead of adorning her feet.

It takes him only a second to assess how quickly he can maneuver past her without a word. He will take the steps if he has to, or maybe he can grab the remaining contracts and finish the rest at home and—

“Gojo always mentions how you never stay late anymore, so I’m surprised to see you here,” she purrs, her Italian accent grating against his ears, exacerbating his throbbing migraine behind his eyes. Her lust-filled, indecent intentions taint her dark brown eyes, reinforcing the strong urge within him to leave, quickly. 

He’s not the type of man to belittle a woman’s appearance because they all possess their own beauty. His mother hammered that among other things about the respect of women deep into his skull before he hit puberty. But he’s well-mannered enough to acknowledge beauty and let the line be drawn there—because other women aren’t you, and he doesn’t have a wandering eye. 

He never has and he never will.

“Is there a reason why you are here, Pia?” he questions, discreetly binding the stack of contracts together so he can swiftly grab them along with his blazer and push her out of the way if he has to. “Your project finished at the end of the business day, so I assumed you would be on your way back to Italy.”

She scoffs a deep and guttural noise that makes Nanami’s stomach twirl in distaste and intensifies the pounding behind his eyes. “You know exactly why I’m here, Kento. Don’t be dull. You never were back then, and you aren’t now.”

His stomach churns, the knots tightening with each passing moment between them. The tension becomes unbearable, culminating in a swift rise from his seat as he retrieves his blazer behind his large, deep red chair.

“You need to leave,” he demands, his voice devoid of the polite courtesy he had extended to her during her visit. He tucks the contracts beneath an arm, grabs his car keys, and makes for the door—but she’s quick to sidestep so her frame blocks his path. 

Irritation surges within him, an emotion that others—excluding you—are keen to elicit when they begin to waste his time. 

“Pia, please move out of the way so that I can go home.”

She arches a perfectly groomed eyebrow, adding to the torment coursing through his stomach. “So you’re saying you don’t even want to talk? It’s been years since we’ve seen each other, and you’ve done nothing but avoid me during my entire stay.” Her whiny, petulant tone and childlike frown only serve to trigger flashbacks to times when she didn’t get her way, intensifying the deep divide that caused their separation.

“And you don’t understand the reason why?” he retorts, irritation heavier and thick in his mouth. A frown etches itself onto his lips, and his patience dissipates in the tense air encircling them. 

A noise in the lobby—a noise that implies someone can be listening—makes his heart stammer in his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck rise. 

While she has an agenda, he does not. He refuses to allow others to lose respect for him in this office, thinking he indulges in infidelity during his free time when that couldn’t be further from the truth. He couldn’t care less about others’ opinions, except when it involves you and your relationship—that’s where he draws the line. 

Unaffected by his sarcastic remark, she delicately places a perfectly manicured hand on his chest. He’s quick to react, catching her wrist in a way that makes his blazer fall to the floor, pulling her hand away from him as his body begins to shake in frustration.

 “I don’t know where you’ve gotten the impression that I want anything with you, but I won’t be entertaining it. What we had was a long time ago and it won’t ever be reignited again. Try your best to understand that,” he states firmly.

“But—” she begins to protest.

“Enough, Pia. Leave. Now.” 

He isn’t asking nicely anymore, his head pounding, and the decision to simply push her out of the way is made. Just as he prepares to do so, the door swings open, and the person he longs to see the most but also wishes wasn’t here right now, rushes in.

“Ken, I thought I could bring you dinner and—” you stop mid-sentence, words wedged in your throat as you take in the scene in front of you. You’re holding a Tupperware container, the steam inside condensing along the edges.

Nanami with papers under one arm and the other dropping from a delicate wrist to flop down at his side, his hair disheveled from hours of musing, his face clearly disturbed. And Pia, beautiful and ethereal as usual as she whips around to look at you. 

Since that first day you met her, you haven’t encountered Pia again. And Kento’s unwavering loyalty and trust have provided no reason to entertain the thought of her. 

However, Nanami’s stiff stature, Pia’s tight dress that reveals a bit too much in the front, and the stiletto heels swinging from her finger in one hand make it abundantly clear to you why she is here. 

At seven o’clock at night.

With no one else around.

You want to shy away from the implication, to fend off your surprise with a shy chuckle, and let the poisonous current of insecurity draw you away like that time before. But Nanami had skillfully put those doubts to rest weeks ago. 

Now you’re just irritated.

“Pia? What are you doing here?” You keep your tone light, masking the annoyance bubbling inside you. Pia’s earlier sultry gaze has vanished, replaced by widened eyes and hands smoothing her already unwrinkled dress, anxiously. “Kento told me the project ended a few hours ago. Aren’t you flying back to Italy soon?”

She fumbles, her rose-tinted lips curling as she searches for something to say, gripping her heels tighter in her hand. It’s reminiscent of watching a child scrambling for an excuse after being caught with their hands in a cookie jar.

Nanami remains silent, astonished. In the past, any other woman daring to breathe his air while Pia was present would have been met with scathing words and threats. But now, that Pia is desperately trying to produce an excuse for her late presence within a workplace when she she should be on a flight home.

“She was just leaving, love,” Nanami interjects, trying his best to make the situation as simple as it can be. Pia agrees, blushing and nodding, hastily slipping her heels back on with hands seemingly covered in sweat.

Watching her struggle to secure her heels, her fingers slipping on the buckle, reignites a surge of confidence deep within you. The once persistent insecurity in her presence now feels like a mere joke. In this moment, she becomes the joke. 

And you want to savor every minute of it.

The next words spill from your mouth, impossible to contain. You wiggle the small Tupperware container in your hands, gesturing towards her and offering a shy but satisfied smile.

“I was just bringing my husband dinner,” you chuckle airily, the lie slipping from your lips with ease. You relish the reaction from them both. Pia’s hands slip on her heel strap, causing her to stumble. Nanami struggles to contain his composure, eyes wide as saucers, his breath caught in his throat as your words ring in his ears like a piercing siren.

“Kento is the only one on this floor, it’s awfully late and I doubt you would have left earlier without saying goodbye. Surely you—” you pause, pretending to be taken aback before leveling an accusatory gaze at her. She looks up from her hunched position, hands still fumbling with the straps of her heels, her eyes wide and beautifully tan skin appearing pale. You’re not one for pettiness, but the delight from the sight of her struggling courses through your veins. “Surely you’re not here with the intention to do something else, are you?” 

“No!” she quickly retorts, her voice both loud and tinged with a hint of nervousness that makes the corner of your lip twitch. “No of course not—”

“So what are you doing here?” you cut her off with a narrowing of your eyes, repeating your question from earlier with a touch less feigned innocence, your tone slightly more serious and impatient. 

“L-leaving actually! Just wanted to say goodbye to Kento before my flight in the morning,” she stammers, now standing three inches taller, maintaining an air of elegance and grace even as her embarrassment paints her cheeks red.

She hastily bids Nanami farewell—a choked and tight goodbye—, a lopsided and anxious smile directed at you, and stumbles once more as she hurriedly exits the room, a snort of amusement escaping your lips as she trips before disappearing from your sight.

You close the door behind her, shutting away her presence for good.

The room falls into silence, Nanami’s face turning a vibrant shade of red that forces you to suppress your laughter with every ounce of effort you can muster.

“Love, I can explain—,” he begins, but you promptly cut him off, a giggle escaping despite your best attempts to hold it back. 

You know he would never do anything. Nanami would probably take infinite shifts of overtime instead of letting a woman who was not you touch him. In fact, you heard the entire conversation before you rushed in, and it makes your heart flutter with love that is already overflowing for him. 

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles.

But it’s so funny to watch him squirm, his face burning even more and his movements awkward as he clutches the bundle of disheveled contracts in his hand. His expressions of frustration and his furrowed brow only serve to ignite a warmth in your stomach. 

You love to tease him. And now you’ve been given the perfect opportunity to make him sweat.

“There’s no need to explain, Ken. I’m just messing with you,” you reassure him, taking his free hand and gently pulling him back to his desk. Turning to face his still-nervous figure, you retrieve the papers from his grasp and place them neatly on his large mahogany desk. 

“I heard the entire conversation. I am curious though,” you begin, pressing him down into his chair. He’s silent as he watches you push the chair back a little, so you have room to stand between him and his desk. “What do you think she would have done if I hadn’t come in time?”

“Absolutely nothing because I don’t—” he starts, but his words are abruptly cut off by the touch of your hand gliding against the fabric of his chest. Unlike Pia’s touch, your fingertips radiate heat and beckon him in a way that has his cock twitching in his slacks. His heart skips a beat as he watches your own manicured nails circle the buttons of his dress shirt before undoing them quickly. “We can’t—”

“Why?” you interrupt, your voice low and hot, instantly drying up his throat. Your fingertips dance along the exposed skin of his chest, gently teasing him as your nail flicks against a pink nipple before trailing down between the contours of his abs. You tap your fingers along the downy hair that trails under his slack and his stomach bunches in response, twitching from the stimulation, his heart skipping and his throat tightening slowly. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

He doesn’t. God, he doesn’t, and the words ‘no’ are out of his mouth before he can stop them, giving you his consent even though he’s embarrassed out of his mind. His migraine becomes an insignificant thought, the pulsing from earlier falling into a slow ebb, eclipsed by the escalating desire coursing through his veins. 

Nanami has never been the type of man to do this sort of thing. While he likes to be inside you anytime he can, he cherishes the privacy that safeguards both himself and you, more. 

But he can’t lie to himself that the thought of something happening in this office with you hasn’t crossed his mind multiple times—especially when you used to work together.

The sound of you undoing his belt buckle has his heart racing, thumping loud and heavy in his chest and his face is on fire as he watches you release him from the confines of his pants, his cock already hard and leaking. 

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, biting down and finding it difficult to contain your own desire from the sight of him. The area between your legs throbs as you trace your eyes down a cock that you’re intimately familiar with. Warm and achingly heavy, leaking with anticipation and pleading for your touch. His abs tense with a sharp intake of breath as you wrap your hand around him, a pleasurable hiss escaping his throat as he watches you stroke him languidly. 

You press your free hand into the arm of his chair, leaning in until your lips are mere inches apart. Inhaling his ragged breaths, you admire the way his deep brown eyes blow out, leaving only a ring of burnt umber for you to gaze into. 

Your grip on him has his mind foggy, desire overtaking any rational thoughts that he would normally use right about now. 

But you’re so good. 

You’re curling your wrist with every upward stroke just the way he loves and his abs bunch with every jolt of pleasure that zips inside of him.

He has to touch you, has to get his hands on you in some way to ground himself, and he instinctively reaches out for you when suddenly you tsk, pulling back slightly to create more distance between your lips.

“No touching.”

Oh.

You never deny him when you’re both like this. You always want his hands on you. The fact that you’re now denying him, gazing at him with a dangerous look in your eyes, shocks him. And it arouses him to a degree that makes him choke on a breath. 

He sags back into his chair, gasping for breath when your hands trail down to cup his balls. He digs his fingers into the chair’s armrests, scratching red leather, and he’s desperate to keep himself from cumming too soon.

“Did you—did you lock the door?” he manages to gasp, grasping onto any shred of coherent thought he has left.

You tilt your head in confusion, gaze at him with an indifferent stare, and then shrug nonchalantly before sagging down to your knees in front of him. The sight makes his toes curl in his expensive Chukka boots.

The rational part of his mind urges him to get up and check the door. Just get up and make sure the door is at least locked before anything else—but then his thoughts are short-circuiting and stuttering as your tongue slides wet up his shaft and you swallow him down to the base without a care in the world.

The back of his head slams against the cushioned chair as a surge of pleasure courses through his veins. You’re wet and sloppy, teasing him with your gaze as your mouth stretches from the thickness of him—and he’s struggling to hold on, struggling to keep his orgasm at bay even though it’s right there.

He tries to reach for you—tries to card his hands through your hair but you smack it away and glare at him with such a ferocity that he’s embarrassed for even attempting. 

Marketing templates. Morning traffic. A cold cup of coffee. 

He thinks of everything he can to resist the warmth in his stomach and the coil tightening along his spine; because you suck his cock in a way that makes him fidget in his chair, humming and gurgling into his ears in a wicked melody that’s making him go insane.

You’re enjoying every second of this and it only makes him blush harder with just how exposed he is to you right now. The mere weight of his cock in your mouth and the slightly salty taste of him makes your panties damp, your cunt pulsating and aching to be filled. 

And you’ll make sure it happens.

So you patiently wait until he’s panting harshly, his grip on the arm of his chair growing tighter and tighter. You wait until that crazed look dances in his eyes—the one you’re so familiar with right before he cums. And right when he’s on the cusp, you pull away. 

He exhales hard and sinks into his chair almost in relief as the band inside of him relaxes slightly, desperately trying to catch his breath and hissing as the cold air of his office wraps around his wet cock.

“Pia really did have a plan, didn’t she?” you playfully tease, standing to card your fingers through his blonde locks. Your fingertips glide across the faint traces of sweat, your hand moving along with the shake of his head in response to you, his gaze unfocused.

You kick off your shoes, hook your thumbs into the corner of your leggings, and slide them down and off your legs—his eyes following every inch of creamy brown skin that is revealed to him. 

You’re wearing an oversized sweater, a soft cashmere that he got you simply because he wanted, and it now covers your faint stretch-marked thighs. They are your battle scars, your own reminders of the journey your body underwent to grow and birthed the beautiful daughter you both have now.

His breath falters as he watches you gracefully perch on his large desk, placing your legs on top and bending your knees so your fuzzy sock-covered feet press against the rich mahogany. Leaning back on one arm, you effortlessly open your legs for him. His naturally narrow eyes widen at the sight of your white damp panties, and he longs to lick, suck, and slide his cock inside the very place they conceal.

The glint in your eyes is mischievous and taunting, delighting in the way he struggles to stay seated even as you slide one of your hands down into your panties.

“Can I—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“No.” 

You leave no room for argument and don’t offer anything else as you begin to circle your clit leisurely, arching into the touch as echoes of pleasure hum to life. It’s not long before you’re pushing your panties to the side to expose yourself to the open air. Your cunt throbs with desire when you hear Nanami groan softly under his breath. 

You’ve never been this bold, never entertained the thought of anything voyeuristic. But Nanami seems to awaken something within you, something you’re slowly embracing. He’s so shy about sex outside of the privacy of your home, and it only makes this more exciting that he’s even entertaining it now.

“Did she do this with you?” you ask him, your voice breathless as you sink two fingers into your wet cunt. The corner of Nanami’s eye twitches from the sight and you swallow down a giggle that threatens to escape. “Did she ever make you watch her while she touched herself?” 

You moan softly as you curl your fingers up as best as you can from your angle. Nanami’s fingers dig into the leather of his chair with barely contained restraint. 

“Answer me, Kento.”

“No. She didn’t.”

Satisfied with his answer, a sense of pride flaps in your chest, and you gleefully continue fingering yourself in front of him. It always takes you a while to get off with your fingers, so you use that as ammunition to watch Nanami squirm. 

You watch the way his exposed muscular pectorals move with his increasing breaths. You watch the way his cock twitches, hot and heavy against his stomach, leaking precum onto his abs. And you soak up the way he traces his eyes along every inch of you, leaving nothing without his attention.

When you finally cum, sharp and abrupt, he’s hanging on by a thread—ready to abandon your command to be still, yank you to him, and sink inside. 

He watches your cunt flutter around your fingers as you slowly come down from your high, gasping like an angel into the office air. Breathless, you stand on shaky legs and move to stand before him, lifting slick-covered fingers to his mouth which he readily opens without command, desperate to taste you any time he can. He groans softly against your fingers, eyes drooping, tongue sliding wet between your digits. The sight makes your cunt throb weakly, faint embers that had just died down, licking to life again.

You taste like everything to him, everything he wants and everything he needs.

But it’s not on the menu tonight.

You straddle his lap wordlessly and smack his hands away when he tries to wrap large hands around your waist. He swallows his frustration, yearning to touch you, yet willing to comply for the promise of more.

Using the remnants of your arousal between your legs, you coat him, stroking him enough to make sure you take him effortlessly, and then you guide him to your entrance and sink down to the hilt. The feel of him inside you is glorious, stretching you in the way you like that makes your cunt tremble to life around him, grateful for his presence once again. 

“Fuck,” he hisses—chokes with eyes squeezed shut, hand gripping the chair until it groans. You’re so wet, so fucking warm and tight that he’s shaking--practically trembling and swallowing a whimper as he fights the urge to grab your hips.

You didn’t need much to get used to him. You’re a masochist when he stretches you—you crave the way your cunt tenses from the intrusion, gripping him like a vice.

You’re a champ, enveloping him and giving him little time to acclimate before you’re bouncing on his cock with a finesse that would make any woman jealous.

You slide both hands into the hair at his nape and pull so that he cranes his neck back to gaze up at you. He’s slack-jawed, panting with breaths that tickle your lips, his eyes heavy with desire. 

“Did she ever fuck you like this, hmm? Come into your office when you would work long hours and ride you until you couldn’t see straight?” 

He can only shake his head ‘no’ in response, his throat too dry to speak, his lungs burning. He craves your touch, your lips on him, something to anchor him as he struggles to keep up. It’s the only way he can stay sane when the neurons in his brain are frying by the second. He begs wordlessly, groans deeply up into your mouth, pleading for anything.

And thankfully, you grant him a searing kiss. Your lips mold against his, tongues battling for dominance that he willingly surrenders to. His every thrust hits that perfect spot within you, brushing away hints of oversensitivity and bringing forth faint pleasure that makes you dig your hands into blond tresses and pull tight.

The pleasure caresses the insides of your thighs and tightens the muscles of your legs. Every brush of your clit against the skin of his abs shoots electricity throughout your cunt and up to the base of your spine, igniting a simmering fire that begins to heat deep pools of lava that reside there.

You pull away from his lips with a harsh moan, gasping into the warm air of his office, riding him harder to the point that the legs of his chair begin to squeak.

He knows you well. He knows how you get demanding and delirious and incoherent when you ride him, and he loves to count the seconds until that switch in your brain goes off. And it’s not even a second later when—

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good. So, so good,” you moan against the skin of his lips. “Fucking me just the way I like Ken.”

He watches every move you make, tracing his eyes over the contours of your face and the way your loose curls cling to creamy brown cheeks.

His eyes roll when he picks up your whispered chants. You’re a woman possessed and you take what you want—when you want. And he gives and gives with every yes, yes, more Ken, you’re so good, please, please, please yes!

Your pupils are blown and glazed over with desire, but suddenly your brows furrow in frustration. 

“She walked in here in a tight dress and high heels looking to get you in the same position that I have you now. But at the end of the day, you’re mine.”

There’s not an ounce of coyness in your words. You’re so serious, firm, and unyielding that it makes him shudder, a groan sliding from his parted lips, his eyes rolling into the back of his head and—

“Look at me,” you command, voice low, panting from exertion and the feel of your body beginning to draw tight with embers of a powerful orgasm. His eyes roll back without hesitation, locking with yours. “Unless—unless some other circumstance tears us apart, you—you are mine. Pia can have all the money and fame, but she will never have you. I do.”

“Yes,” he whispers, the word tumbling from his lips without faltering. His hips struggle to keep up and his thighs begin to stiffen as pleasure begins to curl deliciously so that his hands dig into the chair. His fingers slip against the leather, sweaty and tingling.

“You’re the father of my child.”

“Yes,” he chants again, breathless and quivering as the rubber band along his spine grows taught, stretching and shaking from the tension.

“You sleep next to me. You kiss me. You fuck me.”

“Yes, only you—only you.”

You tremble from his words, satisfaction oozing like hot thick globs along your skin. “That’s right, Kento,” you purr as your hips begin to roll against him, your clit carrying currents of pleasure through your veins, that pool of lava at the base of your spine boiling and rising to the brim.

“Please,” he whispers, his plea pulling you from your desire-induced haze. You look down at him, admire the flush of his cheeks, the warmth of his breath against the collarbone of your sweater, the sweat that beads along his hairline. “Please.”

“Please what?” you tease, trying to maintain a playful demeanor even though your hips are beginning to ache from overuse. You come to a stop on top of him, your breaths mingling together.

“Can I touch you?” he asks, always gentle and caring, even when he’s bursting from the seams. You love him so fucking much.

“Will you make me cum?”

“Always,” he responds without hesitation, his words filled with conviction. You lean in, pressing your lips against his, savoring the affection he willingly gives you. When you pull away, you brush thick blonde locks from his forehead, exposing more of his sharp features that will never fail to make your heart race.

“Then touch me, Ken,” you whisper, your voice laced with desire and anticipation.

Without wasting a moment, he swiftly lifts you in his arms, his cock still nestled inside as he carries you towards his desk.

Your breath catches as you stare up at him, the sound of papers scattering to the floor filling the air. He pulls your sweater up, revealing every inch of your faintly stretch-marked belly, before tugging down a cup of your bra, heady eyes watching as one of your breasts spills from its confines. 

He’s too fast. You fumble for words and let out a surprised yelp when he yanks your waist toward the edge of the desk. He presses your knees as close to your chest as you will allow, and then he slams into you once—and then twice before picking up a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

He devours you, tongue flicking and swirling wet and dripping around your exposed nipple as he pounds into you unabashedly, the desk squeaking and groaning from his efforts.

All bravado that you had earlier splinters away with each smack of his muscular hips against you, the skin of his abs brushing against your clit deliciously, coaxing moan after moan from your lips. His tongue flicks your nipple again before he bites the hardened bud, and your cunt flutters—clenches around him, your thighs beginning to twitch even though they’re pressed to your chest.

“I’m all yours. Always yours,” he whispers against your lips, blonde tresses gliding against your cheeks.

You hope there’s no one on this floor, or that no one has decided to come back for something because the last thing they need to hear is Nanami Kento, Director of Strategic Partnerships, railing his girlfriend on his over-priced, too-large mahogany desk.

You can barely breathe, your moans growing in pitch, the sound of skin on skin echoing through his office, your hands sliding up to dig fingers into the skin of his back. You don’t even have the chance to tell him you’re close. 

The stroke of him inside you, the slap of his skin against your bundle of nerves, and the feel of his mouth trailing along the sweaty column of your neck with a deep and heavy cum for me baby breaks the seal inside of you.

The lava boils over—pools along your bones, hot and delicious and caressing every nerve ending within you, your cunt squeezing him without remorse. You can’t help the loud moan that shakes from your lips, growing in pitch when the pleasure seems to spike and overheat you in oversensitivity, your entire body tingling and shaking like an exposed nerve.

Nanami takes every ounce of pleasure you offer. Everything, every part of you is precious—treasured in a way that no one else will ever be able to comprehend. He takes every breath, every hitch in your throat, every droplet of sweat on your skin, every whimper and moan and scratch of your nails against him. He savors it all—needs it to survive, to know that you have chosen him, that you want him, that you love him.

You’re the only woman who makes Pia tremble and stumble over her words. You are a force to be reckoned with, and he knew that the moment you snapped at him when you first met. You’re fierce in the way you love, strong with the words you say, and so fucking beautiful that he cant help but feel proud of just how threatened Pia was by the sight of you.

Those words you spoke confidently to her have played like a record in his head since you forced him into his chair.

“I was just bringing my husband some dinner.”

My husband.

My husband.

He’s thought about it, so many fucking times. And he swears it will happen. Soon.

One day you’ll be his wife.

His wife.

His wife.

His thoughts come to a sudden halt because he’s cumming, catching him off guard, that rubber band snapping in half, pleasure yanking from the base of his spine and pulling a harsh groan from his chest as he spills inside of you.

His hands slip from behind your knees and smack onto the wood of his desk and you wrap your legs around his waist as you both regain your breath. He’s putty against you, melted and loose and molding against every crevice of you as he takes in your intoxicating scent. Lilac from your body wash, shea butter from your lotion, and a hint of cooking grease that wafted onto your skin when you made dinner.

Your fingers lovingly comb through his sweaty hair, your legs blissfully achy, your cunt satisfied and throbbing, and your heart coming to normal sinus rhythm in your chest.

“Ome is probably wondering where I am,” you finally speak, breaking the tranquil silence of his office. “She offered to watch Ulani when I left.” Nanami hums against you, a low and gravelly sound that’s typical of him when he’s ready to go to sleep. “Bring the rest of the contracts home. No more overtime.”

As if he would even entertain the thought of being in this office a moment longer. “Okay,” he agrees, pressing his lips to your neck. He still has his arms around you, still connected to you despite having softened inside you minutes ago. 

But you don’t mind. You cherish these moments with him, holding them dear in your heart, knowing that each one is a gift.

Because you’re the only one who can revel in the way he needs you, the way he craves having his hands on you, the way he murmurs his adoration into your skin. And you love every bit of it. You love him.

“Will she be back?” you ask, a hint of hesitance in your tone.

He shakes his head, groaning softly as you scratch that spot behind his ear. “No. Never.”

“She better not,” you jest, an eyebrow lifting to the ceiling, gazing at no one. “If she pulls shit like that again, there won’t be a happy ending for you.”

He barks out a laugh against your neck, lifting his head to take in your blissed-out form. Fatigue weighs heavy on your eyes, your lashes delicately curled, your hair spread out on his desk to make you look like the most otherworldly thing he has—will ever see. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, love.”

He kisses you tenderly once and then twice, before resting his head against your chest, the soft cashmere of your sweater caressing his cheek. His eyes catch something on the corner of his desk.

The Tupperware of food that you brought still emits steam, a homemade Katsudon by your hands, just for him.

His heart thrums in his chest, full and filled with warmth.

His wife.

Soon.

Thanks for reading!

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

[goqmir]

if you want to be a chef in this day and age you have to want to fuck the food. it used to be that you could get away with just desiring food-related sex-- in western saloons in the late 1800s, for instance, there were often gouges in the floorboards leading from the cook's favorite lovemaking bedroom in the inn to the nightly spot laid out for the salad bar trolley. Now, though, you have to have sexual urges about the food itself. If you don't, you will be easily outclassed by those overworked bakers who stop for condoms on the way home after they score some extra jelly-filled pastries from work, or the Michelin star chefs who have hours of mac and cheese stirring ASMR saved in a YouTube playlist. They simply want the food more than you do. Every chef with a decent career in the fine dining world has that not-so-hidden secret. If you can afford it, expensive dishes usually have wonderful texture-- just ask Gordon Ramsey and his fridge full of crab puffs-- but if you can't, I would recommend first starting out with something affordable you can easily keep on hand, with little preparation time and a decent texture. Of course, not all beginning chefs follow this advice-- a lot of dedicated chefs attempt to start fucking the food after learning about this subculture, leading to an alarming number of juice fetishists in the sous chef workforce. Unfortunately, many learn too late that you need substance in your food-- some decent texture to rub against-- or you won't get the same experience with food you need in the industry. By that time, of course, the juice kink has set in-- if you see a sous chef pouring apple cider into a pot of mac and cheese, you don't have to ask what it's adding to the flavor profile. A lot of popular picks are easy to reheat in the microwave, not quick to perish, and give a decent enough texture to be satisfying. A common pick is simply bread; filled donuts offer a pleasant pocket and satisfying orgasms; muffins are thick enough where working a hole from its bottom to its top is not only possible, but expected; almost all of the kitchen staff at Red Lobster leaves for the night with a few extra-soft biscuits in their bags. Others have more interesting taste: melty cheeses, the pointiest carrots and pineapples, the claws of lobsters, the most decadent helpings of whipped-cream topped parfaits. This all works fine for a number of years, until you notice your skill as a chef starting to plateau. Many chefs simply stay in this zone, as well enough preparers living happy lives at good jobs. But the best chefs, the headliners, those who prepare the best meals the world has to offer... they take it to the next level. They spend a good, long time preparing the dish they are covering in their cum up to four nights a week. Hours of baking, broiling, dirtied pots and pans. The food preparation is like foreplay, one of the most creative parts of sex and cooking alike. A good chef gets hotter with the pasta in the pot, sizzles along with the eggs in the pan, finds themselves on edge with each slice of the potato into the crock. Until finally, hours into the night, cock hard like a lamppost, after dicking down that beautifully prepared pasta frittata since the sun was still up, they orgasm all across its gorgeous pasta fillings and creamy cheesey insides and finally Understand food. After learning all of this, you may be tempted to go down to your neighborhood spot and ask the chef what they do to deepen the connection between themselves and their meals. Of course, if the neighborhood spot happens to be a bar, you'll probably actually have a line cook-- where instead, you should probably ask what they like most about putting their cigarettes out on twinks.

[lo-fi-charming]

so i've been keeping up with TMP as it's airing, which has been fun, it's actually really nice to experience this kind of story weekly since i came into TMA late and listened up to the s4 finale in like, a month or two. i've been enjoying the new characters and statements, and while i was worried i'd have trouble actively listening (my attention span/executive functioning can be really variable when it comes to podcasts), it's been surprisingly easy for me to actually listen to each new ep the day it drops publicly

all this to say im enjoying the show! but i've found myself feeling increasingly frustrated with a couple things i keep seeing when it comes to discussions of it

to me, it seems... there's been a pervasive reluctance to take TMP as what it is. and i do understand that. it'd be stupid to pretend TMP doesn't exist exclusively because of TMA and that show's success, that it's a successor that was pitched as being similar. it's a story being written by the same people (plus guests), in the same universe (roughly), going for about the same tone and maybe themes.

i just feel like it's a bit of a shame, though, that so many folks seem unwilling not to carry TMA with them when they're engaging with TMP

i don't know where or when it was said, but i swear there was a comment made by jonny and/or alex about how TMP will have some commonality with TMA in terms of world-building, but also, people who listened to TMA first may find themselves theorizing in the wrong direction because we're judging things based off what is no longer concrete, reliable information; things are going to work differently in the world of TMP, and since we have preconceived notions on what is relevant or how things work, that's going to influence how we engage with information presented in TMP if we let it. and that's not even considering the fact that they've been explicit in conveying the idea that TMP was written so you can experience it fully without having listened to any of TMA at all!

i'm very much someone who tries to engage with media on its own terms, largely taking things at face value until i'm given reason to suspect otherwise. that's something i'm trying my best to still do with TMP, even though obviously, i've also listened to TMA and am basing some of my thoughts and personal theories on what we know from that

but that's what i mean to say i guess, it's something you have to actively choose to do. and it feels like, just based on what i've been seeing in fandom spaces, that a lot of people are having a bit of an odd time with TMP because of a reluctance to do that?

i think the easiest way to explain what i mean is to point to a general acceptance, already on the level of fanon it seems, to interpret the computer voices as Our Jon and Martin (+ Jonah/Elias, maybe). now obviously we have the actual real world reason why their voices are present in TMP, because of course jonny and alex were going to come back as voices in the show in some way. and i 100% agree it's a perfectly logical conclusion to then interpret their inclusion as being related to Jon and Martin somehow. i'm personally very into the theory that it is in no way them - not in any way that matters - but specifically their voices that have been stolen (by the Web?) as a means to help spread fears in other realities. but that's really not how i've been seeing people play with the concept? it seems largely 1:1. and again, i totally understand where people are coming from with that - especially when you consider how it can be a super fun concept for horror and angst, or even just the fact that folks want an excuse to carry their favorite characters into this new show and still play around with them. i promise i don't mean to bring this up as a means of making anyone feel bad or like, chastised for interpreting things a certain way and playing in the space!

it's the biggest example of what i mean though, and was a huge point of frustration for me when we were first being presented with TMP. it's not just that i don't want the voices to be Jon and Martin proper (i am very into their Ambiguous End, i believe it's best to leave that as a space for fans to play in); in all honesty, i think it's kind of a shame and maybe even a bit boring (im sorry!) to be engaging with TMP this way

and it's not just stuff like that - i've been seeing a fair amount of people expressing frustration and feeling disappointed with how TMP is hitting, but i mean, i feel like that's inevitable when you're going into it expecting More TMA? i saw at least one person basically say "ive been waiting for it to make me feel the way TMA made me feel, and it hasn't yet", and i really just feel like that's setting yourself up to be dissatisfied! beyond the fact that we're only 5 episodes in and the story has barely gotten a chance to happen yet, a huge element of this new show is that it's being approached as a largely collaborative effort, it seems, with lots of guests coming in to help shape the story and more writing and plotting influence that isn't jonny

obviously it's fine to not be super into that! undoubtedly it's a question of taste. but you do have to acknowledge that that's the case and adjust your expectations accordingly, or else you're not going to have a great time

i really like TMA, i had a great time with it, but even if TMP is a sequel to its parent podcast, it's not the same thing - and personally, i don't want it to be! i do hope that's a sentiment that is able to be more widely felt by some fans as we gain more distance from TMA while TMP is airing. i just think more people would be able to enjoy it that way, and come up with more interesting theories and interpretations of things! but those are really just my own personal thoughts

[leggerefiore]

I understand if this is too triggering so you don’t want to touch it, but I have a somewhat cathartic request. Did any of the kids take longer to conceive than their parents hoped/planned? If so, how did they deal with the feelings that came with it?

cw: mentions of pregnancy and infertility, struggles conceiving

characters: Ingo, Volo

▲Ingo▼

● Admittedly, Ingo's son was not an instant success in coming to be. He truly held many ideals. Far too many. He would admit that he was horribly concerned about various things when many attempts went by without bearing fruit, so to speak. Was there something wrong with him? Infertility hung in the back of his mind, but he was far too terrified to even say the word until he absolutely had to. In that case, he knew adoption was an option, yet he desperately wished to experience every step of the way with his partner. He was careful in tracking various things and eating foods and vitamins meant to aid in the act of conception. His breaks at work were spent reading articles after articles related to conception. Truly, he definitely seems like he is going mad.

● His feelings are both sad and determined. He realises quickly that his expectations for it to be simple and easy were not something that anyone should hold. Hurt eats at his heart, which would only be worsened if the situation also saddens his partner. It stings to know that both of them shared these strong feelings. Yet, his nature as a responsible person refuses to let him ruminate on these sorts of things. As stated before, he turns in his energy into looking for solutions and aids in changing this. It was not the end of the world should there be failure to conceive. There were various options to explore aside from the most common way – neither of you were failures or lesser people for this. It was simply a commonality in the world that no one really openly discussed.

● Though, he is in literal tears when his partner shows him a positive pregnancy test. All his hard work… He squeezes them into a tight hug and shouts a loud “bravo.” His joy in unable to be held back. He will quite literally do anything for his partner now. (Not that he would not have before.)

📜Volo💫

⭐️ To Volo's endless frustration and blaming of being in Arceus's ire and shadow, his child seemingly is denied to him. Now, seeing as the time period is the 1800s, Volo does not exactly have the extensive knowledge of fertility that someone of the modern era could obtain, so he absolutely assumes that Arceus denies him this simple wish. To him, a child is a necessity. His bloodline is deeply important to him – He refuses to allow the ancient Sinnoh people to end with him and Cogita. Yet, a certain deity seems keen to make that a reality despite his endless efforts in trying to change that. He ends up consulting Cogita to find answers about what he should do – There was little else who he could turn, and he trusted her most of all in this world.

⭐️ Mostly, he feels spite and angry. Volo's cruel side really gets fully exposed when it comes to anything he is desperate about, and this is, unfortunately, something that he was desperate for. He berates himself while pondering truly if there is something wrong with him to bring about this situation. Then, he will turn towards his partner and wonder if it is them before realising that Arceus's chosen likely would not be stricken with such an affliction. He turns fully into any action or belief or myth that may absolve this situation. Pleading to Landorus and Enamorus for some kind of blessing – Perhaps even daring to scream for Arceus to do something. Honestly, he is not exactly the most stable and capable of handling this. His partner will have to help comfort him while getting little in return for their own feelings about this.

⭐️ But, in the end, whatever deity had heard his plea gave a reply in the form of an obvious swelling of his partner. All his desperation and heartache are finally vanquished. His attention then shifts in maintaining this precocious thing – food, comfort, and safety being deeply ingrained in his mind. He is ready to do anything to make sure this happens – Truly anything.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I'm not sure if you've answered a question like this before but do you think Sebek would feel less insecure about his human-fae heritage if he became acquainted (or even friends) with someone similar at NRC? Or would he just end up projecting his own struggles onto them?

It'd be a different story if he grew up with one in Briar Valley, but I'm not caught up on the lore enough to know how common mixed fae-humans are there 😅

I don’t think it would make a significant difference.

Firstly, the impression I get is that mixed fae-humans are rare, since fae are unlikely to mingle outside of their kind (pixies and Briar Valley fae behave similarly and are suspicious of non-fae; only the Dwarves seem to be friendly with humans). The chances of Sebek being even finding someone of his kind are low. Recall too that nocturnal fae (which Sebek is descended from) have beef with diurnal fae, so even if Sebek were to run into a mixed fae like him, he might still clash with them on the basis of that difference in background.

Another point I’d like to make is that one person for like a year or so may not be “enough” to totally change Sebek’s mind. Think about it. The way you’re describing it, Sebek has still grown up in Briar Valley his entire life and comes to NRC still carrying the attitudes he grew up with and the experiences of being looked down on by full fae. One encounter at school won’t be sufficient to counteract what is basically a lifetime’s worth of isolation and self-loathing. That just isn’t how character growth works; it’s a steady thing that you have to actively work toward.

As an example, Epel does not instantly shake off his views on traditional gender roles in book 5 just because he met Vil and lived under his dorm. Exposure alone isn’t “enough”. Epel has to be challenged and shown the error of his ways, as well as actually gain a respect for Vil’s perspective and then learn to overcome his own prejudices. A similar thing happens in book 7 when Sebek is confronted by the bigotry of his grandfather, which reflects his own attitudes towards his human peers. Again, he is being challenged and forced to face these unsavory aspects of himself and sees how that shows in others. It’s a process far more complex than simply meeting and/or befriending someone like you and realizing on your own, “oh hey, maybe I was wrong”. Sebek has to put in the work to change.

Looking at Sebek’s current circle also doesn’t yield any… hopeful results? He looks up to Lilia so much yet also puts up resistance and ignores advice from him to be more kind to non-fae. Note also that Sebek, despite being friends with Silver (a full-blooded human), he still holds a bad opinion of humans in general. It didn’t make him magically not racist or more understanding of humans when so much of his socialization fell outside of that purview. If anything, Sebek just acts like Silver is “one of the good ones” rather than his friendship with Silver making him more accepting of other humans.

Finally, I don’t think just the presence or the befriending of another person like him would change Sebek by itself. It would depends a lot on what type of person that other guy is. Who knows, maybe they’re just as bigoted and agree with his thoughts. It could also result in a scenario where Sebek feels comfortable staying in his own little echo chamber and refuses to venture beyond that. In another case, Sebek could very easily warp his views to confirm the narrative that already exists in his head. He could very easily tell himself “yes, this person is fine because they, too, have fae blood in them”. (Think of how many bigots use the “but I have a [insert marginalized group here] friend so I can’t be [X]ist!” excuse to justify their own terrible stances.) There are many ways this could go wrong or perpetuate what he already believes in. Confirmation bias is a thing!

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #54 – The Design of Everyday Things by Don Norman

I try to read a piece of somewhat respectable nonfiction every month or so, which means I’m always vaguely on the lookout for titles that seem interesting and which aren’t either inspiration porn or just some random New Yorker’s collection of personal essays. I first heard of Design in an editorial in a local paper, which described it as a ‘seminal read’ – the basic conceit and title both seemed interesting so I through it on the list and, however many months later, finally got around to read with it. It was interesting, but altogether a more dense and technical read than I was at all prepared for when I picked it up.

The book is about what it says on the tin – looking at the processes and practices of industrial design and how it can be best applied to create useful, pleasurable tools. It is very much written for an assumed audience of at least interested amateurs or casual practitioners, with lots of specific practical tips and guidelines for the working designer to apply to their own projects. For the same reason it isn’t at all shy about the jargon or business-school models and charts.

Design, from the book’s perspective, covers an extremely broad field – everything from the physical structure of a tool to the systems and procedures that should be followed for its safe operation to the aesthetics and layout that give the most enjoyable and frictionless user experience handling it. The book considers its principles equally applicable to designing physical products and bureaucratic systems, and is mostly even convincing as it says so. That said, it absolutely assume that whatever is being designed is being designed by a large, multi-team project with budgets and stakeholders, and designed for sale on the private market, both of which do shape the advice given quite clearly (the entire final part of the book is about ‘designing in the real world’ and about these exact conditions).

The prose is written with the precise tone and cadence of an above-average but not great professor giving a long, rambling lecture that illustrates every single point with a tangential personal anecdote – though my mind may only jump to that comparison because that’s basically what this is in book form. It is not, being honest, ever exactly gripping or a page-turner; this was probably the book whose reading felt most like homework of any I’ve opened so far these year. Something not at all helped by the fact that the field of industrial design does the same thing as every other slice of academia and redefines a bunch of very common nouns to be very precise and occasionally very counterintuitive terms of art (though in fairness the book could have been much worse about this).

That aside, I did find the jargon mostly helpful, in terms of clarifying and separating out concepts. The distinction between capabilities (what a given device can be used for) and signifiers (the implicit or explicit ways a device presents itself to be used) is useful and pretty easy to keep in my head, for example.

The initial chapters of the book are primarily about the theory and best practices of designing specific, physical things – for example, how it represents a shameful failure for a door to ever require a sign or instructions on how it should be opened. This was probably the roughest part for me to get through, just because I felt like I should be taking quizzes or filling out worksheets to make sure I remembered everything correctly as I went – the sections get dense. It was fascinating reading to bludgeon through though, if only as a collection of the most practical insights yet provided by the study of human psychology. None of the best practices and recommendations given – never require the user to input more than a few commands without feedback or guidance, map the layout of controls to correspond to the physical ordering of the things they control, mechanical commands should feel like they have some sort of intuitive relationship to their effect, that sort of thing – exactly blew my mind, but it was helpful to see them laid out. Also interesting how much a lot of them contrast so strongly with the minimalist, ‘clean’ aesthetic which actually governs the design of so much these days.

The sections on mistakes and accidents were probably the most interesting and compelling in their own right. Maybe because I found the examples more intuitive, or maybe just because industrial accidents and airline disasters are more attention-grabbing examples than confusing and inefficient light switch layouts. In any case, the typology of mistakes versus errors (basically: whether you are trying to do the wrong thing, or trying to do the right thing and just failing in execution) and their subcategories seem genuinely quite useful, as do the various meditations on how to make both types less common.

This is also the section that has stuck with me in the most detail, if probably just because it seems like it might have some direct relevance to day-to-day life. Most especially the idea that focusing on how to assign fault or blame is the most useless possible thing to do when trying to investigate an accident – it only makes everyone motivated to hide any involvement they might have had, and lets you stop thinking about it as soon as you decide who is responsible without ever digging into the actual causes of the mistake. ‘Human error’ is, in Norman’s view, a mirage – if people are making dangerous or expensive mistakes at any appreciable rate, then that is axiomatically a failure of the systems which should be supporting and guiding them.

The fact that airline disasters are drastically overrepresented in the case studies used because the investigative infrastructure for them is uncommonly (almost bizarrely, really) well-designed and diligently maintained in the US is also just a fun bit of a trivia.

The third part of the book is about the actual process of designing something in a large organization. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is mostly about bureaucratic politics and navigating frictions between, say, the design and marketing teams – the offered distinction that design is about making things that are useful and good whereas marketing’s input on the process is ensuring it is something that people will be willing to buy is pithy and memorable, if perhaps one that people on the marketing team might not be entirely happy with. This, along with terms like ‘the double-diamond design process’ and the oft-repeated saying that ‘the day a project starts it’s behind schedule and under budget’, and the gratuitous use of Japanese, all left me with the uncanny feeling of walking into an MBA seminar.

This is in fact an extremely famous and successful book – I know, because this is a heavily revised second edition, and the new material never missed a chance to say so. Having come out in 2013, the updated material – overwhelmingly about software UX, the internet, and smartphone design, because of course it is – is already somewhat charmingly outdated. The additions did include a long and very interesting section on changing standards, standardization, and when it is or isn’t worth the massive disruption involved (including a fascinating if probably not entirely trustworthy digression into the history of the QWERTY keyboard), so on the whole I’m happy I got this edition rather than the original from the ‘80s.

Overall, not a book I’m likely to open again anytime soon unless I end up making a dramatic change of careers, but interesting enough that I don’t regret reading it.

[writingquestionsanswered]

how do i create compelling characters when i dont know many people in real life and also dont care about other people that much due to neurodivergence??

Compelling Characters When Lacking "People Experience"

You can create compelling characters without a lot of "people experience" or a neurotypical mind. The key ingredient to creating a compelling character is really to make sure your character has a strong story goal that makes sense for them or their situation, believable motivation and believable stakes driving them toward this goal, and--if you're writing fully or partly character-driven fiction--a character arc that includes a back story that explains how they became who they are and an emotional wound/lie they believe that helps explain their current misbelief and why they make the choices they make, as well as some sort of growth or change. And finally, believable flaws to balance out their strengths and make it a little bit harder for them to reach their goal.

As far as personalities go, if you're neurodivergent and struggle with understanding personality, you may want to try looking at personality types based on different personality tests. For example: enneagram, MBTI, 16PF, and DISC. While there are all sorts of debates on the accuracy of these and other personality tests, the point is that the personality types can be a great way to understand the common ways personality types are often grouped. While you by no means have to stick to any one personality type specifically (personality is way more complicated than that), it's a helpful foundation when you're otherwise starting from nothing.

One last thing you can try is see if you can find a good character personality generator, or at least a character generator that includes personality. Once again, you don't have to stick with everything a generator puts out, but it can get you going in the right direction when you're stuck

Happy character creation!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[monstersdownthepath]

A collection of Fey entities

A little different from my usual "a collection of..." posts. Making statblocks isn't my forte, surprisingly; I can, but ADHD Hellbrain kicks in and typically prevents me from actually finishing them, my energy and motivation running out typically by the time I need to select feats. A few of the creatures on this list are victims of that very phenomenon, but rather than letting them languish in my drafts forever, I figure I can share what I DO have in the form of lore and some basic ideas.

So, here's a bunch of fairies!

One of them I was going to write down, the Harvest Lords, are a concept I've developed too much for me to put here; they're a group of Archfey with proper domains and Boons, and thus will get their own post. Eventually.

Warnings: There are unsanitary themes in the Brughyorb Gremlin spot, as well as Totagoda. The final entry (Rotten Crick) deals with themes of animal death and allusions to animal torture, dealing specifically with sea life.

Brughyorb Gremlins (CR 1/2 Chaotic Evil Small Fey) are small, round, filthy creatures that are almost all mouth and stomach, resembling fleshy cauldrons when they fully open their mouths and scamper about on their arms and legs, and are thus also known as Cauldron Gremlins, Burplings, and Bowlbellies. Their grinding teeth and powerful jaws are best suited for plant matter (wood is a delicacy to them), but they won't hesitate to feed on whatever carrion they manage to find, even though the majority of what they eat isn't actually digested.

Brughyorb Gremlins hold most of what they shovel into their maws in the first of their two stomachs, where their pungent gut juices fester and melt their food into noxious sludge so malodorous it's actually acidic. Slow and unbalanced even when they're empty, they lay in waiting for an innocent passerby to cross whatever hiding spot they've holed up in before leaping out with a wet shriek, and when their victim inhales in order to scream in surprise, the gremlins unleash a horrific belch directly into the victim's face. Overwhelming nausea is the most common result of such a sensory assault (though especially unlucky ones may catch the fatal Filth Fever), victims disoriented not only by the scare, but their entire world becoming overtaken by an indescribably vile stink, preventing them from fighting back as the gremlin takes whatever it wants from them and scampers off into the shadows, cackling with terrible glee.

Though they're larger than most gremlins, Brughyorb Gremlins are just as cowardly and prone to fleeing whenever someone even moderately well-armed comes along. If a foe proves especially dangerous and their burps aren't cutting it, they'll loose the contents of their stomachs to form slick, acidic pools that carry an eye-watering reek with them to trip up and potentially even kill their pursuers, either immediately through acid damage or eventually through disease. Being directly disgorged upon is an experience so profoundly unpleasant that most beings subjected to it immediately switch careers into something that will prevent this incident from ever happening again... though the fact a Brughyorb's stench is nearly impossible to scrub away and lingers for many weeks means the horrible little beasts can easily track the scent of their past victims in order to get them again.

Despite their foulness, their gut juice is an alchemical reagent highly prized by alchemists for its ability to break down and, with a bit of tinkering, ferment just about any organic matter, making them highly desirable for anyone hoping to create not just powerful acids, but potent fertilizers, fermented foods, or alcohol. Alchemists desiring the gremlin's gut juice, of course, rarely risk seeking it out themselves.

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Tintink Gremlins (CR 1 Chaotic Evil Tiny Fey) are also known as Nail Gremlins, Sharpener Pixies, Hammerlings, Nailbiters, Sharpies, and other such names. While most fey fear the touch of iron, Tintink Gremlins collect the substance in earnest despite being just as vulnerable to it as any other fey. Contact with cold iron burns and pains them, but rather than shrinking away from it, they revel in it, with many of them boldly wearing sharpened points of cold iron for the specific purpose of terrorizing and bullying other fairies, as well as protecting themselves from being bullied or terrorized by others.

Tintinks are obsessed with the collection and the sharpening of metal pins, tacks, screws, caltrops, and especially nails, pilfering such items from workshops, lumberyards, factories, and even homes. Loose items are of course the easiest for them to get, their tiny backpacks and leather aprons full to bursting with stacks of nails they sweep off workbenches, but they're also prone to using hammers, crowbars, and pliers sized for their tiny hands to wrench fasteners from whatever surface they're embedded in. Their hoarding slowly but surely destroys furniture, floors, rafters, and eventually entire structures one stolen screw at a time, fleeing only when the infested building collapses entirely.

Even when they're not destroying buildings, Tintinks are horrid menaces. Their wretched claws, coarse palms, and rough tongues can shave metal with the ease of a whetstone, and they use these to sharpen whatever points they get ahold of until they can pierce the thick leather of most common shoes or gloves... and they lay them out in preparation to do exactly that, cackling in wicked glee whenever someone impales their feet or hands on their sharps collections.

They are quite dangerous for a gremlin, capable of causing terrible wounds and even deaths if they're sufficiently motivated, but they are easily caught and removed by those who can take advantage of their fairy quirks. Their obsession with sharpening borders on an irresistible compulsion, and many Tintinks have been caught and exterminated by fey hunters leaving out piles of dull nails, bent forks, and chipped knives, which the gremlins cannot help but sit down among and work on, leaving them vulnerable to ambush.

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Steraba (CR 2 Neutral Good Diminutive Fey) are also known as Honey Fairies, Porridge Pixies, Mice Fey, and other such names. They resemble miniature humanoids with mouse-like features such as dewy eyes, rounded ears, long tails, paws, or combinations thereof (sometimes to the point they're just anthropomorphic mice), scarcely larger than the pests they resemble. Despite their appearance, Steraba are not pests themselves and are in fact one of many helpful fey known as House Spirits, and can be a genuinely helpful force in one's home... if one forgives their tendency to pilfer easily-missed items left in their field of vision.

Steraba make their homes in mouseholes inside occupied buildings, living among families of mice (never rats, they despise rats) which they take great pains to keep safe, healthy, and out of sight of the mortals with whom they share a space. Their lives are spent going on frequent, exciting 'raids' with their mice families (whom they can both communicate with and easily train), scampering unseen through homes like a spy trying to avoid being spotted by guards as they run missions such as 'read the next chapter of a book,' 'steal the button,' 'get to the grain stores,' 'slay the attic spider,' 'push out the rats,' and other such objectives. Between missions, they engage in surprisingly elaborate crafting projects; anything inedible they steal is used to decorate their tiny homes, if not by itself, then as part of a greater project. Unknowing families may have entire miniature art galleries in their walls!

Like most House Spirits, Steraba dislike being seen or acknowledged, and spending too long looking at one or talking about its existence aloud with one's family or neighbors is a sure way to drive it off completely. Even more than this, harming a mouse is a grave insult to the Mouse Pixies, who may respond by pilfering valuable or treasured items with Mage Hand, performing acts of vandalism with Prestidigitation and mundane tools, and even causing painful or humiliating household accidents against repeat and grievous offenders. Treating the mice with the calmness and respect one would treat a neighbor, however, will see a household blessed by the tiny pixies who use their talents--magical and mundane--to slay more harmful pests, drive off more malevolent fey, and provide just as well for their "big families" as they do the "small families." A Steraba can magically turn a single grain into a whole loaf of hot bread or a bowl of nutritious porridge that's filling even for a Medium-sized creature, letting them stretch the most meager of food stores for days or weeks on end, and can conjure small amounts of honey, sugar, and jam each day to assure the meals are never boring. A Steraba who has lived in a home for many years and established a positive relationship with its big family may even begin gifting the mortals with pieces of art it has made, which act as good luck charms so long as the owner takes care to say it was a 'gift from my neighbor' if they are ever asked where the trinket came from.

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The Filoxenia (CR 11 Neutral Medium Fey) are humanoid fey with golden skin and hair like stalks of wheat, so rare that it was believed there was only one for quite some time. These are fey many cautionary tales are spoken of, fey for whom the Laws of Sacred Hospitality are absolutes and generosity is the holiest of virtues. These fey take on the shapes of beggars, wanderers, and vagrants of various ancestries as they travel the world in the search of kindness, visiting the lowest muckrakers in their hovels, to the meager homes of farmers, to the mansions of nobles and royals to test their treatment of visitors. How, exactly, they perform their tests always varies, but it almost always begins with a simple request: Shelter, just for one night, and a meal of whatever the host can provide, just enough to let them see the next dawn.

The Filoxenia cannot be identified while they're in disguise, their own magic thwarting magical attempts to pierce it; the most reliable way to tell that you've encountered one is the gentle smell of honey and wheat which accompanies them, a scent they take pains to hide with mud and dusty clothes or, in rare cases, perfumes, but which they can never completely cover. Even if you know, however, it is in your best interest to play along and not allow it to sway your decision! Treating your new guest as you would any other is part of the test.

These fey exist to test mortals in their proficiency with and knowledge of the Laws of Sacred Hospitality, and each one has different means of both testing and rendering judgment. More lawful Filoxenia typically treat their task with the utmost of seriousness, and have a mental checklist they gradually move down during their stay in a mortal's home where failing even one step fails the whole test. More chaotic Filoxenia are much more likely to act as unruly guests, assessing the patience of their host, making gradually more unreasonable requests to see just how far the host is willing to go and rendering their judgment based on the host's breaking point; too soon (strict) or too late (lenient) and they fail.

The reward for passing their test is often simple but always beneficial; they may arrange for a parcel of valuable gems to be delivered to the host, repair flaws in their home, or magically enchant a tool or piece of furniture the host owns in a way which will always be useful to them. Impressing the fey may cause them to perform feats such as keeping the host's food stores full for a year and a day, blessing the host with a boon of good luck and health, grant them a useful magical item, blessing their livestock with health and virility, or introducing a helpful House Spirit into the home... but for all their potential blessings, their curses are the stuff of legends and horror stories.

Providing the bare minimum of hospitality is one thing (which earns the stingy host naught but a bowl of gruel or perhaps a new pair of socks for their trouble), but treating the Filoxenia poorly or, most damnably, rejecting their plea for mercy and assistance at one's doorstep? Such a host would be lucky if the worst thing that happened to them was the death of their livestock. An especially offended Filoxenia, such as one physically harmed by the host, can go as far as to curse an entire household to experience grave misfortune which, eventually, will lead to the death of all within in no more than a year.

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Totagoda, the Uninvited Guest (CR 13 Chaotic Evil Large Fey) is a unique fey entity, an object of both scorn and amusement in the First World and a downright blight in the Universe whenever he deigns to enter it. He is a wild combination of a bloated toad and a gluttonous goat, standing on his back two legs as a man does, with three bulbous eyes always surveying the area as he searches for his next meal, the remains of which are added to the breathtaking tapestry of reeking stains over his clothing and skin.

Totagoda is a gluttonous, wretched beast of a fey, his primary modus operandi involving taking the shape of beggars, wanderers, and vagrants, hoping to gain invitation into the home of unsuspecting mortals who do not realize just what's standing at the door. Unfortunately, as one may surmise from his title, he is quite liberal with determining what qualifies as an 'invitation' into someone's home, with even strained conversation or simply holding a door open for too long becoming cause for him to push past his unfortunate host and slip inside. Only slamming the door in his face and refusing to speak will cause him to move on. Once inside, he takes a seat at the kitchen table and bullies his hosts into providing for him, often relying on the victim's fear or good manners (or both) to prevent them from seeking aid even as he wolfs down whatever food (or anything close to food) they can provide.

Victims of the Uninvited Guest quickly find themselves eaten out of house and home as his loud demands for food grow ever more violent and unreasonable, his monstrous form gradually revealing itself as he gorges himself. By the point he's revealed as a true and literal monster, it's far too late for his host, with him threatening their belongings, their health, or their very lives if they don't comply, the foul fey holding their treasured belongings or even their family members hostage to force their hand. When all the food in the house is exhausted, victims are forced into the marketplaces where they're expected to spend all their remaining money on a further banquet for the fey. Victims who can give no more may find themselves ensorcelled and forced to provide against their will, butchering their livestock, pets, or their unfortunate neighbors to feed Totagoda, until eventually he grows bored with the current fare and snaps up his host whole and alive with his massive tongue, moving on and leaving any surviving family members nothing but a destroyed home and horrific memories.

Sending out invitations to a party or celebration when Totagoda is stalking an area is a dangerous affair, because no matter the intended celebration, one can be assured it will end in tragedy and horror; many malevolent fey have, in fact, wielded the Uninvited Guest as a weapon by gifting him invitations to the party of a rival or hated enemy. When feeling especially peckish and shameless, he will use the public nature of taverns, restaurants, markets, and other such spaces where food may be found to barge in and begin stuffing his face, using threats, charming magic, or outright mystic domination against the owners, forcing them to ignore his crimes until they become too great to rationalize even with his spellwork clouding their minds. He prefers the 'thrill' of forcing his way into the homes of helpless mortals who cannot seek aid to feed him, using public eateries as a last resort, as he despises the concept of experiencing consequences (which is why he flees the First World as much as possible; he has made many enemies among Archfey and Eldest). Despite his considerable power and unnatural resilience, Totagoda is a coward and a bully, and at the first sign of any trouble (even trouble he could easily deal with) he is more likely to flee than fight, flinging his disease-ridden, acidic dung and unleashing nauseating belches at any pursuers until he can finally escape.

----

That Old and Rotten Crick, (CR 15 Neutral Evil Medium Fey), also known as Rotten Old Crick (and variants thereof), the Devil Fisherman, the Demon Angler, the Barnacle, Captain Hook, and a thousand other names with varying levels of fear or vitriol, is among one of the strangest denizens of the First World. Appearance-wise, he is a humanoid being, though not a hint of true flesh can be seen through the coverall-clothing of an angler that he wears; what isn't covered by clothes is studded with barnacles or coral growth. His vest is adorned by countless hooks, flies, whatever equipment he wishes to keep on hand rather than in his beaten up but magical tacklebox (the Artifact known as the Tomb of Karaphas), and extra parts for his Artifact-level fishing rod and primary weapon, the Tidepool Reaper. His face (if he has one) perpetually hidden in the shadow of his fishing cap, and he speaks with the smooth cadence of a devil and maniacal purpose of a daemon.

Nearly an Archfey in terms of power, Rotten Crick does not seek influence and remains outside of whatever political nonsense the others have going on... though his actions have a great many Archfey and even one of the Eldest furious with his very existence. Rotten Crick, you see, despises all life in the sea, especially the lives of any creature which could be called a 'fish.' His absolute hatred for all sealife has earned him a many enemies among waterway guardians and sea-dwelling fey, but just as many allies, though not for the reasons one may think; many stories circulate across many worlds of a mysterious angler approaching a fisherman or sailor with promises of rods, reels, baits, hooks, and nets which will assuredly catch enough fish to feed not only them, but their families and the families of their neighbors as well. Indeed, Rotten Crick has no animosity towards most mortal life, and is actually quite amicable, willing to help any down-on-their-luck man on the coast fish enough to live, or even make a business! There are rare stories of him going out of his way to save fishermen whose lives are endangered by the sea... but it is all for the singular goal of eliminating as many fish as possible and inspiring others to do the same. He will sit with other mortal anglers for many hours, fishing alongside them and making occasional, casual conversation, but anyone who knows what they're dealing with is advised to keep it casual, because any extended conversation with him will gradually turn towards alarmingly enthusiastic diatribes on how terribly fish suffer when hooked and dragged from the water, or disturbingly thorough explanations of the many deaths caused by sea beasts all over the world, in order to justify their torture and extermination.

He doesn't even eat any of his catches, enraged by the very idea of putting a fish in his body. If there is no one nearby to gift them to, he either abandons them on the shore to rot or, if feeling especially spiteful, slices them apart with fillet knives and hooks and leaves the disassembled bodies for the birds. He holds no love for creatures he calls "betrayers," which includes dolphins, whales, and seals, such unfortunates earning swift and terrible ends by his hands. Intelligent sea beings, especially merfolk, are in danger of torturous disassembly while still alive, as he draws sadistic joy from hearing their cries.

Why, precisely, he harbors such irrational hatred for sealife is something he has never explained to anyone who's asked, and likely never will. At the very least, any grand and far-reaching plans he may actually have to depopulate the seas of Golarion are slow going, if they're happening at all, held back by the sadism and hatred which drives him; it has been explained to him many times (primarily by daemons) that he could efficiently depopulate the seas by way of pollution, poison, and industrial expansion, but his hate is so great that he seems to prefer the more visceral, personal approach.