#i think it's an oversight more than anything

[starsamiss]

The Heartbeats in Between

My take on the emotions + added scenes/interactions of Sylus' Innocent Birdcage card that I really wanted to see. I love yearning Sylus and also yearning mc... some slight angst and also spoilers for Sylus' card!

Word count: 4,705

You creep quietly in the dark of the night, brushing your fingers against the guns in the holster on your thigh, nerves on edge. You weren’t unused to making your way around Linkon’s southern district. You’d grown up here after all, in the neglected streets of the city, riddled with danger. But you’d mostly stuck in around the same alleys, the same dark corners where you could stay safe. You hadn’t been this far out before, near the edge of the crumbled harbor, sea stretching out into darkness.

Wolfe had sent you here to deliver modified weapons to Sylus. They sat heavy against your leg. 

You move a bit further out towards the docks. This area was littered with debris and the ruins of a functioning society– most places in the district were the same.

You stop in your tracks, ears catching the sound of voices in the distance, and you instinctively duck down behind a large scrap of metal in the ruined area. Peeking from behind it, you see a couple of figures in the distance. They’re armed.  

You curse softly more in annoyance than anything else. Sylus was supposed to meet you here according to Wolfe, and yet there had been no sight of him yet. The only people you could see were those up ahead. Reaching for the gun at your leg again, you draw it carefully, more for reassurance. You hoped you wouldn’t have to use it, but being wary in Linkon was essential- people hardly had good intentions. Making sure to stay behind your cover, you survey the area. Maybe you could sneak past them… 

“What are we looking at?” 

You barely manage to suppress a yelp, choking on a sharp, panicked intake of breath. Your fingers move to the trigger of the gun and you spin your heel in the dirt to turn to the voice right next to your ear. Thrusting your arm forwards, the barrel of the gun collides with someone. 

A low, familiar chuckle and a gleam of silver hair hit your senses over the feeling of your racing pulse. The very man you’ve been looking for is before you, reaching up to grab the barrel of the gun and move it away from his chest. 

“What the hell, Sylus!” you whisper-shout.

He smiles wide, canines gleaming in the dark. “Fancy meeting you here, kitten.” His eyes flick to the weapon in both of your grips. “Is this for me?” 

You let go of the gun to shove his chest with your now free hand, your heart still in a frenzy from the scare. “Why did you sneak up on me like that?!” 

“It’s all part of the job, sweetie. You should be more aware.” 

You scowl. “What if I shot you?” 

He flips the weapon over in his hands, studying it. “With an empty gun?”

You purse your lips. Okay, oversight on your part, but you think your point still stands. You would like a warning next time, instead of him lurking right behind you in dark areas.

You opt to ignore him and instead turn your attention behind you, back to the people you saw earlier. You tilt your head to catch a view of them from behind your cover. 

You hear the dirt shift behind you and you can tell Sylus has moved closer to you, the chains of his outfit grazing your back. He leans close, so close until his mouth is next to your ear. 

“Those are my targets for tonight.” 

You shift your gaze back to him. Sylus wasn’t quite open about the details of his work. You knew he was an assassin, an infamous one at that. The specific dealings of his job, however, went unknown to you. “Who are they?” you ask him. 

He’s looking past you at the figures, taking a moment to respond. “...watchers,” he says finally. 

You furrow your brow. That tells you nothing. “Which are…?” You prompt him for an answer. 

He shakes his head. “People you should stay away from. You don’t want to become a lab rat because of your immunity.” 

You watch him load the gun. “So you’ve told me.”

What he doesn’t tell you, is an actual answer to your questions. A prick of annoyance goes through you. You wonder why Sylus saved you back when you met him in the pharmacy, how he knew you wouldn’t turn into a praedator. His profession was even more of a contrast to his actions. While he normally took lives, he’d saved yours. 

He finally looks up, meeting your gaze. “I’ll make quick work of them.”

You bite your lip anxiously. “...Be careful,” you tell him, because you can’t help it. Notorious assassin or not, he wasn’t immortal. 

He tilts his head at you, bangs falling into his eyes. The corner of his lip quirks upwards slightly. “I’ll do my best, kitten.”

~~~

You’re upstairs, fiddling with the revolver you’d borrowed from Sylus— taken from him more like— when you hear the doorknob rattle downstairs. 

Your heart jumps a bit at the sound. There’s only one other person who lives here, but since Wolfe had been killed and you and Sylus had to move, you’d been more on edge. More worries. More sleepless nights. More nightmares. 

You curl your fingers around the handle of the gun and  get up from your seat on the bed, creeping to the door. Opening it, you peek at the expanse downstairs. 

The knob turns and the door swings open, letting in none other than your roommate, for the lack of a better word. Relief settles in you and you place the gun on your desk, leaving your room to descend the stairs as he closes and locks the door behind him. 

He’s in his usual black outfit, showing off his chest and muscles and tattoos. The outfit had always seemed rather inconvenient to you, but you’d never bothered questioning it. 

You hadn’t seen him in almost a week, missions keeping him out. Anytime you asked him about it, he’d give vague, cryptic answers. It worried you, the amount of time he was gone, afraid he wouldn’t come back. He always did, but it never stopped the nightmares.

Your feet hit the floor and you take him in, noticing the way his posture is slightly hunched forward, shoulders slumped in exhaustion and most noticeably, the blood stained across his skin. You step closer to him. A cut spanning from his ribs to his back catches your eye, the gash in the skin dark and open. Your brow furrows in concern. 

He turns away from the door and meets your gaze. You speak first. “You’re gonna drip blood on the carpet.” 

Sylus barely blinks at your greeting. He lets out a scoff. “No, I won’t.” He kicks off his boots and moves to settle on the couch. You can see his steps are more sluggish than usual. Had he lost a lot of blood? 

It wasn’t the first time he’d come back injured, and you were most certain it wouldn’t be the last. Linkon wasn’t kind to anyone. Even the feared assassin of the southern district got hurt often. He had a lot of targets on his back, possibly now more than ever. 

Sylus makes a soft grunt as he begins to undo the buckle of his top. 

You pad out of the living room and into the house’s small kitchen, grabbing a towel and wetting it under the sink until damp, then opening the cabinet and grabbing the first aid kit. Heading back to the living room, you settle down behind Sylus on the couch as he slides his sleeves off and puts his top aside. You reach out and grab his shoulder, raising the towel to wipe the blood off of him. 

“Hold still.” 

Sylus does not hold still, instead opting to twist his body to face you, looking at you curiously. You frown at him. “I said hold still.” 

“What are you doing?” 

Your response is simple. “Helping you.” 

You grab both of his shoulders and maneuver him until his back is mostly to you again and place the towel on his skin. Before you can even begin to clean the blood, he turns back and grabs your wrist, eyebrows raised. 

“I’ll be fine.” He refuses your efforts, yet not unkindly as he takes the towel from you and wipes at the blood along his side. He slides it further, straining his arm to reach the blood further back. 

You watch, unimpressed. “You look stupid.” Taking the towel back from his loose grasp isn’t hard. Grabbing his arm with your free hand, you move it away from his body and shoot him a look. “Now hold still.” 

He raises his hands in mock surrender at your tone, conceding and moving for your better access. “Alright, alright. If you insist.” 

Bracing your hand against his shoulder again, you wipe the rest of the blood from his back. Most of it is dried up, the wound thankfully not free bleeding anymore. Grabbing the antiseptic from the kit and pouring it into a part of the towel not stained with his blood, you wipe at the gash gently. He doesn’t make a sound at the sting. 

You can see the wound clearer now. It’s not fatal, nor deep enough to need stitches, but it is one of the worse ones he’s gotten. It would leave a scar. 

You take the roll of bandages from the kit and rise to your feet, motioning for him to do the same. He stands and you begin to wrap the bandages along his abdomen and back, stretching from his side and around his torso. He’s strangely obedient, only watching you quietly as you circle around him with each loop of the gauze. 

You focus on your task, ignoring his gaze. Ignoring the shudder in his breath and the tensing of his muscles when your fingers brush against his bare skin. 

You’re just helping him with a simple task. Returning the favor, you hoped, as little as it was, for what he had done for you. Nothing more. You’re definitely not affected by the heat of his body that you can feel with the proximity of him. Or the broadness of his back, or the swirling ink on his skin. 

Once it’s wrapped completely, you stand to his side and secure the bandages with a knot. You let your hands linger. 

“…Who did this?” You ask the question quietly. A knife along his back was your guess. Who could get the jump on Sylus like that? 

He doesn’t respond for a moment. You poke at his shoulder. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He avoids your question as usual. 

You frown. “That’s not an answer,” you tell him, giving the knot a final tug and stepping back. 

He ghosts his fingers along the treatment you'd given and turns to face you. Shakes his head. “You’re safe here,” he says. There’s something in his gaze you can’t place, something that makes your chest ache a bit. 

You want to tell him that you know. You know you’re safe with him, but you’re not worried about you. 

But you also know he’s more than capable of handling himself. He had always come back to you. 

So you swallow the words. 

~~~

Your chest hurts. 

Sylus has been gone for two weeks now. When he hadn’t come back the night of, you’d scoffed at him standing you up. His mission was probably just taking a while. You’d give him a piece of your mind when he was back. 

But he didn’t come back. Not the night after, nor the night after that. And then you catch wind of the explosion at Ever’s laboratory on the news. Your heart drops at the prospect of Sylus having met his end there.

Worry and anger began to take you over. Maybe you’d try to break his safe, spend a bit of his savings to make good on your word. 

And so you did. It was petty, you knew. You were petty, but how could he just leave you like this? You’d thought you kept true to your promise, never slowed him down when he decided to take you with him the night you met. You knew he didn’t owe you anything, and he certainly didn’t owe you a movie night. 

But he was all you had. 

Still, you wait. You wait for one more month, in the little, dingy house you and Sylus had shared. You keep low, avoiding the “watchers” that lurk around. Watching the news every day hoping for something, anything that might give hint to what happened to Sylus.

On one night, nearing two months of his absence, you wake up from yet another nightmare that leaves you sweating and holding back tears. You go downstairs on shaky feet to see the couch empty. Empty like it has been for the past two months. 

You want him here so much, you realize. You want him back, his presence the only constant in your life, the only stable ground you had. You needed to find him.  

So you pack what you need that night and leave the next morning for the northern district, not looking back. 

~~~

Seeing Sylus again years later fills you with both immeasurable relief and anger. 

He’s alive , flesh and blood and the familiar timbre of his voice that makes your heart ache when you hear it because god, how you’ve missed him. 

“Does it matter to you, that I’m alive? ” 

What a stupid question. Of course it did. You’d built another life in the northern district, spent years working your way up the ranks of the LCBI to become an enforcer just to find Sylus. Even if he was dead, you’d want at least the closure. But he’d been alive, knowing where you were at that, and still not bothering to ever let you know for years, instead arranging for you to meet him when he felt like it, showing up as a prisoner at your work.  

Your chest hurts. You’re so, so angry. 

Angry that he left. Angry that he never came back. Angry that he comes back into your life so suddenly and manages to walk away from you that same night. Angry at yourself for never being able to find him. Angry that you long for him so much, even as you still watch him leave again. 

He comes back, to your relief. He makes a habit of showing up to your apartment unannounced, letting himself in. It gets easier when you see him, reassured that he’s still alive. But it gets harder too, the sound of his voice, once absent from your life for so long now makes your chest tighten with longing. The warmth of his skin makes you want to lean into whatever fleeting touch he’ll give you. 

The familiar protection in his embrace when he wraps his arm around your shoulders and guides you out of CHAOS that night you’d gone for intel has you wanting . You feel like you’re still the teen with a silly crush on him the way you were all those years ago. 

He doesn’t let go of you until the two of you arrive at the car. And this time, he doesn’t leave when he takes you home. He’s there, on the couch after you wake up from your nightmare. He looks at you the same aching way he did years ago.

“Did you feel like you belonged in the southern district?” He asks you that night. 

You blink in surprise. It never mattered to you if you belonged in the southern district. All that had mattered was that Sylus was there. You’d left when Sylus didn’t come back.  

“I never thought about it,” is the answer you give him instead. 

He hums in response. “Whenever you had nightmares back then, I assumed you went downstairs because you wanted to escape.” 

You’re silent for a moment, then turn to look at him. “So, you always sat there because you were worried I might leave?” 

He puts down the gun he’s cleaning and reaches for the remote, turning on the TV. You keep your eyes on him, admiring his side profile in the flickering glow of the TV. 

Suddenly eboldened, you shift closer to him on the couch and lay your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around you and you feel like all is right, like it’s just you and him again, back in your small little safehouse in the southern district. 

He never answers your question. You don’t need him to. 

~~~

The first time you see the grand birdcage, the cold metal bars, chains and muzzles scattered across the floor, the ache in your chest returns. The puzzle puts itself together, the biggest piece right in front of your eyes standing as the man before you. 

“When did you become Tartarus?”

“The night our movie date fell through.” He speaks nonchalantly. Like it doesn’t bother him. 

You bite your lip. He’d lied to you when he told you Ever hadn’t done anything to him. 

But when he tells you that he hadn’t wanted to become another one of your nightmares, that he’d worked in the shadows to keep you safe, your anger dissipates.

But your chest hurts so much more. 

You want him to know. How worried you were, how much his absence made you hurt. How much his presence made you hurt. How much he means to you. 

“I wanted to leave Linkon because I thought you weren’t here.” You’re honest with him here in the confines of the cage, him pinning you to the bars and his teeth grazing your throat. 

He chuckles and you can feel his breath hot against your neck, so close, too close, not close enough. “Well, I’m here right now, aren’t I? Taratrus and Sylus are in your hands.” He all but whispers the words. You suppress a shiver. 

He releases you and pulls away, but before he can get too far, you wrap your arm around his neck. You trace his lips with your thumb. Push his upper lip up to reveal his teeth. Press the pad of your finger against the sharp tip of his fang. You wonder what happened in this very cage, years ago when Ever’s assassins had gotten the jump on Sylus. Wondered what exactly they had done to him. 

You don’t want to know. You never want to see this cage again. Never want to use these chains against him. 

Life is not so fortunate. 

Not even three weeks later you’re dragging a stumbling Sylus back to the very same place. His breathing is heavy and his skin is searing, unnaturally hot to the touch. He lets out low groans, his spasms gradually turning into uncontrolled thrashing by the time you manage to get him in the cage and shut the door. 

He slams against and grabs at the bars, giving you unnerving predatory grins of all teeth and menace, wild eyes, growled threats. When you step into the cage, you use nearly everything he’s taught to you against him. 

You manage to get both his hands chained. “When you approach your prey, you must ensure your own safety first. You taught me this.” 

He chuckles darkly. “Prey?”

You circle behind him and scan for the activator, moving your hands along his skin, ignoring his shuddering breaths and taunting words from him despite the thunder of your heart in your ears. You’d told him you wouldn’t just watch him turn into a monster. You’d keep good on your word. 

Just as the scan completes– yielding two suspicious areas– he breaks free from one of the cuffs. 

Panic spikes through you. I need to restrain him!

Before he can make any other moves you lunge, tackling him and pinning him down to the floor. You’re running mostly on adrenaline right now, immediately continuing to drag your hands up and down his front, searching for that damn activator . 

His breath hitches with the contact, grinning at you. “That feels… good .” 

You don’t have time to process what he means by that before you see the red glow in his eye. I found it! It’s connected to his eye!

You reach over to press it and you’re so close but not fast enough. He bats your hand away and stands faster than you can blink, and with inhumane speed spins you around and pins you to his chest, one arm across your shoulders and the other firm around your waist. He all but growls in your ear. 

“How did it feel to watch me from outside the cage?” He takes your earlobe into his mouth, and your heartbeat spikes, somehow pounding faster than it already is. 

You’re scared, admittedly. You’re desperate, mind buzzing and pulse racing. You stepped into this cage regardless of the danger. For Sylus. You didn't want to lose the most important person in your life. You didn't want to watch him lose himself.

I need to break free!

You twist around and land a blow on his face, startling him into releasing you with a grunt. He acts faster again, pinning you down swiftly, pressing your wrists to the cold floor. As you writhe in his grip, he suddenly hisses and lets go of your left hand to clutch at his right eye, burning red. 

You take your chance. Surging forward, you press the activator. His breath hitches in his throat and you keep your thumb pressed against it, propped up on your elbow. He drops his head, shoulder slumping a bit and finally you let go when you hear his breathing gradually even out. 

You drop down to lay on your back, panting heavily. He keeps himself propped above you. Neither of you speak. You don’t know how long passes while the both of you are still trying to catch your breath. But when he finally raises his head and meets your gaze, relief overwhelms you. 

“If I really turned into a monster,” he begins, voice slightly hoarse. “What would you have done?” 

You exhale shakily. “I’d lock you in this cage and walk away.” A lie. 

He lets out a breathy laugh at that as if he sees right through you. Leaning down, he presses his nose against your cheek. “Impossible,” he whispers. 

You reach your hands up and cup his face, and he leans into the touch for a moment before lifting his head and shifting upwards ever so slightly. You move your hands down his neck, letting them rest on his shoulders. He presses a kiss to your forehead. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you curl your fingers into the fabric of his top. "Sylus," you whisper. 

He moves to graze his lips against your temple and speaks into your hair. “I guess the protégé outdoes her mentor yet again.” 

He finds your hand and laces his fingers with yours. His hands are so gentle when he touches you, almost painfully so. It’s a stark contrast to his touch as a praedator. You wrap your other arm around his neck and tug him down to meet your gaze again. 

Deep red eyes, and all you can see in them is you. There’s something vulnerable in the look he gives you. It’s the same one he’d give you when you treated his wounds, when you'd wake from your nightmares. It's the same look he'd given you throughout your years with him.

“You’re not allowed to leave me again,” you tell him quietly, the words just for him and the space between you. 

He smiles, a real genuine one. “Alright.” 

“Ever,” you clarify. 

He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, giving your hand a squeeze. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

~~~

A week later, you hear your apartment door open when you’re leaning over your vanity applying a dark shade of lipstick to your lips. Footsteps on the hardwood floor sound in the other room, a trained quietness to them, yet you already know who it is. You don’t bother moving, continuing your task.

Sylus had left earlier in the morning to tie up loose ends as the leader of Nightstrix, promising to be safe and come back at your insistence. “I don’t break promises,” he’d told you. 

The footsteps come closer, and then he’s in your room, standing behind you. You look up and meet his eyes in the mirror. He’s strikingly gorgeous as ever. 

“I told you to stop picking my lock,” you say, yet there’s no bite in your words. 

Sylus gives you a lopsided grin. “You make it too easy.” 

You dab at the color on your lips and stand straight, capping the lipstick and turning around to face him. The grin on his mouth loosens a little as he takes you in, eyes roaming from your lips downwards, taking in your long dress and sleek heels, gaze turning into something more intense. 

He meets your eyes again. “What’s the occasion?” 

You tap your heel against the floor. “I’m going to gather intel.” 

He chuckles. “That’s quite the getup.” 

You cross over to him and his gaze never leaves you. Stopping right in front of him, you give him your own glance over, silently looking for any wounds or bruises. Once you’re satisfied there is none, you bring your hand up and place it on the left side of his chest, the rough skin squarely above his heart. You feel the way it beats beneath your palm, proof of his life.

It’s sometimes odd to believe he’s still alive, crashing back into your life after years of his absence. 

You meet his eyes, still on you, yet keep your hand on his chest. He lets you. “It’s at CHAOS,” you tell him, referencing the same club as last time. “Looking pretty certainly helps get information. I need it for the LCBI.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. “You’re still going to work for them, huh.” 

“I have bills to pay.”

He hums in agreement. “Things went south last time you were there.” 

“I’m armed. And I can handle myself.” 

“I’ve no doubt about that, Miss Enforcer.” He drops his head down, minimizing the already small distance between the two of you. You lift your head to keep your gaze on his face. “But wouldn’t it be better to have some…precautionary measures?” 

His voice is lower now, and you feel the urge to shiver despite the warmth that spreads throughout you. 

“Elaborate.” Your voice is quiet as well. 

“Take me with you.” 

You tilt your head and smirk slightly. “Interested in an enforcer’s work?.” 

He smiles back at you and shakes his head. “That’s not quite what I’m here for.” 

“Then?” You challenge him. You know what he’s saying. You want to hear him say it, want him to tell you with his strong assured heartbeat under your palm that you’re what he’s here for. 

“Maybe,” he begins, bringing his hand up to your chin to lift it slightly and press his thumb to your lower lip. “I want to make sure a certain someone doesn’t get herself into trouble.” He presses his thumb down a little more, forcing your lips to part. You feel the pace of his heart quicken, fluttering through your fingertips. 

“Maybe?” You tease him, speaking against his skin. “You either do or you don’t.” 

He releases you then, drawing his hand back and you can see the pad of his thumb colored with a pigmented sheen. You’re certain he’s messed up your lipstick but you can’t seem to care. 

“I do.” He answers. “You told me to never leave you again, right?” 

You feel your own heart speed up ever so slightly at his words and under his gaze. Since the night in the birdcage he had been more open, more vulnerable. Less beating around the bush. 

You like it. 

Giving him a mischievous grin, you step to the side and towards the door. Keeping your hand on his chest, you slide it beneath the strap of his top, and give it a quick tug towards you, indicating for him to follow. 

“Let’s go, then.” 

[nothorses]

I understand that there is absolutely a reason for folks to argue that there are no "good enough" conditions under which religion just disappears, and I agree that it's an incredibly hateful and harmful position to hold in the first place. along with being, y'know, completely fucking nonsensical.

however

if your argument to this is "the thing that makes humans human is religion" respectfully I need you to re-evaluate with people who are not religious in mind & consider what kind of impact that has on a group that is already dehumanized. for not being religious.

[stinkrascal]

also this is spoilers but i saw this on reddit and now i must scream about it sooooo spoilers for the end of wyll's romance maybe idk

okay tbh i cant confirm if this is true cuz i havent even beaten the game yet HA but people wouldnt lie on the internet right.... but anyways i saw that someone said one of wyll's romance endings is that he becomes a duke and you guys get MARRIED omg... and it has been on my mind all day and now im having very intense aza/wyll thoughts but mostly aza though aha

listen. just. just listen. okay. picturing aza going from a painfully awkward and socially inept crypt keeper living underground among the dwarves and the deceased, to the wife of the charismatic, renowned grand duke of baldur's gate, UGH. learning to socialize properly with nobility, learning how to maintain small talk, adjusting to the sheer size of their estate, free of cold drafts and water leaks. and the SUNLIGHT? the way it shines through the windows every morning, to remind her another day has come? and how much more comfortable the beds are when they're made of fur and feathers, not stone. and the way she's obviously very out of place, especially as a tiefling living among the upper echelon of baldur's gate, i'm sure she sticks out like a sore thumb. i'm sure she's turned lots of heads while incessantly infodumping about the best way to preserve a dead body, not yet understanding that nobility often aren't fixated on such things the same way she is lol. she's still a little weird and unsettling and unsure of how to handle herself in such a new environment, but hey... it's a lot more fun learning the nuance of courtly dance than it is trying to get a wriggly tadpole out of your head! she'll take the fright of social anxiety over that any day.

anyways. dies

[hyperlexichypatia]

This is a semi spinoff of this post, but really its own thought.

When a job pays less than a living wage, it generally attracts one of two types of employees:

Desperate people (usually poor and/or otherwise marginalized or with barriers to employment), who will take any job, no matter how bad, because they need the money, or

Independently wealthy people (usually well-off retirees, students being supported by their families, or women with well-off husbands*), who don't care about the pay scale because they don't need the money anyway.**

And sometimes, organizations will intentionally keep a job low-paying or non-paying with the deliberate intent of narrowing their pool to that second category.

People sometimes bring this up when discussing the salaries of elected officials -- yes, most politicians are paid more than most "regular people," but they're not paid enough to sustain the expensive lifestyle politicians have to maintain, and that's on purpose. It's not an oversight, and it's not primarily about cost-cutting. It's a deliberate barrier to ensure that only rich people can run for office.

The same is true, albeit to less severe effect, of unpaid internships -- the benefit of "hiring" an unpaid intern isn't (just) that you don't have to pay them; it's also that you can ensure that all your workers are rich, or at least middle-class.

When nonprofits brag about how little of their budget goes to "overhead" and "salaries", as if those terms were synonymous with "waste," what they're really saying is "All our employees are financially comfortable enough that they don't worry about being underpaid. Our staff has no socioeconomic diversity, and probably very little ethnic or cultural diversity." ***

This isn't a secret. I'm not blowing anything wide open here. People very openly admit that they think underpaid workers are better, because they're "not in it for the money." This is frequently cited as a reason, for example, that private school teachers are "better" than public school teachers -- they're paid less, so they're not "in it for the money," so they must be working out of the goodness of their hearts. I keep seeing these cursed ads for a pet-sitting service where the petsitters aren't paid, which is a selling point, because they're "not in it for the money."

"In it for the money" is the worst thing a worker could be, of course. Heaven forbid they be so greedy and entitled and selfish as to expect their full-time labor to enable them to pay for basic living expenses. I get this all the time as a public library worker, when I point out how underfunded and underpaid we are. "But... you're not doing it for the money, right?" And I'm supposed to laugh and say "No, no, I'd do it for free, of course!"

Except, see, I have these pesky little human needs, like food. And I can't get a cart full of groceries and explain to the cashier that I don't have any money, but I have just so much job satisfaction!

And it's gendered, of course it's gendered. The subtext of "But you're not doing it for the money, of course" is "But how much pin money do you really need, little lady? Doesn't your husband give you a proper allowance?"

Conceptually, it's just an extension of the upper-class cultural norm that "polite" (rich) people "don't talk about money" (because if you have to think about how much money you have or how much you need, you're insufficiently rich).

*Gendered language very much intentional.

**Disabled people are more likely to be in the first category (most disabled people are poor, and being disabled is expensive), but are usually talked about as if they're in the second category. We're told that disabled people sorting clothing for $1.03 an hour are "So happy to be here" and "Just want to be included," and it's not like they need the money, since, as we all know, disability benefits are ample and generous [heavy sarcasm].

***Unless, of course, they're a nonprofit whose "mission" involves "job placement," in which case what they're saying is "We exploit the poor and desperate people we're purporting to help." Either way, "We pay our employees like crap" is nothing to brag about.

[eriexplosion]

If they wanted us to accept Tech's death all they had to do was actually kill him! Since he has instead fallen into the clouds and 90% of the time the only thing that ever gets referred to is his "sacrifice" and his "loss" while every other dead character just gets called dead, I will simply think he's likely to come back in whatever comes next. We have a lot to do in this era, why can't he come back? Nothing is keeping him dead.

One of my friends (who loves Bad Batch but isn't quite as obsessed as I am 😂) just asked me why I'm so dead set on believing Tech is alive, especially since I've never had an issue before in accepting character deaths.

My response: If the show's creators truly always intended for Tech to be dead and season 3 was seriously the best they could do to honor Tech's sacrifice under those circumstances, I would have a very hard time forgiving that; so, in order to keep crediting the show for its brilliance and enjoying season 3 at all, I have to believe he's meant to be alive.

If season 3 had properly acknowledged and honored Tech's sacrifice, I would have accepted him as being dead. Since the season instead seemingly went out of its way to ignore every opportunity they had to address it in a satisfying way, I just can't accept his death as being anything other than "presumed."

Besides, I'm happier when I believe Tech survived, so here we are 😅

[d-z20]

Extra Credit part 2 (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: So the sex with your student's guardian turned out to be more than a one-time-thing and after not responding to a text from Agatha, she finds you before school the next day deciding to take matters into her own hands... no matter who could find you

-OR-

She fucks you in a supply closet before school starts

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Agatha's a MILF, semi-publicish sex, almost getting caught, smidge of praise, fingering (R recv)

Words: 1.6k

A/N: Just a quick little something before the weekend starts :) There is use of Mx as an honorific which it's pronounced 'mix' or 'mux' depending on ya accent

AO3 | Part 1 | Masterlist

The thing about secret flings is that they demand discretion. And the thing about Agatha Harkness is that she doesn’t give a damn about discretion.

Which is exactly why you find yourself pinned against the supply closet door, barely holding in a gasp as her lips press insistently against your throat.

“Agatha,” you hiss, hands gripping her shoulders, half to push her away, half to keep yourself standing. “We are in a school.”

“And?” she murmurs against your skin, her voice dripping with amusement. “You think this is the first time an inappropriate affair has taken place in these hallowed halls?”

You groan, pressing a hand against her chest to create some distance—only for her to grab your wrist and pin it beside your head. “You’re terrible.”

“You like that about me.”

You wish she were wrong. You wish you could push her away; ignore the fire curling in your stomach. But every time she touches you or teases you, you're undone all over again—helpless against the force of her.

It started as a mistake. Well, maybe not a mistake—mistakes implied regret, and you weren’t sure you regretted anything that had happened that night in her kitchen. What had begun as a harmless parent-teacher conference had escalated into something far more salacious the moment she cornered you against your desk, her dark eyes glinting with challenge. And since then, Agatha had made it her personal mission to find new and exciting ways to make you weak in the knees—especially in situations where it was wildly inappropriate.

Like now, for instance.

Twenty minutes earlier, you had barely managed to slip into your classroom before she appeared behind you, her hands already on your waist, her lips at your ear.

“You left me waiting this morning,” she murmured, her voice low and syrupy, though laced with feigned offence. “That’s terribly rude of you, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, but before you could even begin to question what she meant, she was already moving, her fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against your hips.

“W-waiting?” You echoed, cursing yourself for how easily she could make you stumble over something as simple as a word.

Agatha hummed, her breath warm against the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Mhm. I sent you a message last night, darling.” Her tone was light, teasing—but the pressure of her hands suggested she wasn’t above making you pay for your oversight. “Something deliciously sinful, if I do say so myself.”

Your stomach dropped. Oh god. You had seen the text.

It had popped up sometime around midnight, and you’d stupidly glanced at the preview—just enough to make out a few wickedly suggestive words that left you blushing in the dark. But instead of responding, you’d panicked, tossed your phone aside, and buried your face in your pillow, hoping sleep would erase the heat pooling in your stomach.

Apparently, Agatha had noticed your silence.

“I figured you’d wake up eager to... respond,” she went on, one hand drifting just beneath the hem of your top, her fingers skimming the bare skin of your stomach. “And yet, I had to drink my morning coffee alone.” She sighed dramatically, as if the slight were truly unforgivable. “No text. No call. Not even an apology.”

You swallowed hard. “I—I was busy!”

She chuckled, finally pulling back just enough for you to turn and face her. Her expression was unreadable at first, but her dark eyes glittered with amusement. “Were you?” she mused, tilting her head as though considering your excuse. “Or were you just being a tease?”

“I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she interrupted, shaking her head with mock disappointment. “You know what happens to naughty little things who ignore me, don’t you?”

The words sent a shiver straight down your spine. You opened your mouth to protest—whether to deny, to plead, or to offer some pathetic excuse, you weren’t sure—but Agatha was already on the move.

And before you could so much as protest, she had manoeuvred you into the nearest supply closet and shut the door behind her. So here you are in this very compromising situation with her lips on your neck and her hands on your waist.

“Agatha,” you try again, your voice more breathless than stern. “I have students coming in twenty minutes.”

Her smirk deepens, fingers trailing down to the waistband of your pants, her touch featherlight. "Well, I suppose I’ll have to be quick.”

You shiver, your head falling back against the door as she leans in, her lips brushing against your jaw. “You are insatiable.”

She hums in agreement, her mouth trailing lower, and her hand dipping into your pants.

A sharp inhale catches in your throat as her fingers push past the fabric, trailing slow, agonising circles over fevered skin. Your muscles tense, a quiet tremor rolling through you, anticipation warring with restraint. She moves with infuriating ease, fingers slipping between your thighs like she already knows exactly how to unravel you. And maybe she does, considering the way your breath stutters, your knees threatening to give way beneath you.

“You’re already this wet for me?” She berates, her voice thick with amusement, her fingers making light work of you. “How very inappropriate, Mx. Y/L/N.”

You bite your lip, your hands clutching at her coat in some desperate attempt to keep yourself upright as her fingers work you open, dragging pleasure from you with infuriating precision. Your mind is struggling—grasping at some semblance of rational thought, but all you can focus on is her touch, the way her fingers curl inside you, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge.

Somewhere in the fog of your pleasure, a fleeting thought breaks through. “D-don’t you have to be somewhere?” You manage, your voice barely above a whimper. “Work or—oh, fuck—something?”

Agatha chuckles against your skin, her breath hot against your throat. “You’re adorable when you try to be responsible,” she murmurs.

Before you can retort—before you can even think—someone speaks from the hallway.

“Mx. Y/L/N?”

The doorknob rattles—once, then again. Every muscle in your body locks, breath frozen in your throat. Agatha, the menace, merely smirks, fingers still moving, as if daring you to crack under the pressure.

It’s one of your colleagues; their voice muffled through the door but far too close for comfort. Agatha, to her credit, barely seems perturbed. If anything, she looks entertained, her head tilting as she watches you with sharp amusement.

You slap a hand over her mouth before she can make this any worse. However, her fingers keep moving, pumping in and out of you, slow and deliberate, forcing you to bite back the pathetic whimper that threatens to escape.

“I—yes?” You call out, praying your voice sounds normal.

“Do you have any extra curriculum outlines for the staff meeting? Principal Carter needs a few more copies.”

Staff meeting. Right. The one you’re currently missing because you’re too busy being manhandled by an absurdly attractive single mom.

“Uh, yeah! Just—just give me a second, I’ll bring them right out!”

There’s a pause. You can practically hear your colleague frowning. “Are you okay in there?”

Agatha takes the opportunity to gently pry your hand from her mouth, bringing it to her lips and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. “You’re doing so well,” she praises, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “But I think you can be a little quieter, don’t you?”

You glare at her, but it’s a feeble effort considering the way your entire body is trembling, pleasure tightening in your core with every agonising stroke of her fingers.

“Yes! Just—just organising some things!” you reply, forcing out a laugh that hopefully doesn’t sound as wrecked as you feel.

A beat of silence. Then, mercifully, footsteps retreat down the hall.

You exhale in relief, your body sagging against Agatha’s. She, of course, is grinning like the devil himself.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mutter, only to be cut off by a moan when she thrusts her fingers particularly deeply, the pleasure sharp and devastating.

She tilts her head, her free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “Am I?”

“You almost got me fired!”

She chuckles, her fingers still coaxing you toward the inevitable. “Sweetheart, if you think that’s enough to get you fired, you clearly underestimate how much your principal hates paperwork.”

The words barely register because, in that moment, your orgasm crests—high and all-consuming—your body shuddering against her as waves of bliss flood through you.

She holds you through it, her touch never leaving, fingers easing you down gently as you gasp into her shoulder, your legs still trembling.

You sigh, already resigning yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to sprint to the staff meeting and pretend like you hadn’t just been ruined against a shelf full of printer paper.

Agatha leans in one last time, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips before finally, mercifully, stepping back. “I suppose I’ll let you get back to work,” she says, far too smug for your liking.

You smooth your hands down your clothes, clearing your throat. “You are impossible.”

She winks. “And you love it.”

You don’t dignify that with an answer—mostly because she’s right. Again.

As she slips out of the closet and disappears down the hallway, you let out a slow breath, shaking your head.

This woman is going to be the death of you.

-----

it seems I write getting fucked in a supply closet quite frequently 😂 don't ask me how she went to the school without raising suspicions from Billy because I don't know, if I did I would've written it 😭😂

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[ifnotlovepersevering]

Trapped (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: in an attempt to get revenge on Agatha, you end up walking right into her trap

Warnings: NSFW, blurry consent, magic play, pet names, light d/s dynamics, oral sex (both receiving), fingering (R receiving), mentions of spit play, face-sitting (A receiving), overstimulation, mentions of violence, lovers to enemies to lovers again?!, minors DNI

A/N: breaking my hiatus by pulling together this horny filth from god knows what part of my brain 🖤 enjoy!

NSFW Tag List: @academiagaymess @musicalmemesandstuff @shinkomiii @vintagegoddess12 @agnessharknes @jesterofrohan @agathaharknessslut @nickalpatel @junaika21

As soon as you’d caught wind that the great Agatha Harkness had lost her powers, you were planning your route to Westview.

You’d been waiting ages for this opportunity - revenge for her betrayal. Agatha had drawn you in close before draining nearly every last bit of power from you, thankfully leaving just enough for you to survive. Though, that was likely an oversight rather than a show of mercy.

But you’d never forgotten. Over the years you slowly, painstakingly, built your powers back up to what they had been, and then even more. You were stewing, waiting for the chance to get the witch back for what she’d done.

Now you stood in her basement at the home she occupied in Westview, after transporting yourself inside. You crept up the stairs, staying as silent as possible. The dagger in your hand glistened as you eased through the door to the main floor.

You quietly stalked your way over to what seemed to be her office. But before you could step inside, Agatha’s voice rang out from behind you. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

You spun around, seeing her standing in the living area. “Agatha,” you grinned.

The older witch eyed the dagger you clutched in your palm. “Hey doll,” she said nervously. “Whatcha got there?”

You began walking towards her as she stepped backwards. “Oh Aggs,” you smirked, using your old nickname for her. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“Let me guess,” she let out a shaky laugh. “Since I juiced you?”

You clenched your jaw. “You bitch. I trusted you. It took me ages to grow my power back to what it was.”

Agatha scoffed. “Oh please. You were pathetic. A baby. You hardly knew how to handle all of that, I did you a favour.”

That’s it. You lunged forward, tackling the other witch to the ground. You straddled her abdomen, her arms by her side, keeping her pinned down. Digging your elbow into her chest, you brought the dagger to her neck. “Last words?” You smirked.

“I missed this view.” Agatha’s blue eyes bore into yours as her expression morphed from fear into a smile.

Her smugness was grating, and you pushed the dagger into her skin to silence her. But it wasn’t working. The flesh that should’ve been tearing under the blade remained smooth and undisturbed, no crimson emerging.

What?

“Oh Y/N,” she grinned at you, not at all worried about the dagger pressed up against her throat. “You’re almost as naive as the day I met you.”

You felt your body suddenly freeze up. “What the hell?” You exclaimed, trying to move your limbs. Agatha began laughing as the distance between the two of you increased. You were floating now, immobilized, and she was standing up in front of you grinning.

“You’re kidding me.” You groaned. You couldn’t move anything below your neck, let alone try and get your magic flowing. Fuck.

“No, no I’m not.” Agatha circled you, unashamedly basking in the glee of having you trapped like this.

You closed your eyes, thinking of what idiotic decisions led you here. “You were supposed to be…”

“Powerless?” Agatha smirked, standing in front of you now. “Come on, Y/N. Are you hearing yourself? Agatha Harkness, powerless?”

You cursed yourself internally. This was stupid. You’d been stupid, and cocky, coming here with no preparation but a stupid dagger and your stupid vendetta.

“Aww,” Agatha pouted at your expression, taking your chin into her hand, forcing you to look her in the eye. “Don’t make that face, bunny.”

You felt a small spark inside of you at her using her favourite pet name. Agatha was leaning in close now, and heat rushed to your cheeks under her intense gaze and the proximity. Yes, you hated her for what she did. But she also knew exactly how to push your buttons. The older witch made you feel things beyond just hatred and try as you might, that was something you couldn’t ignore.

“You know how witches are,” Agatha spoke softly, her eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth. “Start a rumour, it spreads. And somehow I knew that little Y/N would come running once she heard the news.”

Her arrogance irked you. “I’m not the same person you used to know.” You spat.

“Oh?” Agatha arched a brow, a wicked smile on her face. “I beg to differ.”

She stepped back and began circling you again. The familiar hum of her magic suddenly began caressing you again. You looked down at your hovering form and now saw purple swirls of her magic climbing up your legs.

“The Y/N I used to know,” Agatha was behind you now, her mouth by your ear sending shivers down your spine. “Would make the prettiest sounds for me.”

The end of her sentence was punctuated by a purple tendril slipping under your top and caressing your nipple. Another joined right after, on your other breast, pulses of magic squeezing both your nipples perfectly.

You couldn’t even try and stop the moan that escaped you.

“Just like that.” You could tell Agatha was smiling even though she was behind you, her voice clearly conveying her excitement.

You felt another rope of magic snake its way up your thigh and into the waistband of your pants. You cried out as it surround your clit and begin pulsing teasingly. You squirmed, the sensation sending tingles of pleasure through you.

Agatha settled herself into the armchair across from you and waved her hand in a quick motion. You gasped at the feeling of cold air on your now-bare skin. “Mm,” her voice was low, her eyes raking over your exposed form. “That’s better.”

You could feel how wet you were getting between your legs, her purple magic still pleasuring you. “You know,” you started, getting breathless now. “That I came here to kil- ah!”

Your sentence was interrupted by what you could only assume was another extension of her magic teasing your wet entrance before pushing in. Heat rushed through you as your walls stretched and adjusted to the feeling.

“Oh I know hon,” Agatha smirked from her chair, watching you turn into a mess before her. Her blue eyes were tracing your form and you could see that her cheeks were flushed. “But keeping you to play with again is a much better option.”

The tendril of magic inside you began pumping in and out, pulsing gently against your walls. “Fuck,” you groaned, the pleasure in you building at a rapid pace now. Your eyes were half-closed, jaw slack, as Agatha fucked you with her magic.

“Though if you’d like me to stop,” Agatha’s voice made you open your eyes. “I can do that too.”

Another flick of her hand and all the magic pulsing in and around you stopped, causing the pleasure building in you to fizzle. “No!” You whined. “Please, fuck, please, Aggs.”

It was humiliating. You had come here to kill her, and instead you were naked and at her mercy, begging for her to keep fucking you.

Agatha seemed thrilled to see your resolve break. “There she is,” she chuckled darkly. “My sweet bunny.”

You moaned, a mixture of relief and pleasure, when her magic began again. You were approaching your orgasm quickly, filthy moans and profanities spilling from your lips as you reached the edge. But before the waves of pleasure you were aching so badly for could crash over you, the magic stopped again.

You whined in protest, at the brink of tears, as Agatha stood up and came over to you. “Oh I know, baby.” She pouted.

To your surprise, Agatha lowered you down so that you were standing in front of her now. Your legs were unsteady and she gripped your hip, pressing you close to her. “I just couldn’t let you come without tasting you first.”

Any thoughts about what you’d originally came here for were far gone, and you hungrily brought your mouth to hers. Your hands now free, it was your turn to magic Agatha’s clothes off, making her gasp against your lips in surprise. You traced your hands up her figure and began pinching and teasing her nipples. Both of you moaned as your tongues explored each other’s mouths. You nipped at her lower lip, sucking it into your mouth, making her groan approvingly.

Agatha’s fingers buried themselves in your hair and she pulled, drawing your head back so she could move her mouth to your neck. Her fingers teased your nipples as you felt her teeth bite down, gently, but hard enough that you were sure she was leaving a trail of marks on your skin.

“Lie down,” she breathed against your skin. You complied, settling on the carpet as she made the fireplace roar to life.

Agatha wasted no time lowering herself between your legs. She held your gaze as she spread your folds with her fingers before bringing her mouth to your center. Despite the time apart, Agatha clearly remembered how to turn you into a shaking mess. She picked up a pattern of circling and flicking your clit with her tongue, and she quickly had you writhing on the floor. “Agatha,” you groaned.

She switched to sucking on your clit as she slipped a finger, then another into you. The lewd sounds of your wetness filled the room as Agatha pumped her fingers into you, curling them up inside before drawing them out. “Fuck, fuck!” You cried out, spurring her on. Agatha moaned as she sucked your clit into her mouth, hard, making you arch your back off the floor as you came.

She didn’t stop there. She withdrew her fingers but her tongue continued its ministrations on your overstimulated clit despite your squirming. Agatha kept her eyes on you as she doubled down on her pace, her arms wrapping around your thighs to stop you from squeezing them together.

Her efforts brought you to the edge again, your body shaking with the waves of pleasure coursing through you. Finally, Agatha came up from between your legs, her grinning mouth smeared with your juices. You revelled in the feeling of her bare skin against yours as she slid back up to you.

“I’d almost forgotten how good you taste.” She said, before bringing her mouth down to yours. You moaned at the taste, her lips moving against yours sloppily. Agatha pulled back slightly to let a trail of saliva fall onto your tongue before wrapping her lips around it and sucking, moaning as she did. Fuck.

You could already feel yourself aching for more but you needed to taste her first. “Sit on my face.” You breathed in between kisses to Agatha, who was more than happy to comply,

She giggled as you helped her maneuver herself over your face. Lowering herself onto you, both of you groaned as your tongue made contact with her folds. Her taste was intoxicating, and you began lapping up her juices before flicking her clit repeatedly with your tongue.

You watched Agatha as she moaned from above you. “That’s it baby.”

You continued with your ministrations, splitting your attention between her clit and her opening which continued leaking her juices into your mouth. Wanting to taste more, you plunged your tongue into her hole, swirling before withdrawing, then entering again.

“Yes,” she groaned, throwing her head back. “Fuck me with your tongue bunny, come on.”

You could feel her getting closer, her hips were beginning to buck more wildly. Stealing a page from her book, you used your magic to send vibrations to her nipples while you moved your tongue back to her clit.

“Oh fuck,” Agatha grunted, her legs clamping around your head nearly suffocating you as she gripped the armchair near her for support. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.” Rocking her hips against you, she cried out as first one, then another wave of pleasure tore through her.

Agatha dismounted, thighs trembling, before laying down next to you. You smiled at the older witch, panting with her eyes closed and forehead damp with sweat. Her mouth formed a lazy grin, “That was-”

Before she could finish her sentence, a loud bang could be heard from the basement, making both of you jump. You could hear clattering, as if something was fumbling around down there in the darkness.

Agatha laughed at the confused look on your face. “What, did you think you were the only one waiting to get revenge?”

You rolled your eyes, of course, as Agatha leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “None of them are you though, bunny.” She stood up quickly and waved her clothes back on.

“You’re not seriously going to-”

“I’ll just be a minute, doll.” Agatha smiled down at you. Her lips were swollen and her hair messy, but with her hands glowing purple, she looked every bit the formidable witch everyone knew her to be.

“Sit pretty,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way to the basement door. “We’re not done yet.”

You couldn’t help but laugh when you heard Agatha blast whatever poor creature had made its way into her basement.

[qussymagnet]

Garak: pleasee ohh please can I stay and observe your fantasy life? 🥺 I tailored myself this suit just for this occasion. oh hey! if I stand close to you, our dicks kiss a little. what can I say, I'm excited to be here!

Bashir: ... 😒 all right. but, don't interrupt! I only have two hours left to jerk it before work. right now I'm #1 on the clinician baters leaderboard, and I don't intend to lose my spot!

Garak: 🤗 don't worry, doctor!! I guarantee that you will barely notice I'm here. If it makes you feel better, please know that I can kill anyone who ranks higher than you in your little game as a result of my being here, but I doubt it will be a concern at all. I won't even comment on the unrealistic design of the female characters in this program, which I find quite revealing of your character. I won't mention it though, not even once. Is that outfit truly necessary? I'm not here to criticize, just to observe completely passively and unobtrusively. Wow, did all human women really dress like that or is that just your unrealistic standard for beauty again? You have my word I won't mention it! 🧐 Is that what gets you hard? Really? I thought you were more creative, doctor. Anyway just think of me as a background character, watching and saying nothing! Do you think this outfit makes me look like Pussy Galore? Because I do have pussy galore, which you would know if you studied your anatomy, but somehow I think you maintain some intentional oversight when it comes to Cardassians. I wouldn't be surprised, but I hoped you'd be better than that. What does her wearing glasses have to do with anything? Also!

[thedensworld]

My Woman | K.Mg

Pairing: Ceo!Mingyu x Directors!Reader

Genre: fluff, established relationship

Summary: Everyone in the building hate your leadership and start to think that you were only able to secure the position because of your husband, the CEO.

Been letting this one sitting in my folder for 6 months??? Anyway, enjoy!🧚‍♀️

Since you were appointed as the new director of Tasty Kim, a food label under Kim Group, the atmosphere in the company has been anything but welcoming. The former director, despite being demoted for money laundering from company production costs, was beloved for his friendly and tolerant nature. The staff had grown accustomed to his easy-going management style.

In contrast, you introduced a series of new regulations focused on discipline and time management. Your strict approach to auditing has caused considerable stress among the staff, who are struggling to keep up with your demands.

"I want the file on my desk tomorrow at 10," you demanded, your voice leaving no room for negotiation.

When it wasn't there, your frustration was palpable. "Why isn't it on my desk?" you asked sharply.

"You had 8 hours of work yesterday; what were you doing?" Your tone conveyed the gravity of their oversight.

"This isn't the first time, and I won't tolerate this kind of negligence. I'll be reporting you to the HR team. You can explain yourself to them."

The tension in the office is undeniable, and it's clear that your expectations are clashing with the staff's previous work culture. But to transform Tasty Kim into a more efficient and successful entity, you believe these changes are necessary, even if they are met with resistance initially.

And that's how people started to think you were only able to manage the position because of your husband, Kim Mingyu, the current CEO of Kim Group. Rumors began to circulate, whispering that your authority stemmed more from nepotism than merit. The staff's skepticism grew, casting a shadow over every decision you made. Yet, you remained resolute, determined to prove that your leadership was defined by your capabilities, not your connections.

Your professionalism was proven when you delivered your protest to none other than your own husband, Kim Mingyu, the current CEO of Kim Group. He had ordered every label under Kim Group to push revenue expectations while cutting costs. A heated debate ensued shortly thereafter. You explained to the board that cutting costs for Tasty Kim would only result in a decrease in quality.

No one knew how hard you worked for the company. Everyone just thought you were the queen of the Kim Group, a mere decoration to fill the space, a director without any competence to lead the company.

One day, you opened your email to find hundreds of hate messages, likely sent by disgruntled workers. Sometimes, packages would be delivered to you, containing nasty items that you knew were from your employees. Did you report this to HR? No, you chose to ignore everything, focusing solely on the company's needs.

But there was one person who always treated you like a human in this company. Mr. Song, the security guard, always greeted you with a warm smile, just as he had done for the past 15 years, when you still worked for Mingyu's father as his secretary till now. He might be the only person who truly knew who you were and how hard you worked for this company. Other workers had zero idea that you had been with the company since your twenties.

Mr. Song's small acts of kindness were a beacon of hope in an otherwise hostile environment. His understanding and quiet support reminded you that someone appreciated your dedication. Despite the loneliness and the endless challenges, those brief moments with Mr. Song gave you the strength to persevere.

You're not just Kim Mingyu's wife.

"You're not sleeping?" Mingyu asked, his voice soft as he entered your home office.

You turned your head to him, closing the file on your desk as you watched him approach. "Are they sleeping?" you asked, referring to your 5-year-old twin sons. He nodded.

"Still have work to do? Need help?" Mingyu offered, and you shook your head.

"I'm done. Just checking a few things," you said with a tired smile.

Mingyu sat on the couch near your desk. "Seungcheol hyung said he was visiting," he told you, and you hummed in acknowledgment.

"No, I actually called him to come," you informed him, and Mingyu chuckled.

"Just like I guessed. Is something wrong with the company? The last time I checked, Tasty Kim has been the most stable since you took over."

You rubbed your face, a gesture that concerned Mingyu. "I just need a few pieces of advice. I think I'm a cold woman."

Mingyu didn't deny it outright. "You are," he said carefully.

Your brow raised in surprise. "Really?" A pang of disappointment colored your face, and Mingyu immediately shook his head.

"No, I mean, sometimes you are. But you're a warm lover and mother."

Lover and mother. Those words echoed in your mind.

"Maybe it's been too long since I focused so intensely on the company," you murmured, a hint of doubt creeping into your voice.

"Why?" Mingyu asked, curiosity in his eyes, not fully understanding what you were referring to.

"Let's go to sleep," you told him, standing from your seat and reaching for his hand.

He took it, squeezing gently. "Alright, let's get some rest. We'll figure everything out together."

As you walked out of your home office, you felt a small measure of comfort in his words. Even amid the challenges and doubts, you knew you weren't alone.

*

Mingyu's disbelief turned to anger as he examined the photos of the gruesome package and the disturbing emails that Chan, your secretary, had detailed. His jaw tightened with fury as he realized the extent of the harassment you had endured since taking on the role at Tasty Kim.

"What is this?" Mingyu demanded, his voice laced with frustration as he glanced at Hansol for confirmation.

Hansol nodded grimly, showing him the evidence again. "These were sent to her office. It's been ongoing for months," he explained, his own expression reflecting the seriousness of the situation.

Mingyu's mind raced as he tried to piece together the implications. "Is this related to what you discussed with Seungcheol?" he wondered, his concern for your safety evident in his widened eyes.

He wasted no time in contacting Seungcheol, demanding an explanation. Seungcheol sighed heavily as he recounted the events that had unfolded over the past months.

"It's clear this is coming from Mr. Park's circle," Seungcheol explained wearily. "They've been spreading malicious rumors about her and now escalating to these actions. I've urged her to take action to track them down before it escalates further."

Mingyu's anger simmered as he absorbed the gravity of the situation. "We need to act swiftly," he declared, his voice firm and determined. "I want those responsible identified and dealt with immediately. This ends now."

Mingyu's mind raced back to the day he had to make the tough decision to fire Mr. Park. His audit team had uncovered illegal activities involving company funds, actions that nearly drove the label to bankruptcy. If not for your diligent efforts in handling the crisis at Tasty Kim—your first company role ever—Mingyu knew the outcome could have been devastating.

It had been six challenging months since you formally took the helm, but the results were undeniable. Under your leadership, Tasty Kim's performance had significantly improved. Your dedication and strategic decisions had turned the tide, restoring stability and fostering growth within the company.

As Mingyu reflected on the recent incidents targeting you, his resolve strengthened. He couldn't allow the malicious actions of Mr. Park's associates to undermine all the progress you had achieved.

Mingyu instructed Hansol to work closely with Chan to expedite the search for the culprits behind the malicious acts. His tone was resolute as he outlined the urgency of identifying and addressing the threats targeting you and Tasty Kim.

"We need to move swiftly on this. I want regular updates on the progress."

Hansol nodded in understanding, his expression mirroring Mingyu's seriousness. "Understood, sir. We'll start immediately," he assured, turning to leave the office with purpose.

Mingyu tucked the twins into bed as he always did, Han mentioned something unexpected. "Mom was crying, I saw her crying in her office," Han whispered softly, his eyes wide with concern.

Hoon quickly covered Han's mouth and leaned in close. "Mom said not to tell Dad," he whispered urgently.

Mingyu's heart clenched at the revelation. He hadn't expected to hear this, and the thought of you in tears weighed heavily on his mind. He finished tucking the boys in, trying to keep his expression calm despite the turmoil inside.

After tucking the twins in and assuring them everything was alright, Mingyu quietly made his way. As he entered your room, he found you slumped over your desk, fast asleep amidst scattered reports and documents. Mingyu's heart sank at the sight of your exhaustion, etched deeply in the lines of your face. Gently, he gathered the papers into a neat pile and carefully lifted you into his arms.

You stirred slightly as he carried you to the bedroom, your head resting against his shoulder. Mingyu laid you down on the bed, pulling the blankets over you with tender care. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his heart aching with the desire to protect you from any further distress.

The next morning, Hansol hurriedly informed Mingyu that Chan had located the culprits and had them gathered in the conference room. Mingyu's expression hardened with determination upon hearing the news.

"Keep them there. I'm on my way," Mingyu replied briskly, his voice tinged with controlled anger.

He swiftly made his way to your company, each step echoing his urgency to address the situation. Mingyu entered the conference room where Hansol and Chan stood solemnly by the door, waiting for his arrival. Inside, the culprits sat uncomfortably, their uneasy glances exchanging silent admissions of guilt.

Mingyu entered with a commanding presence, his gaze sweeping over the group with intensity. His jaw was set, a silent testament to his resolve to confront those responsible for causing distress to you and disrupting the company's harmony.

"You've caused significant harm to this company," Mingyu began, his voice steady but stern. "Your actions have not only targeted my wife unfairly but have also undermined the trust and morale of our team at Tasty Kim."

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle in the room. The culprits shifted uncomfortably under Mingyu's piercing gaze, realizing the gravity of their actions and the consequences they now faced.

"I want each of you to explain yourselves," Mingyu continued, his tone unwavering. "Justify why you thought it acceptable to engage in such disgraceful behavior."

One by one, they offered fragmented explanations, some stumbling over their words while others struggled to meet Mingyu's unwavering gaze. He listened intently, his disappointment palpable as their excuses fell short of justification.

"This ends now," Mingyu declared firmly, his voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Effective immediately, you are terminated from Tasty Kim."

The culprits exchanged nervous glances, realizing the severity of their fate. Mingyu turned to Hansol and Chan with a nod, silently instructing them to escort the individuals out of the room and off the premises.

Mingyu turned as he heard the distinctive click of your heels approaching. He straightened, a mixture of surprise and admiration crossing his features as you walked toward him with purpose. You bowed politely, a gesture of respect that momentarily caught him off guard.

"What brings you to this company without notice?" you asked, your tone calm yet curious, as you stood before him with unwavering composure.

Mingyu's gaze softened as he looked at you, struck by your strength and determination even in the face of recent challenges. "I needed to ensure everything was handled," he replied, his voice filled with a mix of concern and gratitude. "And to support you."

You stood before Mingyu, your expression serious yet composed. The click of your heels echoed faintly in the hallway as you spoke, addressing him directly but respectfully.

"I appreciate your swift action in handling the situation," you began, your voice steady. "However, these individuals are my team members. I understand the severity of their actions, but I believe termination may not be the only solution."

Mingyu regarded you thoughtfully, sensing the underlying tension in your words. "They have caused significant harm," he replied, his tone firm yet open to discussion. "Their actions were detrimental to both you and the company."

You nodded, acknowledging the seriousness of the situation. "I agree that their behavior cannot be condoned," you continued, choosing your words carefully. "But I believe there may be alternative measures we can consider—perhaps disciplinary actions or retraining."

Mingyu's frustration was palpable as he listened to your response. He had expected solidarity in his decision, given the severity of the situation. Yet, your stance on considering alternatives to termination seemed to undermine the gravity of the offenses committed against you and the company.

"Your compassion is commendable, but these actions cannot go unpunished," Mingyu stated firmly, his voice tinged with disappointment. "They crossed a line that jeopardized everything we've worked for."

You met his gaze evenly, understanding the weight of his words but steadfast in your belief. "I agree that consequences are necessary," you countered, your tone measured. "But I believe in second chances and rehabilitation, especially when it comes to our team members."

Mingyu sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "This isn't just about rehabilitation," he argued, his voice slightly raised with emotion. "It's about setting a precedent. We cannot allow such behavior to repeat itself."

You maintained your composure, sensing his frustration but staying firm in your conviction. "I understand your concerns," you replied calmly. "But I believe we can address this while still upholding our values of fairness and redemption."

Silence hung in the air for a moment as Mingyu processed your words. Finally, he nodded reluctantly. "Fine," he conceded, though his expression remained stern. "But I expect strict monitoring and zero tolerance moving forward."

You nodded in agreement, relieved that he had accepted your approach, albeit reluctantly.

After the tense discussion in the hallway, Mingyu expressed his desire to speak with you privately. Without hesitation, you nodded and gestured for him to follow you to your office. The click of your heels echoed softly in the corridor as you led him through the bustling office environment.

Once inside your office, you closed the door behind you, creating a brief moment of privacy amidst the hectic day. Mingyu stood near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression a mix of frustration and concern.

Mingyu's demeanor softened when he stare at your eyes. His shoulders relaxed, and a flicker of relief crossed his face as he turned towards you. Without a word, he closed the distance between you, his arms enveloping you in a comforting embrace.

Surprised but touched by his gesture, you leaned into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his presence and the reassurance it brought. Mingyu held you close, his touch conveying both support and gratitude for your partnership in navigating the challenges they faced together.

In that moment of shared understanding and solidarity, the tension that had lingered between you dissolved. Mingyu's embrace was a silent affirmation of trust and unity, a reminder that despite any disagreements, you were a team united in purpose.

Mingyu's concern was evident in his expression as he spoke softly, his voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "Why didn't you tell me about what was happening?" he asked gently, his eyes searching yours for an explanation.

You met his gaze evenly, appreciating his genuine concern. "I wanted to handle it," you replied honestly, your voice steady. "I didn't want to burden you with the details, especially when you have so much on your plate already."

Mingyu nodded slowly, understanding your perspective but still feeling a pang of regret. "You're not a burden," he assured you earnestly. "We're partners, and I want to support you through everything."

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of his words and the comfort they offered. "I know," you replied sincerely. "But I thought I could handle it on my own."

Mingyu gently touched your arm, his touch reassuring. "We're stronger together," he reminded you gently. "Next time, please don't hesitate to share."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding and support. "I promise," you replied, a small smile touching your lips. "I won't keep things from you again."

With Mingyu's hand still on your arm, you both shared a moment of quiet understanding and solidarity.

*

A year later, Tasty Kim celebrated its 35th anniversary with grandeur and nostalgia. Mingyu stood proudly on stage, addressing the gathered crowd with a mix of reverence and pride. Behind him hung a large portrait of his late father, the founder of Tasty Kim, symbolizing the legacy that had brought them to this milestone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mingyu began, his voice carrying a tone of deep respect. "Today marks a significant milestone for Tasty Kim. Thirty-five years ago, my father founded this company with a vision of excellence and innovation in the culinary world."

He paused briefly, his gaze sweeping over the audience before settling on you, seated among the distinguished guests. A warm smile graced his lips as he continued, "I stand here today not only as the CEO of Kim Group but also as a son honoring his father's legacy."

Mingyu's voice filled with emotion as he acknowledged your pivotal role in their journey. "I would be remiss not to mention the woman who has been my colleague, my business partner, and the mother of my children," he said, his words carrying a depth of gratitude and admiration. "She has been my rock, guiding Tasty Kim with wisdom and grace."

The audience applauded warmly, recognizing your significant contribution to the company's success. Mingyu continued, his voice unwavering with pride, "Together, we have faced challenges and celebrated triumphs. Today, we honor not just the past but also the future we continue to build together."

As Mingyu concluded his speech, he stepped down from the podium and walked over to where you were seated. With a gentle smile, he took your hand in his, a silent gesture of appreciation and unity that spoke volumes about the partnership and love that had shaped their journey at Tasty Kim.

*

"Mr. Kim, we need to report this to the HR team," you insisted firmly.

Mr. Kim raised his hand to stop you. "No, Ms. Ji," he said calmly. "It's alright."

"I took this as feedback from my workers," he continued, his tone resolute.

Confusion etched on your face, you met his gaze. "What? This is crossing the line, Mr. Kim," you countered.

He shook his head, his expression serious. "They must have had a reason to do this. I'm glad that the people I work with didn't stay silent when something went wrong."

"Find them for me," Mr. Kim instructed firmly, his voice carrying a blend of authority and understanding. "Let me have a talk with whoever did this."

Later, you discovered it was a new security member who had incidentally seen his payments reduced due to new regulations on security members whenever items went missing from their secured areas.

"His name is Mr. Song. He has been here for five months,"

[prone-to-fleeting-obsessions]

I could see Sunday being such a hypocrite when it comes to you

He's been trained to see everything, to catch every little flaw in his own appearance in order to appear calm, collected, and perfect, so it's obviously he sees those flaws in others, too

Poor posture, wrinkled clothing, fidgeting or avoiding eye contact, any form of non-eloquent speach... It eats at him, distracts from everything else

He picks up on everything in order to better read the people he's negotiating with, and behind that pleasant expression, there's sharp piercing judgment, indiscriminately sinking its claws into everybody he looks at, with one exception

You, his darling, can do no wrong

Any small oversights he'll just smile happily and fix himself, meticulously combing through your hair with gentle fingers while praising how pretty and soft it is, cupping your face to analyze those pretty eyes when you look nervous with nothing but his own loving worry reflected back, and your amusing little turns of phrase only make you more endearing, he's just so hopelessly smitten

We've seen how he's no stranger to sticking with a belief, even when heavily refuted against, even if it actively goes against his other morals, and you're no different, he'll happily warp his thinking for you

It would simply be impossible for him to see you as anything less than his perfect darling who he adores so thoroughly

[inseparabiles]

can we talk about the fact that Geta doesn't get to be himself one single time in the entirety of the movie aside from his last scene, nor does he ever get to actually talk to his brother, nor do we ever get anything real from him in dialogue,

but Joe's given us so much beyond words that despite this, Geta feels like one of the most fully fleshed-out characters in the entire movie? Analysing him is so easy, because despite the way that he holds back his emotions, he is still shown to be one of the most deeply-feeling characters, his youth and his vulnerability are spoken so well through his stances, his tones of voice, and his love for his brother above all things entirely through his body language and the ways in which he deals with him? Not in words, not once before the last scene?

What the fuck actually? Correct me if I'm wrong. Find me one scene where we get Geta saying anything as a man, not an Emperor, not a performer with a sword to his neck in front of an audience. The only time, I swear to gods, is when he's talking Caracalla down from Macrinus's lies, and even then, most of it we got in the script.

And in that scene, he has a literal knife to his neck.

Everything. Else. Is for an audience. He never has one chance to just be himself. The tragedy of this not being an oversight per se in the writing, but simply how he is. Never being able to be more than his roles - emperor, or his brother's keeper. I don't think Geta has any idea who he is, either.

[mindless-existence1]

Shadow x fem or gn reader thats sonic’s sibling but they don’t mention it until they get together, how would Shadow and Sonic react? Thought this idea was funny (oneshot)

Idk if ur requests are open, but take your time !

I didn't realize I finished this so I was scrolling through my writing app and found it finished and girl I was shocked. Sorry it's gone so long without being posted 😅😅

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shadow wasn’t the type to meet many people unless it was absolutely necessary. So when you brought up introducing him to your brother, he raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, hed do anything if you said it nice enough.

The two of you had yet to start officially dating, you wanted to wait untill he at least knew your family. You spent nearly every day together, and it was clear to anyone with eyes that there was something deeper than friendship between you.

Still, you hadn’t exactly told Shadow everything about yourself. Not because you were hiding anything—far from it—but because, well, some details just never seemed relevant. Like the fact that your brother was none other than Sonic the Hedgehog.

You didn’t think much of it. Shadow never really talked about Sonic, and you didn’t bring him up often either. It wasn’t until you arranged for the two of them to meet at a local café that you realized the glaring oversight in your plan.

---

You arrived first with Shadow, finding a cozy table in the corner of the café. He sat next to you, arms crossed, his usual stoic demeanor firmly in place. “So, your brother,” Shadow said, glancing at you. “What’s he like?”

You smiled. “Oh, he’s great. Kind of cocky sometimes, but he’s got a good heart. You’ll like him.” Shadow raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could respond, the door jingled, and you turned to see Sonic stroll in, his signature confident grin plastered across his face.

“Hey, there you are!” Sonic called out, making his way over to your table. His eyes flicked to Shadow, and his grin faltered slightly. “Oh. It’s you.” Shadow’s expression darkened immediately. “Of course. It’s you.”

You blinked, looking between the two of them. “Wait... you two know each other?” Sonic chuckled dryly, crossing his arms. “Know each other? Yeah, you could say that. Shadow and I have a bit of... history.”

Shadow scoffed, glaring at Sonic. “History? Is that what we’re calling it now? I’d call it a series of your insufferable antics.”

“Insufferable? Please,” Sonic shot back, smirking. “You’re just mad because I’m better and you're supposed to be "the ultimate lifeform".” Your mouth fell open as the two of them glared at each other, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Okay, hold on,” you said, holding up your hands. “I feel like I’m missing something here. How do you two even know each other?” Sonic blinked, glancing at you. “Wait... you’re telling me you never mentioned me to him?”

“I didn’t think it was important!” you said defensively. “Why, exactly, is this such a big deal?” Shadow narrowed his eyes at Sonic. “You didn’t tell me your brother was him.”

“Well, you didn’t tell me you hated my brother!” you shot back, exasperated.Sonic snorted. “Hate’s a strong word. It’s more like... mild irritation.”

“Mutual disdain,” Shadow corrected, his tone dry.You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Okay, look. Can we all just... start over? Shadow, this is my brother, Sonic. Sonic, this is Shadow. He’s... someone very important to me.”

Sonic’s eyebrows shot up, and a sly grin spread across his face. “Oh, very important, huh? Didn’t realize you had a thing for dark and broody hedgehogs.”

“Don’t start,” you warned, shooting him a glare. Shadow, for his part, simply crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. You shush himbefore he can let out the remark you could sense about to come from him, “You two are going to get along if it kills me. Sonic, stop being a smartass. Shadow, stop being... you.”

The two of them exchanged a glance, and for a moment, it seemed like they might actually listen.Then Sonic grinned again. “Fine. But only because I like you more than I dislike him.”

Shadow sighed, his expression softening slightly as he looked at you. “I’ll tolerate this... for you.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. It was going to take some time, but you had a feeling that, eventually, these two might just get along—or at least not fight on sight every time they were in the same room.

[castellankurze]

Here's the thing that interests me about the dueling scene in Gideon the Ninth. Yeah, the narrative phrasing Harrowhark rose to the occasion like an evening star is peak and the line "Death first to the vultures and scavengers" is pure fire but why is she in that position to begin with?

The situation is thus: Camilla Hect has just won a duel against Marta Dyas attempting to claim the Sixth House's necromancy challenge keys, but she was wounded in so doing. Naberius Tern, backed by Ianthe Tridentarius, is pressing a dueling challenge against the injured Camilla in a flagrant bid to beat Camilla down and take the keys for the Third House while she's already recovering from one match. Gideon is standing by watching things unfold and, to her relief, Harrowhark steps up to put Gideon in the ring as a substitute for the injured Camilla and thus shut down Naberius' vulturing.

Except...why? You'd think that in anything like a polite societal dueling code (I know, I know, but go with it-) Camilla and Palamedes would have the option to demure, saying something like "the Sixth House cavalier just fought a duel and is wounded to boot, piss off for a day and we'll see then." But that's not even floated as an option. Palamedes isn't a dumb guy - far from it - and even if he were out of his element, you'd think someone else could just lean in and say 'dude tell them to shove it.' Judith Deuteros objects by saying "There are rules" and Ianthe shuts that down by pointing out she pressed Marta's duel on incredibly flimsy pretext, so that seems to be an objection on the grounds for presenting the challenge, rather than probing for an option to refuse. If Harrow and Gideon (or Jeannemary, jumping on the bandwagon) hadn't interceded, Camilla was about to fight her second duel back to back.

(Even in the first dueling challenge, the tone of onlookers seems to be that people want Palamedes to default and hand over his key to the Second House to spare Camilla the fight, because they assume the Sixth House is weak and don't know how good Camilla is.)

To sum up: the Sixth House seems to have no recourse but to either accept the repeated dueling challenges or default; with no way to decline except to give the Third House something they want (in this case, a Canaan House key).

That's insane.

And if that's deliberate, rather than an oversight on Tamsyn Muir's part, that suggests so much about the Nine Houses' dueling culture. It suggests that a challenge from a cavalier primary can't be refused; you have to either throw down or roll over as if they won. It speaks to a distinct lack of value placed on human lives, that the cavaliers are forced to accept a challenge on pain of their house losing face at best, something material at worst. The defending house can only negotiate to a degree that the attacking house is willing to let them. This is, depressingly, fully in keeping with the series' characters' treatment of the cavaliers. The subsequent books and short stories (especially The Unwanted Guest) really hammer this idea in, that the cavaliers are nominally viewed as a source of blades and shields in the hands of the necromancers, even if the laypeople of the setting don't know all the reasons behind the traditions.

In real life, formal dueling typically had customs and rules for negotiation and ceremony, with multiple exit points for parties to back out of a potential threat to life without losing face. Only truly aggrieved parties would press a suit to the point of confrontation. The Nine Houses say screw that, put up or shut up. They've more or less raised up the informal tradition of 'swords now motherfucker.'

To steal a phrase from another tumblrite, 'congrats god that's the worst anyone's ever done it.'

[umemiyan]

𝙋𝙊𝙎𝙏𝙈𝙊𝙍𝙏𝙀𝙈 / 𝙋𝙊𝙎𝙏𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙐𝙈. — 𝖯𝖠𝖱𝖳 𝖨𝖨

𝘗𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘐𝘖𝘜𝘚 𝘊𝘏𝘈𝘗𝘛𝘌𝘙 ･ 𝘕𝘌𝘟𝘛 𝘊𝘏𝘈𝘗𝘛𝘌𝘙 ･ 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 ･ 𝘛𝘈𝘎𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛

𝗦𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗨 𝗚𝗢𝗝𝗢 𝗫 𝗚𝗡!𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥. ⌇ sfw, but minors dni (nsfw future chapters likely) / an interpretation of "came back wrong" gojo (he's not necessarily wrong, just different) / yandere!gojo vibes / disabled-coded gojo with reader acting as caretaker; it's essentially a learning curve for everybody involved / some dubcon physical affection moments, but nothing serious / 3.4k words

well... we have made it to a second chapter!! this overall idea just really resonated with me, and after learning how it affected others as well, i just knew i had to do my best to keep it going. this is the first ever "part 2" of anything i've ever written, so i beg for just a shred of mercy! i'm trying my best, and thank you to everyone who has said kind things about this story so far. i hope you enjoy <3

The winter air is brisk and a little volatile, but you feel blessed to have it whirl past your skin—even more blessed to watch Satoru’s flesh prickle at the sensation. Alive.

You had done your best to rummage through the expanse of his closet to find a suitable coat for him to wear—one that would cut the chill of an afternoon breeze when it inevitably brushed across his body. January could be unforgiving at times—the harshest of winter moths. You wondered how cold death must’ve felt.

“Satoru, where are your shoes?” You inquired, voice muffled in his closet as you sifted through garments, multitasking in an attempt to compose an outfit for him.

He sat at the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on your movements as they often were, mind turning at your question for a moment. He stood then, paced towards the shoe rack that stood outside the closet door, and reached gently for one of your busied hands. Satoru points your fingers towards the collection of shoes.

You paused your movements, eyes curious as they followed his guidance before landing upon their intended target. “Oh, that’s right,” you said with a small shake of your head, bearing a self-defeating smile and feeling rather silly for your oversight. 

It was a challenge to become acquainted with someone else’s home amidst everything else, responsibilities stacking upon responsibilities. However, Satoru continued to prove that he could recall more than you initially thought, that he could act as your guiding light when called upon. A little ironic, you think. A little pathetic, too? No, you are human, after all. Just as he is.

He smiled in return. You swore there was even a hint of a familiar light-hearted, teasing glimmer in his eye, unless you were seeing things.

(You weren’t.)

For once, you are grateful for the rather serene nature of the school’s grounds as you stroll across them side-by-side with him, much like in days from a not-so-distant past. The remaining fallen leaves from the trees dressing the mountains rustle with the wind, colored by the touch of death but still beautiful all the same, just like something else you know.

“We can always go back if it gets too cold,” you say as a reminder to Satoru of his agency, his home on campus easy to circle back to should you take the notion. You fear he might choose to freeze himself into another early grave if that’s what you wished, and you can’t fathom the idea of making him suffer simply because he thinks it pleases you to do so. Your happiness is somehow his, and although this is a new quality you have yet to decipher, there’s still something about it that strikes you as indulgent and rather characteristic of a gluttonous Satoru Gojo.

He doesn’t respond, gaze flitting across his surroundings as he walks, nerve endings and six eyes absorbing a litany of information. A silent Satoru used to be a rare occurrence but is now the default, the air somehow punctured by the lack of his voice riding along it. However, his presence is still stark, his being brimming with energy as if to make up for the words he can no longer speak. 

Unbeknownst to you, he communicates with you not only with his physical body, but with his feelings, too—waves of energy that he projects outward on instinct, hoping you’ll have the means to grasp what he is trying to say even if he isn’t always sure what it is. It has been rather unsynchronized and sloppy thus far, but with each day that passes, your ability to hear him grows.

You can hear him now even with the only sounds being the breeze rushing in your ears and leaves crunching beneath the soles of shoes. There is something somber about him, more than usual, mixed with that same sense of being lost in a world that feels brand new. 

All of it is familiar to Satoru on a physical level—the paths, the buildings, the foliage—but what prickles his mind is attempting to piece together the myriad of strange feelings that arise as he is faced with more and more reminders of a past that he can’t fully recall. 

It’s as though the memories are trying to surface but can’t quite fuse into something tangible, something concrete, like when you feel a word forming just at the tip of your tongue but it never arrives. He can sense them deeply in his body, almost experience a brief image flashing like lightning through his mind before it disappears. Satoru’s frustration is palpable, and he reaches for your hand.

Icy-cold fingers nipped by winter intertwine with yours, tethering him in place as his fractured mind aches with the burden of obscurity. His physical affection is new to you, but you allow it—welcome it, even. As much as the earnest displays contrast with his previous tiptoeing around connection, it is yet another thing you can’t bear to turn down, not after everything that’s happened. 

You hope it isn’t simply guilt of all things compelling you to accommodate him, but wouldn’t it be equally bad to do it for selfish reasons? Could one misconstrue it as taking advantage, of feeding off his need to satisfy some part of you that had always wanted him?

The various implications make your head swim with conflict, so you force yourself to shut them down for the time being. Satoru is only holding your hand, nothing more, at least for the moment. There had of course been instances of his lips pecking against your own, wandering down to your neck, his hand settling on your waist as if to draw you closer… but you’d always managed to divert his attention in one way or another, severing the connection before either of you could become too engrossed in it. He never seemed overly perturbed to shift direction, but you couldn’t help but wonder just how long his patience might last, and if you’d be able to figure out what you even were to him before then.

Needless to say, nothing could have ever prepared you for something like this. What drives you forward more than anything is your contentment with the fact that he’s here walking the earth with you, as whole as he can be after having been stolen from the arms of death. And despite the abundance of challenges, part of you can’t help but feel special for being chosen to face them.

When your feet bring you near the school’s entrance, gates opening way for a path down the mountain, Satoru stops dead in his tracks, alert like an animal that’s suddenly caught a scent. His grip on your hand tightens, heart plummeting into his stomach as something takes hold of him, something he likely couldn’t put into words even if he had the ability to speak.

You turn to check over him with your gaze, concern etched upon your features at the immediate change of pace. “Satoru…?” you call softly, yearning for a chance to be able to peek into his mind. All you can do is feel the chill of his demeanor.

His name drifting upon your voice earns a split second of his attention, but he is, for once, captivated by something else.

Pierced gut. Blocked throat. Summer sun and the sounds of buzzing.

It’s a memory that lives in his body but not his conscious mind, an instinct telling him to heed the surroundings for a threat that once was. He relives it with a rapid heartbeat, knows it bears importance, but he can only recall shreds of information that don’t merge together to form a full picture. He simmers in mounting frustration.

Black hair. Sharp eyes. Boiling blood—the brink of death.

Satoru turns on a dime and faces a figure in the distance, on guard and brimming with a sort of defensiveness you’d never quite seen before, at least not coming from him. Muscles rigid, he squeezes your upper arm as if to warn you, to keep you close, his extraordinary senses absorbing information quicker than you can even pivot to see what it is he’s looking at.

From around the corner of a building emerges Megumi, clad in warm clothes and a mellow disposition. His distinctly unruly hair makes it easy to identify him even from where he appears down the path, hands in his pockets as he strolls towards you upon recognition. 

Satoru’s mind runs through calculations as the young student approaches, attempting to distinguish and fill gaps and create something he can take hold of as a semblance of fact.

Black hair. Sharp eyes. Something… different? 

Megumi’s cursed energy burns in a recognizable way, striking Satoru as peculiar as he instinctively studies it with the six eyes. But it makes sense to him—it’s familiar, even if he struggles to trust it in full. This is someone he hasn’t met since his awakening, but someone his eyes have certainly seen before.

You can sense the fear radiating off Satoru’s being and into yours, the presence of someone other than you agitating his already troubled state. You must act.

“Look, it’s Megumi,” you say softly with an encouraging smile, encasing his hand with your palm and hoping that your pleasant reaction takes the edge off. Satoru is reluctant to avert his gaze, but does so anyway, blue darting in your direction to witness the happiness written in your features. You appear to trust this person, and he trusts you, so despite the pounding in his chest, the sorcerer relaxes his grip.

You guide Satoru to take a few steps forward with you to meet Megumi as he draws nearer, a tired but welcoming smile turning your lips upward to greet him. It’s nice to see the boy alive and well in the aftermath of his own debacle—or at least as well as someone could possibly be. You wish there had been something more you could’ve done to help him recover, but it was known to many that you happened to have your hands full at the moment. Hopefully he will understand.

“Hey,” Megumi utters quietly, eyes scanning over your face and then his teacher’s, trying to briefly assess your individual states.

“Hi, Megumi,” you respond, appraising him yourself. He seems to be all in one piece, which you had been informed of, but had yet to see yourself. It’s nice to have visual confirmation. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he replies quickly, flatly, minimizing himself as usual. His voice is more sincere when inquiring about your wellbeing. “And you?”

You grin, finding a way to sum up your experience without overwhelming him. “Hanging in there,” you muse with a breathy chuckle. There’s no use in worrying him with all the details of Gojo’s current condition and how it has subsequently flipped your world upside down, but Megumi is shrewd, and you’re sure he can come to some sort of conclusion, especially when briefed by the others who have eyes on the situation.

Megumi awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck, skirting around vulnerability and concern as his next question arises. “Gojo-sensei… how are you doing?”

Satoru has been silent all the while, of course, but sorting through every detail while you and his former student exchange pleasantries. Neurons fire, rewiring frazzled connections, giving him a glimpse at how this boy is not the same as the one he bears a resemblance to.

Megumi isn’t sure what sort of response to expect; in fact, he feels silly for expecting one at all, posing a question that he’s fairly certain can’t be answered directly. But how else was he meant to conduct himself in such an interaction, to show that he cares? To speak as if Gojo weren’t even there would feel like even more of an insult.

You’re caught in the middle, watching Satoru’s face and seeing the gears turning in his head. “I think we’re all just… learning how to adjust to things, y’know?” you reply with a rather vacant smile, turning back to Megumi who understands your subtext with ease. Rather than speak for Satoru, you’ve made a blanket statement to provide just the slightest bit of feedback, and Megumi is well aware.

The student nods his head with a short hum of acknowledgment, doing his best to see his mentor in this new light—one he never thought would be possible, not when it came to someone who had always claimed to be so strong. But at least there is a light at all.

The wind tosses leaves around between the three of you, filling the silence with its quiet whispers. You wish there was more to be said. You wish you had a solid grasp of how well Satoru really was doing.

“I think Ieiri said she wanted to see you soon,” Megumi states, acting as a courier, trying to fill the space with words.

You nod. “Yeah, we’ve been in touch. We’re actually meant to meet up with her tomorrow.” 

Shoko, while expectedly rather removed, had been one of your primary contacts and supports thus far, apart from Ijichi who shouldered the burden of several essential tasks you hadn’t been able to complete on your own. You felt guilty for sending him out for groceries and back to your apartment for extra sets of clothes, but how else would you manage to make it by? Leaving Satoru alone or in the care of someone else wasn’t currently an option, and taking him outside the school grounds didn’t sound like an optimal idea either at the present moment. So you had to make do in the meantime, and you were truly grateful for the help, but you couldn’t help but hope that things would eventually fall into place. Maybe Shoko would have answers.

“That’s good,” Megumi replies with a sparkle of hope in his tone, then reluctantly adds, “and, uh… just let me know if I can do anything to help, okay?”

You respond to his gesture with a warm smile. “Thank you, Megumi. That’s very kind.” You don’t have immediate plans for taking the young man up on his offer, but you appreciate the sentiment regardless. He deserves to rest and seek peace, not fight any more battles for the sake of others.

A twinge of pink colors the apples of Megumi’s cheeks, and he recedes into the scarf wrapped around his neck, unused to accepting grace from others without feeling inclined to quarrel about it. He is at a loss for words, somewhat eager to make his escape before the vulnerability has the chance to further consume his dignity. You take that as something of a cue.

“Well, we—” you start, preparing to make a closing statement and depart, before being interrupted by a sudden movement to your left—Satoru, breaking free from his fixed state to perform a familiar gesture.

As if finally making a connection, he grins and mimics the Ten Shadows hand configuration for summoning the Divine Dogs, clapping his palms together and examining Megumi’s reaction with ardor. The student is startled out of his mild embarrassment, somewhat baffled by the sudden communication attempt and the implication that his mentor perhaps actually remembers who he is. It’s a pleasant surprise to you both, and a moment or two is required for it to sink in.

Your face lights up with glee, heart warmed by the simple action in a way that’s difficult to express. Megumi appears to be in a similar boat—taken aback, but ultimately stricken with joy.

A modest smile creeps upon Megumi’s lips as he softly mirrors the motion with his own hands, acknowledging Gojo’s revelation. “Yeah…” he says, voice faint but pleased. “Divine Dogs.”

Every brief glimpse into Satoru’s thoughts feels like a blessing, and this is certainly no exception. It’s refreshing to watch him have a moment of sincere connection with someone other than yourself, and it leaves you glowing with hope for the future as you bid Megumi farewell and make your way back home.

“Head back, Satoru.”

Water splashes into the bathtub as Satoru cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling as per your request, a cup full of liquid streaming over his hair and carrying shampoo suds along with it.

After returning from your walk, you’d prepared something for dinner and eventually urged Satoru into the tub for a bath before bed—yet another activity that seemed to get a little easier every time you did it.

Figuring out how to get him to bathe had initially been quite the challenge, but you had managed to devise a method that had gotten the job done quite well thus far. He might’ve looked rather awkward sitting cramped in the shallow bath with a pair of swimming trunks on while you rinsed him with an old plastic cup you’d excavated from a cabinet, but it was the most effective way to get him clean and preserve both your dignities while doing it. Though you were the only one who seemed to be concerned with such things.

Satoru blinks when a few soapy droplets backslide into one of his eyes, causing him to squint, scrunch, and rub it with his fingers until the uncomfortable sensation eases. He looks at you, almost as if to say, “Hey! That burns!”

You chuckle and shake your head with a playful roll of your eyes. “That’s why you’re supposed to close your eyes, goober.”

He wants to submerge in a pout, but your playfulness rids him of the inclination. Satoru instead shifts his focus to the beauty of your frame perched upon the edge of the tub, a beacon of divinity as you cleanse him with care and devotion. He takes the notion to express an inkling of gratitude by leaning forward and placing a kiss against your lips, lukewarm water rippling around him as it gradually cools.

You’re somewhat stiff and unresponsive, the sudden gesture catching you by surprise as it usually does, but you don’t chastise him for it; in fact, it takes a certain level of concentration for you to avoid letting your thoughts linger on his current state: hair slicked back; flesh exposed and glistening with droplets of water; lips warm, wet, and eager for reciprocation…

Your mouth receives his but does not encourage him for more than a split second, pulling back gently from his advance until you can see Satoru shiver as the water chills his body. His eyes are glued to your face, waiting for a reaction as you prepare to make one more pass over his hair with the cup to see that he is fully rinsed, this time using your hand to shield his eyes from any backflow (and from your expression, which is surely indicative of your now rapid heartbeat).

The action is enough to distract him for the moment, but Satoru is still on edge, teeming with infatuation and need. He is unsatisfied with your response—or lack thereof—and is frustrated with his inability to express it, but your hands carefully wiping drops of water from his face act as a temporary soothing agent.

“Alright, let’s get dried off and ready for bed,” you say, standing to fetch his towel from the rack and bring it back to him before reaching down to trigger the tub to drain. “We’re going to talk to Shoko tomorrow.”

Satoru is less concerned with the meaning of your words than he is with how lovely you sound while saying them. He is once again caught in your spell, entranced by the need to be closer but settling for the scraps that you give him—for now.

You aren’t convinced of his comprehension of what you say, but nevertheless, you use the sweetened tone to deflect from the overwhelm of watching him stand and observe your every move as you help to dry his chiseled body. Satoru is tall and looming, scarred in the midriff, but compliant with your ministrations; however, his easygoing nature doesn’t keep your hands from wanting to shake against the towel that repeatedly caresses his physical beauty. You wish you could torch every thought in your mind, switch your brain off to preserve the strength and sanity that remains. 

You aren’t sure how long you’ll be able to remain steadfast and maintain this cycle of “temporaries” until something eventually changes. And what if it never does?

You suppose the only thing you can do for now is try your best and wait and see what the future holds. It certainly can’t be any worse than what you’ve already been through, especially now that Satoru is by your side once more. That is something you’ve realized you wouldn’t trade for anything.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Post NaNoWriMo - Now What?

So if you've only been loosely paying attention, the NaNoWriMo organization has collapsed in a controversy of mismanagement, lack of oversight, abusive forum moderation and a whole host of issues that's resulted in souring the whole thing for a great deal of people. While the spirit of NaNoing will probably continue, a lot of people understandably don't want anything to officially do with the organization anymore.

But you - like I have - still think NaNoWriMo has been very useful to get writing done. Here's some ideas on how to keep going.

How to Get Started

Think Local - All those places you used for NaNo events, libraries, schools, cafes, etc - may be more than willing to launch something similar with enough interest. Just because it won't have the NaNoWriMo name slapped on it doesn't meant it can't continue. My local library has started a monthly write-in event, for example.

Take the Initiative - If you know of a group that you usually NaNo with, it's never too late or early to reach out to them about create an alternative plan. You probably aren't the only one thinking about it!

Talk to your (former) ML - Many Municipal Liaisons I know feel burned by NaNo and won't join it again, but they did love running the event. My local ML is continuing our group under a different name, and yours might appreciate getting assistance or sharing resources about how to run a month-long writing event if you ask.

Find Your People - If you're in school, new to an area, or just not good at reaching out, I feel you. But if you do nothing, you get nothing. Reach out to people you know. Online Discord or Zoom meetings can work just as well as in-person events if you're too remote or broke to meet.

What to Use to Get Started

Shut up and Write provides quick and easy ways to find local groups or form your own to carry the write-in momentum all year round.

MyWriteClub copies the writing tracking method of NaNoWriMo to keep track of your wordcount.

Pacemaker Planner offers multiple ways to track your writing.

Regular old Excel. Or LibreOffice if you'd prefer to wash your hands of Microsoft. It's not as exciting, but a regular spreadsheet with an AutoSum of your daily progress can work just as well as a fancy website.

You can keep going with the NaNo energy without the official name. My local library has started a monthly write-in, and I know many people who have found success with Shut Up and Write. Look into what works for you!

[demilypyro]

Sonic's lore is so good not even the writers understand it

/silly

I think the more likely reality is that story has never been a Huge priority when it comes to the development pipeline of a Sonic game. They'll have like one or two concepts they wanna do, like "let's do a game about Shadow" or "let's do a game where Sonic is a werewolf" or "let's do a game where you can customize your character" and they'll just start with that, and whatever story can serve as connecting tissue is like, fine.

There's also the matter of editorial oversight. Since he's their top brand, Sonic writers have to operate under the direct supervision of Sega's executives, and that can restrict a lot of their options. Sega wants the brand to be accessible, so a lot of backstory and lore would get in the way for new people. For instance, using Shadow for anything more than his surface level personality was basically off-limits for a long time, leading to his rather shallow depictions in a lot of games and TV shows, and the early issues of Sonic IDW. They seem to have made an exception for Shadow Generations, which was the first time his backstory really got addressed since Shadow the Hedgehog in 2005.