#once again *cough* the ableism *cough*

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Sticking Point 1

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, possible violence, illness, death, bullying, ableism, and other elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are sent in the place of your ailing sister to marry a stranger. (Regency AU)

Character: Loki

Note: I'm hoping y'all like it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The chamber is pungent with sweat. A clammy sheen coats Edith's forehead as she gives another rattling cough. You hear the crackle in her lungs and smell the iron of her blood before it stains the crumpled handkerchief your mother dabs her lips with. 

She's been sick for months. Your mother said the summer heat would help her recovery but the drought that followed the spring downpour only seemed to worsen her symptoms. The once buoyant and bright eyed girl lays shrouded beneath a canopy, gulping and gasping, frail and despondent. 

Your fathe clears his throat, startling you from the doorway. You hadn't heard him appear. You glance at him over your shoulder and ser the grimness in his eye, the stone that has not dislodged since your sister fell ill. She always was his favourite. She's everyone's favourite. She is gentle and kind and rare.

Your mother turns to peek at your father's shadow. She gives a nod and rises, beckoning you forth, handing over the cloth and squeezing it into your palm. 

"Sit with your sister," she nearly whispers. The chamber is always quiet, as if speaking too loud might tempt the fates. Alas, it was always Edith who would sing to fill the dearth. She always knows what to do, what to say.

You perch on the edge of the bed as your mother crosses the floor. Not a word passes between your parents as they retreat. Again, the must discuss something dire, as they've done these last weeks. Each time, it only serves to gray their melancholy further.

Edith stares above her. Eyes glassy and distant. She coughs again and a fleck of phlegm lands on her chin. You mop it up as you wonder how her round cheeks could ever have become so taut and worn.

Her gaze drifts, slowly and lazily, a divet forming between her brows as she strains to look at her. The corners of her lips twitch but she hasn't the strength to smile. She gulps back another raspy cough.

"It's… you," she breathes, "my… sister."

Her words come far apart, each summoned with an effort. As you lower the handkerchief back to your lap she wheezes and lifts her hand shakily. She moves it towards you and lets it drop onto yours.

"I love you, sister," she wisps, "I… I remember…" she shakes her head and wets her tongue, "how much you love…dandelions and daffodils… and everything yellow and blooming." 

Her chest rattles as she falls into a fit. She curls her shoulders and clings to you tightly, her brittle nails sinking into your skin. She swallows loudly as she leans heavily against the pillows, her coughs subsiding. 

"I recall… and I know… you are just as… vibrant…" she bends her fingers around yours, "you must… be… for mother."

"No, Edi, you awe," you murmur, your syllables wobby, "and you will be. Again. You will be that for motha and fatha. You have to… I can't."

She groans and lets her head loll, "you will."

You frown. She is wrong. You cannot replace her and she will not die. It cannot be.

You lower your chin, eyes stinging. Your sister always cast a shadow over you, but you don't mind the shade. She always let you stand off to the side, she let you be quiet, she let you be unseen and safe. She is the only person who ever knew the real you and loved you for it. 

"Don't be… sad," her voice creaks, "I'm not."

You peek at her from under your lashes and furrow your brow, to ask 'you're not?'

She reads you as well as ever, "how can I be?" She heaves and gathers her words, "it may be a short life… but rich… and less than… lonely."

You can't hold back. It's more than what she says, it's the resignation in her tenor. Even in defeat, she is blissful. You bend over her and embrace her daintily, resting your head on her chest, listening to dull beat and the hoarse crackle within. You close your eyes and sniffle.

"You will be well again," you avow, "you have to get well." You let your tears flow down and wet her shift. She raises her hand and rests it on your head, petting your lightly, "I need you."

"I will be around… always," she hums, "you will know where to find me."

Her words dangle over you, confounding you. Cryptic but certain. You know she is right, as ever, but you want so badly for her to lie to you. 

🔹

You wake beneath the small glow of a single taper. Your mother holds a candlestick as she gently tugs on your sleeve. You peer over at your sister’s silhouette, her breaths whistling with each exhale. You sit up, reluctant to leave her.

“Come,” is all the wraithlike matriarch bids.

You obey, rising to follow her across the dark chamber. The hallway is lit only by her candle and the light shining out from a doorway further down. Your father welcomes you into his study, an unusual occasion but you sense not a happy one.

He sits behind his desk on the grand carved chair with medieval posts topped with polished wooden orbs. Your mother lowers herself onto a velvet seat and you take another stiff oaken chair, dragged in from the dining hall. You glance between them and purse your lips tightly. 

Your father sighs, long and heavy, steepling his fingers then quickly, letting them twine together. He sits forward and presses his chin to his knuckles. Your mother sits staunchly, staring ahead, sombre and silent.

“It is best in these moments to be pragmatic,” your father begins quietly, pushing his shoulders back as he forcefully clears the frog in his throat, “to think as a family, to consider the legacy of my name.” He looks down, unusually reticent. He moves his head back and forth, grazing his untended stubble across his fingers, “you will have to make the journey to Jade Park.”

Your frown. You’re uncertain what he means. You shake your head and blink furiously. It’s the closest you ever came to speaking out of turn. Though, your father despises how little you ever said.

“She is too sick to travel. Or to marry. Even if the lord in question made the trek himself to meet his betrothed, she would not be able to receive him… if she were still alive.”

You choke audibly and clutch your throat. Your mother lets out a thick breath and shifts on her seat. Your father’s lip curls, irritated.

“The Duke made a contract for a wife, he will have one,” your father declares, gritting his teeth, “whether he be disappointed or not, he cannot claim forfeiture.”

You send your mother a desperate look. You cannot go and marry Lord Laufeyson. He is to be Edith’s husband. You were still to have some time ahead of you.

Your father covers his face and drags his hands up, combing over his hair with a growl. He holds his skull before sitting up sternly.

“And by the lord, speak up! He will not want a mute as a wife,” he snarls.

You shrink. It should have been you. You should be the one sick and dying. It should be Edith carrying on your father’s hopes. You are not good enough for it. Nor are you ever good enough for him. Where he dotes on Edith, he rants at you.

“Speak!” He slams his palm on the desk.

You flinch and push your head up. You fix your posture and unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth as you part your lips, “yes, fatha, as you bid me–”

“As is your duty,” he sneers, “as a daughter must. As a woman!”

He rails as he waves his hand angrily with each word. He slaps it back down and pushes himself to his feet. He stomps away and stops before the faded portrait of his forebear. You peek again at your mouth, her lips are straight as she looks at you blandly.

“Fatha,” you eke out and stand, “I pwomise I will do my best–”

“I cannot hear you!” He spins to face you, “I hear only mindless babbling. No husband wants a mouse for a wife. Let us only hope Laufeyson will accept one sister in place of another.”

“Fatha,” you squeak.

“Wife,” he ignores you, moving back behind his desk, “you will be certain to review her diction. Mute and dumb, how pitiful.”

You wince. No matter your efforts, your words are always skewed. Every syllable is a little longer than it needs to be, and you cannot form a sharp R. It all fools loose and awkward.

“Fatha–”

“Fathaaa,” he mimics and turns his back to you, “Thea, get her away from me. Ready her luggage.”

“Luggage? When am I to leave, fatha?”

“As soon as we can have you gone,” he mutters, “your sister deserves to die in peace.”

You fold your arms, holding yourself as his words sink into your chest. Like a knife, it cuts to the core and you can’t fight the sob that rises in your throat. You spin on your heel and flee. You hear him boom at your mother.

“Be certain she does not act as a child for her husband,” he barks.

You clamour into your sister’s chamber and over to the bed. You lower yourself next to her once more and wiggle close. Your tears fall as you tuck her hand between her arm and her body.

“Sista,” you gulp, “oh, sista, I don’t want to go… I don’t want you to go.”

🔹

You touch your lips as the carriage shudders with each turn of the wheel. You still feel your sister’s cold skin against you. That final kiss you gave. You know for sure that is what it is. You will not see her again. Not above the earth.

You lean against the wall, trembling with the motion. Your mother is across from you, dabbing her eyes with a folded handkerchief. She bawls loudly now and again, a lock of your sister’s hair clutched in her other hand. 

Despite her protests, your father insisted it would be undue for you to go alone and for neither of them to attend the introduction to assure the contract’s fulfillment. So she accompanies you and the single maid, Doreen.

Dread suffocates you in the cramped space. Even as the sun shines between the curtains, it is gray inside.

You put your head down and stare at the pages of the novel in your hands. Your vision is bleary and you don’t read. It is only an excuse, an act. You try to imprint your sister’s features into your head, try to memorise her voice. You never want to forget her. You want to keep every part of her with you.

The wheels roll on into the night. Your mother pulls a blanket around her but you let the cold chill you, almost praying that it might sicken you. That you could take the ague and your sister’s place. You shiver and look out from behind the curtain, watching the silhouettes of hills and trees pass.

The driver stops at the Crescent Hotel just inside the city. You rent a room and spend the night awake. Your mother sobs and snores until the sun rises. 

When you're ready to set back out on the road, your mother is certain to have the maid arrange your hair and check your face. She has you wear a particular dress, a shade of moss with pearl buttons, and a bonnet with a broad brim. Once past the city, it is only another hour to Jade Park.

You sit with hands clutched, the bench rigid beneath you, uncomfortable as your restlessness mounts. On and on until you are dizzy and quivering. You don’t know that you can do this, but you know you cannot say so.

You approach a great wall of lime washed bricks with a grand golden gate with twists at the peak of each pole. Your mother cranes to watch as you get nearer and you wring your hands together until the seams of your gloves sear your skin. The driver greets the gatekeeper and is let through after a brief introduction.

He proceeds through as the clop of the horses like hooves to your fragile mind. Closer and closer. The wheels slow and the carriage jostles as the driver climbs down. Yet another voice greets him, a groomsman who directs him before opening the door.

The driver places a step down for your mother to descend and you come out after he as the groom assists with a helping hand. You nearly trip on the inch tall heels of your shoes and your mother darts a reproachful glare in your direction. You apologise and look up at the square peaks jutting up from the top of the boxy manor.

The walls are a pale beige trimmed with lush hedges. Stone steps stretch before the wide doors and multi paned windows look out onto the sprawling lawn of green, speckled with marble statues, a fountain, and finely kept flowers. Tall trees peek out from behind the grand house and softly wave in the breeze.

Your mother steps closer to you and pinches your arm.

“Shoulders straight,” she girds, “do not gape like a simpleton. If you must, you may hide behind your fan.”

She takes a step forward, then another. Three before you kick yourself into motion. Your heart thumps loudly as you try to keep pace. The groom shows you up the steps and two others appear to open the double door at the top.

Oh my. 

[ashintheairlikesnow]

🧑‍⚕️ for Chris! Cookie treat:

🍪

CW: BBU, sickfic, ableism from Luke Petrus, general Luke Petrus warning, minor whump (OC is 17), brief implied noncon references

-

"What the heck did you do now, Petrus?" The doctor - barely out of med school, still young and learning the twists and turns of the Facility's labyrinth of hallways - sighs. He's been here barely a year, and already learned that Luke Petrus has a reputation for quick turnarounds because he runs his trainees into the ground. Metaphorically speaking.

His trainees aren't generally allowed to actually run much of anywhere at all. Or get out of bed.

Petrus rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. "Nothing. He was being a little shit this morning, breaking all his rules. I checked and his forehead was hot, so I brought him in here."

"Well... at least you didn't OD him again."

"That was one time, and he should have been fine, it's not my fault his body metabolizes the drugs wrong-"

"Maybe don't use our freaking supplies without speaking to a doctor first to make sure next time?" Dr. Ross glances into the exam through through the window cut into the door.

The trainee lays on his back on the exam table, staring listlessly up towards the flickering florescent lights overhead. His hands are moving, constantly crushing the crinkling paper beneath him or touching himself at the throat, the collarbone, the stomach. He's humming, audible through the door. A toneless, tuneless ah ah ah ah through barely open lips.

"Okay, well. I'll take a look. Any specific complaints other than the fever?"

"Clammy as fuck, coughing, sneezing... all that shit. Complained about his food, earlier, and I know he knows better than that." Petrus narrows his eyes, and Dr. Ross tries not to feel a shiver down his own spine. "He better be burning hot enough to hallucinate or he is going to fucking regret talking shit to me about the food."

Dr. Ross pauses. "The food is pretty legendarily... um, crap, though," He points out. The look Petrus gives him is so derisive he can all but feel it eat into him like acid. "I'll take a look. Probably he'll need an overnight in the clinic."

"I only have a few weeks left to finish him up. So you get him able to take training tomorrow night, got it?"

"I can't promise-"

"This one is going to a personal friend of Karen Renford's," Petrus says in a low voice. "A personal. friend. Got it?"

Dr. Ross swallows, trying not to look unnerved. "Got it."

"Good. Message me once he's good to go back, I'm going to head home for a few hours. If he's faking this..."

"Handler Petrus. How exactly would he fake a fever?" Dr. Ross looks into the exam room again. The trainee is still humming, watching his own fingers as he moves them between himself and the light. His skin is pale, a little grayish. His freckles stand out like paint splatters all over his body.

"Wouldn't put it past him. Trainees figure out all kinds of shit. Get him better and get him to stop doing that... Shit with his hands, making those noises. Punish him if he keeps it up, it's part of his training plan."

"Hm," Dr. Ross says, noncommittal. "I'll send his test results over in a bit. Enjoy your time at home."

He steps inside just to end the conversation, walking idly over to a countertop, where he opens a cupboard above and pulls out a small canister of lollipops. "Hello, 223499."

The boy's voice cuts off like a radio. After a pause, he starts mumbling, too low for Dr. Ross to hear.

"... right. Well. Your handler says you're feeling under the weather. Mind if I take a look?"

The trainee turns his head then. He looks somewhere off to one side of the doctor, blinking a little dazedly. "... take a look?"

His voice is slow, sluggish, but each word is so carefully placed.

"Yes."

The trainee looks away again. Dr. Ross sighs and goes with it, checking his temperature. 101.7, not great, not the worst fever. Hopefully this won't be another flu like the last one. Pneumonia nearly killed three trainees that time. He checked ears, eyes - pupils reactive, ears clear - and then touched at the lymph nodes beneath his jaw. A little swollen.

"Okay. Next up, we need to take a quick look down your throat."

Another slow blink. The trainee seemed to suddenly tense up. "You... want my throat?"

"Uh, well-" Dr. Ross turns away to pick up a tongue depressor and the swab for the test. "Yes, we need to test you."

The paper on the exam table crinkles again. The boy hums, almost wistfully, and then goes silent.

When he turns around, Dr. Ross discovers the boy on his knees in a seamless Position Two, mouth wide open.

His green eyes are empty, somewhere far away.

Dr. Ross's face burns at the sight. His stomach turns sharply, and he has to clear his throat to try and cover the way bile rises. "Uh, n-no thank you-... I just need... you need to be tested for strep throat, Trainee, not that kind of-... back up on the table, please-"

The boy looks confused, in a faded sort of way, but follows orders. He manages to clamber back up, sitting this time, listing a little to one side, then the other. But he opens his mouth again, and Dr. Ross hurries through the test as fast as he can, trying not to think about how most people gag during the strep test, but the Romantics never do.

"Good, made it. Perfect. Now, does your throat hurt a lot today?"

"Yes, sir." The boy's voice is a little raspy, now that he's talking. "A... lot. Earlier, i... cried when my... handler-"

"Don't need to hear the end of that sentence!" Dr. Ross forces false charm and ease into his voice, plucking one of the lollipops at random from the jar. "Here, let me give you this. It tastes a little weird, but it'll numb your throat and keep you from coughing." He unwraps it and holds it out. The trainee blinks at him. He blinks back.

Then he realizes. "... oh. Do you have to be... do I have to..." He leans forward. The trainee opens his mouth obediently for Dr. Ross to place the lollipop inside. Only then does his mouth close.

"'ank 'oo, ir," The trainee says around a mouthful of fake sweetener and the numbing agent already going to work. His eyes are so sweet and so vivid, and he half-smiles around the treat.

"You're welcome, 223499. I'm going to go and do your strep test. I'll be back. You just relax, okay? You can sleep in a clinic bed and get a good night's sleep."

The boy's eyebrows furrow. "Is... is it night?"

"Oh right. We're not supposed to let you know, are we? Well... I don't think it can hurt... yeah, I'm on nights right now, 11 to 9. It's about one in the morning."

"Oh." The trainee lays slowly back down, on his side, closing his eyes as he works at the sucker. "... what, what does night... look, um, look like?"

Dr. Ross swallows.

He's a fucking coward, but he doesn't answer. He just leaves, and he doesn't let himself stop and look back.

He doesn't let himself think about a boy who can't remember the sky.

God, he only has a few weeks left on this residency and he just isn't sure he can make it.

[akai-kiki]

So, since I’ve been diagnosed with hEDS (bar any severe vascular symptoms being discovered in my echocardiogram 🤞) I guess I’ll ramble the thoughts that have been bouncing in my brain like an old screensaver. I guess tw for (mostly unintentional) ableism below the cut.

So… looking back, so many things make sense. My whole family and all my schoolmates thought I was making it up, but I legit had the most fragile and bendy little ankles as a kid. I routinely sprained my ankles, rolled them, etc. At least once a week but more often close to daily. I don’t really blame my classmates for not believing it… they were 6-9, and everyone around them was saying I was “dramatic” or something. But looking back, the adults in my life never bothered to check what was wrong, or if there WAS anything wrong. They just dismissed me. I spent the first 25 years of my life thinking I was weak. That straining myself with exercise would cure me (spoilers: it made me injure myself in ways I’m still fixing in physical therapy).

My chronic issues were dismissed as normal problems all my life. When I finally described them to my doctors I feel like I earned some sort of achievement: “Stun Your Doctor Into Silence.” They could not stress enough that my experiences were abnormal and harmful, and were terrified that I just suffered that in silence my entire youth. Yeah… not the greatest thing to hear, validating though it may be.

The weirdest thing though was that my mom, my abusive mom who let me develop walking pneumonia because she thought I was being dramatic about my MONTH LONG COUGH, just… agreed with my assessment. Without question. She said she was sorry, and at the time, they just didn’t know. It was a baffling moment. This is the woman who insists her years of abuse are just cruel lies I made up about her, and who goes into defensive hysterics when I would call her out. I genuinely don’t know how to react to that. Have I gotten better at explaining myself? Has she learned her le— no she fucking hasn’t, I’m not falling for that one again. But still… it felt weirdly reassuring to have her, of all people, listen to me.

I’m not sure what others can take from this. I guess just… believe your children. Listen to them. They might have problems you can’t see. Problems that, left alone, may cause a lifetime of damage and trauma.

My physical therapist asked me what gym was like as a kid. I said that I frequently got overheated, dizzy, injured and embarrassed. I couldn’t do push ups- my joints subluxated. I couldn’t run for the same reason. The only thing I was good at was, unsurprisingly, the stretching and flexibility exercises. She was pretty shocked, and said that I should have been completely excused from gym for my own health. She’s right, of course. I wonder what my life would have been like if we knew that I had a genetic disorder? It’s hard to imagine.

[remorsefullyunapologetic]

clears my throat so aggressively i start choking

Autistic Mercury Black Headcanons!

he learned to mask a lot of his autistic traits for obvious reasons, and a lot of the ones he still shows are usually just so minor marcus didn’t give a fuck or he can meld it well enough into his being traumatized an assassin

he trained himself to be able to read expressions and thinks he’s good at it but is very prone to missing nuances or mixing up their meanings

he has baaad anger issues. granted it’s genetic from marcus and also the trauma but the autism doesn’t make it any better. he’s very good (too good) at keeping a lid on it until he’s on the verge of exploding and he does something incredibly drastic or stupid

he doesn’t really understand love. it’s partially the trauma but he doesn’t know how to distinctualize his own feelings and can’t recognize when he’s experiencing attraction. like. he feels both love and attraction but it’s so abstract compared to his other emotions that he just doesn’t Get it, including for platonic attraction

he doesn’t like people touching him. yet another thing attributed in part to trauma but for this one it’s mostly the autism

special interest in mechanics and engineering but he never ever ever infodumps because Trauma

understands animals more than people. not necessarily in the way that he feels more like an animal, it’s just easier for him to understand the nature of things that aren’t as awful and complicated as humans. he prefers being around them as opposed to people too

auditory processing issues. he used to ask people to repeat themselves a lot but now does it only when it’s a vitally important topic because once again. trauma

he’s the autistic that is filled to the brim with sarcasm but cannot recognize it for the life of him

he usually doesn’t let it show but major changes can be a Lot for him. he generally needs some downtime when switching to a new location before he can do anything without getting overwhelmed

he always always always has to do maintenance on his prosthetics before he goes to bed and after he wakes up Or Else (routine autism)

if something upsets him it can be difficult for him to come up with a solution In The Moment because his emotions cloud his thinking capabilities even in situations that wouldn’t be classified as a “big deal”

small talk confuses him. coughs. the neurotypical “how are you.” (if you’re gonna ask him how he’s doing why shouldn’t he be at least a Little honest??????????)

he understands idioms, hyperboles, etc. but any metaphor that can be reasonably taken seriously soars right over his head

the resting bitch face isn’t just because of his personality it’s because control over his own body language is foreign as fuck to him and his only visual settings are default (unreadable with an undertone of murder), pissed off, smug, and little bitch type charming. once upon a time there was fear and pure joy but those are buried now

i havw,more probably but memory bad. please talk to me if you have any of your own. Please

WARNING: Headcanons involving child abuse, ableism towards autistics, disordered eating, and self-destructive behavior under the cut.

he stimmed a lot more when he was younger—he flapped his hands and stomped his feet, but if marcus caught him doing it he’d hit his wrists, kicked his shins, and at times would bind his hands and/or legs. by the time he was ten he’d learned to suppress them even if it left him with a lot of pent up energy

the stims he has left over are mostly self-destructive. he hits himself in the head when frustrated or overwhelmed and scratches when he doesn’t have enough to do with his hands or he’s uncomfortable/stressed/anxious

marcus didn’t want him to do that either but couldn’t get him to stop and he didn’t care as much anyways because at least it wasn’t an expression of positive emotions

he used to have meltdowns during “training.” marcus would lock him in his room and refuse to let him out even for food until hours after he’d calmed down. another thing he learned to suppress to a point where his body no longer allows him to shed tears even when he really needs to unless under certain circumstances

marcus forced him to eat whatever he was given, even though he had awful sensory issues, on top of starving him as punishment, so he now has a very unhealthy relationship with food. getting him to try new things is like a death sentence and he’ll hardly ever eat something he doesn’t like unless it’s life or death, but he also feels extremely guilty eating his comfort foods.

[thelegendofmik]

february 5th, 2023. 8:24 am, yet another sleepless night due to an ER-worthy pain flare. once again overwhelmed by ableism (especially related to a specific ableist musical) and the sheer audacity of a specific person to use their disabled family member to give themself authority in a subject which they had no authority to speak on and proceed to speak over disabled people and defend the ableist script change. And then play the victim when actually disabled people called them out on their bullshit. (*cough* kholby *cough*)

anyways :|

image id bc my handwriting isn't the most legible:

my mind is a dumpster fire.

I just want an escape from the ableism -> but while I could go MIA online and escape the bullshit there, I cannot escape it in the real world. I guess that's the thing about actually being disabled - you have to live with it 24/7/365, yet some people get paid to use your trauma + experiences for entertainment. The reality of my seemingly progressive disability is far from entertaining.

Ableism makes me want to fucking blowtorch myself but ya know, if I died, wouldn't I just be proving their point? That I'm better off dead? I almost believe it at this point lmao.

I'm done.

I'm done.

I'm done.

I'm done.

I'm done.

I'm done.

[arctic-hands]

Indiana is a medical wasteland in general, but once I was lucky enough to get out and move to Maryland I have been treated very nicely and despite repeated hospitalizations needing morphine or other opiates, I have never been accused of or have been treated as a drug seeker. I am thirty, I play up my assigned gender at the hospital, I act innocent and damn near nunly and virginal unless they realize I'm on PrEP, but most importantly in this scenario, I am white.

I have a friend I made while hospitalized for two weeks three years ago. She was was my roommate for about half that time. She's as chronically ill as I am, more mobility impaired than I am, she's eighty-one at this point, and Black.

While we were there together we instantly bonded and had a grand old time talking and joking and goofing off with the nurses and when I was discharged we exchanged phone numbers. We still keep in touch.

The day after I left, she called me upset saying that as soon as I left, the entire nursing staff changed in their attitude towards her. At one point, a nurse manhandled her–she who has a permanently fractured back where it's agonizing to move just the slightest–and in the process ripped out the IV in her neck. Even after another nurse intervened, nobody apologized or reprimanded the nurse. A day later she's turfed to a Medicaid nursing home that she's still stuck in for lack of money for home care, and she reports they're just as awful.

She's had three medical emergencies there that they've ignored until her son threatened them into calling ambulances (she hasn't told me what was being threatened, a lawsuit or violence, and I don't care as long as she got seen). They don't have AC or are too cheap to turn it on. They didn't close the windows during the apocalyptic smoke this summer. They passed out basic surgical masks and ignored the coughing. She's gotten covid there twice because there are no protections even during surges.

Last medical emergency last year, she was taken to a new hospital. I don't remember the specifics but she had to have a either a port or a PICC line installed in her body–either way, damn near a direct hole and then a tube that sends medication directly to her heart for circulation. I had a PICC line installed when I was sixteen and dying of shingles. I had it in me for six weeks, pumping acyclovir directly into my heart. Even partially anaesthetized, the process absolutely sucked ass.

She wasn't given anaesthetia at any level. She wasn't even numbed for it. And it was agonizingly painful and she cried the entire time. At the end she asked for a painkiller for the pain in her chest, and she was denied. As she was being rolled out in her own wheelchair (again, permanently broken back), she heard the doctor who did the procedure tell the nurse "She's drug seeking."

Eighty year Black woman, permanently and painfully disabled along with a multitude of chronic diseases like I have. Being ignored by those supposed to take care of her, abused by hospital nurses, demonized by doctors. She didn't get painkillers the entire time she was in the hospital, about a week. And then they sent her straight back to the awful nursing home where she's still consistently ignored at best and abused at worst. She refuses to tell me which home she's at because I told her I'd report them, but she's terrified of reprisals. So I can only listen to her.

Sure there's a factor of ageism as well as ableism in play, but I have been in the hospital all my life as a white person and while childhood doctors refused to consider my agency and wishes, I never had that problem as an adult, and I have no doubt in my mind that my entire life as a forever patient would have been made even worse if I happened to have been born Black.

Disabilty is one of those few-to-only groups of oppressed people that anyone can become a part of, at any time in their life. Suddenly or by a slow deteroration of health, or even from birth. But I as a white person, even one who is a lifelong chronic patient who will get progressively worse the older I get and as a recently official cripple and a welfare monarch completely dependant on government programs, will still have an easier time manuevering disabled life, medical bullshit, and ableism both every day and that by medical personnel, than a Black person in the exact same position (AFAB queer, thirty, the exact same lifelong illnesses, chronic pain, mobility impairment, and so on), even when/if I get to be eighty and people will return to considering me as someone not deserving of agency. To deny that is to enable the abuse my friend has suffered and continues to suffer.

pretty sure I’d be dead by now if not for the fact I’m white. I’ve seen so many men in my exact shoes just obliterated by the system. involuntary commitment is a death sentence for some ppl and it’s fucking impossible to convey how upsetting and disturbing it is to people on the outside looking through the glass

[heyiwrotesomethings]

hi maddy! i was wondering if i could request something with shinobu if that's alright! ive noticed that there's a lot of mute reader with shinobu but what about deaf reader with shinobu? maybe something like how deaf reader is a demon slayer but after a nasty altercation with a lower moon they are too injured to continue demon slaying. so once they arrive at the butterfly estate, shinobu takes a liking to them and offers a place to stay and work with her once reader is healed up. thank you and take care!

Forging Onward

Shinobu Kochou x They/ Them Deaf Reader

A/N: Sorry for the wait, hope I did an alright job. I wanted to do some more descriptions of JSL but it’s hard to find very specific signs for what I wanted to be said. Warning for mentions of past experienced ableism. Thank you for reading! Word Count: 3,676

The first thing (Y/n) perceived was just how heavy their body felt. They tried to swallow, but their throat was much too dry, causing them to cough. It made their whole chest hurt, the pain rolling over their whole body as they moved around more. What had happened to them? Why was it so hard to breath? It was kind of like the wind was knocked right out of them, but why? They were just laying there…

They peeled their eyes open, the room was bright, but their vision was blurry. They tried to lift their hands to rub at their eyes, but they found the task much too difficult. They blinked hard several times in an attempt to clear their vision.

When they opened their eyes again, a shadow of a hand waving over them made them flinch. The hand pulled back a bit, but slowly came down to rest knuckles down on (Y/n)’s forehead. It was pleasantly cool, and whoever it was didn’t seem to mean (Y/n) further harm so they relaxed.

When the hand pulled away, (Y/n)’s vision was a bit clearer, clear enough to see the woman standing over them at least, but not clear enough to attempt to read her lips. She looked like she was speaking too quickly and she wasn’t enunciating enough for them to catch what she was saying anyway.

(Y/n) turned their head away, but the hand came back, waving over them again. (Y/n) was already tired and in pain, they didn’t want to add annoyed to the list as well. They inhaled a little too deeply, causing another burning coughing fit.

The woman messed with something behind their head. They felt a thunk, and the cot they were on raised, siting them up a bit. When they stopped coughing, a cup was pushed to their lips. They angled their eyes to the side to look at the woman, just in time to watch her mouth close and look at them expectantly.

Whatever, it was just water. Hopefully it would soothe their��

The woman pushed the lip of the cup past (Y/n)’s lips and tilted it forward.

That was not water at all! It was some gross, sludgy medicine!

They nearly threw up, but they only managed a single gag and the motion burned their whole torso, dissuading (Y/n) from damaging themself further.

The woman shook her head as if to say, ‘I told you so.’, then she presented (Y/n) with a new cup. At least this time it was definitely water. They took a few sips, then pulled back to breathe, the task just a little bit easier than before.

They turned back to the woman who seemed to continue speaking to them as she flitted about the room to mess with things, sometimes she would completely turn around, making the task of trying to make anything out even more impossible.

(Y/n) focused their eyes on the ceiling. All that moving around made them feel dizzy and they weren’t even the one doing it. They jolted in their cot when the woman’s hand broke into their field of vision yet again.

‘If she waves her hand in my face one more time…’

Despite the smile she wore, (Y/n) could tell the woman seemed to be getting a little frustrated with them as well, but it wasn’t like they were ignoring her on purpose, well now they were kind of trying to, but they were hoping she’d get the hint.

When a life threatening fever had taken their hearing from them at a very young age, they had been taken to a teacher to try to perfect their speech, but that guy had been an ass and treated them like they were dumb so they refused to try anymore out of spite. They still harbored some insecurities about how they sounded to others because of him, but if it would stop this woman’s hovering then so be it.

They tested their throat, no longer dry, but still painful. It would be doable, they didn’t have to say much.

“I cannot hear you, I am deaf.” They tried to enunciate as best they could. It was hard enough when they didn’t feel like they had been tossed around by a pack of wild boars.

The woman paused, processing, (Y/n) assumed. After a moment, she covered her mouth with her hand, (Y/n) saw her jaw move, before she dropped her hand again. (Y/n) could tell she had mouthed an apology then she turned her back on them, but not before they saw a bit of pink gather in her cheeks.

Aww, she was embarrassed. (Y/n) thought that was kind of cute actually. Leagues better than some of the reactions they had gotten in the past.

The woman returned to sit at their side with a clipboard and scribbled down what (Y/n) presumed to be all the answers they were looking for. She held the board up to (Y/n) and waited patiently for them to read it.

(Y/n) learned that they were in the Butterfly Estate, healing from an encounter they had with a Lower Moon.

Oh yeah, they had been fighting a demon, hadn’t they? Shows just how well that fight went that they only remembered now. That was ego bruising to say the least.

They continued reading on about their condition. Broken ribs, inflamed trachea, a punctured lung, several stitches, broken right arm, dislocated left with a broken hand and a busted knee… they were a mess.

The woman, Kochou Shinobu, as the paper had detailed, made a motion to turn the paper over, silently asking (Y/n) if they were ready to read on. They gave a small nod. Continuing on, their heart began to sink.

‘It is advised that once you complete your recovery training, that you discontinue slayer work. After the injuries your lungs sustained, you will never be able to preform breathing techniques again without obtaining further trauma. Your knee will also provide difficulties. We will do what we can with the physical therapy, but with how the bone and cartilage are sitting even after surgery, you may have a permanent limp.’

(Y/n) shook their head in disbelief. They couldn’t quit the Demon Slayer Corps. They had been respected in the field, they had friends here. Their life could be easily divided into two categories, before the slayers and life with the slayers. They didn’t want to go back to the before. Going back to civilian life was simply not an option. They weren’t going to be othered again, made to feel like a burden, an inconvenience for being different.

Shinobu pressed feather-light finger tips against (Y/n)’s lips, making them take notice to just how bad their already uneven breathing had become. Shinobu’s forehead creased with concern at the reaction. Surprising (Y/n), when she moved her hands away to sign, accompanied by a deliberate movement of her lips.

‘What’s wrong?’

Shinobu knew some JSL, but she wouldn’t dare say she was even proficient at the language. She mostly knew tactical phrases and a few basics for when missions required silent exchanges. Kanao would know more than she would from the book Kanae had given to her years ago, but Shinobu wasn’t afraid to give it her best shot. If she really needed assistance, then she would write it out or get Kanao.

(Y/n) pursed their lips and looked down at their arms, heavily bandaged and encased in thick casts. They couldn’t wait to be rid of those.

“I don’t want to retire.”

Shinobu looked down at her hands, then sighed and wrote a response on the paper.

‘I’m sorry, but it is in your best interest that you do.’

The severe look on (Y/n)’s face became much more noticeable upon reading Shinobu’s response and they turned their head away.

They felt Shinobu’s hand pat theirs once, before she slid away to give them some space.

(Y/n) knew they obviously couldn’t go back into the field anytime soon, they weren’t in a hurry. It was the idea of never returning that upset them. As scary as their job was at times, they really loved protecting people from demons, helping them. There was no work more rewarding. It also helped that the pay was good. They would be hard pressed to find a job that would pay them nearly as well. It felt like the life they had built for themself was crumbling down around them.

They would take their time healing, but they were not going to quit demon slaying. They’d find a way to work around total concentration breathing if they had too, they’d figure something out for their knee too if that would really be an issue. A brace or something.

All they knew for certain was that they weren’t going to stop helping people, no matter what the doctor thought.

***

Three Months Later

(Y/n) had finally healed enough that they didn’t have to be bed ridden anymore. They were finishing up their last week of recovery training and it had been tiring, but since doing so had made them start feeling like themself again, they would endure any torture those little girls put them through.

They actually really enjoyed living at the Estate. Everyone was very sweet and eager to learn. Upon learning that (Y/n) was deaf, Kanao’s book became very popular. Writing was easy, so it felt really special to see them choose to learn sign language to communicate.

When (Y/n)’s arms and hands were free of their bindings, they had no shortage of communications with them. While the younger girls crowded around the book, besides Kanao because she seemed more fluent than even (Y/n) at times, Shinobu was interested in learning from (Y/n) directly.

In the beginning (Y/n) thought that they wouldn’t really spend that much time together because of how busy Shinobu must be, but she always stopped by at least once a day to practice what she had learned in their last encounter and then learn something new.

Those quickly became (Y/n)’s favorite moments of the day the more they got to know Shinobu and they’d like to think she felt the same. Shinobu appeared to be the picture perfect representation of a nurturing and friendly individual, but (Y/n) came to know that she was also prone to teasing, incredibly intelligent, yet some how had a tendency to be a bit of an airhead at times when her thoughts were focused on other things.

They really liked her a lot, which was why they felt kind of bad when Shinobu would ask them what their plans were after they were all healed up. They always kind of shrugged her off. They didn’t want to lie to her about going back out on missions, but even though they liked her a lot, she was still their doctor and she had been very firm about (Y/n) having to go into retirement in their time together when (Y/n) would ask if they were healing better than she thought they would.

Now with their days of recovery dwindling, they would have to disappear into the night before Shinobu could discharge them. They didn’t feel good about leaving without saying goodbye, but they loved their work, it was important. They just hoped Shinobu would bear no ill will when they decided to make their covert escape.

They flinched when they felt a tapping on their shoulder and turned around quickly. They should have relaxed upon seeing that it was only Shinobu, visibly chuckling at the reaction she had received, but given that they were thinking about their best getaway route, they couldn’t help but stay tense.

Shinobu didn’t seem to notice. She probably thought it was all related to her sneaking up on them. She smiled and raised her fist, dropping it in a downward motion parallel to her face. Then she brought both of her hands up again above her chest, as she did so, her raised index fingers formed hooked shapes before her hands fell back to her sides.

(Y/n) managed a small smile and returned the morning greeting.

‘Your recovery training is nearly over,’ Shinobu signed, ‘have you decided what you want to do yet?’

(Y/n) shook their head. Of course she would bring this up again… there was nothing they’d rather do than stay with the Demon Slayer Corps.

Shinobu gave (Y/n) a more sympathetic smile and began to sign something else, but Aoi came running down the hall, speaking urgently to Shinobu about something presumably patient related.

Shinobu nodded, turning back to (Y/n) to sign a bit clumsily that she had to take care of something, but she had something to ask later.

(Y/n) nodded in understanding and watched Shinobu glide quickly down the hall with Aoi trailing close behind.

(Y/n) took a moment to lean against the wall and took in a deep breath that made their lungs twinge a bit. (Y/n) wondered just how long later would be, because it seemed like tonight would be the right time to take their things and leave.

Though they were curious about what she had to say, when Shinobu didn’t come find them after dinner, they put on their uniform, grabbed their sword and snuck out.

Once they were a safe distance away, they looked back upon the warmly lit mansion and felt a tugging in their chest. They bowed at the waist, silently thanking the Butterfly Girls for everything they had done for them, and apologizing for not letting them know how much they all meant to them in person.

Then they walked off into the night.

It would be hard to find a demon without their crow guiding them, but they would give it their best shot. Demons always carried the scent of blood and made the hair on the back of (Y/n)’s neck stand in end. They’d find one eventually.

They tripped up on a root, causing an uncomfortable twinge in their knee, but they continued on, determined to prove that they could still do the work.

Meanwhile, Shinobu had finally finished supervising Tanjirou and the others as they cleaned up the mess they made in the infirmary. Hopefully they had learned their lesson, well, hopefully Inosuke had learned his lesson about wrestling in the mansion. Zenitsu was involved for escalating the antics with his screaming and Tanjirou as usual did nothing wrong but felt compelled to help in the clean up anyway.

Now finally free, Shinobu made her way right to (Y/n)’s room. Within the first weeks of their stay, everyone had worked together to rig a light system that would flash a lightbulb whenever someone wanted to come into (Y/n)’s room. They wanted to make sure they had warning before someone came bursting in. Shinobu flicked the switch a couple times and waited for (Y/n) to come to the door. When no one came to answer it, she flipped the switch a couple more times.

Dinner service had ended not terribly long ago, so she found it hard to imagine that (Y/n) would be asleep already. Cautiously she opened the door a smidge to look inside, but found the room dark and empty. Concerned, she turned on the light to get a better look.

She opened the top drawer, already dreading what she would find, or not find, rather. Sure enough, (Y/n)’s uniform and sword were gone with them.

“Damn it.” Shinobu quietly cursed.

She didn’t need to wonder what (Y/n) was up to, she had gotten to know them well after these last couple months. They really loved their job and couldn’t seem to imagine doing anything else. This was why Shinobu wanted to talk to them, because she wanted to offer them a job at the mansion. They couldn’t fight demons anymore, but they could still help in other ways.

Shinobu hurried out of the mansion and called for En, giving her arm as a perch, she told the crow to search for (Y/n) and to give her their location as soon as she found them. With an affirmative caw, En took off into the sky and Shinobu began her search from the ground. She just hoped she wouldn’t be too late.

***

(Y/n) began jogging towards the smell of blood that was carried on the wind, unaware of the crow making a tight turn above them. Someone was hurt, but hopefully they would make it in time to save them from a worse fate.

They reached a small house on the edge of the woods and saw a demon terrorizing a family. They took as deep of a breath as they could, ignoring the tight pinching they felt in their chest and withdrew their sword, reading it to slice through the demon’s neck. They stumbled a bit, but their blade did find the demon’s neck.

Hope bloomed in their chest, they could still do this!

But their blade slowed about halfway through. They made it about two-thirds of the way through before it stopped completely. The demon yanked the sword from their hands and tossed it into the bushes, then backhanded them to the ground.

(Y/n) wheezed in pain, finding it hard to breathe. However they refused to yield. They pushed themself to stand again between the demon and the cowering family. They made a grand motion with their hand, shooing the family away. The parents didn’t need to be told twice to pick up their children and run.

(Y/n) dodged the demon’s punch, grunting in pain when their knee protested the way they twisted their body. They ducked through the thorny bushes and retrieved their sword just in time to parry another attempted attack.

(Y/n) put some space between them and attempted another deep breath, but this time the pain in their chest felt much worse, they hardly made it a fourth of the way through the demon’s neck before their blade stopped cold.

The demon ignored the sword this time, instead opting to grab (Y/n) by the neck, raising them up until only their toes were scraping against the ground.

(Y/n) let go of their sword to leverage against the demon’s arm, but it gave no relief as the demon squeezed harder. They tried to kick the demon in the stomach, but it did nothing to dissuade the demon from continuing to squeeze the life out of them.

When dots swam on the edges of (Y/n)’s vision and their hands began to droop, then suddenly fell to the ground, coughing and taking in many shallow breaths. They looked up and saw the demon fighting off something that was faster than (Y/n)’s eyes could follow.

When the demon finally dropped, curling and writing against the ground until it fell still, Shinobu was there, angrily marching up to (Y/n) in a way that almost made them fear they were next.

But then Shinobu fell to her knees in front of them and hugged them tightly. (Y/n) felt Shinobu tremble against them and they held her back, matching the tightness of Shinobu’s arms around them. They felt Shinobu’s jaw moving against their shoulder, and felt a vibration kind of itching in the back of their head. They couldn’t see her face in this position, but they were pretty sure Shinobu was yelling at them.

When she pulled back, her breathing was a bit labored and her cheeks were flushed. (Y/n) was quite glad they weren’t privy to all she had said because they had never seen her so visibly pissed off.

Shinobu began to sign something, then stopped, then started again, then she threw her hands down in frustration.

‘You made me so mad I can’t even remember how to speak to you right now!’ Is what (Y/n) was pretty sure Shinobu had said before she hugged them again.

En had led Shinobu through the woods and on the way they had met the family on the run. The father had a nasty cut on his forehead, but other than that they were physically fine. She gave them directions to the Butterfly Estate before continuing on. When she saw (Y/n) dangling in the air like that, she was worried she had been too late. She was never more glad to be wrong.

She leaned back again and pulled (Y/n) up to their feet.

“We’re going home now.” Shinobu spoke deliberately, trying not to speak through gritted teeth.

She gripped (Y/n)’s hand tightly in her own and and began the walk back to the estate. When Shinobu cooled down after awhile, she stopped in the middle of the path and let go of (Y/n)’s hand to sign,

‘What were you thinking running off without telling anyone?’

(Y/n) replied,

‘I didn’t want to leave, but you said I couldn’t be a slayer anymore.’

‘And for good reason! After everything I told you about your injuries, do you really think I would tell you that you had to retire if there was any other option?’

‘Saving people is my passion, if I can’t do that then…’

(Y/n) balled their hands tightly into fists, and Shinobu reached forward to hold their hands in hers, urging (Y/n) to look up at her and not the ground at their feet. She let go again.

‘You can save people in other ways. Are you ready to take in what I’ve been wanting to ask you all day or are you going to run off again?’

(Y/n) rolled their eyes but motioned for Shinobu to continue.

‘I wanted to ask if you’d like to stay at the estate and work with me.’

‘Really? I don’t know anything about medical stuff.’

‘You can learn. I’m as good a teacher as I am a student.’ Shinobu smiled, ‘Will you stay?’

(Y/n)’s heart swelled. Shinobu was beyond kind in giving them such an opportunity.

‘I’d love to.’

‘Good. Otherwise I’d have to lock you up to make sure you weren’t throwing yourself into unnecessary danger after all of the hard work I did to nurse you back to health.’

(Y/n) laughed at the declaration and Shinobu couldn’t help but chuckle as well.

‘Come on, let’s go home.’

[fairfowl]

Lie There and Breathe pt 4: Awake

A horde clone oc story (part one here, part two here, part three here)

tw: gore, ableism, eye trauma, pneumonia, suicidal implications, mentioned disordered eating, horde typical cult mentality (it's only a little sad I'm just being cautious)

Time seemed to stretch out like the empty space between stars. The chaos of the healing tent continued to ebb and flow but the clone did not move from his cot.

While he was much more comfortable now that his head was no longer swathed in gore-soaked bandages, he was still more drained than he could ever remember being. He felt dizzy and tired, and his covered left eye throbbed unceasingly. Sometimes it hurt so much that the clone found himself wishing that it had been simply ripped out rather than left in it's socket to ache.

In the long hours he saw other patients come and go, wheeled in and out on gurneys by teal robed apprentices. The sickest and most injured were removed, while patients with grisly hastily-treated wounds were brought in. The clone assumed that the new ones were being pulled straight off of the battlefield or from emergency camps. It must have been some time since the battle had ended but the clone knew that all cleanups took time.

He was relieved to find that clones and Etherians were both being brought in, and that his brothers seemed to be treated fairly so far.

The clone wondered what his brothers were doing, spread throughout Etheria, cut off from the hivemind. He wondered how many thousands were now wandering the planet, maybe they were seeking each other out in the same way that he had sought The Breather. 

Far into space ships filled with countless brothers must have been traveling without direction, lost and purposeless. The clone hoped that they were responding to the crisis better than he was, he hoped that they were able to communicate effectively even without the comforting network of the hivemind, that they felt a similar need to survive and preserve the lives of their brothers. 

He hoped that if they felt the same will to live as him they were less helpless to act upon it.

The clone rolled over with a sigh, facing towards the canvas wall of the tent when he could no longer bear to look upon the injured and their healers.  

Everything had become overwhelming. 

The voices of the injured, the sound of the wind on the walls of the tent, even the continuous rasping of The Breather seemed cacophonous and the noises rang sharply inside his aching head. His left eye throbbed in its socket and the ever looming tide of panic once more rose within him.

Since the fall of Prime the clone had been hanging onto his composure as though it were a lifeline, knowing that if he gave in to fear then he risked losing what little control that he had over his own fate, but now the truth set in. He had no control. He was stuck, too weak to even sit up from the cot where he lay. 

He had no way of knowing how long it had been since he’d awoken in the tent, but the clone did know that aside from the water earlier he’d had no sustenance. Oral ingestion was not the clones’ usual method of sustaining themselves, but it was utilized on ground campaigns with some frequency and the clone had eaten before although he was not fond of the sensation. Now as his body felt as though it were crying out he wondered if he could even tolerate solid food if it was offered. 

For all that Prime had gifted them with sharp canines and strong molars their systems needed time to acclimate to solids, and even on ground campaigns it was standard practice to process food before consumption. Very few of them had ever ingested anything that they would have needed to chew.

Maybe he, The Breather, and all of their brothers were going to starve to death here on Etheria.

Maybe that's what Prime would have wanted.

The clone tried to curl in on himself but his limbs would not cooperate. He was dimly aware of his breaths growing shorter and his shoulders starting to shake, but it was if the sensations belonged to someone else. It was as if he was feeling an echo through the hivemind.

But the hivemind was dead.

All of them were dead.

He was crying again, short choked sobs rocked his frame as tears once again wet the bandages on his face. This time he could see, and the tears were not of relief.

The clone could see carnage and pain and chaos, he could see his brothers torn apart, but he could not feel them. He was weak and disfigured and alone, and he could hardly breathe from crying.

The clone did not wail, he did not scream or curse, but he wept. He wept and could not stop.

~~~

He did not know how long he lay there, lost within himself, a slave to his own fear, but by the time that a hand met his back and jostled the clone out of his misery it seemed that it had been an eternity. The clone stilled.

His tears had dried up but he felt yet more exhausted than before. The clone found that he was furious with himself. He had given in. He had lost control. Something soured deep within his chest at the thought that he had curled up and cried, and in his negligence failed to keep watch over his friend beside him. His self-appointed task was the one thing that he had been able to do since his injury and now his attention had lapsed. How could he be so selfish?

He ignored the hand on his shoulder for a moment longer to listen for The Breather. He listened and listened, but the steady rasp failed to make itself known. 

The space beside him yielded only silence.

As quickly as he could the clone rolled himself over, the ensuing pain from his sudden movement lost in a spike of terror that overrode all else.

As he turned the clone was met by the concerned face of The Breather; awake and reaching towards the clone across the void. The familiar face was drawn but alert, his green eyes open as he propped himself up on his elbow. 

"Oh!" The clone half choked as he tried to speak. He felt his heart stutter along with his voice as terror turned to shock. The Breather said nothing but his eyes were wide, surprised by the clone's sudden movement. They both held their breath as they took each other in.

"You're awake." 

His friend nodded, continuing to stare silently at the clone from his own cot. 

"Yes," The Breather eventually croaked, his eyes never leaving the other clone's. "Was I unconscious for long?" 

The clone sniffed and quickly wiped his face, wincing as his clumsy hand made contact with the pulverized flesh beneath his bandages. He took a long breath and tried not to look pathetic.

"I don't know." The clone answered honestly. As he pulled himself together he felt once again like a dutiful agent of Horde Prime; one who was communicating pertinent mission details to a fellow soldier. The feeling was comforting but fleeting. 

His friend was wheezing again.

"I have been awake intermittently for at least a day and a half" He continued, not letting his eye leave The Breather's face. "In that time you have slept beside me without waking." 

For a moment The Breather seemed to draw into himself, his eyes grew distant. The clone waited, his friend had been silent for so long that it seemed no struggle to wait now. Even if he never spoke again the clone felt that he would be content to know that The Breather was alive and awake. 

Eventually the other clone bowed his head, before pulling himself into a curled position on the cot. He was still in the propped half-sitting position but he lay facing the clone, he looked as drained as the clone felt. 

"The hivemind is gone." He said eventually, a dull finality to his tone. "If we are cut off from the hivemind, why are we still alive?"

"I don't know." The clone answered honestly.

"It's so quiet!" His friend whispered, looking anguished as his hands rubbed roughly against his ears. The clone felt his own twitch in response and found himself pushing aside a shock of pain as his cut left ear pulled against its stitches. 

“It is, it is.” The clone agreed. He kept his tone even, afraid to startle his friend. “But we are alive.”

“Why are we alive?”

“I don’t know.” It was strange to listen to his friend after he had been silent for so long, and stranger still to hear his own thoughts reflected back to him. Those thoughts did not hum through the hivemind, but were carried by the rasping voice of his new friend. “But we are. We are alive and if we want to remain so then we must be calm and not alarm the Etherians.”

“The Etherians!” His friend scoffed. “Why should we care what the Etherians think? Why should we care if they kill us, if Prime is not here why should we remain?”

A wave of frustration overtook the clone as he watched his companion lose his composure. He did not know if the fury stemmed from the behavior of his friend or his own thoughts and he didn’t find that he cared enough to dwell on it. If this emotional outburst continued it would surely draw attention to both of them, and after worrying so much about keeping The Breather alive it was unthinkable to imagine him throwing both of their lives away for nothing. 

Prime was dead.

Why should he care what Prime wanted? Prime couldn’t control him from beyond the grave, couldn’t help or guide him. Horde Prime was useless to him now. 

“We are still here.” The clone said gravely, feeling his brow crease sternly although the expression was obscured by the white bandages that bound his head. “Even if Prime is gone we are still here. I have decided to keep myself alive, and if I can I’d like to keep you alive as well.” 

“Why?”

“Because I want to.” And it was as simple as that. 

His friend looked as though he was going to continue to argue but as he inhaled the breath seemed to get stuck in his throat, pulling the other clone into a fit of sharp forceful coughs. His shoulders shook as he wrapped his arms around his bandaged chest clutching at some unseen wound.

Startled, the clone reached out, running his fingers across his companion’s heaving shoulder. He hadn't expected this. This intensity of emotion. 

Really he hadn't expected anything. He'd been living moment to moment when not wallowing in despair, and the idea of what would happen once The Breather awoke had barely crossed his mind. He'd wondered if his companion would be disgusted by him, but he hadn't stopped to consider anything else. Now his new friend was before him, awake, upset, and in the midst of a coughing fit that seemed as though it was going to go on forever, and the clone had no idea what to do.

It hurt—the not knowing, the helplessness—in a way that he had never felt before. The sharp ache in his chest was entirely new. His whole life had always followed a set path, he had always followed orders and obeyed the word of Horde Prime, and where had it gotten him?

His companion's coughing eventually weakened, quieting to painful sounding gasps. The clone watched on, unable to do more than stroke his arm in long slow movements. He hoped that it was calming. He hoped that it meant something. 

A moment of inspiration struck him as the gasps turned to wheezing. The clone reached for the half-full cup of water that he had abandoned on the small folding table that Dawn had left behind after re-wrapping his bandages. He didn't give himself time to hesitate before grabbing the cup and offering it to his companion. He pressed the cool ceramic against his shoulder and waited until his friend’s attention turned. 

"Wet your throat." The clone said, when his friend finally looked at him. "Slowly. It will help.”

He was still dizzy, still exhausted, but the clone needed to comfort the other however he could. Although he could not feel the echoes of his companion’s terror through the hivemind he could see it on his face and hear it in his voice, and like a phantom pain it hurt to watch. 

With slow hesitant movements his friend reached for the cup, and he guided it into his hands, mindful of the bandaged fingers. Reaching his arm as far as he could stretch the clone supported the vessel, providing stability to his companion’s shaky hands. And his friend drank, slowly. 

As he sipped on the water his breathing slowed. While his breaths were still short and pained, the terror in his eyes cleared bit by bit. The clone watched as his friend took in their surroundings, his bright green eyes flitting from palace to place, from the patients on their cots to the healers in their white and teal robes. His gaze lingered on the sunlight glittering through the curtained door of the healing tent, and the clone glanced after him, only looking away as his head throbbed from the light. His bad eye was pulsing with his heartbeat and though the clone did his best to ignore it the ever constant discomfort followed him. 

Eventually his friend lowered the cup and looked at him gravely.

“You said that you wanted to keep me alive. Why?” 

“Because you were here.” The clone said. 

It had all seemed so simple before, but now his clumsy words could not give justice to his motives. The feelings were so bright and pure, his desire to survive hummed through his core the way that the Words of Horde Prime should have. It was like distilled light, like hunger. Simple and organic and so suddenly obvious, despite the fact that mere days ago he would have gladly sacrificed himself for Prime and watched his brothers die in droves. 

“I couldn’t be alone, and you were here.”

His friend’s hands tightened on the ceramic cup, and he looked down. He didn’t understand.The clone felt his heart sink.

But then something in his friend’s posture shifted. He seemed softer, somehow.

“Thank you.” He said. While his friend still wouldn’t look at him, the clone felt his heart lighten at his friend’s words. He hadn’t done anything for acknowledgement—praise was more alien to him than the Etherian Healers that surrounded them—but it was a relief to hear something positive. 

His arm was getting sore, stretched out to support the cup, and he nudged it upwards, encouraging his companion to take another sip. His friend obliged, carefully. The clone suspected that the ease with which he took the water was due to the fact that he had eaten and drank orally before, he wondered if the other clone was a ground soldier like he was. 

Earlier—While he lay blind on the cot— he had heard the sounds of other brothers choking and coughing, likely a response to their need for hydration and nutrients coming in conflict with a lack of amniotic fluid within the healers’ tent. The clone supposed that it was lucky that he and his friend were more practiced at swallowing than some. His first few times had taken some perseverance. 

His friend finished the water, and passed the cup back to him, and the clone pondered over what they would need to do next. 

So far his strategy had been to lay as quietly as possible and not draw attention to themselves, but that plan could only be viable for so long. The clone could tell already that he needed nutrients, as well as further medical care. From what he had observed from Dawn and Mendus the bandages that stretched across his face covered carnage that was far from healed.

At some point while he had been unconscious someone had tended to his friend, but the clone had no idea what kind of injuries hid beneath The Breather’s bandages. Something was hurt inside of him, that much the clone could tell. His breaths wheezed with each inhale and they were short as though the very act of breathing pained his friend. There were also bandages wrapped around the other clone’s foot and hand.

He placed the cup back onto Dawn’s table.

Dawn.

She and Mendus had been kind to him despite the fact that he was their captive, they had changed his bandages and treated his wounds. If he wanted to have his injuries seen to, and to ensure the health of his friend, then they would be helpful allies. He was hopeful that they would at least. 

Laying back he let out a long breath. His arm dangled over the side of the cot as he closed his eye and let his head rest against the cot. He would need to make contact with Dawn again, she would be their best chance at moving forward. If he managed to get more information about their fates from her then the clone would be able to plan properly. He wondered what they were going to do now. 

He had always been a soldier, maybe he would conquer in the name of Etheria. While the clone had no loyalty to them if it meant his continued survival he thought he could do it. The very thought felt like a sin, as though he were being disloyal to Horde Prime, but Horde Prime was dead. If he planned on being loyal to the dead then he might as well have died along with him.

Maybe he would be afforded some leniency if he volunteered his service. The clone was not sure how useful he would be now—his left eye was almost certainly permanently damaged if not entirely ruined—but once he regained his strength his limbs would be as strong as ever. If the clone proved that he was useful he might be able to protect his companion in some way. Perhaps they would receive better nutrition  or shelter than those who resisted. 

“I wish I could tell what you were thinking.” His friend murmured. “Without the hivemind I might as well try to feel the mind of a stone.” 

“I was just… just wondering.” The clone replied, unsure of how to voice his thoughts. 

“Wondering?”

“Wondering how to keep us safe.” It felt silly. Just days ago he would have been understood entirely. Silently. It was the sort of thing that they had known about one another intuitively; and they had all been so similar, so devoted to Horde Prime, that they were as many extensions of one person. One Little Brother. 

Now he was one. Himself. The clone wasn’t sure if he liked that, but he decided that now wasn’t the time to be upset about such things. It wasn’t as though any of them had any choice. Now if he was to make himself understood then he would have to explain his thoughts. 

A hand reached over to brush against his fingers, instinctively he caught it and held. 

For a moment they lay in silence their hands clasped together in the voice between their cots, contemplative but trapped within their own minds. 

“I am going to keep us safe.” He vowed, his one good eye staring intently at the canvas ceiling of the tent. “I don’t know how yet, but I will. We will find a way to survive this.”

“Okay.”

*****

I cry when I'm hungry too lol

“companion’s” etymology breaks down into “one with whom you break bread” I like that a lot

I’m adding the “disordered eating” tag because the way that the clones have learned to consume nutrients is inherently disordered. They had no choices and have only experienced eating as we know it (orally) due to necessity, although I do believe that sipping water was practiced amongst the Horde if only due to its practicality. This story is not about Hordak, but I do headcanon that in his case this cultural disorder segued into a more traditional eating disorder

[yanderenightmare]

YANDERE ! BAKUGO KATSUKI x FEM ! READER

goodiebag WARNINGS: ableism, abuse, anxiety, blood, drugs, narcissism, slavery, torture, trauma, noncon/dubcon, yandere

PART ONE

SAFETY - part two

INDISPUTABLY MINE

She didn’t know how long she’d been out for. The remnants of a suppressed panic festering in her chest, simmering like charcoaled embers in her heart, still partially subdued due to the drugs still swimming about in her system, however ready to catch flame any second.

The sun was only slightly farther down the sky now as it was before. Whether that was an indication of how little time had gone or how much, she didn’t know. His teeth marks were ever present on her neck and chest the more consciousness she gained. Even though she had no way of seeing them. She felt them. Not only because they stung, but because they made her feel dirty, and weak, and fragile, and owned.

The more she squirmed the more she recognized other nips and pecks littered across her body, trailing down lower than just her chest. A sudden dreadful realization ran through her, the feeling cold and burning beneath her skin. Her clothes no longer adorned her body, and seemed foreign and unsalvageable in their singed state, where they were carelessly scattered on the floor next to her. What had replaced them was glistening drool that felt stiff but still wet, coating around the blossoming bruises he’d left in his wake.

“You look perfect like that.” The unmistakable tone seemed so strange and eerie and dangerous and gut-wrenching now. Making the thin hairs on her arms rise in cold-dreaded fear, as she met that crooked grin. Those vivid blood-irises and pupils alike blackholes, sucking her in and keeping her there with a death-grip. The other half of a hero she respected, looked up to even, despite his brash nature. “With my mark all over you.” She didn’t see a hint of that hero in the man before her. “Indisputably mine.” A villain had taken his place. A villain who ran his tongue over his lips, inspecting his victim.

In her increasing fear she nearly passed out again upon seeing him in the similar condition she was in. Bruises, or… rather deep unforgiving scars, some still healing, marring his sand-colored skin. Intimidating evidence that he’d survived far worse than she could ever imagine, ever even hope to have lived through. But, the state of his skin was only a mild concern that wavered over her, not exactly what caused the tremors ruining her. The fact that there was so much skin, too much skin without any coverage. He was nude, and proud; confident despite her obvious dread. Licking his lips like some beast. Admiring her from the threshold of the door. She would have felt disgusted if it weren’t for the thundering terror that rendered her sick worthless, as she was being looked up and down by the predatory heat found in his eyes. She still felt the nausea brew inside her, drawing her legs closer, not daring to look away as his large hand lazily rubbed up and down on his intimidating cock. His lingering gaze viewing her as though she was something already owned, already his, a resolution to prove it also evident among the drowning of crimson.

The cuff around her ankle suddenly felt that much heavier now as she was aware of its presence. How it would keep her from running. How it would keep her trapped, in his bed, naked, with him, just as naked, however infinitely less vulnerable.

She felt the spit bile up in her throat, eyes stinging. When he pushed himself off the wall and took a step further, she was soon spluttering out sobs that seemed to wreak though her with determination. His free hand stroking up her thigh with ease. She tried kicking, but her feeble struggles were nothing short of pitiful as he placed himself between her knees. The sinking of the bed mirroring seasickness, as she felt the overwhelming urge to throw up.

It was all so very consuming, the way her stomach seemed to fold in all those special types of fear people often go their entire lives without ever having met. Her guts turning, churning, winding like snakes inside her. Hiccupping, choking on her cries uncontrollably as his calloused hands once again found her waist, only now she didn’t have any fabric to separate them from her delicate skin. The thought that he’d touched and groped and played with her while she was drowsed out crept into her thoughts and shook her beyond what she could handle.

It was violent, Katsuki thought, looking down at the fragile creature beneath him. Beautiful. It was a prideful glee more than a sadistic one. It fueled him to think she was entirely at his mercy. To think she could do nothing to stop him, utterly defenseless, yet so very… beautiful. Why do Gods fall in love with such weak things? He pondered, while examining the contrast between his hand and hers, seeming massive and deadly against the elegance of her small one. She was something so untouched, so very soft, especially under the callous soles of his fingers. Naïve. Sweet. Cute. So very adorable. So small and weak and made for him. It was endearing, the way she didn’t even have the wits with her to protest or to beg or bargain. She barely even struggled, the strength of her cries too vehement for her to focus on anything else. She quaked instead, each sob more frantic than the one before, staggering through her body. Bound to tire herself out. Katsuki amused himself with the thought while containing her wrists easily in one hand pinned above her head, although it seemed exaggerated; unnecessary. He wasn’t really sure if he would at all feel it if she tried to pry her hands out of his grip. Touching her lovingly with the other hand, stroking down her chest, liking how her tits bounced with each of her heavy, earthshattering cries. He didn’t feel ashamed for his growing arousal. He was a God. It was in his right to do as he pleased. To reap his offerings.

His tip teased her entrance, precum smeared over the lips of her pussy. Not serving as enough wetness for him to push through, but his strength couldn’t be quarreled by the weak barrier. However, he was in no hasty mood. He was going to enjoy himself, thoroughly.

She’d wrenched her eyes shut, but as his fingers started ghosting tickles over her folds, sliding the tips through them every so often, she made to look down in horror. Her sobs had subsided enough, though she was far from being calm or collected, still consistently quivering. Her cheeks stained with raw, red wetness. Eyes spiraling from looking up at him to his teasing fingers as she tried twisted her thighs closed, but he kept her perfectly spread with his knees propped up under her. Eyes so bright and glossy, flecked with red; bloaty, just like her lips. With fingers still delving between the lips of her pussy, he licked up her cheek, swiping up at the salty, tender flesh. His tongue; boiling against the sensitive skin, before his teeth made to tug at her puffy lips, grinding the soft, plump chunk between them. The whimpers that followed sounded wet. Wet and mushy and delicious for his ears to receive. He deepened the kiss, growling as a threat for her to oblige him, something which she did when she felt the burning threat his hands provided against her delicate wrists. Hesitant kisses met with his brutal, overpowering ones. His tongue fighting against any resistance left in her mouth, only to be met with pitiful and delectable sniveling. “That’s right…” The words poured into her mouth. “Just obey.” She didn’t dare refrain.

He wanted to test that timidity, breaking apart from his assault on her mouth to plunge his fingers as far down her throat as they could reach. Smirking an open-wide grin as she choked, coughing spit all over his digits. Giving her no time to breathe before his mouth was back on hers. His fingers dipping playfully into her folds again and again before he decided to test out her tightness. One finger entered and he felt her jolt against him, sobbing a moan against his lips.

“You like that, don’t you?” She twisted unenthusiastically, whining while crying, trying desperately to wiggle away from him burying his finger knuckle-deep inside her. “You like my finger inside you?” He didn’t really expect an answer as he started pumping in and out. “I know you do.” He decided to reward her by stretching her pussy out with yet another digit inside her. She cried out this time, visible pain in her sewn-together brows. He only laughed while curling and scissoring his finger into the warm, spongy walls inside her, drawing out wetness and more woeful moans and gasps and whimpers.

Not wanting to disrupt those mouthwatering sounds escaping her lips, he made to bite and kiss at her neck instead. Her hands growing numb above her at how hard he was gripping her wrists. She wondered for a moment why he hadn’t tied them up instead, but found the unsettling result that he must draw an inane amount of pleasure by being the sole reason she was left so utterly defenseless. Tying her up would keep him from that satisfaction.

“You’re not paying attention.” He growled when the strained whimpers died down and grew more controlled than he’d like them.

Her musings were cut short as he added yet another finger. At this she shrieked. “Please…” She begged, whimpering and mewling. He felt the sounds reverberate beneath her skin, torrenting on his tongue and lips on her neck. He growled a groan into her ear, before it broke out into a low, patronizing chuckle.

“Believe it or not, I’m doing you a favor…” She was too distracted to feel the smirk up against her throat, or to detect the smugness in his tone. Wincing and gasping at how all three of his big fingers stretched out the ring of muscle inside her. The aching tender flesh sending sharp shoots of pain to rocket through her abdomen. “How on earth are you gonna survive me, huh? If you can’t take three fingers inside you, I wonder how loud you’ll howl when you take my entire cock.” She began sobbing again, crying through her moans. “Poor little baby…” He kissed down her breasts, sucking and biting at the nimble flesh. Taking her nipple into his mouth and pulling at it with his teeth. “Let me kiss it all better.” There was a growl present in the sentiment, and it shook her to the very core.

His hand let go of her wrists as his fingers quit their unrelenting pumping in and out of her, to assist in holding her spread open for him when he moved down to lick between her folds. She pushed at his head with her newly freed hands, but the struggle was short-lived when he grabbed each wrist in a new deadlock in each of his fists, as he propped her up under his arms. She made a series of protests and pleas. Begging, pleading for him to stop, but he simply replied by teasingly dragging his tongue agonizingly slow up between her slick folds, only to flick off at her clit. The act earning him a shaky moan which his ears fluttered upon hearing.

“Don’t worry your pretty, little head about it. Your hero’s gonna take good care of you.” He twirled his tongue around the sensitive pearl, before flattening it on top, closing his lips around and sucking the skin into his mouth.

Her knees started shaking, weakening, submitting. He smirked up against her, swiping his tongue up and down in a quick pace, before moving back to her clit and flicking from side to side. And, despite her arms continuing to struggle, her lower half was melting beneath him; surrendering. He knew exactly what strings to pull to make her back arch upward and for the moans to come spluttering past her lips. Relentless in his conquest too. Lapping, biting, sucking, growling at the tenderness found at his mouth for him to devour, for him to conquer, for him to storm into surrender. And, just as she felt the guilty knot brimming inside her, he pulled away with a mellow kiss, a stark contrast to the earlier ravaging. Inching back up to place his throbbing cock at her drooling pussy. Planting his hand on her chest, just between her lungs, her useless fists weakly banging at his arm as he steadied himself. His other hand gripping his cock to better place it against her.

Her eyes wild and frantic as they looked up at him, shaking her head hysterically. “Katsuki, please-” Was enough for him to push inside her, all in one quick thrust, feeling her tight walls pulsate against him. He intended to go in slowly, but she was sending him over the edge with all her begging. To both their surprise the sound that escaped her sounded oddly pleasurable and not as though she was being defiled. Something in between the mix of a gasp and a moan, only barely a wince embedded into the wet noise.

His whole length inside her, feeling the warmth of the snug fit wrapped around him. She felt as though she could feel him up in her throat, as she choked. Her head spiraling, ascending.

His mouth hung upon, eyes closed in euphoria. “Fuck-” He pulled out slowly, letting her feel every muscle, every ridge, every vein of him inside her. Almost all the way out, he snapped forward again and this time she made a moan so pure, so sweet, so ambrosial. Again, he pulled back slowly as his hand dove to push down into the plush flesh of her breasts and started tweaking at her nipple roughly, pinching, her hands lazily holding onto his arm. She moaned so beautifully for him when he started lolling his hips into her, letting her get used to his size before increasing his tempo. “You take me so fucking well…” It was so far from ashamed, the way he groaned and moaned at her tightness enveloping him. As though made for him.

As it seemed her arms were rendered useless in the unwanted state of bliss she found herself lost in, he took the opportunity to grab under her knees and push them flat against the bed. This way, he could better slot his head in the crook of her neck as he started thrusting, rolling his hips into her harder and faster for each time he bottomed out inside her. His heavy balls slapping against her ass served as yet another lewd noise that filled the room, echoing off the deliberately barren walls. His ears perked up and perched right next to her mouth, all her little sounds so sheer for him to drool over.

She was again shocked by his painful thrusts back to reality, bringing her hands with her to push at his shoulder to get off. But, the tempo of which he now had adopted rocked her so violently, his weight unmoving on top of her. Her weak protests only aiding his determination to fill her up with his length. Her wiggles as well were constrained by his hands holding her thighs in place and only resulted in upping the friction and movement received by his cock pumping in and out of her. Her hands were her only means of weapons, as she made to scratch up his back in a feral attempt to make him stop, but he rather enjoyed that type of pain above what he would usually face in battle, it seemed in a strange way a type of affection he lusted for, especially when accompanied with her tight pussy clenching around his shaft, in what he thought of was needy and clingy and loving in all the right ways. “Pretty kitty has claws now, does she?” He chuckled, the labored breaths and grunts fanning over her chest, causing goosebumps to spread like wildfire on her skin. “Well… this wolf’s got fangs.” His bite sunk into her throat, on top yet slightly ajar from the previous bite he’d gifted her with. She wailed, quitting her terrorizing on his back, digging her nails into her own palms instead.

“Katsuki…” She moaned and he moaned in return at the sound of his name drip so sweetly off her tongue, removing the pressure his teeth had around her neck. “Please…” He licked up her throat, sucking up the taste of metal he’d made surface, biting at her earlobe when he reached it.

“Are those the only words you know?” He snickered in her ear. His weight nearly suffocating her, his thrusts so deep and so fast and so hard and so very crucial. “Have I melted your brain that much already, huh?” Groaning and moaning and grunting savagely into her neck. “That’s right… those are the only words you need to know. That, and telling me how much you love me, how much you adore me, how much you love being mine, how much you love my cock, how much you love it when I fuck you into oblivion…” He continued rambling, each word barked out as he pushed his twitching cock inside her welcoming warmth and comfort, her pussy pressing around him in a tight embrace.

“Please, Katsuki…” She said again, her voice a mix of a whisper, a whimper and a moan. “Go slower… please.” Her begging was so sweet, but he couldn’t possibly relent now, not when she clung to him like this, his body melting into her, her thighs sticking to him in sweat and juices, he needed this, she needed him, he wasn’t going to stop.

“Beg me some more.” It was low and guttural whisper, more of a prayer than a command. He couldn’t help it, not when she was clenching so tightly around him, sucking him in. Not when she was so wet, dripping, drooling, around his cock, just for him. She did as he said, begging with his name spilling from her lips. He responded by hoisting her one leg over his shoulder to free his hand, moving it down to her clit, thumb rubbing rough circles upon the highly sensitive spot. She gasped and moaned, clinging to him harder, saying his name again and again until he really couldn’t hold back any longer. Thrusting quicker and harder, building up into one last time with one loud and heavy moan, hitting even deeper inside her, emptying his balls into her quivering pussy as he nuzzled soundly in her neck. Heavy panting against sweat-slicked skin.

His drool coating her and running down her chest, relaxing to feel every bit of his orgasm, savoring it. He made a couple more, slow and careful pumps into her, feeling his cum drip down his shaft at each movement. She uttered something about how he was a monster, but he chose to ignore it in his bliss, keeping on rubbing those quick patterns over her clit, feeling as she wiggled under him.

Taking ahold of her throat, as he kissed down her chest once again, licking up the taste of her sweat. “Beg me.” His words were muffled into her skin. “You want me to make you cum?” The condescending tone was unbearable as his thumb slowed its friction against her clit, his cock still biting at the sweet spot inside her.

Nipping at her nipples, tightening around her neck when she tried to wrench his head off her. “Yes… please, Katsuki.” She clawed at his hand around her throat, but it only resulted in him tightening his hold. “Please, please, make me cum, Katsuki.” His grip relented, content with what he had reduced her to. Keeping his cock inside her, his thumb racing over her clit again and again until she came all over him, her back arching into him in the softest from of gratitude.

She whimpered, obviously disgusted with herself, while the both of them panted their hot breaths onto each other’s skin. “So… fucking perfect.” He continued circling her clit with his thumb, despite her growing panicked restlessness beneath him. “Just for me.” Moving both hands to wrap around her neck, he growled at her to kiss him back. She complied with a whimper, trying her best to compensate his hungry kisses. “Tell me you love me.” He pressed on her neck, as she started crying again. Her orgasm still crippling and waving through her, she didn’t even want to look at him.

When she didn’t answer, he decided to pressure her neck even more. Sniffling and choking, feeling the soreness sting in her throat both from his iron-grip and from all the sobbing and screaming she’d committed since Katsuki decided she belonged to him. She managed to force the words out with a strangled struggle. “I, I… I love you…” He stopped his tight hold, biting her lip. Her legs still held up with him placed between her thighs. Skin to skin.

“Say my name.” He commanded softly, resting his forehead against hers, enjoying the slippery of sweat between them.

“I love you, Katsuki.” Her large, shimmering eyes stared into his crimson ones, the scent of caramel more overwhelming than ever. He finally pulled his cock out and praised her as he climbed off. Settling in beside her instead, pulling her body into him, chin resting atop her head. She heard him say it back, feeling his cum seep slowly out of her, knowing that she should be expecting the same thing tomorrow.

She cried, too scared to sleep as she felt the unrelenting, low growling from the monster behind her.

PART ONE

[transrevolutions]

some people in the notes of my earlier “if we talked about other things like we do about autism” post

 *cough cough, @thecoloredcanvas ,cough, cough* 

couldn’t quite believe that I wasn’t lying for clout.  so here I present the companion post, Actual Ways People Talk About Autism!

!!!! DISCLAIMER: I, AN AUTISTIC WOMAN, DO NOT SUPPORT OR ENDORSE ANY OF THE IMAGES APPEARING BELOW OR THE GROUPS THEY BELONG TO. !!!!

TW FOR EXTREME ABLEISM UNDER CUT

(wah wah such a tragedy my child has autism how terrible how will I ever cope with this)

(and was this written by an autistic child? no. no it wasn’t. enough said.)

(dude what the hell is it with y’all and virtue signaling? you aren’t a paragon of philanthropy for being a decent fucking parent)

(I’ll bet you my entire bag of potato chips that this was written by a person without autism. like c’mon that’s literally not helpful in the slightest)

(new challenge apparently: can we be sexist and ableist at the same time? also please stfu it’s not a fucking disease we should be funding stuff like cancer research that’s an actual disease that can be cured not a literal spontaneous mostly-harmless gene mutation)

(neurotypicals be like: this isn’t something I do so it’s automatically poor and inappropriate ;-;)

(in this house we don’t put up weird pretentious signs calling us extraordinarily tolerant people for literally not abusing our kids)

(likewise to above but also if you’re trying to “fight” your autistic kid to do something chances are either you’re woefully undereducated or someone needs to call CPS)

(the one on the right is what gets it for me. once again why the fuck are you complaining about how hard it is to literally treat your child like a human person)

(how many times do we have to say that we’re sick of the fucking puzzle piece?! bonus points if you don’t even take the time to spell check it.)

(ah yes the classic ‘autism is a horrible deadly plague’ argument)

(love the fact that this is for a teacher, not an actually autistic person)

(again... is this really your place to talk here?)

(for context the above image is directed towards high-schoolers)

(note how it says the mission is to support the families and friends, not the people)

(virtue signaling, anyone?)

(see? the classic lowercase kiddie colourful font. a+ graphic design, totally isn’t hard for autistic people to read /s)

infantilization much? you know most autistic people can tell people these things themselves...

(note that it said literally nothing about accommodating autistic people at this event)

(once again, no accommodations listed for autistic people except for the sensory nightmare that is this flyer. seriously wtf is it with bullshit awareness groups and shit that looks like it’s a powerpoint by a sixth grader?)

(strike out autism. you basically want me to like not fucking exist anymore, or at least not exist the way I am now. what the literal actual fuck.)

(the headline says it all. if this is directed at adults, why does it look like it’s directed towards middle schoolers??)

@thecoloredcanvas​ if this isn’t enough fucking evidence for you, I don’t fucking know WHAT is.

[flying-elliska]

so, I finished the magnus archives ...(spoilers)

unfortunately i'd been spoiled for most of what happened in it but it was still cool to listen to especially since the audio work on it was incredible (those haunted tape noises are the coolest thing i've ever heard on a podcast, it was so slick)

it worked for me on the level of the emotional reaction. it was very sad and poignant. i often find horror stories difficult because either the characters are assholes and then i don't care and the whole thing becomes pointless for me or i get too attached to the characters and then I'm devastated when bad things happen to them and this was definitely the former. I really wish these characters existed in a spooky paranormal fantasy/workplace comedy-drama where they could get the comfort and overwinnings they deserved, but alas. i get they were bound by the genre though and that bad things needed to happen. i think they did a good job of balancing the horror and tragedy and not making it too grim at the same time.

it didn't blow me away either tbh, like for instance the s4 ending did. but i think after all the insane levels of world-building up they did, it was bound to be a bit underwhelming, with some arcs and characters left underused (Agnes!!!!). it misses a bit of a wow factor i had at other times in the series. the thing with horror is that there is only so far you can push character growth before it becomes too optimistic, and so when you go really deep into a character arc that's not strictly a corruption, it can often feel frustrating and unfinished in terms of emotional payoff.

I have mixed feelings about s5 as a whole. It's really cool that they experimented with something new, the concept of the fearscape is fascinating, and some of the statements are among my favorites in the whole show (the Sick Village, Recollections, the Gardener, Wonderland, the Processing Line, Moving on...) and really bring the cosmic horror/metaphor for the horrors of capitalism/ableism/abuse/etc in a way that feels strangely cathartic and understanding and glorious - but a lot of the others, especially in act 2/3, felt very forgettable and repetitive, and less like stories that could stand on their own, which i loved about the more traditional statements. Once it becomes clear that Jon (and Martin as a consequence) can't really be hurt, and the more it all becomes very detached from the real world, the sense of doom and foreboding that they did so well throughout the whole show kind of vanishes. The tension weirdly feels lower because the worst has already happened. I really believe in 'more is less' when it comes to scary things, and in a hell world where everything is horrible everywhere, it has less impact after a while. I did love the relationship between Jon and Martin providing those moments of humanity and warmth in the midst of it all, though, that was sweet.

the end itself...well, I found the dilemma interesting on a character level. of course Jon would sacrifice himself ; he feels so guilty he would doom the entire world to die rather than have to shoulder even more guilt for the fears potentially conquering other dimensions. he's spent so long feeling powerless and out of his depth that he would grasp this chance to finally make a choice and have agency and protect at least some people and keep the fears from extending their reach. but i love that he wasn't able to see it through either. it's so human. him and Martin breaking their promises to each other isn't miscommunication, it's deeply rooted in their respective personalities. of course Martin would do anything not to lose Jon since that love is basically the thing that saved him from the Lonely.

i don't think any of the options they had were the 'right choice' - both were shitty and atrocious, but the one that ended up happening is the one i would have picked, because it leaves some space for hope. If Jon had chosen to end their world to trap the fears, killing billions of people in the process, that would have been certain doom. With the fears sucked into other dimensions - first of all they had no certainty that the fears didn't already exist somewhere else, and any of the other worlds still have a fighting chance. I mean, it still sucks tremendously, it's very scary and ethically questionable and a massive risk, but at least it's open and it leaves it up to the people in the other worlds to make their own choices. And their world has a chance to recover. I find the idea that people remember what happened and the concept of a post-post apocalyptic world fascinating. I also really like that Melanie, Georgie and Basira (and the Admiral) made it out alive, and that we don't really know what happened to Jon and Martin. For a horror podcast that's super dark, violent and depressing, it's kind of awesome how they managed to sidestep 'bury your gays' very elegantly.

I've read this head canon somewhere of Jon and Martin being scattered across dimensions as these not-quite-human anymore entities that work to warn people and counteract the fears, powered by love and the desire to make things better, and I think that's my favorite post-canon option, because while it's still kind of a horrible fate it's also the one that gives them the most agency and it's also kind of romantic (way too much for a horror podcast, I'm aware, but i like that open endings like these allow you to make your own decisions about what happened).

also, the Web won, which is terrifying. the idea that it's using people as neurons ! horrible. amazing.

on a philosophical level I'm not sure i find the whole thing all that interesting, as a thought experiment, because i don't believe the universe is this consistently evil in the real world, so i don't find it super relevant. I'm also not the kind of hardcore fan who remembers a lot of details about previous seasons, so maybe I'm missing something.

But yeah overall I think in terms of storytelling this remains a pretty decent ending with enough layers to make it satisfying. it wasn't transcendent but it didn't ruin the whole thing, at least (*cough cough the Black Tapes*) and I can see myself listening to it again in a few years. and i'm definitely going to need a few fix-it fics now.

[eggytranslations]

Volume 1, Chapter 1-Ambush

Content warnings: death, ableism, suicidal thoughts, mention of racism?

The whole thing happened so suddenly.

“Thump—”,  a small blue and white porcelain bowl fell to the ground, rolled twice, and fractured into several small pieces. At the same time, the shiny brass bell that had been polished by time also fell from a great height, jingling twice with an especially alarming panic, and then slumped over beside the fragments.

“Shaoye…shaoye, shaoye...somebody help! Shaoye has been bitten by a snake!...”

The shrill voice cut through this early spring afternoon, a rare bright and sunny day. Very quickly, endless bustling footsteps came from the originally tranquil mountain courtyard—kick and clatter—you could even hear the sounds of these panicked footsteps knocking over things. 

Shen Qingxuan widened his eyes to stare ahead, working hard, trying to get a glimpse of the beast that had bit him, but his eyes were blurred, as if they were covered by a layer of thin white gauze, so no matter how hard he tried he could not see clearly. Internally, he could not help but be stunned by the snake’s powerful venom, but also secretly think, man proposes but God disposes. He had thought of countless ways of dying, yet how could he have foreseen that he would ultimately end by a snake’s venomous fangs?

Thinking up to now, in his heart of hearts, he was not shocked, and just closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware that the servants who rushed over had moved him from the chair, and were frantically calling for the physician while yelling for someone to fetch the antidote pills.

And anything after that, he did not know at all.

The eldest young master of the Shen family was bit by a snake in his mountain villa.

This news travelled like the birds in the mountain forest had flapped their wings and carried it out themselves, taking only a cup of tea’s time before sounds of horse feet came from the originally tranquil mountain path. One after another, the horse carriage and silk sedan chair

finally arrived outside the doors of the mountain villa in a rush. 

The rider on the horse and the noble in the sedan hurriedly disembarked, entered through the doors, and without anyone greeting them, burst into Shen Qingxuan’s room. 

The man lay behind green gauze curtains with both eyes shut tight. His forehead was overtaken by an unclear black-purple color, that dense color was even gradually spreading throughout his whole face. His originally light colored lips became strangely flushed red from the contrast of his black-purple face. His refreshing outer appearance was completely gone. At a glance, he actually looked like three parts human and seven parts ghost already.

“Xiao Xuan!” An elder with lightly frosted temples saw Shen Qingxuan’s state and let out a low cry that was sorrowful and grieved to the utmost point. “My son!” He cried, as if he still had words to say, but could only choke.

“Laoye.” The uninvolved steward who stood to the side quickly interrupted his master’s grief, and reminded him, “Laoye should not be grieving now, the proper thing to do is to think of an idea to save shaoye’s life first.”

“Yes, yes.” Under the rush of grief for his son, Master Shen only woke up to his error through that warning, and he quickly got up with a hand over his eyes. Still choking with sobs, he asked the servant beside him: “Did you all remove the toxin yet?”

“There are always snakes, insects, rats, and ants on the mountain, therefore all the regular medicines are supplied. The antidote pills for snake venom have just been given to shaoye, but...the effects are not clear.”

“What kind of snake was it, could you see clearly?” the steward hurriedly asked.

“It was too chaotic then, this lowly servant could not see clearly. It was coiled on the pergola

in the yard, but it was also blocked by the branches. In my quick glance, I only saw a section that was as big as the mouth of a bowl…” the servant spoke and gestured, but once he finished speaking, his forehead was firmly slapped. The steward angrily said, “Glib-tongued servant, you are full of nonsense!” Ignoring the servant’s tearful complaints, the steward simply explained to Master Shen, “Laoye, Lu-mou also lived in the mountain forests as a child, but I have never heard of a snake that could grow that thick and big. Unless it is a python, but big as pythons are, they do not easily bite people, and their toxicity is even less likely to be this fierce. This servant must be speaking rubbish, he is only describing it so dreadfully so that he can be punished less.”

Master Shen was terribly upset, and could not handle this presently. He just angrily told the retainer to scram.

“Where is the bite?” The steward asked again of the servant girl who was shaking by the doorpost. She was Shen Qingxuan’s personal handmaid.

“On the wrist.” The maidservand’s face was pallid, and she anxiously added, “Since the sunshine was good today, shaoye wanted to sunbathe, so I wheeled him into the yard. As usual, shaoye wanted to drink a pot of floral tea at that moment. After making the tea for shaoye, I was going to bring some tea cakes, but just as I turned around and walked a couple steps, I heard the tea cup fall to the ground. When I turned back around, shaoye had already been bitten by the snake...” At this point, the maidservant already had tears in her eyes, and was sobbing.

“You saw that snake?”

“I saw it. That person was not lying. That snake really was as thick as the mouth of a bowl, and perched on the railing. When I saw it, it had just drawn back. I saw it was pitch-black, only its abdomen had a bit of gold. I have been on this mountain serving shaoye all these years, and saw some snakes that were beaten dead, but I have never seen such a large snake...”

“It was really that big?” The steward was still uncertain.

Her knees went soft, the girl kneeled on the ground, crying while vowing: “How would this maidservant lie about such an important matter? If there is a trace of a lie, then this maidservant shall die miserably!”

On this side of the room, the steward checked the testimony. On the other side, Master Shen suppressed his sadness to observe his son’s injuries. When he pulled out his eldest son’s wrist, he saw that the injury bitten by the snake’s fangs had already been crossed through with a knife. This helped him relax a bit, knowing a servant was quick-witted enough to promptly slit an opening and suck out the poisonous blood. But this snake venom is too aggressive; in just a short period, it caused a grown man to lose all his senses. Unfortunately, this toxin may have already entered the bloodstream, and would be difficult to clear!

Master Shen grasped that thin and pale wrist, his heart filling with sorrow. It is said that the eldest son is the pillar of his family. He did not have a son until he was 30, yet he let Shen Qingxuan fall into an ice cave at the age of eight. After the rescue and a high fever, not only did his son become mute, but his lower limbs were also damaged by the frostbite, and could only ever be paralyzed on the daybed. Master Shen originally thought it would be easy to raise and support him. There was no need for him to obtain fame and fortune; with the Shen family fortunes, there was no issue supporting the eldest son for his whole, peaceful life. However, who would have thought that at age 27, he would be bitten by a snake.

“That ruinous beast!” With a low shout, Master Shen even had thoughts to catch that snake and eat its meat raw.

“Laoye, do not worry.” The old steward, who has looked after the Shen family his whole life, yet again consoled. “Shaoye’s health has always been weak. Year in and year out, he has been rehabilitating in the mountain villa, therefore all kinds of precious medicines are more or less prepared. Maybe there is still a means.”

“What kind of means?”

“Does laoye still remember what happened during last year’s Mid-Autumn? Someone from Nanman, who had dealt business with the Shen family, gave a tribute of two pills that were said to be capable of relieving all the world’s strangest poisons?”

“I remember, I remember. I saved that medicine. ...Does it really work?”

“Laoshen does not know either, I am just told that the Nanman wetlands contain poisonous insects and wild beasts in numbers. This pill might really have miraculous effects, perhaps?”

“Then why have you not fetched it?” Master Shen stood up in a hurry.

“Aye.”

The medication was quickly retrieved, dissolved in warm water, and administered. As he was fed the medicine, Shen Qingxuan’s jaw was clenched tight, his facial muscles rigid, seemingly a hair’s breadth away from death.

The whole room was engulfed in a state of panic, and the air felt heavy.

Night fell, and the servants lit the oil lamps. Light and shadow quivered.

Shen Qingxuan’s bedroom door opened sometimes and closed sometimes, people shuffling out and in.

Yet not one person noticed, in the swaying shadow of the oil lamp, there quietly stood a man.

Black hair flowed loosely down to his waist. He was also dressed in a black robe, standing with both hands behind his back. The lapels of his robe were embroidered with gold thread into simple decorative patterns. Expression ice cold and lips pursed, he was standing there for who knows how long.

Not one person noticed, and even the people who brushed past him did not cast a glance at him. If anyone had seen him, they surely would not turn a blind eye to this man that looked like a demon on earth.

But indeed, not a single person knew his presence.

The night grew late, Master Shen was tired in both body and heart. He wanted to keep vigil by his son’s bedside, but old age ruthlessly shackled his parental affections. It was the end of February, and although spring had begun, the nights were still cold. After a few soft coughs, Master Shen faintly felt his head start to hurt. Under the steward’s encouragement, although he was loath to leave, he still went to a room warmed by charcoal fire and lay down on the bed.

In the bedroom, there were only the steward and three servants left still looking after Shen Qingxuan.

After another two double-hours passed, Shen Qingxuan, whose breathing had been shallow, gradually gained a steadier and stronger breathing sound. In the shadows, the unmoved, standing man slightly raised his eyes. His eyes showed a spark of surprise; he did not believe this world had an antidote that could actually detoxify his venom.

As expected, when he concentrated a bit to take a closer look at the gaunt and frail man lying on the bed, it dawned on him: this is the so-called rally before death.

Those antidote drugs, at most, only delayed a few threads of time. Antidote? Pure delusion.

Shen Qingxuan struggled to open his eyes. His heavy eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, no matter how he tried, he could not open them.

However, the servant girl waiting by him saw his movements, and joyfully shouted: “Shaoye, shaoye!"

Her noise had a rash joy, and woke up the small courtyard and mountain forest that just fell asleep.

Very quickly, Master Shen came over dressed in a cloak

and did not even stop to put on his socks and shoes. He frantically ran, and yelled: “Xuan’er, Xuan’er...Have you awakened, Xuan’er? Dad is worried sick...” 

Perhaps the calls of his family gave Shen Qingxuan strength, his quivering eyelids worked to open, and finally they budged. His eyes were slack, taking a moment to focus until the depths of his eyes had some liveliness. 

Shen Qingxuan slightly opened his mouth to speak, yet could not make a sound.

But everyone knew he said, “Dad.”

“Ah, dad is here...” the old man immediately burst into tears. Master Shen did not even care to consider how many years he spent with the stance of an elder, he shakingly grabbed his son’s hand, murmuring, “Qingxuan ah, do you feel better? If you are better, then Dad will be so relieved…”

Shen Qingxuan used all his strength, just to barely pull his rigid face into a small smile. Internally, however, he somehow knew he could not escape death this time. His whole body was entrapped in a sense of paralysis with no ability to move. Whenever he breathed, his nostrils filled with a fishy sweet scent; what’s more, in front of his eyes were bursts of pitch-black with intervals of clarity.

The sensations when one is on the brink of death are probably like this.

Actually, there was nothing to dread. For disabled people like him, death was really not as dreadful as living.

Only, he could not bear to leave his parents and younger brother.

These years, his family was the only pillar he had to support him in continuing to seek happiness in life. Everytime he thought about his parent’s pitiful grief after his passing from this world, he could not bear it in his heart.

He thought about his own death, not because he was abandoning and resigning himself to despair. These years in the wheelchair, he actually grew accustomed to this existence of not being able to take care of himself. Burying his childhood dreams of flourishing a whip and riding a horse was not a very challenging task at all.

He thought about his own death because his health was deteriorating year after year.

Before, he could occasionally bask in the sun, call someone to push him, and go for a stroll in the wooded forest.

But in the last two years, he was getting worse. Catch a little draft, and he would be ill for a period, each time more serious than the last. Eventually, it became so bad he could not get out of bed for a month or two.

This winter, he did not go outside. He barely even opened the windows.

He finally recovered, and wanted to bask a bit in the sun, yet he startled a snake that had just ended its winter hibernation and was out to bask in the sun as well.

Thinking of this, Shen Qingxuan could not help but smile, and think to himself that this sunbathing, it seems, whether for himself or the snake, was not comfortable.

He knew in his heart that the snake was just sunning itself on the railing at first, and he was sitting in his chair—man and snake minding their own business. 

They could have lived harmoniously in peace and returned to their respectives homes after sunbathing.

But somehow a soiled piece of leaf just had to fall into the clear tea water. His natural disposition preferred cleanliness, so he, immediately and without another thought, threw out the bowl of hot tea.

At the time, he did not see that snake. Once he realized it was improper, the tea had already been thrown out, and had drenched those shiny black scales with steaming hot water.

The startled snake turned its head around and took a bite out of the hand he did not retract in time.

In truth though, it was more of his own fault. Such hot water, nevermind a snake, even a mere rabbit would be startled enough to retaliate.

It was a very mighty snake. He only caught one glimpse of it, then got distracted by the pain and had to look away. But Shen Qingxuan still remembered that the snake was gleaming black all over; when crouched with its head erect, its neck and abdomen gleamed golden yellow, which was particularly dazzling in the light of the afternoon sun. Later, he wanted to take a closer look, but could not see clearly anymore. He also was not sure if that snake was scalded or not.

It is said these kinds of apodal animals are completely covered with small scales, and probably are not really easily harmed by a cup of hot tea.

In front of his eyes was another moment of extremely dizzying blackness, to the point that even the sound of his father’s voice by his ear was also drifting away. Shen Qingxuan still wanted to listen hard to what his father was saying, but could only hear the beating thunder in his ears. All the disorderly fragmented sentences came through the thundering, yet were still unable to reach his mind. Shen Qingxuan only knew that his father was speaking, but no matter how hard he exerted himself, he could not hear clearly what exactly his father was saying.

Shen Qingxuan knew well enough that his life was at its limit, internally, he was not sure if he was more melancholic or more relieved. He always knew he was a person not long for this world, but the arrival of this scene still caught him off guard.

The concern in his heart made him want to have one last look at this world that had accompanied him for 20 some years. Even if he barely had the strength to breathe, Shen Qingxuan still worked hard to open his eyes wide—the scattered expression within his eyes was also stubbornly gathered back—to gaze at his family. Focusing for a protracted moment.

His father who was normally healthy and well maintained, appeared old and ragged at this moment. The old steward who had rushed about and busied himself for the Shen family his whole life, the maidservant who had already cried into a mess, all of the familiar people who had been doing their best to take care of him all of these years...his eyes slowly, almost rigidly, moved over everyone’s face, Shen Qingxuan haltingly lifted the corners of his mouth, and showed a shallow smile. As if saying goodbye.

His smile was quite faint, appearing ferocious and crude on his currently three-parts-human-seven-parts-ghost-like face.

Yet, it displayed a profound fondness for and reluctance to let go of living.

Such a despairing fondness, yet it also carried a relief towards death.

Perhaps this smile was too striking for the eyes and too startling for the heart. The cold and still man in the shadows, who had watched this entire scene from beginning to end, raised his eyelids. His pupils, which were as dark as the waters of the deep abyss, rippled from a sudden splash.

[amysgiantbees]

I need to yell about the Witcher 3 or I’ll explode and I’ve already accidently deleted this once.

The Witcher 3 is enormously sexist. I hate on principle anything that has hard and fast rules according to sex, especially in fictional settings, considering that sex is a spectrum and a social construct to an extent. But Witcher’s only being men makes even less sense since the reason given why is that women are weaker. Which again, is awful and incorrect.

Moreover, all the druids I’ve seen are men, all the Witchers are men, sorcerers can be anyone. Men literally can be anything in the Witcher. Whereas not only are women’s options severely limited but they must deal with societal sexism along with that.

Furthermore, the Witcher is SO white. Not only does it make the character design very repetitive and dull but it’s difficult to distinguish between NPCs sometimes. As well as the obvious racism of wanting to explore fictional racism with elves and dwarves but balking at being anti-racist in the game’s design.

I could also deal without the fat jokes. It really shows that if these white men creating this don’t find historical accuracy edgy or titillating – like including rape and gore – they ignore it. Because from the time periods they were borrowing from there would be less makeup especially in war times, people – including women – would be much hairier, and plus size people would be seen as conventionally attractive. Being plus size meant that you were of a higher class and had the funds to overindulge and not work, and the rich have the time to shape and indulge in the trends. So, they are envied and emulated and seen as more attractive like they are now. Also, there were more people of colour in Europe – the place inspiring this setting – than the Witcher itself has. So, it’s confusing that the modern representation of something is less diverse than the historical setting.

The writers being uninterested in anything that does not relate to them is shown in Ciri’s relationships in the game. Ciri can be practically naked surrounded by other near naked women but her only option for initiating any romance is with a man. She is bisexual but it does seem like the writers would rather ogle than give even representation. Not that her concrete stating that she prefers women isn’t representation. But is confusing when there are two siblings that you can only kiss the male one.

The lack of they/them pronouns is awkward in the dialogue, making it very stilted and grating. As well as actively taking away suspense. I never believed for a second that Uma might be Ciri. Giralt could talk about it all he wanted to, but he kept referring to Uma as HE. So, it was obvious from the beginning that he was the elven man she’d been travelling with. Making the twist instantly ineffective.

Side note, I despise that woman all wear heals constantly. It just looks so bizarre. I can deal with some stylisation, or slightly less than practical travel wear. But stilettos in a swamp? There’s no way a sane person would. It just doesn’t work at all and actively brings me out of the narrative every time there’s a close-up of them.

Also, it is a real cop out that the writers won’t allow their “big strong manly protagonist” wear high drag, just Yen’s pants when the boys are having a night together. If he’s so masculine a dress shouldn’t change that.

The romances are embarrassing. Why does Triss shoot herself in the foot and “friend zone” herself by calling Ciri her little sister? You are interested in Geralt, so even if you don’t want a mother like relationship with Ciri a sisterly one is not particularly appropriate. Do you want Geralt to see you like a child? Considering how immature you can be – which I’ll get to – you’d think you’d try not to make him see you in a paternal, platonic, or just patronising way. It’s confusing why she pretends to be drunk at the party. For one it is very desperate and cringy. Secondly it is very inconsistent with the character that was just confidently taking charge of this mission. Thirdly, you’d think she’d want to show she’d change from lying to him previously *cough* from the inane plot contrivance so the previous game could happen *cough* by being completely honest with him now.

Yennifer on the other hand seems too often come across as more sexual fantasy than fleshed out character. Yennifer’s character is also inconstant. I’m wondering if these men have ever spoken to a woman before. She is motherly, protective, determined, no-nonsense, confident in her convictions and knows her own worth. She’s flawed too, scoffs at people’s cultural and religious practices. Which I wish she grew more from; she could have shown faith in Vesimere from the beginning when it came to his ritual with Uma to show she regrets the garden and interrupting the wake and is trying to be better. Or maybe seeing the usefulness of what Vesimere did could have led to a tender conversation with Geralt about how this has made her see that maybe she should have done some things differently, found a different place to cast the spell, spilt some blood for the goddess. A flawed character is a well-made character but here is where she seems more object than person. When she gets unnaturally angry at Geralt for not wanting sex. Like how dare you do not want to play with the toy that we created. To compare it to another RPG game Dragon Age has its faults but at least the player is always given the option, and never punished for not wanting sex in a romance. Otherwise, I quite like Triss, she kind of necessarily pulls Geralt’s head out her ass but sometimes she is a bit too mean, nut usually with context it’s understandable, I think. Also the unicorn is just gross, like not to yuck anyone’s yum, but it’s nasty. 

Also like if the general insensitivity and ignorance written into the game wasn’t there and there was more than two queer characters as far as I’ve seen, I would think that Elihal‘s portrayal could be nuanced in how gender and sexuality do not dictate gender expression. But considering the game as a whole their character feels very “look at this weirdo” “no homo”. Cowards. 

The ableism is also just abhorrent. They would likely argue that the ableism featured is historically accurate - which I’m not confident that’s true - but then don’t have any representation of visible disabilities or just a variety of disabilities that would be historically accurate. 

Also it’s just disappointing that you don’t get hang out with Triss and Kira at Kaer Morhen during the Uma quest. 

[lonelier-version-of-you]

Not to sound dramatic but I feel like Jac's departure may mark the beginning of my losing interest in Holby. It's been a while since I've even sat down and watched an episode in its entirety since most of the stuff I just don't care for and end up skipping through *cough Cameron. I mean there are still characters that I enjoy but they're just either criminally underused & always in the background or poorly written. Sad because I love the show or at least what it once was

I’m literally only going to start watching again for Sahira/the possibility that Henrik will get ACTUAL SCREENTIME because of her, so I feel you.

The Cameron storyline is fucking exhausting. I get we had a break in production/filming and they had to rewrite stories, but you would’ve thought that would make them decide to get the Cam thing over with sooner rather than later. But no, they’re still dragging it out.

I love what Holby once was, too. But it’s just going downhill. So many long-running actors are leaving, which I don’t judge them for, but the problem is the writers aren’t using the newer characters enough either. Or they get rid of them within like a year, even when the actor seemed happy to stay (*cough*Roxanna MacMillan*cough*).

And don’t get me started on the increasing problems with bigoted writing (ableism, racism, sexism, transphobia etc.). Which has always been an issue to some degree (I mean, it was 5 years ago that we met Jason the Caricature), but it feels like it’s been getting really bad these last few years.

Like, I know people try to brush off the recent writing/story problems because of COVID, but this has been a thing since long before then. IMO the show started going downhill with the Gaskell storyline and has never recovered.

[leafenclaw]

For the “Ask questions about my WIPs!” game

@inkstainedfingers97 asked:

“Perchance would you be willing to send me a brief summary of the premises of "Gem" and "Fearful Symmetry" ?”

First of all, thank you for asking! ^^

Gem is actually one of my earliest Mentalist works, one of several character studies I wrote in preparation for another story called Visions (which I was supposed to go back to right after Chasing Storms, but then Kindred happened x3). The concept was quite simple, a long drabble in which Lisbon was pondering all the ways Jane reminds her of a diamond (the dazzling smiles, flashy tricks, cutting edges of his personality, the fatal flaw at heart, etc.). That said, 400-ish words in I realised I was pushing that metaphor just a little bit too far? XD So unless I recycle parts of it for Kindred at some point (perhaps for 2x09, with that subplot about a diamond Jane lost in the bullpen? ^^), it’ll probably never see the light of day and to be honest I’m pretty okay with that. x)

Fearful Symmetry is a different animal entirely. I don’t know if you remember 2x10 well, it’s the episode where Jane gets hit by a baseball and gets a concussion, so he spends the whole episode fainting and having intrusive memories of his father? And in one of those memories, you see him and his father conning an old lady and her dying granddaughter. For some reason as I was watching I started thinking on that kid, wondering what would happen to her if she survived after this. Would she think the crystal really saved her, or would she know it’s a con and resent the Janes for it? I followed those thoughts for a while, got mislaid by a few Shakespeare references, and ended up with a story in which Celia (the dying girl) is Red John, because the application of the crystal nearly killed her and she wants revenge on the boy who lied to her. x)

It’s not a happy story. Written in 2nd person from the POV of an extremely unreliable narrator, it’s meant to be an illustration of how a healthy mind can sink into really unhealthy thought patterns because of a single event, how holding onto hate and a desire for revenge usually ends up poisoning your own life, and (as the title implies) it was also meant to be a commentary on thematic parallels between Jane and Red John, how similar they are, how you just need to fill in a few blanks to realise they have the same nature.

Anyway. x) It was SUPER cathartic to write and I was all set to publish as soon as it was done... until a computer mishap ate half my progress (more than 5k gone, I had almost 12k by then), including a scene I struggled a lot on, so it never recovered. I’m still keeping that one on the back-burner though, it’s one of ten stories across all my fandoms that I definitely intend to come back to and complete.

Excerpt under cut. Trigger warnings for obsessive thoughts of hatred and revenge, graphic descriptions of pain, some internalised ableism, and violent rejection of morals and religion. (There may be other things, as I said it’s not a happy story.)

(Feel free to comment but please don’t reblog.)

*****

Fearful Symmetry

*****

"Breathe," says your grandmother softly.

And you do, one laborious inhalation after the other, even as the wet, squelching sound makes you shiver, and the pain tears you apart. You do, and you clutch the crystal against your chest – because it will help, won't it? It must. Your grandmother says so, and the Carney man at the fair said so, and the boy. The boy said so. The beautiful boy who cried for you, with the golden curls that makes you want to giggle and sigh and feel their softness under your fingers. He said so.

"Breathe," repeats your grandmother, and you do – again and again and again and why isn't it working?

"I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. You were robbed," says the doctor, shaking his head. "Crystals aren't magic. They can't heal anything."

But neither you nor your grandmother will listen to those lies, because you saw it. You saw the blister on the boy's finger heal with your own two eyes. How is that not magic? So you breathe, and breathe again, and cough up phlegm until even your grandmother pales and shakes her head.

*****

"What if – " you ask, then cough some more. "What if it needs to be inside?"

"Direct application," whispers your grandmother, eyes feverish. "Yes! We could put it in your oxygen tank – that should work. It will work, Celia. I promise."

Of course, no doctor will allow her to put a foreign object in your oxygen tank, not even a magic healing crystal that could save you. You should have known. They never took you seriously, even in the beginning. That's why the cancer was allowed to spread so far.

But you and your grandmother know what you're doing. You've seen it work. And when it does, when you're healed, you will walk back to the county fair on your own feet and kiss that boy right on his generous mouth to thank him for everything he did.

One day. If you dare. You need to heal first, for that to happen.

So you and your grandmother talk about it, and come to a decision.

Forget about the doctors.

Trust in the crystal.

Trust in the boy.

"Keep your eyes closed," whispers your grandmother, a handful of carefully grounded crystal in her palm. "I will blow it toward you. And when I say so, take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Are you ready?"

You nod.

"Now!"

You open your mouth wide and breathe, and cough, and open your eyes because it hurts so much, and dust flies in your eyes and your mouth is burning, your eyes are burning, your lungs, NO, burning scratching burning bleeding leaking painpainpain –

You scream.

*****

"What were you thinking!" bellows the doctor, somewhere on the other side of the door.

Your grandmother is crying, all hysterical sobs and blubbering mess, incoherent words of desolation falling out of her mouth like a waterfall. You want to tell her it's not her fault – it's not her fault, it's the boy's. The lying boy with his lying tears and those lying curls of shining gold you still want to feel under your fingers, except now you want to feel his lying throat bobbing up and down as you squeeze it just as much.

You want to tell her, but they hooked you up to your oxygen tank and you can't say a word, and you can't reach out to her either because you can't see with all those bandages covering your eyes.

Can’t, can’t, can’t do anything, anything at all.

"It's a miracle it didn't kill her on the spot!" yells the doctor again.

You can hear the angry breath he takes and releases, almost covering your grandmother's cries.

"Your crystal dust buried itself in the tissues, scarred her lungs and cornea," the doctor adds, so quietly you have to strain your ears to hear him speak. "If she was to live, it would be a miracle for her to escape pneumonia and infections. But as it is..."

You shouldn't be listening to this. But you do, you do even if you're not supposed to, even if you're supposed to be sleeping, and resting, and recovering. That's what they told you to do, anyway. Rest, and don't bother your pretty little head with grown-up talk.

Rest.

Rest in peace.

"Her last days will be painful," concludes the doctor. "Dying will be a kindness."

Your grandmother's wail covers every other sound.

The pang of shock in your mind covers every other thought.

Until shock turns to helplessness.

Then anger.

Then hate.

*****

You lie on your back, eyes closed as the priest anoints your forehead with oil, muttering blessings for your soul. Your grandmother cries softly by your bedside as you take one painful inhalation after the other. They've all given you for dead already, talking about you in past tense, hushed murmurs and sniffles in every corner of the room.

You don't care.

You're such a raw mass of unending pain. Nothing else matters but the burning in your lungs and the fever in your eyes and the pounding in your head that erases all ideas, all thoughts, all emotions.

Except one.

And the growing thirst for revenge sustains you in a way nothing else – no medicine, no prayer, no crystal – ever could.

*****

You never knew there was an emotion so powerful as to conjure up miracles – but if you had, you would have bet on love.

And you would have been wrong.

Love, in the end, wasn't enough to save you. Be it the love of God with its many prayers all through the night, or the love of Science on the altar of which you sacrificed your hair – both utterly failed you. Even the love of your grandmother only brought you worse suffering instead of the promised peace and relief.

Love wasn't enough.

But hate is.

Hate allows you to survive night after night until a full month passes. Hate allows you to hang on by a thread until breathing comes easier, until pain ceases. So slowly at first nobody notices you healing. So slowly at first you don't even notice it yourself.

Until you do.

Until they do.

"It's a miracle. Praises be to God," says the priest, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because there is no miracle, there is no God, there is only hate burning bright and hot inside you, turning the cancer to cinders and coal dust.

"It was the crystal. It gave her back her life," says your grandmother, and you want to tell her to shut up shut up shut up, because the crystal nearly killed you, the crystal scratched your eyes away and even hate couldn't give you back your sight.

"It was the treatment. In a few months, we may be able to graft her a new cornea," says the doctor, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because the medicine was never helpful to begin with, they didn't even bother treating your eye infection properly when they thought you were dying, and when you finally get out of here you will never trust a doctor again.

But you don't say a word – because you may be healed but you're still weak, and arguing over what exactly saved you would be a waste of time, a waste of energy. Instead you let hate eat away at any warm emotion you once felt, shield your mind with its cold, hard shell of frozen magma.

Who cares what they all think anyway? You know the truth, and at night you dream of a thousand humiliations and pains for the boy who grievously betrayed you.

[thegreenerartist]

I love how realistic tfc is when it comes to Kevin and Jean’s old allyship/friendship/relationship (?)

Like I love love Kevjean and Kerejean as much as the next person and I do want them to reconnect after the Nest, but Im glad that Nora had shown in the books that you’re allowed to leave friends that you’ve been with for a long time, those you relied on for a long time. It’s best for both of you. There’s too much history for you two to stay friends or become them once more. The other had hurt you too much

Idk I might be speaking from my experience (sorry I can’t elaborate :ll) but I like how Nora portrayed that. She’s not a perfect writer (far from it,,, *cough* the choking scene *cough* Nicky being predatory *cough* the ableism *cough* the-) but she knows how to make something feel real

Again feel free to make kevjean and kerejean stuff (I love them 🥺💕) but canon? It’s one of the things Nora did right.

AU’s where Kevin didn’t desert Jean are where I love their relationship most. When Kevin checks on him occasionally etc etc. He knew what would happen to Jean if he left the Nest, and yet he still did it. The least he can do is offer support from the (questionable) safety of the Foxhole Court