#that's more effort than i would have expected

[pommedepersephone]

As a mom with twins, a son and a daughter, I knew to expect to have to defend my daughter against stupid gender shit. I really did not have a concept of how much I would need to defend my son.

The patriarchy does not only hurt women. It hurts men. It hurts EVERYONE no matter their gender identity because it puts people in boxes to make us all easier to control. "Boys will be boys" isn't just used to gaslight girls into accepting bad behavior. It is used to justify harassment of boys who aren't fulfilling gender norms. And, in my experience, it's an excuse for us not engaging with boys and teaching them the emotional intelligence we then bemoan women having to bear the burden of for the men in their lives.

The most obvious and glaring example I can think of is the older female relative, who put intentional effort into encouraging my daughter - telling her that she was strong and smart and could be whatever she wanted. And then mostly just blamed my son for every fight he and his sister had. She was demanding a four year old child be "considerate" of his sister while completely ignoring his feelings herself. And I wish I could say that was one weird isolated example but it wasn't. Similar shit has played out over and over, and it has almost always been with people who would consider themselves progressives or liberals.

I see a lot of people piling on the guy above, but I have SEEN what he is describing with my son already, and he is only eight. I see both of my kids face weird judgement and criticisms for their gender expressions- we are a pretty queer, fuck the binary type family- but my daughter has been more likely to be encouraged and defended than my son for defying gender stereotypes.

So yes, if you want to fight back against extremism, then it requires kindness. Don't confuse this with "being nice" or coddling. But being openly hostile towards men-as-a-monolith is something that I have seen from people I absolutely did not expect and we have to call that shit out when we see it.

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[endursent]

- Opened doors

【 content; sunday x reader , astral express sunday , cockwarming (sunday giving) , anal sex , comforting , halovian biological headcanons , penis haver!reader , NSFW 】

【 note; this is for the penis havers and wanters out there of any gender. stay strong in the perpetual drought of reader-insert fics dedicated to you, you're stronger than any troops. can of course be enjoyed by anyone, as usual no gender nor appearance described. 】

【 word count; 2.450 | read on ao3 】

You had barely started and Sunday was already digging his fingernails into your sides—whether in protest or pleasure wasn’t clear by the action alone. He was so still and stiff you wondered if he had changed his mind. 

  “Sunday, if this is too much, we can—“ 

  “No—it’s fine, i-it’s fine,” his words aren’t very convincing, mumbled and stuttering as they are, so you try again. 

  “I can finish tending to your wings first, then we can do this,” it was slightly your own fault, you had offered him a seat while you go through his thinning wings to remove any feathers that have loosened but cling stubbornly to the ones around it… and Sunday is having a hard time already, giving him options isn’t the brightest idea right now while he’s adjusting. 

  He frowns slightly, chin on your left shoulder as his fingers stop clenching your poor skin and he instead wraps his arms around your torso, holding firmly. “No…”

  It’s impossible to read his thoughts on a normal day, and you expected it to be easier today—this isn’t your first time helping him through moulting, it takes several weeks to complete the process for adult Halovians and you’ve helped him through it once before… though it took some convincing to let you help. 

  Sunday is stubborn and reclusive, though he’s less avoidant now after so long with the Astral Express… he learned the hard way that trying to ignore or avoid certain members only makes them more persistent and determined, it’s still a great effort to get him to accept help. Not because he doesn’t want it—he does, so badly—but because he neither wants to take your time nor waste it on something he could do by himself and has always done.

  Unfortunately for him, you need to know his thoughts to help. “Hm, well, I won’t start until I know you feel well enough for it,” your own hands resting on his hips clap his skin lightly, just enough for a small smacking sound to snap in the air. 

  Instantly, he straightens as if a sudden burst of energy knocked him on the forehead, his golden eyes squint at you with the greatest offence he has shown. “What must I do—to prove it to you?”

  Almost as if defiantly, he clenches even further around you—he’s been holding on tightly already—and nearly forces a groan from your throat. He’s so damn warm, inside and out. It’s a dangerous combo, to have him warming your dick, and giving you that defiant look at the same time… you almost give in. Almost. 

  But you don’t particularly feel like having him pass out on you from the feeling of having his wings touched as thoroughly as you will as well as the intensity of cockwarming you at the same time. You prefer to have him aware and enjoying it just as much as you are. 

  “How about naming every world in the Tiberius system backwards?” 

  His wings twitch in agitation. “That—that’s not even a real star system.”

  “Yes it is,” you insist. “I read about it.”

  “Then why don’t you name them and—stop stalling?” he says, voice tinged with annoyance and impatience. 

  A smile spreads on your lips. “I’ll get started then.”

  He clicks his tongue in frustration. You didn’t want him to name anything—if Sunday had started blabbering some made-up names to get you to start and stop talking in desperation, you would have known he wasn’t in the position to do this. 

  Sometimes, you do like to use the perfectly functional brain between your ears. 

  His wings itch and ache, a dull throb that isn’t particularly bad during daytime when he’s out and about—but as soon as he takes his coat off, it intensifies until he massages for a long enough time or puts a salve between the feathers.

  As soon as your hands leave his sides—the assured hold that’s been anchoring him since he sank down onto your stiff length—he almost feels off-balance, but it’s quickly rectified once your fingers touch his wings and he whimpers at the touch. You had barely slid your thumb under the ridge of his left wing and between the first two feathers, and he was already twitching and shifting subtly, causing your touch to falter as his hips moved just little bit and you almost give in to the desire to snap your hips upwards, but rein in every single thought and willpower you can muster. 

  Maybe this is going to be harder for you than it will be for him. 

  Swallowing thickly and continuing despite your extremely distracting throbbing inside of his hole, you carefully and firmly—but gently of course—nudge and press against the sensitive feathers of his wings. You comb two out and the base of his wings appear thinner, your fingers brush by feathers that are emerging and they feel impossibly soft and delicate. 

  Halovian wings are sensitive—but they’re not necessarily stimulating, having them touched tickles at most, yet during a moulting when the flesh and feathers are so fresh and vulnerable, it somehow amplifies the feelings fivefold and can promote certain feelings of pleasure. 

  Sunday’s eyes flutter closed, eyelashes equally soft as his wings as they brush against his cheeks and he leans into your touch instinctively. “Mmh… wait, go back—there, again… just a little…” 

  You follow any instructions he gives, despite the way your heart races with every movement he makes the slightest movement, with the way his expression contorts into comfort and a focus on himself—where he can only feel the overwhelming touches and barely has room to consider your presence outside of the way you stretch him with a mild, twitching burn. 

  Releasing one wing to reach for the oils he had prepared on the bedside table next to you, Sunday peers his eyes open, but closes them again when he sees why you stopped. 

  Outside of the now two times you’ve done this, you don’t generally touch Sunday’s wings… mostly because touching them—or stroking them specifically is an intimate act that despite your relationship (that has never quite been defined, as he finds an escape at the mention of it) he’s been hesitant about letting you do. And you’re not one to be pushy if he feels uncomfortable, a step forward can quickly become two steps backwards if you push too hard. 

  But despite the difficulty of navigating this delicate companionship… you find it to be worth the hassle, after all, having his slim—though a bit boney lately, the moulting requires a lot of energy and nutrition to sustain itself, and you imagine he hasn’t taken the best care of himself that he could—body pressed to yours, his soft whimpers and breaths trembling with every press of your fingers as you carefully massage the sore appendages. Your own cock is buried deep within him, throbbing desperately for movement that takes half your focus to suppress, while his twitches stiffly between your stomachs, now leaking slightly against your skin as a feather that was half-loose detaches when you nudge it only slightly. 

  Sunday’s lips part as your finger touches the area where the feather just fell, and you feel a deep urge to kiss him, to slide your tongue between his open lips and feel the sounds he makes instead of just hearing them. But you fear that might completely overwhelm him to a point it might make him dizzy. You will have plenty of opportunities to kiss him later. 

  The oils both are both cooling and soothing, helping ease the ache that comes with the development and lowering of new feathers. It’s always a bit funny to see how his wings get shorter and thinner, like a baby bird, before they grow again into the expressive appendages that you love so much. 

  “Sometimes,” you start talking and Sunday’s eyebrow twitches, brought out of his thoughts and focus. “There’s six wings, where are the other four now?” 

  “Stop talking,” he mumbles. Half your focus is on tending to his wings and the other half on holding back from thrusting fiercely into his welcoming heat. Thus as soon as you open your mouth, your hands still. 

  “I’m curious,” you hum. “Tell me later?”

  He huffs as your hands start moving again, you’re almost finished anyway. “Fine…”

  Feeling a little mischievous, and pouty by his dismissive response, you lightly pinch the ridge of his wing where it bends—and immediately, Sunday jerks in surprise, his wing stretching fully as his eyes fly open and his entire body tenses. He hisses your name as he clenches so tightly around you, your vision nearly dots, warmth and sparks shooting through you like an electrical line and you can’t stop yourself from pushing further up into him.

  With both of you surprised and disoriented by each other, as well as you finally granting the delicious friction of movement—if accidental—Sunday grasps your shoulders tightly and inhales sharply. “C-careful…!” he blinks, the combined tingle of his wings and the pressure of your cock is a delicate balance that he’s very quickly losing hold of. 

  Your breath shakes when it leaves your lips, you feel dizzy with need, the suppressed desire you worked so hard to keep under wraps while you tended to him is very quickly slipping between your fingers. “Sunday… I’m not—sure I can…”

  He clenches his jaw, in equal trouble with himself as you are. “You got m-most of it… we can finish later,” it’s a long process of checking and preening through over a few weeks, you already found seven, that’s more than enough for one day. 

  It’s all you needed to hear, you’ll take good care of him after—now, you desperately need to move. You already prepared plenty of protein-rich snacks to promote a healthy moult, and you’re sure you’ll both be hungry after this. 

  Sunday lets out a strange sound when your hand lays on his lower back and presses him closer, you other goes around his back—and you turn the two of you around, Sunday’s halo clanks against the headboard as he finds himself on his back, he groans slightly and hits you lightly on top of the shoulder. “Y-you—don’t do that while you’re inside of me!” he chides. The feeling of so much movement and how you twisted slightly made him cringe even as it also felt slightly good—only slightly, he won’t admit to more so you don’t get any ideas of rolling him around. 

  Any thought of further scolding leaves his mind like the scattering of ash after a fire has been stomped out as soon as you drag your hips back, halfway out—and move back in. Carefully. 

  Sunday swallows thickly, he feels a throb pulse throughout his entire body, behind his eyes and prick the ends of his fingers and toes. His stomach is wet, his cock freely leaking more than he’s sure he ever has before he’s even reached a high. He breathes your name and his nails dig into your shoulders, you seem so focused—but he wants your eyes to be on his. Before, he might’ve been embarrassed to lock eyes with you, but right now, he feels that he might cry if he doesn’t see you. 

  You blink, the breathy sound of his voice carrying your name to your ears snaps you out of your focus—to not thrust wildly, to not grab his hips in a bruising grip and lick the mess off his stomach. Your eyes move before your head does, and you see the watery squint of his eyes, the slight scrunch of his eyebrows and you fear you moved too fast—perhaps you should have pulled out before flipping him down, did it hurt him? 

  “Sunday,” your hand moves from the mattress next to his head, your fingers—still slightly fatty from the oil—brush over his cheek, his lower eyelid twitches as the tip of your thumb slides below it. “Are you okay? Should I stop?”

  Surprisingly, he smiles. A small tug of his lips that feels like a rare treat to see, it’s infectious and you smile in return. “Continue?” you ask, having stilled as soon as he uttered your name. Sunday nods, not quite trusting his voice to form words in a way that won’t sound embarrassing. 

  You lean down and press your lips to the edge of his eyes, they squeeze shut the moment before you touch them, and you feel a tinge of salt from unshed tears. 

  He trusts you, you take good care of him—always have, despite his tendency for doubts and isolation. You will always be there when he opens the door again. 

  The drag of your cock pulling back and pushing in again burns slightly, but with repeated movements, the feeling of pleasure overwhelms the pressure. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and tugs you into him, his thinned wings tickle your cheeks and shoulder as he presses his nose into your neck. Sunday can’t hold back his moans as you slide one hand under his thigh and lift it only slightly, managing a deeper angle without lifting his hips too much. 

  “Nghh—w-wait, that’s—“ Sunday jerks slightly as you rock into a particular spot inside of him, his entire body feels alight and his joints freeze as they are. His breath deepens as his back bows and his head tilts back, and you can’t help but press your lips to his, swallowing his moans and whines as his leg that’s not firmly in your grasp hooks around your waist. His words are muffled and clumsy against your lips as you increase your pace, he clenches around you in a rhythm that almost finishes you off instantly—but you can’t give in until he’s been satisfied. You need to hear and see him as he falls apart. 

  Sunday moves his head to the side and away from your lips, his expression pinching as the final thrust needed sends him over the edge and he cries out, and you quickly join him. 

  His head spins, Sunday feels like he’s in a whirl-winding pool—but realises the wetness he feels is just his own, and not pool water. He pants, squinting at you. “D-did you pull o-out?” he’s barely recovered enough to ask, and his body thrums so much still that he can’t feel it. 

  When you only give a sheepish smile, he pinches your ear, earning an; “ow!”. Sunday’s lips purse in a frown-pout. “You better help me clean up, then.”

  He doesn’t even need to ask.

[mer-acle]

Do you have any athena hcs?

Uhhh

How much time do you have lol

I'll try to list the short ones so this post doesn't get too long. Due to writing about her a lot I have a lot of lore lmao

1. Athena is the eldest child (Hephaestus born shortly after her). Nobody who's spoken to her once would expect anything else honestly

2. At the time of the Odyssey she's about 4000 years old (No reason or proof I just decided) Her first 200 years give or take were spent with Triton (read: Pallas)

3. She only got assigned with Warfare as her domain after officially joining Olympus

4. Her emotional distance with her siblings is partly due to Pallas trauma, and partly due to Zeus liking to "keep her to himself" (read: isolated as the favorite). She gets along best with Hermes and Hephaestus (yes, I refuse to accept Erechtonius happened) bc the former is just as chaotic as herself and the latter shares her creativity and both don't ask for a big commitment from her (again. No Erechtonius and no arranged marriages in my plotline let me have this)

5. Dislikes being touched. Her siblings learn to accept it, Zeus does not. She doesn't try to enforce it with him. (Yes in every iteration of her that I will ever write, there will be a touch-starved to hug plotline sue me. I need therapy)

6. Never braids her hair. She used to have braids when with Pallas, but since then she has never worn her hair this way again. She also wears it quite a bit shorter than she used to back then.

7. Her grey eyes are inherited from Métis. They also glow in the dark. She has perfect night vision.

8. Perfect memory. Also she has bird's eye view versions of even her own memories (hc that one of her domains is history so that's why) It's how she found out that Zeus interfered with Pallas's death.

9. Used to have an Oceanic themed armor before joining Olympus (Métis made it for her) She allows Hephaestus to make her a new one, shedding the Ocean symbols in an effort to please Zeus.

10. Connected to her status as a virgin goddess but in contrast to Artemis, Athena dresses pretty covered up, doesn't undress even for bathing (in ancient Greece sometimes you'd keep your chiton on as a sort of bathing suit almost, but being naked was more common) (also this is not 'purity' stuff btw I just get that vibe from her, Artemis, literally go off queen you're doing great)

11. Classic but good, cocks her head like an owl like all the time. Also says "hmm" a lot (intonation may vary)

12. (Remember, my hc, you can do whatever you like) I think all the virgin goddesses are acespec/arospec in some capacity, but Athena is the cut and dry aro/ace/repulsed one. Like... It's a big fat no from her (I'm projecting hard btw)

Anyway twelve seems like a good number I hope you like them :) I picked those that aren't specific to Epic and can be applied to myth!Athena too

[chillinglyadventurous]

You’re Losing Me

And I wouldn’t marry me either, a pathological people pleaser who only wanted you to see her

Collab with @ford-pines-lover

Word Count: 2,024

Do I throw out everything we built or keep it?

You’d battled with yourself for hours. Should you leave or should you stay? Your heart begging you not to leave him. You loved Ford for years. You’d loved him for so long. He was all you knew anymore. You weren’t happy, but you knew what to expect. Your mind, however, was overriding your aching heart. You had to leave. This wasn’t a healthy relationship. Hell, there was no relationship. Not anymore.

The room felt heavy and weighed down. Every ‘I love you’ that was ever uttered in this room was echoing off the walls. Hopes unfulfilled and love that hard worn impossibly thin mocked you. Were you really about to throw away the last ten years of your life?

You gave a breathless sigh as you stared down at the half-packed suitcase on the bed. Half-empty. Even your luggage laughed at you, pathetic. You just couldn’t decide. You’d packed and unpacked your bag about a dozen times. Even now, all you wanted to do was empty it again, fold your clothes, and put them back where they belonged. You couldn’t leave him. With every sweater or pair of underwear you packed, the good memories came flooding back. Every sweet thing he’d ever done for you washed over you, begging you to stay. But, you realized your heart was just playing tricks on you, taking over with each faltering thought. You deserved better than this.

With a sigh, you slipped your favorite sweater out of your bag and held it close to your chest. How many times had you found yourself curled up with this sweater, his sweater, while you waited for him to come to bed, hoping to hear his footsteps coming down the hall? Each strand of yarn held memories, the good and bad. You remembered him handing you this very sweater on a cold night, wanting you to keep warm. You remembered crying into the collar when he’d left without a word to explore.

Setting the sweater back down, you rubbed your eyes, trying to fight back the tears stinging your eyes. You’d cried too many tears over him already. You couldn’t let anymore fall. Despite the ache in your chest, a dull pain, you didn’t want to leave like that, crying. You were doing what was best for you. You wanted to leave knowing you were thinking over yourself for once. You were walking about because you deserved better than half-hearted affection and quiet resentment. You deserved someone who would love you.

You went back to the dresser, folding up more of your clothes. With each article you pulled over, memories came in. Everything was linked to him. There were outfits you wore on dates, lazy mornings wrapped in his arms.

You left one thing in your dresser, knowing you’d never wear it. The silk slip was offensive, emerald green. You traced the black lace with your fingers. You’d bought it for your ninth anniversary, something you had thought would catch his eye and pull him away from his work. It didn’t. You didn’t care that, someday, you’d have someone who would appreciate your efforts, worship you in such a beautiful thing. No, it was cursed and it was his problem now. Maybe he’d find it and realize what he lost.

You emptied out every drawer and the closet. Standing at the nightstand, you contemplated taking the framed Polaroid there. Graduation. Ford’s arms were thrown around you, both in your cap and gown. The tiny diamond on your finger glinting in the sunlight as he kissed you hard. You’d forgotten he asked you to marry him. So much had changed since then. You hadn’t worn that ring in years. It was somewhere in that room. You didn’t know where and you didn’t care enough to look for it. He could keep that too.

Despite your better judgment, you threw the small frame into your bag. In truth, it was a keepsake. You still loved him. You wanted to remember him. Still, you hoped this would scare him enough into changing. Maybe he’d call you in a panic, crying, begging you to come home with promises that he’d change. You rationalized it as a reminder of what you didn’t want to go through again, but, deep down, you knew you’d never be able to give him up.

You zipped up your suitcase and headed out the door. This was it. There was nothing else left to do. If you stayed, you’d only be hurting yourself and you’d done that enough.

I’m getting tired even for a phoenix, always rising from the ashes

You hadn’t gotten far when your car phone rang. You knew it was Ford. He was the only one who had the number. He was the only one who ever called, so, you let it ring. It rang and it rang. You had already made your decision, already put so much distance behind you, so why was it so hard to ignore him? Why did hearing his voice feel like everything you’d wanted and feared at the same time?

“Hello?” You finally whispered, voice barely above a breath.

There was a pause on the other end, and you could hear him exhale shakily. “Please, come back,” his voice cracked, rough around the edges in a way that you’d never heard before.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to hold firm. “Stanford, I can’t keep doing this. I told you, I need more. I can’t keep standing on the sidelines, waiting for you to notice me.”

“I know,” he replied, a quiet desperation in his tone that caught you off guard. “I know I’ve put you second to my work and I hate that it’s come to this, but, please, just come home. I’ll make this right. I swear it.”

You wanted to believe him, but after so many broken promises, it was hard to let hope grow again. “I mean it. If I come back, things have to change.”

“They will,” he promised, the conviction in his voice so strong it tugged at something deep inside you. “Please, just give me this chance. Come home.”

Against the whisper of doubt in your mind, you turned back. The drive home felt surreal, every mile bringing you closer to him, to the life you’d almost left behind. How could you be so stupid? How could you give up the best thing that ever happened to you?

When you opened the front door, Ford was waiting, looking more vulnerable than you’d ever seen him. There were dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders slumped, but his gaze held something you hadn’t seen in years. Full and unwavering attention.

He didn’t say anything, just reached for you, pulling you close, as though he were afraid you’d slip away if he let go. For a moment, just being there, held by him, it felt like everything might actually be okay.

In the days that followed, Ford kept his promises. He would set aside his work to spend time with you, listening intently to everything you said, his eyes warm and focused, as if rediscovering what he’d nearly lost. Each morning, he’d greet you with coffee and a kiss, taking a few extra moments to linger, his hand gently tracing the lines of your face. He even pulled back from some of his more intense projects, choosing to leave the lab earlier, allowing himself to be with you in ways he hadn’t in so long.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you had Ford to yourself. The two of you would share quiet, easy dinners, laughing together over silly memories. Finally, he was the man you met in college again. He’d pull you close at night, his hand slipping into yours, murmuring soft praises into your hair. You allowed yourself to believe that maybe this was real, that he’d finally chosen you.

Weeks passed and he stayed true to his word, keeping that fragile spark of hope alive. Ford seemed more at ease. You’d catch him smiling over his morning coffee, a relaxed grin on his face that warmed your heart. He made time for you in ways that felt new and precious, taking you on little outings, finding new ways to bring you into his world.

But, as time went on, his old habits started to creep back. Just little things at first, lingering in his study a bit longer than planned, muttering about a project or theory instead of letting you finish the story you were telling. You tried to brush it off, telling yourself that this was just who he was, that a few hours here or there wouldn’t matter. After all, he’d proven he was willing to put you first. Surely, he could balance both, right?

Except the late nights began to stretch longer. His attention started to drift more and more. One evening, you sat beside him on the couch, recounting a funny story from your day, only to realize he was staring at the wall, eyes unfocused, his mind somewhere else entirely. You stopped mid-sentence, waiting for him to notice, hoping he’d snap back to you. Minutes passed and he didn’t say a word, lost in a world far removed from your own. Finally, he seemed to shake himself out of it, glancing at you with a forced smile.

“Sorry, darling. I was just thinking about something.” He gave you a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing into his study.

Mendin’ all her gashes, you might just have dealt the final blow

You sat there alone, the warmth of his brief touch fading quickly, leaving a familiar chill in its place. You tried to ignore the pang of doubt, but it settled heavily, spreading like ice through your veins. The pattern was returning and, this time, it hurt even more because you’d thought things were finally different.

The days blurred together, Ford slipping back into his old habits, barely noticing when you reached out to him. Each night, he’d come to bed a little later, mumbling promises that he’d make time for you tomorrow, but tomorrow never came.

One evening, after a particularly long night of waiting, you walked to his study, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him, his back to you, hunched over his notes. You cleared your throat, trying to get his attention.

“Ford?”

He didn’t turn around, didn’t even flinch. “Just a minute, dear. I’m almost done.”

You knew he wasn’t. This was exactly where you’d been before, caught in the shadow of his work, waiting for scraps of his time. You stood there, watching him, a sinking feeling in your chest as he continued to scribble notes, muttering to himself about theories and experiments. The ache in your heart deepened, spreading until it became a steady, numbing truth. He had meant well. He’d truly tried, maybe even believed he could change, but Ford was a man consumed by his work.

The realization hit you all at once. You couldn’t live like this, couldn’t keep waiting for him to come back, to choose you, when he was always going to drift away again. With a quiet breath, you straightened, your heart steady as you turned back to the door. This time, there were no tears, no lingering hope. You weren’t angry or hurt. You just needed to move on. There was nothing left.

You promised yourself there wouldn’t be anymore chances. You told him there wouldn’t be anymore. You warned him and you, unlike him, were going to make good on your promise. You walked quietly to the bedroom and packed a small bag, taking only what you needed. No dramatic exits, no last words. You’d made your peace.

You closed the door behind you, the air felt different, lighter, as if you were finally free. For the first time, you were truly walking away, carrying with you a quiet strength and a promise you’d made to yourself long ago: you would rise again, this time for yourself, and build a life where you were fully seen, fully loved, no matter how long it took.

[ssjandtechno]

A very gently worded letter template (for a politician with a background in science, because my relevant politician is a science person):

Dear [NAME WITH APPROPRIATE TITLE],

I hope you are well and [A LITTLE BIT OF POLITE INTEREST IN OTHER STUFF THEY'VE BEEN DOING RECENTLY].

I am writing to you at this time about the ongoing situation in Gaza. I will attempt to refrain from emotive language and restrict myself to statistics, as one scientist to another [OMIT LAST CLAUSE IF NOT TRUE].

Prior to 7/10/23, Gaza’s population was about 40% children (high birth/high death demographic). It is beyond the scope of this email to speculate as to why, but it seems logical from this to conclude, therefore, that 30% of Gaza’s population was adult men, and 30% adult women. The UN has this week declared that about 70% of those killed in Gaza have been women and children[1].

Israel has consistently and repeatedly stated that it takes all reasonable precautions to avoid civilian casualties [2]. I’m sure you’ve already done the maths: If you were to select inhabitants of Gaza entirely randomly, you would expect 40% children, 30% adult women. On digging into the UN report a little further, Israel’s military is actually doing slightly worse than randomly. 44% of those killed have been children, 26% adult women. The age most represented was 5-9 year olds.

From this, we must conclude that Israel’s efforts to avoid civilian casualties are not at all effective, or they are simply not extant.

So I come to my question: Is there nothing more we can do, as a leading member of NATO and a country of greater than average international influence, to curtail the killing of children in Gaza?

Yours sincerely

[YOUR NAME, YOUR ADDRESS IF THAT'S A REQUIRED THING TO ADD IN YOUR JURISDICTION]

References:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cn5wel11pgdo

https://www.idf.il/en/mini-sites/the-hamas-terrorist-organization/how-is-the-idf-minimizing-harm-to-civilians-in-gaza/

.

.

I'm wording very gently because this is a politician I broadly align with and I want to show that, and also because I want to let the numbers do the talking. They're horrific. They make a very strong case on their own. I've put references in numbered as a gentle reference to the way scientific papers are laid out. I've added details about what my particular person has been up to politically in recent months. I'm implying "I'm like you." and therefore "I voted for you, and I'd like to vote for you again" (as it happens, I did vote for this person, but even if I hadn't I'd be implying that I had) Calling might be more effective, but you could also use this email as a basic script for a phone call. Just the references wouldn't work

Senators are going to vote on whether or not we should continue to send aid to Israel on Wednesday, November 13th. Call them, bombard their phone lines with calls. Every fucking day. We have a chance of doing something about this.

[aventurineswife]

Hey !!! How are you?? I love what you write so much so ure so talentedd !!

Also could u do an aventurine x reader where like they started dating not long ago and like aventurine notices self harm marks on reader’s arms ?? (If ure comfortable w/ that ofc)

“You Drew Stars Over My Scars”

Summary: In the early stages of your relationship, Aventurine notices scars on your arm. With quiet compassion and understanding, he addresses it gently, offering his support without judgment. As you share a vulnerable moment, he reassures you that he’s there for you, bringing lightheartedness and warmth to ease the conversation.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Emotional Support, Fluff and Angst, Healing.

Warnings: Mentions of self-harm, References to past emotional struggles

A/N: HELLO!!! I'm doing alright and I hope you are doing alright as well!! Thank you for appreciating my work! I put my best effort into writing each character as accurately as possible, even while balancing my personal life, so your support means a lot to me! 🤭💖🫶 Don’t worry about your request—I’m comfortable with it. But for anyone struggling with something similar, please reach out to someone you trust completely. It may not seem like much, but sharing is better than keeping everything to yourself. If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here! Don’t hesitate, and remember to love yourself more! ❤️

It was one of those rare, quiet evenings. Aventurine had cleared his typically packed schedule, something he was only too willing to do since the two of you had started dating. After a whirlwind start, tonight felt like a pause – a chance for him to simply be with you, away from the risks and wagers that often defined his world.

You sat beside him on the couch, your arm resting casually against his. Aventurine noticed a faint change in your body language – a hint of self-consciousness, a slight turn of your wrist. The faint movement caught his eye, and he saw them – the small, faded scars along your arm.

He glanced up, meeting your eyes with a gentle look, saying nothing at first, allowing you the space to choose whether to share or to stay silent. But his hand reached out, fingers brushing along your forearm. The gesture was soft, free of judgment or expectation, just a comforting presence.

"Can I ask about these?" Aventurine asked softly, his tone inviting but unintrusive.

You hesitated, not used to this level of openness, especially when it came to scars from a part of your past you were still trying to make peace with. You shifted slightly, averting your gaze, but Aventurine’s hand gently anchored you there, his thumb brushing softly over your wrist. His eyes, usually so full of confidence, held only a quiet, calming sincerity.

“It was… it’s something I went through,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “It’s… something I still struggle with, sometimes.”

Aventurine listened, his hand never leaving yours, his gentle touch reminding you that he was there, that he was listening and would wait as long as you needed to feel safe in sharing. After a beat, he spoke, his voice thoughtful and warm.

“You know,” he began softly, “I can’t pretend to know exactly what you’ve felt, what led you here. But… I do know about hiding things that hurt. I’ve got my own scars – maybe not the kind you can see,” he added, his smile faint but real, “but they’re there.”

The weight of his words settled around you, and you felt something shift – a wall you’d kept up out of habit, slowly lowering. You exhaled, feeling a bit of the tension release, as though you were finally in a space where you didn’t have to hide this part of yourself.

He leaned closer, his hand now holding yours firmly but gently, grounding you in the moment. "I'm here with you, okay? Whatever you’re going through, I want you to know it doesn’t make me see you any differently. You’re… important to me." The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and it softened something deep within you.

“Thank you.” you said quietly, squeezing his hand back.

Aventurine tilted his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “How about this – every time you feel like you’re slipping, like things get too much, you let me know? We can talk, or… not talk,” he said, a hint of his usual humor breaking through, “or we can find some ridiculous way to distract ourselves. I’ve got these mooncake cats I haven’t introduced you to yet.”

That earned a soft laugh from you, breaking the lingering tension in the room. He caught the sound, grinning as he pulled his phone out and showed you a photo of his silly, mooncake-shaped cats. He held it up with a playful smirk.

“These little guys reminds me every day not to take life too seriously. So, any time you need them, They're just a text away.” he added with a wink.

The lightheartedness lifted the weight from your heart, and you looked at Aventurine, grateful for his presence, his understanding, and his unspoken promise to be there, both in laughter and in the moments that were hard.

And as he pulled you into a gentle embrace, you felt it – the quiet assurance that, whatever scars you both carried, you didn’t have to bear them alone anymore.

[sleepyparalysisdmon]

SVT helping a partner with trauma

Requested? Yes! (and they are still open!)

Genre: comfort

TW/CW: Implications of trauma

A/N: This will be less of a discussion about traumatic events themselves (if mentioned it’s brief only to give context), but rather the feelings and responses one might have afterwards. Trauma is varied and so is everyone's reactions to it, so I tried to include a variety of scenarios so there’s a little bit of something for everyone. 

A/N #2/Warning: Please use caution when reading if you might find the topic triggering. This is meant to be comforting, but if you find that it isn’t, come back later or skip altogether. 

Seungcheol

Money is an interesting topic between the two of you. At first, he thinks that you just like to keep a tight control over your finances, and he respects it immensely, applauding you for being money-smart. But he notices that you deny yourself a lot of things in an effort to penny pinch, and flat out refuse when he offers to ease your burden on little things like needing to replace something around your apartment or pay a bill that has an upcoming due date. In a vulnerable moment, you tell him the abbreviated version of the story - you depended on someone financially and then they left you with nothing, and you refuse to be stuck in that situation again. From then on he encourages your financial independence and for the most part respects your wishes for him to not spend a lot on you, even if it pains him sometimes. But you best believe the moment you accept it he’s already sliding you his card or heading to the store himself. Wants you to know that you can rely on him, but knows he has to earn that. 

Jeonghan 

You’re a flirt. It’s one of the things that he loves most about you. He's kissed you a few times since starting to date, but he notices how you pull back sooner rather than later, putting space between the two of you. You feel safer with words than you do with touch. He’s okay with that. If you ever try to explain yourself - doesn’t matter if it's a simple ‘I want to wait’, or a more detailed reason - he’ll shake his head. “You come to me if and when you're ready,” he’ll say simply without an ounce of teasing. I do believe that if and when you do approach him, he’ll want to have a not-so-sexy but still very needed conversation to make sure you’re both on the same page and he understands your boundaries. 

Joshua

On the very first date, you tell him you don't drink and don’t really like to be around alcohol. Noted, he thinks, and doesn't order another drink beyond the one he already has in front of him. He also doesn’t have a problem not keeping it at home. However, there’s a social element to drinking that is sometimes unavoidable. He sticks to non-alcoholic drinks with you when you have to go to these events and takes you home before anyone you’re with can be too far gone. You’ll tell him that he can have a drink if he wants and that he doesn't need your permission - but he's supposed to be the one that makes you feel safest, so he’ll shrug it off. He doesn’t miss it. 

Jun 

Absolutely respects your work ethic and even admires it. But sometimes he’s concerned by how you always go in early and stay late, take on way too many responsibilities, and never, ever take a sick day or vacation. When he asks you about it, you simply say that you can’t lose this job. He can sympathize because it would be devastating to not be able to do what he does for a living, but he recognizes that it’s not passion, but rather fear, that drives you to overwork yourself. Does little things like driving you to work so you show up on time rather than super early, or making plans right after work so you can’t stay late. He’ll also book a vacation to somewhere that you just can't refuse. Anything to encourage rest, really. 

Hoshi 

Bless his heart, but he's trying to be funny. He hears you come in and hides behind a door, jumping out at you when you enter the room. Does not expect for you to cry and panic, and cries and panics himself, profusely apologizing. Once you both are calm, he doesn't press for details, accepting your explanation that someone that used to be in your life used to do that sort of thing, but that it wasn't all fun and games. Will never, ever be doing that again, and if you're ever around his group members and they get a bright idea, expect that he'll put a stop to it before it even starts. 

Wonwoo

You’ve lost someone close to you. Whether it was a shock or not, whether you were there or not, doesn’t matter. He’s sympathetic to the trauma of losing someone and knows there isn’t a ton he can do to fix it. But he’ll do the little things. He’ll make sure you eat, even if it’s a little and even if he needs to feed you. He’ll make sure you shower, even if he has to get in and wash your hair for you. He’ll make sure you find a balance between sleep and activity, even if he has to gently drag you outside for some fresh air or carry you to bed himself. Also knows you can't really acknowledge any of it right now, but he’ll keep doing it anyway. 

Woozi

You guys don't fight, well, ever. You both are too laid back. But something big happens and you both have had bad days. Jihoon’s not proud when he loses his temper a bit, shouting. Immediately does not like how you fold into yourself and back away. You’ve confided in him before that your home life involved a lot of arguing growing up. He kind of feels like he’s looking at a kid version of you in the past and it makes him feel nauseous. He takes a deep breath, apologizes, and says that you both should cool down. Later that night, you two sit on the couch, talk it out, and promise to call a timeout next time one of you gets upset. Will absolutely never raise his voice at you again.

DK 

He checks your phone for something, not trying to be invasive, but because you had something he needed. He accidentally stumbles across quite a few reminders that you're way overdue for a check up at the doctor’s office. He apologizes that he was accidentally nosy, but asks if you’ve been able to schedule it yet. He can tell that you’re uncomfortable, bordering on scared at the mention of it. You’ve told him before that you were sick as a child and spent a not-so-insignificant time in the hospital and have since then hated clinical settings. So, so understanding, but also so, so insistent that you should take care of yourself. He’ll take off work in a heartbeat to go with you and hold your hand if it will help. 

Mingyu 

You both are working on a grocery list and you ask him to add another case of bottled water. He looks at you quizzically because you already have an untouched case in the closet and the fridge is stocked. You pause, frowning. “But what if we run out?” You’ll say in a small, worried voice. He knows you’ve lived through a natural disaster or two before you moved here. You don't talk about it much, but he’s seen clips on TV before about what that can be like. He nods. “You’re right. I’ll get another one.” He gets two. That closet will never be empty if it makes you feel better. 

Minghao

You’re getting repeated phone calls from a random number. When you tell him this, at first, he nods, kind of shrugging it off. Spam calls happen all the time. (God only knows I get like ten a day from telemarketers.) Still, he watches your anxiety spike every time it happens and gently presses for a bit of an explanation. You tell him shortly that you’ve gotten harassing phone calls in the past and have had to change numbers a time or two because of it. From that point forward, if he's with you and your phone rings from an unknown number, he's holding his hand out expectantly. Doesn't matter if it’s a telemarketer or not. Will always answer the phone for you or simply get you a new number until you’re comfortable. 

Seungkwan

Listen, I think he's ready to fight any day. He’s kind of surprised when you ask if he wants to meet your parents and especially surprised at how anxious you are about it. He sees why immediately because they aren’t nice people. Tolerates very few negative or demeaning comments directed at you and certainly won't tolerate any displays of violence, so I expect this to be a short visit ending with him deciding it’s time to go. Also won’t accept any apology from you for how they behaved and after some consideration will encourage you to limit contact. 

Vernon

When you tell him early on that you don’t drive, he just shrugs. He’ll take the bus or walk with you any day. But one night, you guys have gone out. When you walk out to go home, you realize it’s raining and that you’ve missed the last bus. Vernon shrugs, saying he’ll just call an uber or taxi. You panic and he’s kind of surprised. Still, he puts his phone back up and waits for the rain to stop with you before walking home. You tell him you got into a car accident years ago and your injuries were minor, but you still don't like driving or riding in cars. You say it’s one of the reasons you live where you do, so you can just walk everywhere. Will always stick by you no matter what mode of transportation you choose. 

Chan 

You express that you don't like your new job and he’s surprised, mostly because you were so excited to start it. You tell him your coworkers are kind of cliquey, and you don't feel like you fit in. He understands, telling you that they don't have to be your friends as you can work with them. Still, you tell him you can handle a bit of rejection, but you're afraid that they might become mean or hostile, like the catty women in the last place you worked. He encourages you to focus on work for now and feel out the situation for a little bit longer. It’s not the end of the world if it doesn't work out because you still have him. Cheesy, I know, but it does make you feel better. 

[ficandkaboodle]

Now for everybody’s favorite opinion-based game they might not admit to playing but absolutely do play in nearly every fandom they’re in:

✨🫦Does That Man Moan in Bed?!👄✨

(Sponsored by Monster Energy: We lied, we are Satanic)

Papa Nihil: Yes. Just. Yes. This man moans like a little bitch even when he’s topping. And growls. And whimpers. Even if it’s someone he’s not really into all that much. Honestly, it seems very exaggerated on his part like he’s trying to be a porn star but no, those are very real sounds he’s letting into the air like that, He just takes every ounce of pleasure he can get from the stimuli and that’s enough to make him drown out every single noise that isn’t him and maybe a bit of the bed putting up a fight.

Papa Primo: No. Lack of interest in foreplay aside, I think even a saner, more pleasant-in-bed Primo isn’t particularly noisy in bed. He comes off more as a heavy breathing, occasional panting or grunting type of guy to me. Maybe a sigh here or there. If anything, the most noise I can see him making an effort in making is either dirty talk or reciting the text for the sexual magick ritual you’re performing. You might even think he’s not into it but rest assured, he absolutely is. He’s just not a particularly bombastic person by nature, and this carries over into the bedroom. He’ll show other signs he’s into it if you think his regular sounds aren’t enough, though.

Papa Secondo: Yes but unless you two have been together a good while and he trusts you, you’d likely never know. Secondo, for as flamboyant as he can actually be outside of his robes, probably sees moaning as a sign of weakness. That, or he’s embarrassed of how he sounds. (And has probably accidentally overheard his gross old man a few times. Frankly it’s a miracle he didn’t wind up completely disgusted by sex.) He tries to make “strong manly noises”: He’s taught himself how to contort those sounds into tooth-clenching grunts and forcing himself through words unbroken. They’re sexy for sure, but when you’ve finally reached a point where he lets you hear his real sounds, you can’t help but notice an extra layer of warmth to his voice. Simultaneously, it’s lighter; more floating. Even if he trusts you now, though, he’s still going to be embarrassed about it so make sure you make it clear to him that you adore his noises and would certainly love to hear more.

Papa Terzo: Yes. Kind of. Terzo does moan, but it’s actually naturally quieter than what sounds he winds up giving in bed. He’s so used to playing everything up and bolstering peoples’ expectations of him as this flamboyant slut of a man that most of what noises he makes in bed are just exaggerations of what he actually does. He tends to make much softer moans and sighs compared to the absolutely pornographic noises most lovers wind up hearing. He tries to justify it internally as helping to arouse his partner, bringing them to that cherished orgasm, of course, the thing is that because he’s so focused on how he thinks he should sound, he doesn’t always feel every inch of his own release. Much like Secondo, I think the real sounds come through when he knows you can be trusted and isn’t afraid of you seeing the real him, warts and all. He feels much more relaxed and you can feel the depth of adoration he has for you now that he’s not so focused on putting on a show.

Papa Copia: He does but honestly? He’s more of a gasper and whimperer. Higher-pitched noises. It’s an awful thing to have inherited from Nihil, all things considered, but it makes the most sense at least to me. He’s always been a bit shy in one-on-one interactions with people. Add in a splash of possible humiliation when his peers might’ve overheard him and started calling him a Rat Boy and he might’ve just developed a means of being quieter. Well, as quiet as he can get. He’s such a sensitive topino after all. However, you absolutely can work those bigger moans and pleas out of him. Simply pin him down, praise him, ride him like he’s a sex toy that won’t break no matter how rough you ride him, and watch him unravel into a begging, crying mess beneath you that can barely string together a coherent sentence. All in all, though, for as fun as that can be, you still quite adore Copia’s usual little noises. Oh, your sweet little Satanic Church Mouse…

[nausicaaandhermouth]

The Healer

masterlist

viktor x anhedonic!reader [1.4k][AO3]

cw: implied/referenced depression, suicide, suicidal ideation, self harm

summary: Anhedonia set in and the idea of exiting life's stage became all the more appealing. But you've heard about The Healer and perhaps he can save you.

tags: gn reader, S2 Viktor, post-Act 1, anhedonia, angst, depression, suicide, SI, SH, viktor gardening?, reader's just admiring him atp, not betad, not encouraging anybody to join any cult

a/n: idk if vik's abilities extends to making plants appear but for this pretend it does

if you're unfamiliar with what anhedonia is, it's a symptom of a larger condition (can be depression, bipolar, schizophrenia, more), characterised by the inability to experience physical and/or social pleasure. makes existing difficult, like you're dragging so much pointless weight and everything feels high effort, so what's the point.

just a brief description (based on what i've learnt from it in research and experience), so i encourage learning more to get it more in depth if it interests you or sounds too familiar.

You prayed for an easy coax out of the darkness.

The little home of scrap fabric and heartbroken brick you built throughout the years was becoming more and more dilapidated, though its original state had never been of full health to begin with. And like it, your body’s ridges became prominent, visited by unexplained bruises, warmed by the thickened hair on your skin, and yet living on had always been the only option you saw—no, the only option you allowed.

You’d breathed long enough to outlive many of those around you. Whether it was becoming grey-lunged corpses, enforcer punching bags, or a Promenade diver, everybody knew somebody who, sooner rather than later, knelt to kiss Death’s feet. Surrendered. Be it by their own or another’s will.

Then it fell upon you: the swole blanket of indifference, of apathy. It cloaked your mind, buried your defences that was defiance, which had been the only source of survival you’d had left. But snuffed out now.

And how easy it is to think of self-inflicted inexistence when it seems nothing else matters.

Oblivion would whisper in the corner, a demented, deformed dog snarling yet begging your hand’s comfort. Come to me. And you can’t find good reason as to why you shouldn’t.

This… healer—a man whose touch could gild any man’s sick and bestow him a new life, a new body, a new mind—you’re not sure when he arrived. But the whispers morphed to murmurs which morphed to rumours and unfolded itself into your side of the city’s underbelly.

Was he the answer to your prayer?

You made journey to the place you’d heard he’d made camp, and it unfurled before you and stole all expectation and put them to rest. Because for once, the Sumps had colour, had life.

At the centre stood a strange, globular… building? Just like stained glass, its surface was of mute Spring colours, translucent, swirling lattice-work reminiscent of butterfly wing patterns.

He’s a tall thing. A beautiful thing. His metal body cloaked, careful, and coded with grace. Each movement was deliberate, no gaze shared unintentional. How had he come to exist? How had this world birthed your people’s suffering but, as well, him?

You want to laugh at the sick irony. Whoever’s dealing the cards need their hands cut off.

“What ails you?” he asks, giving you such soft regarding you can’t help but be rendered speechless.

In truth, you’re not sure. Physically, you know you’re lacking, but so was everyone so why are you different? In your head there sits a temptress, attempting to lure you to the edge of buildings or blades, but she had no name. No one speaks of her.

The healer tilts his head, seeming to take a better look at you. He looks so kind. Such eyes, opalescent, have seen suffering, and you know it.

“Life,” you give a one-shouldered shrug, smiling. “I… I’m not actually… uh, I don’t know what I’m doing here,” you take a step back.

What had been the point of this? Attempt what? Healing? What’s this man to do?

“No,” he steps closer, his voice swathed in a strange mechanical whir. “Stay,”

You’re sure that by the furrowed desperation on you, it convinces something inside him, as he turns and beckons you with a nudge of his head. So you follow.

Each step he makes creates a heavy thunk beneath him, and though you don’t feel its impact, merely by sound you feel the weight of him. How had he acquired such a body? Modded fingers, let alone limbs, cost years of your wages—you can’t imagine how much his entire body might have cost.

“I can feel something plaguing you,” he begins, shifting slightly to catch a look of you.

You scoff but it doesn’t quite match your face.

“Then what brought you to me?” he shrugs and looks away, leading you to the side of the Sumps where a clear plain rolled out.

You watch as he kneels and reaches for the soil, taking it between metal fingers.

“I’m not sure,” you kneel beside him, shoulders bunching up. “What are you doing?”

He hums, smoothing the ground and creating indents, “I’m assessing,”

You lean forward, folding your arms and hanging your head to look at him.

The metal frames his face, just barely hidden by chestnut waves, curling beneath the jaw and around the ear.

He’s got a rather angular beauty to him, something belonging to scrutiny and studiosity. Even his strong brows follow theme, arched forward in a focused furrow, over narrowed eyes homing iridescent irises. You’re not sure if he’s from this world. Or if the world was gifted him.

Your attention trails back to his hand, and he digs his fingers beneath the soil. Then, hand glowing beneath the metallic muscles, the ground is imbued with a light, where then verdant stems spring alive.

You choke back a gasp, glancing about as the spindly bodies uncurl and reveal yellow petals. Roses?

Whipping back to him, you take note of the glow leaving his eyes, shock threading through your system.

When you glance back at the flowers, now surrounding the both of you, you can’t help but think: logically, how you might have reacted would be with pleasant surprise, glee, even.

Such occurrences, the arcane or a mere flower field, was a coveted sight, and without a doubt you would have felt the surge of optimism. But instead nothing happens. Instead it’s unmet anticipation and expectation sitting at your belly, pooling into grey disappointment.

It’s when you look back to the healer that you realise this disappointment must have shown on your face. He inclines his head so slightly, blinks, as if saying I understand. And he smiles. He smiles and it’s the gentlest thing ever given to you to hold and witness.

You want to crumple, to lay graves for your limbs and disassemble each part that ever dared to exist only to suffer. There used to be anger, and at the very least there was indignation. At topside for their neglect, your parents or finding each other, for finding something beyond the misery and creating you. Where had all such righteous resentment gone?

“Viktor,”

You look up to see the healer’s hand stretched out, asking for yours in return. And you oblige, shaking it gently, before pulling away only to be held with soft restraint.

“You are welcome to stay,” his voice becomes tender, becomes more human almost, aimed purely for your audience. “Even if what torments is not outright seen. I welcome all,”

Your breath comes out long, carrying with it the tired days in the dark. The healer… Viktor makes no acknowledgement of this but just another observant blink, the corners of his mouth slightly tightening.

“Wasn’t gonna die or anything,” you joke, flattening your lips and hoping it registers as a smile, however trying it may appear.

“Eh,” Viktor shrugs, turning his attention to your hand and turning it about as if trying to see new angles. “A slow death is still a death,”

This makes you frown. Why has he assumed? But why is he right?

“The slower it is, the more painful, I think,” he remarks, but he seems almost far away. “As you watch what is left of you wither, and all you can do is… hm, watch,”

Then you understand. Something in your chest tightens as you take in once again all this stranger is. “You’re well-acquainted,” you note, coming out barely as breath and observation, spoken clearer by the narrowing of your eyes than your own voice.

He looks at you again, and something’s changed. His eyes? It seems. There’s something more amber about them, more grounded in this singular hue. “My longest companion,”

You hum, nodding.

There’s a safety in knowing you’re understood, even if they’re not able to fix you. It cloaks you warmer than summer, than any consolation offered in pity—he understands. And perhaps not the very same that brandishes you, but in some aspect he knows.

Which is what makes you ask, “Can you fix me?”

His eyes resume that pearl sheen once again and you’re mesmerised, gaze flitting between each eye in deep investigation—tell me who you are, how you are; tell me how you’ll fix me. Like the field around, the sweet sunshine hues of the roses, to make your land more than just barren.

And he does. He raises his other hand, uncurling, coming to hover by your face. “May I?”

You breath sweeps back in and you nod, leaning forward and connecting his cold fingers to your cheek.

He notes you for a moment, saying nothing, doing nothing. It’s his gaze that makes you feel naked, removed of any pretence crafted carefully. But he shifts his attention and his fingers connected with your forehead, eyes overtaken by a white glow.

Your vision drowns in the white.

a/n anhedonia's been hitting me and this is the only thing i could muster to make so here we gooo. not my favourite, feel like i could've done it better but oh well, least i made something wahooyaaa writing is coping after all 🫵🏼😃🗣️

requests + taglist open!

[this is a reupload, i have no idea why the original post disappeared :''')]

[xiouahh]

☆ numb ─ 06.　overwhelmed

" [full name]! What is this on your test paper?! " The voice cuts through the silence like a blade. It’s the same voice that used to murmur lullabies in the dark, to hold you close when nightmares lurked. But now, every note of it drips with a resentment that clings, cold and suffocating. " But, Mom! I did well, didn’t I? I got a high grade—only three wrong answers— " Your words crumble as her hand connects with your cheek, sharp and unforgiving. The sting spreads through your skin, a bitter reminder that nothing you do is ever enough. You’re good, but never good enough. " You're a disappointment to this family, " she hisses, each word like poison slipping into your veins. " Is a perfect score too much to ask? Is it so impossible to make us proud? " You dare not meet her eyes; the shame burns hotter than the pain in your cheek. " I gave you everything, " she whispers, her voice shaking. " And this is how you repay me? With mediocrity? " You stand there, silent and small, too afraid to cry, knowing the punishment for weakness is yet more scorn. Silence stretches, thick and heavy, until she finally sighs, a sound full of pity and contempt. " What would your father say, if he were here to see this? I’m just trying to make a good future for you. " She reaches out, fingers ghosting over the mark on your cheek, soft and almost loving. " I just want you to succeed, " she says, the smile on her lips brittle and unconvincing. " You’ll do that for me, won’t you? You’ll be the child I worked so hard for? " You nod, throat tight, the wordless answer she expects, even as something inside you shatters. Her smile fades, and her face twists into something dark and sorrowful. " This is my fault, isn’t it? I failed you. I’m a terrible mother. " Her voice is soft now, pulling you into a new kind of pain. You feel the weight of her regret, sharp and heavy, threatening to crush you. " No, Mom, don’t say that! " You reach out, clinging to her, desperate to make it better, to prove you’re worthy of the love she so rarely shows. " You’re not a bad mother—it’s my fault. I’m the one who’s sorry. " " I’ll do better on the next test! " You plead, voice trembling, desperate. " I’ll get the perfect score, I’ll study harder. It’s my fault for not being enough. " A sob rises from somewhere deep within, raw and helpless, as you force yourself to promise again and again. " I’ll be successful, Mom. I’ll make you proud. I swear. " .. .. You wake up with a start, realizing you must have dozed off while studying. The remnants of a memory linger in your mind—the one where you were the one comforting her. How ironic it is that the child comforts the parent instead of the other way around. You sigh, pressing a hand to your forehead as the familiar pressure of unfinished work settles on you again. You have to ace these exams. No—need to. You can’t let her down, not after everything. And your dad, too. You remember the promise you made before he passed, the one your mom made you tell him: that you’d make them both proud, no matter the cost. Glancing around, you notice the mess piling up in your room. It’s chaos. She’ll be furious if she comes home and sees it like this. But right now, the thought of fixing it, of handling any of it, is just too much. You can’t keep doing this. The pressure is suffocating. In a rush, you grab your phone and open Ayaka’s contact, desperate for some support.

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SYPNOSIS.　You had always been the independent, strong-willed person who didn't need anyone's help. Despite your best efforts, your trauma continues to plague you, making it difficult for you to trust and connect with others. That is, until you meet a young man who is everything you've wanted in a partner. Despite his aloof demeanor, he manages to break your emotional barriers and become a source of healing and support for you. As you learn to trust and open up to him, he becomes the healer of your heart, helping you heal from your trauma. AUTHOR.　Genuinely why is the last pic so blurry. I'VE BEEN TRYING TO FIX IT FOR THE PAST FEW MINUTES BUT IT WON'T COOPERATE?? But anyway.. Do people actually read author notes? I'm so curious, plz tell me. I will literally yap abt my whole day here. ++ I might redo the taglist since I noticed most people aren't getting tagged ! TAGLIST.　 @arlecchino-soon-main @skyoverkill1 @yo0ngleswag @scaraenthusiast1 @skyvella @lloovvv @ciellez @asukahiriko2 @trulyylee @lalalaloveallmydays @hearts4lizzzz @animeobsessed56 @exhaustedcommunist @meigalaxy @dragontammerz @heusalettle @iloveapplepie7 @vitanye @shyentsmissingink @jiminscarmex @vixialuvs @kunikissr @rishaling @liuaneee

[nametakensff]

That prompt list you just posted awakened something in me hahah Wb “Do you have a cat?” and "Humiliated" for Eddie? 👀

Yaayy thank you for the prompts! 💕

I cooked up 1.7k of E/ddie having a terribly timed allergy attack whilst dealing weed to a regular client who, unbeknownst to him, has a cat he is horribly allergic to 🐱

Shockingly I have not projected the fetish onto either character in this fic?? It's fun to mix things up from time to time, I guess!

~~~~~

Content:

M sneezes, mentions of M/F, F OC for sake of plot, cat allergy sneezes, spray, mess, handkerchiefs, nose rubbing, nose blows, embarrassment, mild comfort + caretaking, build-ups, rapid sneezes, talking through sneezing

CW: mentions of drug and alcohol consumption (It should go without saying but both characters are 18+)

SFW but minors please dni!!

Eddie brought his fist down on Laura Paulson’s front door, trying not to get irritated at the fact he had been pounding on it for at least three minutes already. The blaring music inside masked the sound of his efforts and that of the doorbell. He pointedly ignored the sneers of the three guys skulking in the front yard, who clearly knew some way of getting in and out the building but had no intention of filling him in, and he had no intention of asking. This was so fucking dumb. He just wanted to make some sales and fuck off.

Laura was okay. She never asked for freebies, always paid what he asked and wasn’t especially shitty to him. They’d made out a couple of times in his van, even, when she found out her stupid jock boyfriend was going with other girls behind her back. He didn’t much like being used on the low, but it was also somewhat thrilling sticking his tongue in a cheerleader’s mouth and having her pull his hair in response.

She’d even mentioned that he should stay and hang out at the party, if he wanted to, but he could tell she was only inviting him because she seemed to think she had to. Like she felt bad about being pleasant to him when they were alone, and an ice queen when they weren’t. He turned her down for both their sakes, trying not to look offended when she failed to mask her relief.

He struck the door again, even more forcibly this time, and finally, finally it was opening. Laura smiled at him, clearly several drinks deep. He raised the lunchbox in his left hand by way of greeting, offering a half-smile as she moved to one side and let him in. He’d never been inside her house before, and it was as swanky as he’d pictured it would be.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s loud in here.” She sing-songed over the racket, sounding friendly but not sorry in the least.

“No biggie.” He smiled at her, feeling better in the presence of her admittedly contagious happiness, substance-related or otherwise. He’d been expecting a much colder reception. “So, do you wanna…?”

“Oh, yeah, this way!”

Eddie followed her up the stairs, realising she must be even tipsier than he thought if she would openly lead him up to her room whilst several curious onlookers watched them do so. He checked his wristwatch; only 19:00. Girl meant business when she partied, he guessed.

Her room was unextraordinary. Girly, neat, plastered in photos of her and her friends, and several more of her and her meathead boyfriend. He hoped said boyfriend knew where his girlfriend was and wouldn’t suddenly barge into the room, wasted and charged up by some stupid whispering about the pair of them sneaking off together.

“Sit, sit!” Laura said, inviting him to perch next to her on the edge of her baby blue bedsheets whilst she rummaged through her purse.

“You good for your usual?” Eddie said, opening his box and taking out the little baggie he’d set aside for her. He sniffled, briefly pressing his wrist to his nose against a sudden errant tickle.

“Uh-huh.” Laura replied, seeming distracted. “Shoot,” she muttered after a second, getting up a little too fast and staggering. Eddie reached out to balance her with one hand on her waist.

“You okay?” He asked, then winced at how stuffy his voice suddenly sounded. His nose still tickled and his eyes were starting to feel suspiciously itchy. Fuck. He was probably having some kind of reaction to her perfume or some shit, which was weird because hers had never bothered him before, but not unheard of. When she righted herself and moved to her chest of drawers he indulged in a violent nose rub, mashing his nose around with the palm of an open hand, desperate to quash the tickle before it blossomed into a sneeze. He hoped she couldn’t hear the wet clicking sounds the motion induced, and grimaced in dismay when it seemed only to urge the tickle along.

“I know I have more cash in here somewhere…sorry, one sec…”

“All good.” He said, even though it was not all good, it was bad, and he’d had enough allergy attacks in his life – hell, this past week - to know he was about to sneeze his fucking head off. He sat rigid, pressing a ringed finger underneath his twitching nostrils, pink and damp from the prior manhandling, and pushed hard against his philtrum. It did very little at all, and he bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stave off the starts of an embarrassingly hitchy build-up.

He glanced at her back as she dug through the drawer, silently pleading with her to hurry up, when his eyes drifted to the lint roller on top of the chest. He squinted at it, realising it was covered in…oh, double fuck.

“L-Laura?” He asked, lowering his hand and scrambling through his pockets for his bandana. He was going to sneeze no matter what at this point, and he at least wanted to do so not all over her pristine upholstery.

“Hmm?”

“Do you hh’have a hh-!!...cat?”

“Yeah, Mittens! She’s probably sleeping under the bed right now, ‘cuz there’re so many people around. Ooh, okay, nice, found a twenty!”

She spun round, grinning in triumph, only for her face to fall in confusion at the sight of him. He averted his eyes, even as they started to slam shut, burying his face in the bandana he had been raising and continued to allow his breath to hitch – audibly, now that the gig was up and she could not only see him, but was actively watching him build up to a fit of tickly allergic sneezes. He felt his face flushing with heat, absolutely humiliated, but there was nothing he could do. He gasped pathetically, chest expanding under his Metallica t-shirt as the tickle finally crested.

“Eddie?”

He managed to shake his head, just once, before he was pitching forward into the bandana, clutched to his face with both hands as the sneeze burst out of him with so much force it brought tears to his eyes.

“EhhHGK’TSCHSS’IEWww!! Shit, sorry, I’m-!! Ihkg’tchieww!! AhhGK’TISSHH’IEwww!! Ohh…”

He felt the bed dip as Laura sat down beside him, blushing even harder as she placed a tentative hand on his back, expanding and contracting erratically under his leather jacket as he hitched his way towards the rest of his fit.

“Hh-Hh! Ehh-! HAH’GKkt!! EHh’NGXt’TSHh-NGXT’tshiew!! HdDT’TSCHH’U! ‘DDZZSh’iewww!!...Shit, I’m…I’m allergiii’CKK’SHIEeww!! Allergic-to-cats-!”

“Fuck.” He heard Laura mutter, sounding genuinely concerned, which heartened him and yet paradoxically made him feel terrible. The whole thing was mortifying, and the more he sneezed, the more the tickle seemed to tease.

To make matters worse, Mittens, the very source of his misery, seemingly roused by the cacophony above her sleeping space, had come to investigate. Through bleary eyes he peered at her in resignation, preparing to sneeze again. She tilted her fluffy, tortoiseshell head at him, mewed once, and then, to his horror, started to rub herself affectionately all over the shins of his jeans.

“Mittens, no!” Laura reached for her in an instant, snatching her away as she meowed her displeasure, but the damage had been done.

“HhHH’GCKT’TShhieww!! ESHH’IEWww!! EHh’NGXtt’TSCHh!! EhHH’TSCCH-TSSHH’IEww!! h’Ohh GoddD’TSXCHHhh!! IGSHH’Uu-IGKSHHhh!!”

Eddie could barely breathe between each explosion, eyes streaming as he sprayed into the bandana over and over, clutched between both steepled hands. The last few left mess bursting out into the cloth and dripping down over his lips, mercifully hidden from view. He sniffled reflexively, instantly regretting it as the tickle peaked with such intensity the resulting gasp made his chest squeak.

“EIISSHHHhh!! HaH’GKkt-GXK’TShhu-GSHHHh!! Hh’HH!! HAH’ENGXTt’TSSsHIEww!! AESHH’IEww!! iihHH’KhG’TSSHHUuu!!”

He trembled as they overpowered him, cruel and unrelenting, one leg jerking up as his body almost curled in on itself from the force before stamping back on the ground. He made the mistake of using a lull in sneezes to fold his bandana over and look for a clean spot, hands shaking, totally unprepared for when the tickle ground once more against his sinuses.

“’YYISCHHH’IEWW!!” He sneezed violently, dramatically, and worst of all, totally uncovered. His eyes shot open in time to see the spray dissipating in a glittering cloud of droplets, illuminated by a nearby lamp. He clapped the bandana back to his face, cheeks burning, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

“Fuck, I am so sorry.” He mumbled at exactly the same time Laura offered an audibly concerned “God bless you!”

He murmured a thanks before biting the bullet and indulging in a disgustingly wet nose blow. Laura gently patted his back, manicured, callous-free hand on his scuffed-up leather, and the sudden rush of emotions – humiliation, confusion, affection, irritation – had him lurching to his feet, even as his breath started to hitch, fucking again.

“Are you okay?” Laura asked, her hazy brown eyes looking up at him with far more kindness than Eddie could stand to face in the current moment.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine, but…I’m sorry, I hafta-! GXXT’SHIEWWww!! Ah, fuck, shit, I-need-to-! IGSHHHH-! Ahh, Get out of here.”

“O-okay.” He felt her slip the money into his pocket. Pressing the sopping bandana firmly to his face, he began to reach for his lunchbox, which she handed to him.  “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s n-not your-! Not-your-f’hhault’TTSZZSH’IIeww!! Fuck!! Not your fauld’t.” He mustered up a reassuring smile, then remembered his face was obscured anyway.

“Still, I’m. I’m sorry. See you round?” She offered.

“Sure.” He said, knowing damn well the next time they bumped into each other and he didn’t have drugs on his person she would go right back to pretending he didn’t exist.

He left her there, standing awkwardly in the middle of her room, and bolted his way down the stairs, trying not to fall to his death as a series of smaller sneezes teased their way out of him half-way.

“Huh’GXTCH’zieww!! HDD’TZSCch’u! hh-HDT-!! ‘TISHH’Ieww!!”

He sneezed again as he strode past the three idiots still lurking outside, the dampness of the cloth beginning to transfer to his palm. They made sounds of disgust and derision, painfully predictable in their apery, and he fought the urge to throw the snotty rag in their direction before deciding in his current state it wasn’t worth the potential black eye and/or broken arm. He slammed his van door shut and started the ignition, snuffling and scrubbing at his tickly nostrils, which were already flaring in preparation for a repeat performance. He prayed he wouldn’t sneeze himself to an early grave on the road before he could get home and sneeze his throat raw in the shower.

[wannabepoeticischiya]

Weak

[ 06 ] — the line of idiots

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A loud, obnoxious wail shattered the tranquility blanketing the Gojo Estate, waking the few people still held by the warm embrace of slumber. The sun had yet to pass the skyline, hues of blue and orange painted on the canvas overhead, morning dew shimmering like gemstones as the first rays of sunlight refracted against them. A lone morning breeze swayed against the figures in the courtyard, ruffling the snow-colored threads perched upon their heads, and the fine silks adorning their body.

"OJII-CHAN, WHY? TAKE IT BACK!"

How it came to this, Satoru did not know. A few moons ago, until the midnight sun was directly overhead, he kept his eyes peeled, wracking his brain trying to figure out why his friend (still self-proclaimed) had yet to make her appearance despite the many, many days that have passed them by. At first, Satoru tried to maintain a positive outlook about it, repeatedly chanting to himself that (Y/n) was busy, that she probably had other errands to run but... what exactly can a seven-year-old be assigned to that would take her this long to complete? And why didn't his grandfather tell him anything about it?

So, the young Gojo heir came to the conclusion that perhaps—this time around—he took some things too far or that he never exerted effort on something his grandfather had told him to do. And this was the old man's way of setting his punishment for slacking off... by taking his only company away.

Nonetheless, he was not delighted. Oh, not one bit.

As a way to get back at the one who caused his misery, he clung to the back of his grandfather's kimono, wiping his snot and tears on the newly commissioned garment. Satoru's weight was not necessarily a hindrance for the experienced sorcerer, what was a bother was his incessant wailing and ridiculous pleading.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME." He cried.

"As far as anybody is concerned, my dear grandson... yes, I actually can." The older man said, calmly. He was used to the young lad's tantrums, often just letting the boy tire himself out—which he would... eventually—but that didn't mean that it made dealing with the event itself a lot easier.

"NO! JUST TELL ME THAT YOU DON'T LOVE ME ANYMORE!"

"Child, you are being dramatic..."

Satoru's brain could not comprehend why this was happening. Still sagged against his grandfather's kimono and being dragged to the meeting hall, he tuned out all the tumult; pondering about the things he had done that just fell short of the Gojo Clan's expectations.

You're doing great, Gojo-sama!

What remarkable talent at such a young age!

Just a few more practices and you'll surpass even the greatest of masters! As expected of you, Satoru-sama.

He was doing just fine—excellent, even—according to the people around him. They smiled at him as though he would be the one to bring salvation into this monkey-infested world; praised him as someone would when met with an individual destined to be greater than everybody else. If they could, these people would have worshiped the ground he walked upon; built a temple in his honor.

Satoru bathed in their flowery sentiments. He reveled in the way they would grovel at his feet if he asked them to—and he did. The Gojo Heir would get a sick thrill out of others lowering themselves for him just so that he could step on them one by one. They would deem it a privilege—something to be grateful for even if it meant that they would lose their dignity and their entire identity altogether.

Still, no matter how much glory was served to him on a silver platter, it did not change the reality that they lacked sincerity.

Empty. That's what they were.

These people spoke words that he wanted to hear. Always the words of encouragement. Words that would get them to his good side. They were nothing but hilarious soliloquies sanctimoniously performed in front of the human they equated as a god but behind closed doors, wholeheartedly believed and made out to be a fool. All superficial flattery that hid their rotting desires inefficiently.

Idiot! You're doing it wrong.

That's what'll happen when you don't listen to instructions. Do it again!

Are you blind? It's right here. You see, this is what happens when you're so quick to use your mouth to complain instead of using your eyes to actually look!

The words of his one true friend (again, still self-proclaimed) were not any better. Most of the time they were insults, things uttered to purposely provoke him, declarations made in the heat of anger and annoyance. They cut deep, often leaving a trail of tears in their wake.

But they rang true.

Well, most of the time they did.

It was nice to be acknowledged for the things that you did, yes. To be praised for your accomplishments, no matter how menial or grand.

But over time, it does become overbearing.

To be free from flaws. For your actions to be compartmentalized as nothing less than righteous and just. To be so incandescently perfect, to be condemned to no more than a figure of false divinity.

Who could stand to bear such a fate?

Hypnotized to be kept in an endless cycle of perfection left him thinking he had no more room for growth.

If you get hurt, I'm not gonna help you.

Say it with me now, I did this to myself so I shouldn't complain.

Take my hand, stupid. On three, I'm going to pull you up.

But her words shattered the chains that bound him to the destiny he did not want to follow. All those tears he shed, the crevices scattered upon the meadows of his pride, forests of ideology burned to ash—even if he did not know the reasons for them at the moment, he would soon come to find that they happened because it would give way for a new him to come into being.

Even if (Y/n) would not admit it—which he doubts she ever would—but her declarations, no matter how much she coated them with anger and spite, to Satoru... they held more warmth and sincerity than what his entire clan could ever hope to gather beyond their lifetimes.

Satoru knew he could confide in them because (Y/n) did not want anything to do with him.

He knew that, of course.

Satoru would be an even bigger fool than what the elders believed he was if he tried to deny what was so painstakingly obvious...

That (Y/n) did not like him, and that she did not want to be his friend.

The Gojo Heir did not want to say that she was different because she wasn't. Naturally, no one wanted to be near him for fear of inferiority or endangerment, it was all a matter of what would come first, really. Even if it wasn't spelled out in big, bold letters, he knew that people only confided in him because they needed something. He knew that the only reason someone would approach him out of their own jurisdiction was because he was useful—because he had the six eyes, the limitless.

It never strayed far from that... and he doubts that it ever will.

(Y/n) did not want to be near him. So, regardless of her reasons... she was just like everyone else.

The only difference is that she stayed.

And that was more than enough for Satoru.

"OJII-CHAN!"

After that punishingly tedious task of walking to the meeting hall, Satoru had yet to cease his hold on his grandfather's robe; opting to bury his tear-stained face in them rather than to be continuously denied of a simple request.

Some would say Satoru got a little too comfortable with always getting what he wanted. His grandfather would agree, for he was facing the consequences of it first-hand. It was hard to say no to him.

"I PROMISE I'LL BE GOOD! I WON'T CAUSE YOU ANY TROUBLE FOR A WEEK—NO, A MONTH! PLEASE!"

The old sorcerer could do nothing but sigh for what seemed to be the hundredth time that morning at his grandson's relentless beseeching. He almost caved into that very tempting offer, almost. It seemed far too good to be true—too good to pass up. No crying house aids? No ridiculous stunts on the estate grounds? Peace and quiet not for a day, not for a week... but for a whole, entire month?

"Satoshi-sama," a call from opened shoji screens shattered the Gojo Head's impulse to agree, "they're waiting for you."

At the mention of other people's presence, Satoru's attention diverted from ruining his grandfather's clothes to trying to peek past the figure of the person standing in the middle of the way into the room.

"Wonderful."

The alternative meaning of Gojo Elder's statement was: Oh, thank the heavens! I didn't think I could stand another minute dealing with a whiny Satoru, not when he nearly caught me in that trap. He shuddered at that thought. His grandson could be devious if he wanted to be.

The servant moved away from the threshold, folding his knees, and bowing deeply to the prominent figures of the Gojo Clan.

Clothed feet thudded softly against the tatami flooring, sunlight streamed through the opened window panels, flooding the room with light dyed in a warm hue. The Gojo Elder stopped shortly in front of the two kowtowing figures awaiting his appearance, his grandson still absentmindedly tailing (dragging) behind him. The people who awaited his command wore the standardized hakama for household servants: a dull blue, loose top with sleeves that were held back by a white string, accompanied by gray ankle-length pants. They were simple clothing, really, every household aid wore them even...

"(Y/n)?"

And there she was, the person Satoru had been longing to see for the past two weeks, kneeling before him as though she was nothing but less than him. It seemed that Satoru would often forget that she was. But even so, he wanted to ask her so many things...

Are you alright?

Were you getting enough sleep?

Are you eating enough?

Where did you go?

Why did you take so long to come back?

Her hair, which was nearing the bottom of her spine when he last saw her, now only went a little past her shoulders; a little uneven. Anyone could tell it was done in haste. Clinging to the skin of her right cheek was a big, white plaster. At the littlest movements of her arms, Satoru caught a glimpse of a sliver of white cloth encasing her forearms. Bandages.

Did she get hurt... why?

Who... who would hurt you?

"Ah, I'm glad the two of you have made it." Satoru's grandfather seemed elated at the sight before him. As for why he was, the Gojo heir was yet to find out.

"Satoru, I'd like you to meet someone."

The older sorcerer ushered his grandson out of his hiding place, which proved to be a much harder task than what he initially thought would be just a simple nudge in the general direction of the newcomer, for the young boy stayed rooted to where he stood... which was directly on top of the hem of his grandfather's very stained, newly commissioned kimono.

Satoru's gaze remained on the apathetic expression painted on (Y/n)'s face, frozen. He wanted to ask her so many things, tell her all about the events that transpired during the time of her absence. 

But he just stood there like a statue.

"Satoru, this is Nagano Kiyu." The words his grandfather spoke fell deaf to his ears. It sounded as though he was submerged underwater, sinking deeper into the abyss as the breath in his lungs escaped him through the bubbles that would part from his lips. He had an inkling feeling of the next phrases that old man would say... and he was willing to use all his birthday wishes for his instinct to be proven untrue.

The young Gojo heir didn't think he was particularly indigent of (Y/n)'s companionship, he took what she gave him with open arms and had been grateful for every single one of them. So, right now... he didn't know what to make of it. Satoru, for once, did not know how to react.

"—this is Kiyu, Satoru's new... aide."

Not when her actions towards him breathed as though he was anything but himself like he was nothing more than a passing stranger.

(Y/n)... his friend, (Y/n)... was being replaced.

Why...?

The only one who's ever been true, (Y/n)... she was...

It was almost comical how every single person in the room took the news. Kiyu, the newcomer, had stars for eyes at the sight of the snow-haired boy. It didn't take a genius to tell that she had been dreaming of this moment for a long time. (Y/n), as per usual, looked as though she wanted to be anywhere but right here; the previously spotless bandage on her cheek now had little dots of red decorating it. Finally, Satoru, who was only informed of (Y/n)'s uh future short voyage just last night, had blanched at the change of plans; no one mentioned a replacement. All his begging to tag along with her had now looked as though it was all for naught.

The Gojo Head stood in the midst of it all, staring awkwardly at the outcome his information had brought.

Satoru tried to catch (Y/n)'s gaze. He wanted to see that familiar glint of haughtiness—even go as far as to make jokes of his own blind faith. He hoped that this was one of the lessons he needed to learn the hard way, you know... by shattering his hopes along with his heart completely. Anything but whatever it was that was approaching. But (Y/n), as she was, had found the floor a lot more worthy of her attention than him.

"Well? My boy, say hello to—"

The sound of his grandfather's sorry attempt at cutting through the tension snapped him back to retaliate.

"But Ojiichan, why?" Satoru's voice echoed within the four walls, loud enough that even if some of the screens were undone, his complaint hit the older sorcerer at full force. It was evident that the young lad didn't take the news all that well. And he was going to make sure that everyone else would suffer from it.

"Well, it's because (Y/n)-chan here—"

With her heart pounding desperately against the walls of her chest, (Y/n) darted her eyes to look at the Gojo Head, an impudent action for she was not given permission to raise her head, but the realization came a little too late.

A stinging feeling erupted from the base of her foot all the way to the back of her eyes, forcing her to keel over once more; reminding her of her place, where she stood amongst it all. (Y/n) wanted to protest. To have the Gojo Elder withhold just this fragment of information from his grandson—from Satoru. Yet her lips remained shut, bordered by the teeth she ground together.

"—has to go somewhere."

The young sorceress let her thoughts run freely. You didn't have to sugarcoat it. Tell him the truth. It didn't even register at first, the slip-up of the Gojo Elder, far too occupied with cursing everyone and everything that damned her to this fate. The news of her departure was not meant to be disclosed until the day after she actually leaves, for good reasons—and the mortified reaction of the white-haired creature a few paces from her had proven why.

"What...? Where?! Why?! OJIICHAN THIS IS UNFAIR!" He complained, a disbelieving tone at first before it transcended into frustrated, angry, accusatory yelling. "You told me it was only for a while! Why does (Y/n) need to be replaced when she'll only be gone for a while? Are you lying to me? Just—just tell me you don't care about me anymore!"

Why does he have to be so dramatic?

"Don't be sad, my boy... that is why I have arranged a temporary substitute for (Y/n)." The older sorcerer gestured to the new arrival, with half a mind berating his grandson for acting like a dimwitted fool who was heavily reliant on another.

Satoru took one look at the person now standing beside his grandfather, eyeing her from head to toe before saying a clear, hate-driven—

"No."

Stepping away from his grandfather and his stained garment, Satoru sat himself beside (Y/n), whose forehead still laid flat against the floors. He crossed his arms over his chest, superciliously craning his attention towards other mundane things.

Oh, he meant every bit of disrespect.

Satoru made it clear with his wordless response: either (Y/n) stays here, or he was going to make anything and everything harder than it had to be. He is a hard worker after all.

Deafening silence permeated the distance between the four people in the room, even the clamor of the workers preparing for the day did not pierce through the tension in the air.

"B-But Satoru-kun..."

Satoru whipped his head to face the one who had spoken, his sky-dyed eyes glared coldly and threateningly at the poor girl. "It's Gojo-sama to you." He snarled.

It didn't escape the young lad's eyes the way this Kiyu girl cowered away from him, he got that a lot, so it seemed. Satoru didn't mind. In fact, he was more than happy to put this servant back in her place, who did she think she was? Calling his name with so much unwelcome familiarity. However, what unnerved him so was the expression carved upon her face the moment her eyes strained to the floor.

What's there to smile about? Weirdo.

. . .

The sun began to hide behind the towering skyscrapers of Tokyo, painting the once azure sky with hues of pink and orange, dyeing the rest with shades of dark violet and ocean blue. A lone afternoon breeze swayed the trees to its melody, causing a few petals to drift toward the large estate bordered by well-kept gardens.

A thunder of footsteps echoed within the corridors of the Gojo estate accompanied by faint whispers of 'Go away' and 'Leave me alone'; answered by a very persistent 'No' and 'Let's have a sleepover'. (Y/n) ran through the hallways of the massive residence, careful not to break anything she could not afford to replace, chased down by what looked to be a bundle of blankets with feet and snowy-white hair.

"You two, please don't run in the halls!"

It baffled her so; how could that idiot even see? The sheets are practically taller than him!

Was the thought that raced through (Y/n)'s head as she turned the corner. She hurriedly slid her door open, eager to lose that demon-spawn hunting her down. Shutting it tightly, the young girl let herself fall to the floor... too tired to silence the incessant knocks on her doorway.

"(Y/n)?"

Silence.

"I know you're in there..."

(Y/n) deemed it futile to hide her snarl. After all, no one but herself could see that nearly unpaintable expression of annoyance plastered upon her face.

"You know I won't go away until you let me in!"

This idiot! Satoru could really be persistent if he wanted to.

"Oh~ is that Grandpa I see—"

And with that, the door opened with a bang. Satoru nearly jumped out of his wits as he heard a very noticeable crack come from the wood.

He stared as the girl looked from left to right, taking in the sight that the threat was empty and that if she were to put him in his place, she would not get in trouble right away. A wicked smile graced her face at the thought as she intimidatingly loomed over him.

Girls were normally taller than boys during this time of life but to Satoru, (Y/n) looked as though she would continue to tower over him like this for all eternity; like prey being stared down, ready to be killed at a moment's notice.

Satoru would've never admitted it out loud, but the sight of the older girl, up and ready to mutilate his body terrified him beyond existence.

"I—I'm—"

"You," she seethed, pointing a daunting finger down at the poor quivering boy, "I've had enough of you—don't make me peel off your face."

(Y/n) spread and hovered her fingers over Satoru's neck, all it took was a little more fire and the root of all her demise would be as good as memory. He did this. It was all his fault!

Looking at him had (Y/n)'s heart beating in an irregular manner, she felt the back of her eyes burn painfully at the sight of him, as though the scenery was being carved into them. The anger. At this moment, rang true for (Y/n).

This is exactly why you're being sent away, you ill-mannered brat.

How many more acts of disrespect did you think he was going to take from you?

This is what you deserve. Either you crawl out of there by the skin of your teeth... or die trying!

To her, he had no right to assert himself as a concerned friend when he—he was the one to—

"I just—I just wanted to spend time with you, (Y/n)! You're... you're leaving soon, aren't you? So, I—I just... wanted to..." Satoru found himself losing his script, the words flew out of his mouth so unceremoniously. He had it all planned out, what he was going to say, the right words that were sure to get him out of the gutter with this one but right now, it felt as though he was digging an even bigger hole for himself.

"I missed you, (Y/n)."

"And you're going away again when I only got to see you today so... I wanted to make up for all the time we spent apart... if you would let me."

It felt odd to ask for other people's agreement. Satoru was so used to taking what he wanted when he wanted, to be given something he wished for simply because he asked for it.

This time around, he didn't want to be like that. He feared that if he clung desperately to (Y/n), it would only push her away from him even more. So, he waited; told himself that no matter her answer, he would accept it. Satoru's eyes stared at the floor with such ferocity that he was sure he would burn through it if he kept at it for the rest of the night, which he silently hoped he wouldn't. No matter how many times the Gojo heir told himself that he would take any answer that (Y/n) would give him, the sorcerer in question, knew that Satoru did not want to be rejected. She could easily tell; it didn't take a genius to see that much. The way he braced himself as though he was going to get hurt, that alone gave it all away.

Because Gojo Satoru valued her thoughts of him more than anybody else's.

As (Y/n) took an intake of air to politely answer, her head craned to look at the person standing at the end of the hallway.

"Gojo-sama, supper is awaiting you in your sleeping quarters."

At the sound of that voice, the events that took place earlier today rushed back to (Y/n) at full force. It did not occur to the young sorcerer that she had been putting off thinking about it until she was left with no other choice but to confront the situation.

Much like the incident that transpired hours before, Satoru spared not a single breath towards Kiyu's direction, even after she closed the distance between them to a mere arm's length; preferring to keep his gaze settled on the person standing before him.

"You can have it. I'm not going there."

Satoru's short, seemingly sufficient answer was enough to snap her out of her momentary reverie.

(Y/n) didn't dislike her replacement. Nagano Kiyu's existence served as a constant reminder of her approaching departure, that she would be away from the creature before her even if she had to spend those moments walking between the borders of the living and the dead. Kiyu was tolerable—or so (Y/n) liked to tell herself—and her gratitude did extend itself to the person in question when in reality, it was only extensive enough to graze its recipient. (Y/n) was grateful that Nagano Kiyu would stand as that demon spawn's companion in her absence. However, what aggravated her was that look Nagano was giving her.

"Sa—Gojō-sama, you have to rest... we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow—"

The insolent expression painted on her face said it all: I'm going to take your job.

To be perfectly blunt, (Y/n) could care less. She'd be more than willing to hand over this horrifying task to Kiyu if she was so desperate for it. She was sure of it.

So why did her hand ache to crush that audacious hand valiantly reaching out to touch the Gojo Heir?

"Who said that I was going to spend tomorrow with you?" His head titled sideways, for the second time that day, looking to the servant who had so brazenly declared such sentiments. Satoru sneered at her in such a way that it almost looked as if he was daring Kiyu to finish her interrupted assertion.

"You low-class scum."

It felt as though the three of them starred in a theatrical performance where the world is the stage; left to be puppets tied to the script, actions controlled by a director they could no longer reach.

"You're just a liability. Taken in by my grandfather because you couldn't give anything for the world—who would ever want you? Filthy monkey."

Gojo's words echoed throughout the halls, ringing in the ears of the two servants. He forgets sometimes... that when he utters words to degrade Kiyu, they come right back to push his one true friend to the ground.

And for a pause not longer than a blink of an eye, (Y/n)'s heart breaks a little more.

To hear the words come right out of his mouth—from Satoru who had so boisterously declared to the world that they were friends. To see the mirror of herself in the person he was reducing to something less than human—to be reminded that during once upon a time, it was her who was at the receiving end of those harsh remarks.

(Y/n) didn't want to hear any more of Satoru's insults towards the innocent replacement. The older girl might as well stand in the shoes of Kiyu if she had to hear another insult come from Satoru; be the one whose eyes brimmed with a silver lining, the one whose cheeks were reddened, hair tangled from all the pulling and dragging, thrown across the floor from a hit so strong it would leave your face bruised for a long time. Might as well go back to that place, stay in the presence of that man.

There was no denying that Kiyo was bitter and held all sorts of envy towards her—that Kiyo was quick to anger, to covet the things (Y/n) had, to assume that she would be the villain standing in her way to greatness.

But was that truly a reason worthy enough to hold against the younger girl?

It wasn't.

Because Kiyu was mistaken—and because just like Kiyu, (Y/n) had once longed to find her purpose... to find something meaningful to do with the life she was allowed to keep.

And for a while, she thought she was lucky to have been given one.

After all, (Y/n) and Kiyu were on the same boat.

Just like Kiyu, (Y/n) was taken in by the Head of the household. And just as (Y/n) once was, Kiyu longed to find something precious to hold onto—to serve as an anchor in a world so tumultuous.

If Satoru deemed Kiyo worthless, nothing more than another burden for the Gojō clan to shelter... how would (Y/n) be any different?

So, she walked away.

Failing to lull the tremble in her breath or hide the shudder of her hands... leaving the pieces of her battered heart scattered across the floor, dying just a little more at the echo of his words, at the stain of tears on the mahogany ground.

. . .

Moonlight flowed like silver water through the opened window, shining down on the figure of a girl lying on a futon in the middle of the small room. A lone evening breeze waltzed in between the curtains, making them flow like waves crashing on shore. (Y/n) snuggled further into the warmth of her covers, recalling a faint, albeit unfamiliar voice, whispering in a soft, kind manner. Words that she could never quite hear nor understand.

(Y/n) didn't bother looking up or retaliating when she heard her door open for the millionth time that day.

The intruder was probably far too daft to notice that she wasn't even asleep anyway.

As much as (Y/n) wanted to crawl away when she felt something lay near her space, she couldn't... not even when she heard him whisper into the stillness of the night.

"... please stay a little longer."

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Satoru's grandfather, or any relative aside from Yuuta has no name so I'm just gonna make one up for the sake of the story. Also, hair length in this chapter may sorta be sometimes set... I hope you don't mind.

[maxdibert]

How do you think Severus would relate to a child of his own, if he had one? What kind of father do you think he would be?

There are so many possible answers to this question because it would really depend on the context in which Snape became a father (before or after the War), his child’s personality, and, of course, what his partner would be like. But, let’s assume we’re talking about a post-War Snape in an AU, because honestly, I can’t imagine canon Severus being a father in any way—it would literally be suicidal. Having a child would not only endanger his mission as a spy but also give his enemies perfect leverage to use against him. And he’s already suffered too much in life to throw in that level of angst. So, starting from a scenario where there’s no war and Severus can focus on being both calm and depressed (because he’d still be depressed, especially if he no longer has a clear purpose keeping him going), I don’t think the idea of fatherhood would really thrill him at first. It’s not like he’s someone who’s ever thought of having children, or at least he ruled out the possibility long ago. If he had a partner who wanted kids, I think he’d agree, but with a terrifying sense of dread about fatherhood because 1) his parental role models are terrible, and he never had a functional upbringing, and 2) he’s never really liked kids. It probably wouldn’t occur to him that maybe the issue is that he doesn’t like other people’s kids, but his own would be different. That’s why I think his partner would be a fundamental factor in this—supporting him throughout the process and keeping him grounded about his own traumas.

That said, I imagine him as a strict but supportive father, one who sets rules and commands respect but without using violence or verbal attacks on his children. He’d especially try to spare them the awful childhood he endured with his own father. But I still see him as the kind of dad who has rules and expects them to be followed, the classic type who cares a lot about grades and school behavior (he was a teacher for 18 years, after all). He’d probably see certain grades as failures if they didn’t meet expectations. He’d likely be a bit awkward with affection, although he’d find his own ways to make his children feel loved, valued, and accepted. He’d be a present father but would struggle to be fully emotionally open, though he’d likely improve this over time and with effort.

I also see him preferring to have daughters, or at least finding it much easier to bond with a daughter. I’ve always thought that it’s simpler for Severus to relate to women (Lily was his first friend, and the other person he spent time with as a child was Petunia, also a girl. As much as he picked on Hermione, he wasn’t as harsh with her as he was with Harry, Neville, or Ron. He seemed to have a fairly close relationship with Narcissa, etc.). Basically, most of the men in his life have been abusers (his father, the Marauders, Dumbledore manipulating and blackmailing him, Voldemort...), so he’s more at ease, or maybe just more himself, when he’s around women. I can see him thinking that he might not fully understand “girl stuff,” but that it’s better than having a son who’s into Quidditch and facing the prospect of not knowing how to deal with a boy who represents all the typical “boy” interests and behaviors that Severus doesn’t really embody. He’d probably have some anxiety over this—something common among men who don’t fit into stereotypical norms associated with their own gender.

Still, whether he had a son or a daughter, he’d try to provide them with a functional and stable home, where there’s affection and respect, allowing them to grow up with the security he never had. I don’t see him as an “easy” father because he has too much baggage, but he’d be aware of that baggage and try to address it when he realizes he’s messed up. He wouldn’t do that for others, but he’d do it for his children.

[ragana62]

I have always thought that not only would Corlys have 100% backed her if she decided she wanted to fight for her claim, but probably already had plans in motion to support her in doing so even before the council had concluded. Probably even before it had commenced. Honestly, he very well could have started the planning the day he walked out of the Small Council when she was passed over for Baelon.

He’s not an idiot. The odds of her claim, or her son’s claim, being accepted over Viserys’s claim were relatively slim once it came down to the council instead of just a family matter. Even if she had been chosen, the odds that some Lords might take issue with the idea of swearing loyalty to a Queen who threatened to undermine their own claims to their seats/future succession lines by her very existence were never zero. Either way, there’s a very real hypothetical future war there that will take some careful maneuvering, because they do have ships and a dragon and loyal banners to help support the claim, but so does most any other hypothetical faction in that conflict. It would be stupid not to plan accordingly.

That war probably wasn’t 100% hypothetical the night the verdict was read, in my opinion, particularly when there were such strong (and tbh easily offended/insulted) personalities like Corlys and her Baratheon kin supporting her. I don’t think it’s a matter of “Rhaenys could have fought for her claim, but decided not to and that shows her priorities and temperament vs. some of her kin’s priorities and temperament”. I think there was a moment where she walked into a room prepared to have to face pity and was met instead with a war table, with maps, with strategies, with men already planning her war for her and she had to say “no, I’m upset, but I’m not going to kill my cousins over this, I’m not going to burn the realm for this, I’m not going to endanger my own children over this, etc.”, and do so in a manner that forced them to listen to her over their pride.

For me, that’s also a lot more powerful. It’s not a simple “oh I care more about my family than I do my own power” or even an “I’m clever enough to know it wouldn’t be good for anyone to burn half our crops and kill half the houses in the kingdoms only ~100 years after the conquerors did it and rule over the ashes to spare my pride”. It’s a “I chose to wield my power, the same power that makes me qualified for the very throne I was just denied, not to take the throne, but to actively prevent others for taking it for me because I am intelligent and compassionate enough to know it won’t be worth it when the dust settles.”.

I think Viserys and Daemon know that, or at least that Rhaenys could very easily have gone to war over it. Daemon was raising an army of his own during the council to support Viserys, that’s not something you do if you aren’t expecting a fight after. Something tells me, if Rhaenys had to actively stop the war instead of just saying “not worth it, let’s go home” before the plans were made, they don’t know that. For Daemon in particular, it shows weakness on her part, it shows she never was meant to be on the throne BECAUSE she wouldn’t fight for it, it shows she is hampered by things like sentimentality that keep her from doing what she needs to do, and that shows in how he interacts with her years after. Viserys I think has a better sense of it, or at least is sentimental enough himself to respect and be grateful for what he sees as a choice to prioritize family over personal gain. That also clearly shows in how he views her and interacts with her.

Not to go full conspiracy theorist with this, but I think that there are elements of that hypothetical war in Rhaenyra’s real war. The blockade of the gullet at the very least is too immediate to have not been a hypothetical sitting out there that just needed the word to implement. I also think that her efforts (in the show at least) to try and circumvent the war show that Rhaenys knows this is very much just her war pushed back a few decades with the cast of players shuffled slightly and even more dragons in play to raise the stakes. Both philosophically (eldest daughter/daughter of the eldest son who was raised being told the throne would be hers one day vs. younger son/son of the younger son who is at the very least a bit reluctant or ill suited to the job but is still somewhat preferred by many for reasons utterly unrelated to job performance) and practically (Rhaenyra is surrounded by people who want this war, not necessarily because they believe in her or her claim, but because they think supporting her and winning it puts them in a better position than they could have joining the opposition whether that’s through existing ties of blood or marriage or just because they can get a higher position in the Black council than the Green one at this stage and hope to leverage it or else simply settle a score of their own through the war. Rhaenys absolutely was as well even if my head cannon is entirely bullshit).

Insisting on one final attempt at negotiation (because while there is no case to justify calling Rhaenyra going in person to King’s Landing to have a little chat with Alicent in the show a good choice, “hey, I know for a fact they aren’t all all in on the war, diplomacy isn’t weakness if it saves lives and gets results” absolutely is sound council and something Rhaenyra isn’t hearing from her other councilors) can be seen as more sentimentality, more weakness. Daemon certainly sees it as such at times. Coming from someone who only a few decades prior was in the exact same position and had to pull the realm back from the brink of war herself, it also reads as “Look, I know exactly how some of these strong personalities think, that so many of these people would be happy to wage war for their own pride and ambition through you and your younger brother, and it will be horrible and costly if you let them. I see your hesitation, I see hesitation in some of your opposition. Make sure it is worth it, that it is what YOU want, and that there isn’t another way forward, before you turn them loose. Don’t go to war just because Daemon wants to fight or because it seems like there is no other way forward with all these people whispering in your ear that it is inevitable and necessary.”

I think it’s easy to write Rhaenys off as “oh, she’s just the motherly voice of compassion and reason”, in part because that is very much what her family tends to do with her as well. And she is that, at times. It’s also easy to take some of her girlboss lines from the show and her temper from the book and turn her into some bitter and angry person who only joins Rhaenyra’s war to settle her own scores of lingering resentment. She can also be that at times. But I think, on a fundamental level, what she is, is aware. Aware of the people around her and what they assume about both her and each other, aware of the fact that nothing is ever so simple as a Rhaenyra vs Aegon conflict when there are too many other voices in the council rooms who all want something of their own, aware that it is all a game at the end of the day and that like all games, there are different ways to play it and different prizes to aim for instead of it needing to be entirely all or nothing. Whether that’s taking one look at Rhaenyra and saying “you don’t actually want a war, you are hurt and you want freedom” or at Daemon to say “really, he could do without the fancy chair and crown so long as he doesn’t have to kneel and submit himself before whoever does have them, which is probably why he’s so bad at actually being in charge of most anything without getting bored or annoyed”, or taking one look at both councils and recognizing that this is their war more than either claimant’s and that if that is true there might be another way out of it once again.

She listens more than she speaks, because she knows that all speaking accomplishes is giving your claimed allies and potential enemies leverage, and that people will give away a lot when they don’t see the person in the room with them as a potential threat, or indeed even see them at all. She preaches diplomacy over combat, not because she can’t fight when required, but because she knows what battles cost and that it’s not always worth it.

It’s easy to forget (particularly because it’s not even mentioned in the show), that the whole reason the council was necessary in the first place, was because her father was killed in a war when she herself was young and pregnant and her uncle was named heir in her place before dying himself, are you really expecting me to believe she didn’t take one look at Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, losing Visenya in her grief over her father, and have to take a moment to push down the complicated emotions that brought up? Her own grief for her father and the life she could have had had he lived, the grief of losing her own children, her frustration that once again a princess was being so easily cast aside and the bitterness that even if she repeats a million times over it doesn’t bother her anymore, it still does bother her, just a little bit, when the old wound is opened again in just the right way?

So when Rhaenyra finds herself surrounded by hotheaded lords all pushing her to raise armies and burn the realm for her throne, and Rhaenys watches as she loses another child to the war almost immediately, ignores her own grief to try and present something akin to the powerful front she thinks is expected of her only to find herself still struggling to be seen or heard by the very people who claim to be doing all of this for her, of course it’s personal. Even if her grandchildren weren’t caught up in all of it, if there wasn’t a risk that either faction saw a refusal to pick sides from her as a liability and tried to eliminate her as a potential third claimant, I think she’d have been on Dragonstone to at least advise Rhaenyra if not lend her practical support. At the end of the day, it’s still her war, even if it’s no longer her name being shouted in the battle cries, at least in her mind. If it is going to be fought this time, with so little personally left to lose, she’s determined to fight it herself.

You know had Rhaenys wanted to, she could have started a war over her own claim. Corlys would have 100% backed his wife and they do have a fleet and dragons etc. But the fact that she didn’t shows her fundamental character imo.

[beevean]

Everytime I see someone praise the show for its representation, I can't help but laugh knowing that the guy who wrote it couldn't give any less of a shit about said representation, especially on the female side, and most likely just included it in a half assed way because every media nowadays does it and you gotta please the masses on Twitter

I wonder if it's like a requisite for Netflix series

NFCV's representation is really nothing special either. You have a bunch of vampires from all parts of the world... who do jack shit and most of them don't even have a speaking role. You have a lesbian couple... two minor characters with a shallow personality and that by the end they simply peace out (admittedly, they're cute for how little they interact). You have two canonically bi characters who are implied to get together by the end... too bad that their bisexuality is revealed through "hey I had a threesome", and Alucard's threesome was a horrifying experience. You have a character who was made ambiguously brown... and he gets horribly tortured and dehumanized. And hello, Sumi and Taka who look literally identical despite being canonically not related???

The only positive representation is Isaac, a gay black Muslim man who gets all the screentime, badass moments and character development... and the dude spends most of his screentime simping for a white vampire, killing innocents without rhyme or reason beyond "they were mean to me :(", uses his religion as a way to justify working for genocide, and his sexuality is revealed by a flashback where he professes his love to his much older violent owner. So uhhhhh still not great if you really want to flaunt how Progressive you are.

Also Ellis seems to reduce most of his female characters to girlbosses, with Carmilla and Greta being prominent examples (and that one Casca with a haircut character, for what little I remember of her). And Lenore is just straight up fetish material. Then you remember what he was accused of, and yeah :^)

[septimusmoonlight]

You doing ok?

hi