#the big distinction is SEPARATE personality states

[karmaphone]

singlets stop presuming that everyone is multiple to some degree, actually challenge

[homunculus-argument]

Fantasy concept: The standard classic fantasy races, but humans are the species that's living the diaspora spread among other peoples' lands and cultures.

Humans are adaptible, can pick up whatever languages and customs they need to, learn to dress according to climate, are capable of digesting almost anything that the majority race commonly eat, can tolerate magic but don't need it to live, and altogether seem to find a way to live comfortably - or at least tolerably - wherever they can live at all. Many races who have humans living among them have a misconception that humans are some kind of sapient chameleons, that just automatically take the shape of their environment without thought or effort.

In truth, human communities are fairly tight-knit and have strong support networks, and they can and will immediately take in any newcomer stray humans and families, teaching them the ropes of how to live here. Not just out of the kindness of their hearts, but pragmatic reasons: one bad human or family will reflect badly on the whole population of the area. It's better to make sure that a stranger has a job than hear your own neighbour say that humans don't have jobs. It's fairly safe to assume that most humans who live in the same city know each other to some extent, but just because they're allies doesn't necessarily mean that they're friends.

While mixbreeding with the local population does happen - humans, for some reason, tend to be far more open to romantic and sexual relationships with other races than the rest, and the ones to do so have an astonishing knack for locating the one specific elf, orc, dwarf or any other who happens to find humans fuckable - and wherever the hybrid offspring aren't sterile, the human population of the area tends to aquire some majority-species blood and traits, mostly the distinct local traits of the human population of any area are cultural, taught and learned from the community.

Some elvish dialects don't have separate words for "half-elf", "a human born and raised in elvish lands", or "human who speaks fluent elvish and knows the customs", and even some elvish humans are surprised to hear that other cultures consider these to be completely separate concepts. As far as they're concerned, humans living among elves are all the same thing. Sometimes a person who's 75% elvish and only has one human grandparent, but was raised by the human side of their family, is considered human-among-elves.

And sometimes the divide between human poulations of different races and cultures is more stark than between the majority peoples themselves - while an orc clan and an elvish city-state might be willing to temporarily set aside their differences to work towards a mutual goal, the orcish humans and elvish humans among them might not.

While the human minorities among other races do have a distinct identity as humans of their own regions, this does not apply to goblins. Neither goblins nor the human populations among them make any distinction between the two at all. Both will refer to "their" humans as simply goblins, only specifying "a big one" if necessary, but even then you'll need to see the person in question to know whether they're talking about a human raised with goblins or just a particularly tall, physically large full-blooded native goblin. Goblins do not have a concept of personal property beyond "I had access to it and nobody stopped me from grabbing it, so therefore it's mine", and their humans are therefore goblins too.

Being one of the species combinations whose offspring are infertile, there's no goblin blood among their human populations save for the half-goblin individuals themselves, but considering that spontaneous adoption by simply herding unsupervised orphans into one's home is a commonplace, widely accepted practice and not any more unusual a way to start a family than having biological children, the individuals in question are largely unbothered by it.

While the humans-born-among-goblins aknowledge that they are human, they genuinely do not understand the concept of why one couldn't be both a full 100% human and a full 100% goblin at the same time. While humans from other cultures are confused and annoyed by their insistence, they'll have to agree that any person who'll come to your house as a guest (most likely unprompted and uninvited) and will just casually snatch a bug off your floor and eat it right in front of you, and then interpret the look on your face to mean that they were supposed to ask permission first is definitely a whole, entire full goblin.

The goblin-humans take this as a compliment.

[whatsnewalycat]

SURRENDER

Part Two of Ruthless | Stepdad Joel Miller x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 6.2k+

Warnings: non-canon, Boston Joel, dub con, step-cest, sneaky sex, use of the word daddy in a sexual context, dad kink (that’s a thing right?), age gap, degradation, praise kink, avoidance, silent treatment, sneaking into bedroom at night, angst, collective grief, mentions of explosions and gunshots (nothing graphic), *it’s about the yearning*, hair pulling, no physical descriptions of reader aside from hair can be pulled, reader is 18-19, Joel being a bad dom and a bad caretaker, hot shower, food mention, mentions of religion, unethical D/s dynamics, dry humping, anal sex, physical restraint, face fucking, sub-space unlocked, dirty talk, dd/lg maybe i think, masochism, like a lick of fluff if u squint 

A/N: Heeeey buddy. As stated above, this is a second part to Ruthless. Big thanks to my love @frannyzooey for the help and hype, you're the best. Please be mindful of the warnings and tell me what cults you think exist in post-outbreak tlou.

[ my masterlist ] [ taglist ] [ AO3 ]

———

As the 19-year anniversary of Outbreak Day draws near, unrest festers in the streets of Boston.

Whenever August ticks over into September, residents of the QZ seem to divide into three distinct categories: people who want to forget, people who won’t let them forget, and people who are too young to remember. 

Born post-apocalypse, you fall into this third category. 

Which doesn’t mean the ripples of loss don’t touch you, contrary to what some may think. You still lost something. Everyone did. 

This fact is apparent when you take the scenic route home from your job posting at the distribution center. 

Rubble crunches under your shoes as you walk down the crowded sidewalk, passing by a message spray-painted over the battered brick building: WE’VE BEEN FORSAKEN. 

Graffitied sentiments like these pop up constantly this time of year. Overnight, almost. Your mom and Joel mostly blame Fireflies for the vandalism. The bombs, too. Apparently they stir shit up to make people uneasy, then recruit those who seem susceptible. That’s what your mom thinks, anyway. ‘Leveraging their grief against them,’ she says. 

You think it might be more than that, though. 

Yesterday you saw three separate arguments break out in the streets. When you were taking inventory of k-rations this morning, an explosion went off so close-by that boxes rattled off the shelves. It was the second bombing this week, and you don’t foresee it getting better until October. 

Sure, the Fireflies lay claim to the lion’s share of vandalism and destruction, but their activity is consistent year round. They are the baseline. But this? This is different. 

You attribute the excess chaos to this heavy, static feeling in the air. It clings to your skin and gets stuck under your nails like a thick cloud of invisible dust or spores. Microscopic particles embed themselves in the cracks and creases of each person inside the QZ, fertile ground for clusters of violence to sprout up at every turn. 

If you had to guess, you’d say this phenomenon probably spans the globe. All of you felt the loss of Outbreak Day, the whole human collective. Echoes of what humanity lost will likely still be heard a thousand years from now. 

Some people refuse to accept this. 

Like the guy a few strides ahead of you, who walks by an orange spray-painted message that reads REMEMBER WHAT YOU LOST and sneers, “Almost twenty goddamn years, fuckin’ let it go and move on.” 

You watch him. See his neck get all red as he mutters to himself and clenches his fists at his sides. He looks around like he expects someone to challenge him. Nobody does. 

This doesn’t seem to satisfy him. 

Further up the sidewalk, he encounters a memorial made up of candles and wilting flowers hugging the side of a residential building. He kicks it over and repeats his earlier sentiment, this time louder and directed towards the brick wall. 

“It’s been twenty fucking years, get the fuck over it already!” 

Of course, a passing spectator indulges him. 

“Hey—watch it, asshole!” 

The two men puff up their chests and start yelling back and forth, so you cut right down an alleyway to avoid the situation completely. 

When you arrive home, you find Joel at the dining room table, hunched over a map, holding a glass of whiskey like it’s a lifeline. 

Neither of you say hello, but when you glance up while untying your gritty shoelaces, you catch him staring at you. 

A jolt of electricity shoots through you. 

He corrects himself, returning his eyes to the map as he takes a big swig from his glass. 

“Mom home?” 

“No.” 

Nodding, you rise to your feet and slip out of your shoes, squirming with the excitement that one syllable brings you. 

“When’s she gonna be home?” 

He doesn’t look at you. Just shrugs and takes a sip of whiskey, too engrossed in his project to spare you attention. 

For weeks, he’s been trying his hardest to pretend you don’t exist, which would be typical behavior if he didn’t fuck you dumb a few weeks ago. Sometimes you’re not even sure that what happened between you was real. 

But, then again, sometimes… sometimes you feel him staring at you when he doesn’t think you’ll notice. Sometimes he touches your waist as he passes by. Sometimes at night you hear him pacing the hall outside your bedroom, the faint squeak of the warped floorboards giving him away. 

When this happens, you stare at the door and will him to do it. Aching with something stronger than want, you pray for him to cross the threshold. But he never does. 

You exhale through slack lips and wrinkle your nose at the canned goods. 

“Hungry?”

He grunts in response, which is Joel for ‘I could eat.’

Tilting your head at the handwritten labels, you present the options, “Stew or… meat and beans?” 

Another grunt, roughly translating to ‘Both options are fucking terrible,’ a sentiment with which you wholeheartedly agree. You grab the stew and empty it into a saucepan on the gas stovetop. 

While it heats, you steal glances at Joel, noticing the rigidity in his demeanor. His set jaw and tense muscles. The deep creases in his furrowed brow. 

You’ve coexisted with him long enough to understand he’s not immune to the heady thrum of anguish in the air this time of year. Like you said, nobody is. 

Joel distinctly falls into the “people who want to forget” category of the forsaken, but carries whatever or whoever he lost on Outbreak Day like a ten thousand-pound weight on his broad shoulders. He white-knuckles his way through the season of chaos and mourning and tries to act like it doesn’t affect him, but it does. 

You can tell, not just from the way he holds the grief captive in his body, but also from the obvious indulgence in his favorite coping mechanism: planning. 

Joel is a meticulous planner. 

Between smuggling runs, he comes home after a long day of manual labor at some job site and unwinds by plotting logistics. Drinking, too, but he clearly has a favorite. 

Hours will go by while he pours over reference material, maps or blueprints, making addendums of any notable changes he and your mom discovered. After this, he deliberates. Joel could chew up weeks with this step. He plots out each possible route, taking into consideration all the penciled-in shortcuts and caches they’ve stashed within a 30-mile radius, then determines the most beneficial path for their next big adventure. 

Given FEDRA’s current paranoid state, with the increased patrols and surveillance and whatnot, your mom and Joel won’t be making a trip outside anytime soon. But still, he drinks and plots and winds himself up into a tight obsessive knot. 

You divvy up the simmering stew into two bowls, placing one next to his glass of bootleg booze while you take a seat across the table from him. He ignores your presence, just flicks his eyes around the map like it’s supposed to give him the answers. 

When you’re halfway done with your bowl, you gently prod him, “It’s gonna get cold.” 

Sitting up in his chair, he sighs and scrubs his face with his hands, then folds up the map and sets it aside. 

The two of you eat in silence. Each wordless second twists hot beneath your skin. Your mind wanders to the dig of his fingertips in your soft flesh. The sting of his flattened palm. The stretch of his thick cock. The things he said to you—fuck.  

You’re tempted to tell him to do it again. To tell him that you’re still abiding by his rules. That you don’t sneak out anymore. That you haven’t felt the sweet bliss of release for weeks because you don’t fucking come without his permission. 

Over and over, you rehearse it in your head. You imagine yourself telling him, ‘I’ve been so good for you and you haven’t even noticed.’

The sound of him clearing his throat pulls you from your thoughts. 

He shifts in his seat a little, studying you, “You still seein’ that boy downstairs?” 

Your heart stutters. Heat floods your veins as you shake your head. 

“Why not?” 

All you can do is stare at him while trying to verbalize an answer. For weeks, you ached for his attention. And now that you have it? The words are stuck in your throat. 

You shrug, pushing your empty bowl away to lean your elbows on the table. When you look up at him again, he blinks. Waiting for a response. 

A rush of adrenaline makes the world around you buzz. 

“Why do you care?”

He clenches his jaw for a moment, then parts his lips to respond. 

The apartment door swings open. 

Both of you start at the intrusion. You jump to your feet to collect the dirty dishes while Joel turns to greet your mother. 

“It’s a fucking madhouse out there,” she grumbles, then pulls out the seat adjacent to him and starts telling him about her day. 

———

You step into the shower and hiss in reaction to the scalding hot water. 

The fact that it's warmed at all surprises you. Not an unwelcome surprise, even if it hurts a little. Most days the water comes out tepid at best, and you’d gladly accept a third-degree burn over a lukewarm shower. 

Besides, the sting feels right on your skin, as weird as that sounds. You relish the pain while washing yourself, thinking, ‘this is what I deserve for feeling this way.’ Hell fire, if the sidewalk preachers are right. If there is such a thing. If you’re not there already. 

Only once the water runs cold do you turn it off and go back to your room, leaving the door cracked open behind you. After putting on a big t-shirt and some underwear, you turn off the lights and climb into bed. 

For a while you stare at the water-stained ceiling and listen. You hear the roar of FEDRA’s armed vehicles patrolling the streets. Far away, gunshots ring out into the night. Some kid starts crying next door, then his mother lulls him back to sleep. 

Closing your eyes, you try to tune it all out and focus on the noises within this unit. Concentrate on the drip-drip-drip of the bathtub faucet. The ripping sound of your mom’s snores. 

Then, you hear it. 

A creak from the floorboards. Footsteps. 

Their bedroom door squeaking open. 

Everything goes silent long enough for you hold your breath and scream inside your head, please please please—

It starts again. One careful step, then another. 

His presence hovers there at the door for six restless seconds before he opens it and steps inside, closing it behind him. 

Your pounding heart squeezes your breath ragged. It comes out this shallow, shaky push and pull that broadcasts your consciousness. 

Still, you pretend. 

You keep your eyes pinned shut and listen to the advance of his footsteps to your bedside. 

Down by your feet, the mattress shifts under his weight. He doesn’t touch you for a while, only watches you, his gaze burning into your skin. 

Then, he murmurs, “I know you’re not sleepin’.” 

You blink your eyes open to look at him, in boxers and an undershirt, all hunched over at the foot of your bed. Always carrying that weight on his shoulders. The glow of the street lamp outside your bedroom window casts this perfect golden light on him that makes you kind of hate how good he looks. 

“What are you doing?” you ask in a whisper. 

Over the blanket, he rests his hand on your calf, then takes it back and shakes his head. 

You roll onto your side, swinging one leg over the blanket and tucking it between your thighs, a wordless plea for him to touch your hungry skin. Joel shifts further onto the bed, turning his body to stare down at you with a straight spine. His gaze drifts up your exposed skin, fingers twitching in his lap. 

This faltering self-discipline compels you. 

Joel is nothing if not self-disciplined. That much is true for all the forsaken, yourself included. 

Your working theory is that nobody wants after the world ends, they just need. Need to sleep, need to eat, need to fight. Anything to survive one more fucking day. It’s all any of you can ask for. 

So do you want him, or do you need him? 

And what about him? Joel fucking Miller, with his reinforced concrete walls and heavy heart. Was he ever capable of wanting? 

“Joel,” you reach out to touch him, beckoning him to meet you halfway. 

His eyes flick to your outstretched hand, then back to your face. He shakes his head, as if declining the offer, but you don’t retreat. You sit up and crawl across the bed to him. 

The column of his throat bobs, head rocking back as he watches you come to a stop. He almost lets you touch his cheek when you try again, but snatches your hand away before you can make contact. 

“Don’t,” he warns, the tone of his hushed voice deadly serious. 

He squeezes your fingers while you study his stonewalled expression, tilting your head at him, “Why did you ask me that earlier? If I’m still seeing Bert?”

“I was curious.” 

“Curious why?” 

His lips part, then close, gaze dropping to your mouth. 

Heat pulses through every inch of your body. You drop your voice to a breathy whisper. 

“Were you thinking about what you did to me?” 

Something flickers behind his eyes when they snap onto yours. It draws you in, urging you to scoot so close your knees butt-up against his jackknifed leg. 

“You fucking loved it, didn’t you?” you ask quietly, smirking a little when his stern face twitches, “You loved how it felt to make me surrender—” 

The dull throb of his tightening grip around your hand makes you gasp. A rumble slips from his chest, which could be read as a warning if you had an ounce of self-control left. If you didn’t need him to combust. 

You let your gaze drift from his burning gaze down the slope of his nose to his lips, “Do you think about it every time you see me, like I do with you? How fucking good it felt?” 

“It was wrong—” 

“Then why are you here?”

Your question comes out louder than you expected. It ricochets through the charged space between his body and yours, popping the bubble of awareness around you. 

All the little sounds you picked up on earlier seep back into the foreground. FEDRA patrolling. The whiz-pop of firecrackers going off maybe a block away. A faint murmur of conversation in the upstairs unit. 

He holds your stare, but doesn’t make a sound until a snore rips from your mom’s chest, signaling crisis averted. When he speaks, his words come out hushed and calm. 

“You need to be quiet. Understand?” 

The command liquifies your bones. 

You lick your lips and nod, “I understand.” 

“Good.” He studies you as if deep in thought, finally releasing your hand to pinch your chin and assert, “You know why I’m here. Stop pretendin’ you don’t.” 

It’s hard not to fall in line when he’s looking down at you like this, all hot-blooded and self-assured. Cocky, almost. But you try to push his buttons anyway. 

“I thought it was wrong.”  

“Don’t get cute with me. Yes or no?” 

Your pulse flutters. Tongue goes numb. All you can do is nod. 

He jostles your head a little, “Say it.” 

“Yes.” 

“Say yes please.” 

“Yes please.” 

He works his jaw back and forth, studying you, then tugs your shirt.

“Take this off.” 

While you pull the offending garment over your head and toss it aside, Joel moves further onto the mattress, leaning back against the wall. 

You follow him, swallowing the static buzzing in your throat as he ushers you onto his lap. The scrape of his rough hands on your waist may as well be a live wire crackling across your skin. He pulls you closer and closer until your belly presses into the worn cotton of his shirt. The heat between your legs settles on his stiff length. When he twitches against you, a heady electric current courses through your body and coaxes a whimper from your lips. 

It seems too intimate to look at him, so you cast your gaze downward. Your shaky hands lay flat against his chest, absorbing the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm. 

Being with him like this feels strange. Not strange how it sometimes is with a new partner, that clumsiness before you know how your bodies work together. 

It’s strange in a fucked up out-of-context sort of way. Of course, growing up around him never conditioned you to think of him like this. Joel fucking Miller, with his scarred-up knuckles and unending apathy. The only man who could make big brown eyes like that seem cold. 

All those years, you never considered him anything more than an obstacle. 

Even then, if there was some tiny shimmer of attraction lingering under your skin, a piece of you that wanted more from him, you never thought he could feel so solid and soft and alive. You never dreamed he could make you feel so fucking good.

“This stays between us,” he tells you, more of a command than a request. 

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” 

The tips of his fingers dig into your hips, and he purrs, “You’ve been good for me, haven’t you?”

You preen at the warm timbre of his voice, body arching into him as you breathe, “Yes.”

Under your touch, his muscles tense. He exhales hot against your cheek and guides your hips in a rocking motion, slow and steady, rubbing all those aching nerves hard against him. 

“You liked it, too. Didn’t you? How I fucked you last time?” 

A low-frequency hum throbs deep inside you, amplifying every sensation tenfold. You nod, rolling your hips faster, “I did, I liked it.”

“Yeah, you liked it? Or did you fucking love it?” he hisses, “Dirty little slut like you. Bet you loved getting fucked in the ass, didn’t you?”

“Oh my god, Joel—” 

“Tell me.”

“Yes yes yes I fucking loved it—” 

Too loud. 

He ceases all movement, locking you in place with a steel grip. All ten of his digits bury themselves in your skin. The exquisite pain makes you gasp. 

“Hush.”

You clamp down on your lips in an attempt to stifle yourself. Each heaving breath wiggles down to your core and back. 

“Look at me.” 

If you do, you’ll dissolve at the edges. You know it. You are sugar paper and he is a humid room and you are so incredibly fucked. 

Pinching your eyes shut harder, you shake your head and whisper, “I can’t.”

“Why not?” 

“I’ll come if I do.” 

The confession makes him throb underneath you. He husks, “Do it, look at me.” 

You do. 

Even in the shadows you can make out his features, his parted lips and hooded gaze. The desire etched into his face as he stares at you, looking mystified in a way you’ve never seen before. Heat percolates beneath your skin, sending your heartbeat racing. 

His hips arch into you just so, then he pulls you in and pushes you back, rubbing your body against his, “Do you wanna come? Come for me just like this?” 

“Please—please,” you whine, feeling pleasure branch out from your middle as he slides you back and forth, “Please I wanna come for you it’s been so long—” 

“Will you be quiet?” 

Swallowing a moan, you nod frantically. 

His eyes flicker around your face and he breathes, “Go ahead.”

You’re not sure if it’s the flames in his eyes or the fact that you haven’t had an orgasm in almost two months, but the second he gives you permission, the ecstasy you tried so hard to contain spills over the edges and floods your body. It pulses through you hot and hard and makes your mind go white. You have to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle the guttural noises that try to escape. 

“That’s it,” he coos from far away, still grinding your twitching body against him, “There we go. That’s my good girl, hmm?” 

“Oh my god—” you whimper at the sharp aftershocks that shoot through you, “It feels so good, Joel, fuck—” 

“Do you wanna come again?” 

Nodding, you link your hands behind his neck and set yourself in motion, rubbing against him a little faster than his set rhythm. His eyelids flutter as he throws his head back, the muscles under his shirt going taught. Beneath the thin fabric of his boxers, he’s hard as a fucking rock. 

Releasing the tight grasp on your hips, he roams up your sensitive skin to your breasts and tests their weight before squeezing. It shoots through you, the pleasure and pain indistinguishable, just a throbbing rush of need. Your breathing comes in heaving gasps and you pinch your eyes shut again, tilting your head towards the ceiling as you once again find yourself struggling to keep quiet. 

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you. 

You snap them open and meet his. 

“Good girl.” 

And—god, the way he looks at you, his gaze hungry and wild. Fucking maddening. Simultaneously, you wish he would stop—the contact too intense, too intimate—and pray that it never fucking ends. 

Heat bubbles up inside you. You bury your fists in his hair and roll your hips faster, chasing the scorching need for more. 

He hisses and pushes back against your thrusts, murmuring, “That’s it, grind that pussy on me, make yourself feel good.” 

“Fuck—fuck yes, it feels so fucking good—” 

“I can feel how fucking wet you are, leakin’ all over me. You do love it, don’t you, baby?”

You start to tremble and nod, trying your hardest to whisper when you tell him, “Yes yes yes I do I fucking love it—I wanna come again, can I please come again, please please—” 

“Listen to you. So good, askin’ for permission.” He brings a hand to your face and brushes his knuckles against your cheek, “Such a quick learner.” 

“Joel—” 

“Do it. Make yourself come again.”

Something untethers inside you. Heartbeat pounding behind your ears, you work your body against him in jerky movements, each one more delicious than the last. His eyes burn into yours, all heavy-lidded and lust-blown in the darkness, watching your face twist up with pleasure as the hot gooey feeling between your legs stretches wider and wider, then overtakes you completely. 

You give in to it with a shattered breath, burying your face against his shoulder to muffle your moans. He holds you down, making sure you smother your cries in the damp cotton of his t-shirt as wave after electric wave washes over you. 

When your spasms start to peter out, and your rolling hips come to a stop, he releases his stronghold to pet your hair. Your heaving chests meld together, breath syncing up into a steady ebb and flow as he smooths his palm up and down your spine. 

For a moment, it’s just this. Just the soothing motion of him rubbing your back, calming your boneless body. Soft and quiet with everything else stripped away. 

Emotion swells in your chest and tingles up your throat, behind your eyes. You try to hide it, the fact that you’re crying, but it becomes obvious when a sob escapes you. 

Joel shifts a little, then tilts your chin up to meet his eyes. He searches your face and frowns, furrowing his brow. 

“I’m sorry,” you wipe your tears and cast your eyes downward, “I—I don’t know why this is happening, I’m sorry. I’m stupid.” 

“No—hey, no,” he assures you, “It’s fine.” 

You shake your head. 

“Look at me,” he commands, and when you do, he cups your cheek and holds your gaze, “It-it’s normal to feel… emotional. Really, it’s ok.” 

The warmth and sincerity of this—his touch, his eyes, his words—makes your heart stutter. It curls up inside you and sedates your jumpy nerves. 

You sniffle and nod, “Ok.” 

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he studies you, bringing his hands to your waist. The longer you stare at each other, the more all the subtle signs of his lust come back into focus. How his tongue peaks out to wet his lips when he looks at your mouth. The heavy thudding of his heart. His strained breath and throbbing cock. 

Your gaze drifts to his lips. A needy, aching desire simmers at the base of your spine. It seems wrong to kiss him. More sensual than sexual, rooted in something he will never have for you. But still, you wonder. 

You wonder how soft his plush lips would feel against yours. How he would taste. Whether or not he would use tongue, or teeth, or both. 

Your fingertips twitch hesitantly towards his mouth. He doesn’t pull away or admonish you, even though you give him ample time to protest. When you make contact, smoothing your touch over the pillow of his bottom lip, he murmurs against your fingers, “I’m not your boyfriend. I’m never gonna be, either, I wanna make that clear. That’s not what this is.”  

“I know you’re not my fucking boyfriend, Joel.” You scoff at the thought, “Boyfriend. I don’t want that. I don’t need a boyfriend. What I need…” you watch your touch drift from his mouth to his jawline, where you scrape your nails through his scruff, “What I need is someone to fuck the thoughts out of my head.” 

“Fuck the thoughts outta your head,” he repeats, almost a chuckle, “That’s what you need, huh?”

“That’s what you need, too. Isn’t it?” 

Something smolders behind his gaze as he searches your face. 

“You can use me, you know. Take whatever you need from me. Use me like a fuck toy, Joel, I fucking need it.” 

His whole body reacts to your request, muscles flexing taught as he clenches his jaw.

You bat your lashes at him and pull yourself close enough to feel his breath on yours when you ask, “Don’t you need a little fuck toy like me, daddy?” 

“You’re a sick girl, you know that?” 

“You like it.” 

Neither of you can deny the other’s accusation, resulting in a stand-off that tingles beneath your skin and makes your heart pound in your throat. 

Subconsciously, you rock your hips forward and suck in breath when his cock throbs against your clit. He pushes back, flooding your veins with fire, “Are you gonna keep quiet if I fuck you?” 

“Are you gonna shut me up if I can’t?” 

He lets out one single amused chuckle, then asks, “Are you really tryna test me right now?” 

Suppressing a smile, you shake your head. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

Something in the way he says it blooms heat in your chest. His tone teasing, almost playful. 

He gives your ass a light smack, then tugs at your underwear, “Take these off.” 

You roll off him onto the mattress and slide them down your legs while he stands to strip naked. Seeing his cock makes your body hum. It stands at attention, bobbing a little when Joel catches you staring. 

Sidling up to the bed, he beckons you closer, so you follow his silent guidance and crawl over to him, wrapping your hand around his thick length. You glance up at him, licking your lips as you await further instructions. 

“Get it nice ‘n’ wet for me.”

Nodding, you bring your mouth to the head of his cock, exploring first with your tongue, licking up the salty dribbles of lust. You taste a hint of yourself on him too, arousal that soaked through his boxers and marked him yours. Temporarily, at least. At least for tonight, or at least for right now. 

A pleased rumble erupts from his chest when you wrap your lips around him and start to slide up and down his shaft. He feels solid and warm and fills your mouth completely. The first time he hits the back of your throat, you gag and pull off him, working him with your hands as you catch your breath. 

“Do it again.” 

You take him in your mouth, rutting up and down a few times before sitting up taller to drive him down your throat. He buries his fists in your hair and thrusts his hips forward, “There we go, that’s it—fuck, you’re so fucking good at that.” 

His praise sparks at your core. You whine around his cock and bob against his thrusts. It doesn’t matter that you can’t breathe. You don’t need oxygen, you just need this. The sting of his grip prodding your movements, the raw stretch of him fucking your airway, the wet squelch that fills the room. 

When he yanks your head back and unclogs your throat, you gasp for breath and stroke him with both hands, churning his slick length. Fire roars in his eyes when you look up at him. 

He grabs your chin and husks, “Say thank you.” 

“Thank you.”

He smacks your cheek and grabs your chin again, “Say thank you for fucking my face.” 

“Thank you for fucking my face, I fucking love it—”

“Say please can I have some more.” 

“Please can I have some more, daddy?” 

Stifling a groan, he crams it back in your drooling mouth, down your throat, snapping his hips in sharp, quick thrusts that make you gurgle with pleasure around him. Far away, you hear him panting, “Take it take it take it—”

The chorus makes your body tingle. You think about your mom sleeping in the other room, how there’s just a wall between her and this. How she could wake up at any moment and follow the muffled, hedonistic noises. How she would find Joel balls deep in your mouth and you giving him something she never could: control. 

This time when he pulls you off his cock, he uses his white-knuckle grip on your hair to make you flip over and turn around, ass in the air towards him. 

The head of him nudges up against the tight ring of your asshole. You hear a wet splat, then feel the heat of his spit trickling down between your cheeks. Your body clenches with anticipation as he smears it around. 

“Remember, you gotta relax,” he murmurs, releasing your hair to smooth a palm against your spine. 

You inhale a deep breath and exhale the tension from your muscles, letting your heart melt into the mattress. 

“Good girl,” he arches forward, breaching your entrance. 

The sharp sensation splits you open. It pulls a wanton moan from your lips that rings through the silent apartment like a siren. 

Yanking you up by your hair, Joel secures your back to his humid chest and clasps a hand over your mouth. Stars invade your field of vision as he drives his cock deeper and deeper, only stopping when he can’t go any further. You sob against his palm, so he pulls it down harder, muffling the noise until you stop. 

Everything goes silent and still, but you can’t even bring yourself to worry that you woke her. Not when all you can hear is your thudding heart and his ragged breath, coarse with what you assume is rage or lust or both. Not with his lightning rod cock vibrating hot up your middle. 

It doesn’t matter that she could walk in to find her common-law husband fucking your ass, or that this discovery would burn all your lives to the ground. All you care about is more. More stimulation, more attention, more Joel—more more more—

You try to move your hips in an attempt to create friction, but his vice grip renders you immobile. So you stay in place and try not to make noise as the flames lick at your insides. You squirm and ache and claw at his arms while he muffles your whimpers. 

Then your mom snores in the other room. 

He pulls his hand from your mouth and you gasp for air. 

Thinking you can get ahead of the inevitable scolding, you plead, “I’m sorry—” 

He drags his cock out of your body, then plunges it back inside, all the while hissing, “If you’re gonna be my little fuck toy—” 

“Holy fuck—”

“—You have to be fucking quiet. Do you understand?” 

Nodding, you gasp, “I understand, I’ll do better, I promise—please just fuck me, please please—”

You strangle a moan in your throat when he slips a hand between your legs and draws tedious circles on your clit. 

“Try ‘n’ breathe through it,” he coaches, “I’ll go slow for you this time, ok? Just remember, shut the fuck up and take deep breaths.” 

You suck in air until your chest is full, then release it, restricting its flow through a narrow space between your lips. You do it again. Tension begins to melt from your bones. It has a clarifying effect, allowing you to relish in the heat of his touch. You take another deep breath, only hitting a snag when Joel starts to rock his hips. 

It feels fucking unreal. Rough and raw, the steady drag of his cock fills you with static electricity over and over. 

“Oh fuck—”

“Shhh…”

Your inhale stutters, but you regain control on the exhale. Everything disappears except him. His heated skin sticking to yours. How fucking full he makes you feel with each thrust. The thick swell of pleasure that accumulates every time he flicks his wrist. You surrender to all of it, to Joel, entrusting him with everything except your breath. 

“That’s it, baby, let go.” 

“It feels ssso gooood,” you whisper, head rolling back onto his shoulder, “Nothing’s ever felt this good, holy shit—”

His lips tickle your ear as he purrs, “Such a good little fuck toy, aren’t you, baby?”

You gasp a little when the velvet of his tongue rolls against your pulse. Nodding, you reach back behind his neck to scrape your fingernails through his curls. He does it again, this time sealing his lips to suck on the sensitive skin. Your heart pounds thick and hot through your body. The edges peel back at the corner of your mind. You push back against his thrusts, panting out subdued whimpers as the fire in your belly begins to spread. 

“Do you wanna come?”

“I do, I wanna come—oh my god I wanna come, please make me come, daddy—”

His hand covers your mouth and holds you down so he can fuck you harder, stretching you out wide and filling you deep. He works your clit faster. The bed frame thumps against the wall in a frantic rhythm that matches the wet slap of his thrusts. Tears prick your eyes and heat swells beneath your skin, pressure building more and more until you think you can’t fucking take it anymore—

His palm smothers your moans as you fall apart, breaking into a million pieces and coming back together again with a choked sob. Joel buries his face in the crook of your neck and groans as his hips snap forward, then stutter to a stop. 

The two of you go slack propping each other up, too loose-limbed and lethargic to peel yourselves away at first. He makes the first move to separate, though, uncovering your mouth to brush the damp hair from your forehead, “You ok?” 

“Yeah,” you tell him instinctively, then second-guess yourself and look up to meet his eyes, “I mean, I don’t know. I think so.” 

He studies you, nodding. 

Hesitation buzzes in your chest when you contemplate whether or not to return his question. It seems unlikely he’d cooperate even if you wanted to know the answer.  So instead, you give him his out. 

“Is this goodnight, then?” 

“Suppose it is.” 

A flicker of something passes between your bodies as you stare at each other. It feels so hot to the touch that you chicken out, glancing away as you whisper, “Will you do something for me before you go?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Tuck me in?” 

The noise that comes out of him is half-grunt, half-chuckle. Joel for, ‘You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.’ But he obliges, pulling his soft cock from your body at a mercifully slow speed before allowing you to make yourself comfortable. He sorts out your blanket and drapes it over your body, then starts fishing his clothes off the floor. 

Tugging his shirt over his head, he asks, “Need anything else, princess?” 

You’re sure it’s a dig, but choose to ignore it as you snuggle into the covers and hint, “Don’t make me wait so long next time.” 

He sits down at the edge of your mattress and threads his legs through the boxers, “I’ll make you wait as long as you need to. What else?”

“Mmm. Goodnight kiss?”

“Goodnight kiss,” he scoffs to himself, then looks back over his shoulder at you, “Fine, then I’m goin’ to bed.” 

He turns to face you more directly, folding a knee onto the bed as he leans in and tilts your head to the side, pressing a gentle kiss into your cheek. Even though you wish he had kissed your lips, you close your eyes and savor the affection while you can. 

After murmuring goodnight, Joel leaves. He crawls back into bed with your mother while you memorize the sound of his retreating footsteps.

[beguilingcorpse]

alright not to get all kingdom hearts on your asses over here but i've had an alecto the ninth theory cooking for a while now. which is that the gideon that narrates the end of htn is almost entirely disconnected from the kiriona that we see in ntn.

obviously there are the distinct name and personality differences, but there's also the big implication that harrow took something from gideon via the lyctoral process - something she absorbed - that kiriona currently lacks. i've seen some people kick around the idea of this being kiriona's "heart" because of the chussy (and the romantic implications), and i think that's a good a thing to call it as any.

if you aren't familiar with kingdom hearts, there are two creatures that can come from the same person: a heartless, which is literally a person's corrupted or stolen heart, and a nobody, which is the body (still possessed by a soul) that a heartless leaves behind. nobodies are their own functioning person, but can go through physical and behavioral changes and are usually pretty emotionless or bitter.

i'm trying not to Kingdom Hearts Lore Dump, but this sounds a LOT like what's happening with our girl kiriona. and i'm just saying that there are a lot of parallels between gideon's heart being out of her body/with harrow, but kiriona continuing to "live" (heavy scare quotes) while maintaining most of her soul because of the lobotomy and stalling of the lyctoral process. i'm just SAYING that when you put it like that, it sounds an awful lot like kingdom hearts. I'M JUST SAYING

and do i have any direct evidence for this? not currently, no. but based on what i know about muir and her knowledge of early 00s fandom and pop culture, i'm more than willing to bet that a kingdom hearts reference would not be outside of her wheelhouse. weirder shit has been referenced in the locked tomb.

if i had to extrapolate further, this all seems to point to some kind of reunion of gideon's heart and kiriona's body. harrow and gideon('s body) are in the same place again for the first time in two books. it kind of seems to me that either gideon will get her heart back, or she really won't - i.e., gideon's heart is gone forever (absorbed too completely?) and kiriona must either continue to exist in a state of incomplete megadeadness or cease being. which creates its own separate set of problems that i'm personally choosing not to think about. we can burn that bridge when we get there.

[pikahlua]

Please do correct me if I��m missing something, but if Izuku is only able to save “Tenko” and not Tomura, the person Tenko became bc of his trauma, cause he’s too late, it feels like it sends the wrong idea about abuse victims? Like nothing can save them when they’re grown and changed by their trauma, they can only be saved when they’re still young enough (like the Joki Joki kid, who was pretty much Tenko 2)

What do you mean by saved? I made a distinction between Tomura the traumatized destroyer (the one Izuku saved) and Tomura the hero of the villains (the one Izuku couldn't save) for a reason. If there was anything Tomura did ask to be "saved" from, it was from merging with AFO. That's the face Izuku saw that inspired him to save. And Tomura was saved from that fusion. His heart/soul was ALSO saved by Izuku. Remember we're also talking about a story with supernatural/sci-fi elements, and those played a big part in Tomura's fate.

Tomura didn't ask Izuku to save his life, and the story has made pretty clear for a long time that a victim has to want to accept help in order to be saved (note how Touya eventually DID decide he wanted to live before he was saved). This has nothing to do with Tomura being "so broken he can't be saved." Tomura doesn't see anything else he wants to be saved from. Tomura isn't afraid of death. Tomura doesn't ask for Izuku to save him from "being the hero of the villains," which is what Izuku is too late to "save" him from. Tomura did not accept that particular hand that Izuku reached out. The hand he DID accept was the one that saw him as something more than just a destroyer--because he wanted to be acknowledged for something else (a crying little boy, a hero to the villains). I treated "Tomura" as a separate entity from Tenko in the last post because I was mostly talking about his fusion with AFO, but I openly stated it was a rough draft. Like, when I say Izuku was "unable" to save Tomura, I never said abuse victims are unable to be saved. Tomura doesn't stand in for all abuse victims. He stands in for a person who is so sure in who he is (a hero to the villains) that he would never compromise it, even in the face of death (this is the closest we can get to calling him a martyr, btw). What's there to save him from, in this case?

tl;dr The thing Izuku was "too late" to "save" Tomura from was being a hero to the villains. Izuku DID "save" him from his trauma.

[neuropoppins]

This is what Gender Ideology & Queer Theory does with Sex and Gender

The Future Of Autism Politics PART 2: Neuro Queer Theory, Neuro Affirming Care, Identity Clinics and Big Pharma

Using Autism as a lens I dissect Gender Ideology and Queer Theory...

...

Comparing how Gender has been theorised as performative in Queer Theory, I present to you Neuro Queer Theory, which states neurotypes are performative. 

In Queer Theory, gender is understood as performative. That is, gender is not something one is, but something one does through repeated acts that align with cultural norms and expectations. In this view, one's biological sex is often considered secondary to the social behaviours and performances that come to define one's gender. Gender becomes a social construct that is enacted rather than a direct reflection of biological traits. This deconstructs the idea of a fixed relationship between one's body (biological sex) and one's social identity (gender).

If we apply this same framework to neurotypes, the question becomes: What if autism, and neurotypicality were also viewed as performative, rather than strictly tied to biological or neurological markers?

In much the same way that queer theory deconstructs the binary of male/female, this idea would challenge the strict separation of neurotypical and autistic as fixed, biologically determined categories.

Autism, understood as a neurological condition, might instead be seen as a social performance, where certain behaviours or traits become markers of being "autistic" or "neurotypical."

If we thought of autism as performative, it would imply that "autistic" is a role one enacts rather than a neurotype one is. The focus would shift away from brain structure or neurology and instead look at how certain behaviours are culturally labelled as autistic.

Just as someone is considered male or female based on their alignment with gender norms, someone might be considered autistic based on their adherence to or deviation from autistic stereotypes. Autism would be seen less as a neurological reality and more as a social identity shaped by how a person behaves or performs certain behaviours. A person could theoretically "perform autism" (and therefore identify as autistic) through behaviours that align with cultural understandings of autism (stimming, avoiding eye contact, being socially awkward), just as one might "perform gender" by dressing, speaking, or acting in ways culturally associated with femininity or masculinity.

Someone who does not "perform" autism according to these social cues might not be recognised as autistic, even if their neurology meets clinical criteria. This could also work in reverse: someone who performs certain stereotypical autistic behaviours might be labelled autistic even if they’re not actually autistic.

In this thought experiment, just as Queer Theory separates gender from biological sex, my proposed Neuro Queer Theory would separate autism from neurology, reducing it to a set of socially constructed behaviours. In doing so, it could challenge the medicalisation of autism, framing it instead as a cultural identity - much as gender is increasingly understood as distinct from the biological body.

Applying Queer Theory's performative lens to neurotypes raises provocative questions about what we consider to be biologically innate versus socially constructed. It invites us to imagine a world where autism is defined by behaviour and social roles rather than neurology, much as queer theory argues that gender is shaped by social performances rather than biological sex. 

Hence, my dystopian Future of Autism Politics - a scary and nonsensical prospect indeed! 

[proxylynn]

Blorbo: Sun and Moon (FNAF SB)

{The first bot of FNAF to make me feel something.}

[Unlike Monty, who I think got massively shafted with all the cut content, the Daycare Attendant still had enough of him intact to show off his personality(s) in the games.

Sun is often seen as, well, a big ray of sunshine and happy-go-lucky with his need to take care of others. But with Ruin and HW2, we learned how he really is and it made some oddities from SB when we first met him now make more sense. On the surface, Sun is a friendly and playfully cartoonish fellow who loves playing with kids and taking care of them. But under that, Sun is something a lot more human. He's not just anxious, he's frustrated. He's restricted, he's bossy, and childish. He's flawed. The common belief for Sun was that he was a childish dreamer in an adult body, a scattered and hyperactive fellow with plenty of colorful hobbies who is happy to be a playmate for any child. But no. Maybe that was a Sun from a long time ago, like how Moon used to be friendly, maybe Sun used to like his job. Sun is not the bouncy buddy boy that we thought he was. Sun is fed up with the job, occasionally happy or feigning happiness before the blasé slides through. Sun is Squidward. From how he criticizes art, to how he can be snarky and bitter, to just being done with everything. He's suffering from burnout. Sun is…relatable. And it's fucking amazing!

When it comes to Moon, it's harder to put down a clear distinction. The Moon we see in SB is made out to be a malevolent and aggressive enemy, attempting to punish those for staying up "past his bedtime". He still has a great distaste for messes and feels responsible for cleaning them like his daytime counterpart does, but to a more demented degree. And in Ruin, he's desperate to remain in control and in pain. Kinda painting in the light of a wounded animal of sorts. But…and here me out on this…Whatever personality Moon once had, if at all, is no more. Moon is just Sun's alter but has been corrupted by the Vanny virus to the point he's just…well…What we see. For so long we have considered Sun and Moon as separate animatronics entirely. Sure Sun refers to Moon as him or he, but he also refers to him as the other me and that is very important because HW2 to is the game where we see Sun for who he really is and in the process, we also see the real Moon. In the SB trailer, the animatronics are shown with red eyes as they being possessed. Monty is shown with red eyes in his boss battle (the red dots, not just irises), the staff Bots that Vanny controls also have these red glowing eyes, as does Vanny herself who is also possessed… and so does Moon. Moon is not evil Sun. He is his possessed corruption. Moon is to Sun as Vanny is to Vanessa. This is even more clear by the fact that Vanny and Moon act very alike and even Vanessa and Sun act alike. Like Vanessa and Vanny are the same person, so are Sun and Moon. They are not two separate personalities, to an extent. It's just Daycare Attendant and Daycare Attendant under the effects of something else. In HW2 Moon has absolutely zero awareness or concern for his situation. Once the switch flips he's on the hunt, saying the same lines and moving the same way. With the only deviation being in the small glimpses we get in Ruin when Cassie enters the daycare and confronts the same shattered Sun and Moon, except moon is in control this time and she can only communicate with Sun when the mask is on. Seeing him during the mask thing seems to show us that Sun is always aware, watching, and that's actually pretty sad.

Eclipse, to me, is what they were supposed to be. Not just a reboot safety mode, but the true state of mind when both halves are unified. He's rather gentle, whimsical, and calm, acting as a combination or even a balance between Moon's collectiveness and Sun's cheerful demeanor. By all accounts, Eclipse seems like a safe character and a kindly fellow, not showing any of the same red flags that we might have seen with Sun's meeting with Gregory. Well…except one. Eclipse seems a little detached from reality, thinking the daycare will be opening the next day and that he'll be taking care of kids again, which is not going to happen unfortunately. But this demeanor, it makes you wonder if there was a time long ago when Sun and Moon were more like this. Back when nap times were safe and kids wanted to be in the daycare, perhaps there was a time when Sun and Moon were distinctly one and the same. And then some corruption crept in and slowly they became further and further divided. Now all that being said Eclipse is a complicated case, while assumed to be Sun and Moon in an earlier form as a reboot would imply, he instead is their safe mode. In safe mode, one of the trademarks is being a sort of state that makes them oblivious to their situation and a slow halting way of speaking. Like how Freddy thinks everything's hunky-dory and Roxxy's asking if Cassie booked her party, Eclipse looks around at the daycare and says "Oh, this place will be flooded with kids" like he genuinely believes it. This is devastating and it gets worse outside of the daycare as Cassie gets a final call from Sun thanking her…Which raises some questions.

Sun is still capable of speaking once Eclipse is online, which may mean that Eclipse is also maybe a third personality created through the safe mode, which would explain why his voice is so different even though being the same. This would mean that like with Moon, Sun is sitting inside watching what Eclipse is doing he's just contented because Eclipse is not some wicked gremlin yelling no Sun and instead is a sweetheart blissfully unaware that this is the end of the line. He is the comfortable and welcoming fugue and that's where we leave Sun and Moon, as Eclipse now reverted to an earlier state and they are now stuck in unawareness of their situation but they are still trapped in that situation, still broken, still stuck at the pizza Plex with nobody coming for them.

Sun and Moon are more complex characters than pretty much anybody else. Between the major cuts, drastic changes, and a lack of commitment, this is the first time that we've had a character have so many layers and the fact that the Jekyll&Hyde thing isn't the most interesting thing about him anymore is great. The Daycare Attendant was expanded on, cues we already saw in SB, every quirk and flaw shown of him has been built enough to see the full picture which immediately shot him up the ladder of character building since so many fnaf's characters are voiceless, nameless, devoid of a personality...and then suddenly the daycare clown has more depth than anybody else, books included. Hell, his VA even confirmed he's autistic. There's so much to this bot and I fucking love him!]

[xerith-42]

Hey guyyyys!! I'm baaack with a fresh batch of Laurance angst brought to you by "I really like this random design detail and will try my damnedest to make it make sense." The design detail in question is heterochromia!

Today's programming involves discussion of torture and probably some body horror

So, I'm a big believer in heterochromatic Laurance. It's just real to me. Because honestly both of his very distinct looks are serving cunt in very distinct Laurance Zvahl ways. I have a preference for his original appearance because I have a few bones to pick with Jessica's design decisions, but the pale blue and even blind eyes fit Laurance really well.

In a separate iteration of Laurance I made him lose one of his eyes before the rebirth process, so his heterochromia was unrelated to the whole pseudo-zombie thing. But in MCD... Well... Everything comes back to Shadow Knights.

Little Larry has beautiful emerald green eyes that then get utterly destroyed by the cruelness of the hell he willingly threw himself into to save those he loves. And uhhh, Laurance in canon says he was tortured down there. So let's get into that, shall we? Now, a thing about torture methods is that there's a lot of them, they're really easy to come up with if you have even a slightly sadistic mindset, and they are often focused. Most people who frequently engage in torture chose one field of the body to focus on.

Now let's look at Gene. Obviously for his magical and psychological torture, his focus is on the mind. But what about his physical methods? Obviously Gene gets his kicks out of people in pain, yet I think his real focus is when it gets personal. When someone isn't just in pain, but they are crying, shaking, writhing in agony while staring up at him cursing his bloodline. The eyes are the window into the mind and they say so much that the mouth can't when words fail or are restricted.

Gene focuses on eyes. He remembers them. They haunt him. When he's learning how to break people, he learns how to use their very sense of sight against them. It's already what he knows how to do with his magic and extreme gaslighting tactics. If he has a focus, if he has a piece of information he needs, and he has a target, then he'll focus on the eyes. If he, for example, thinks that Laurance has more information on either realm barriers or Aphmau, who is quickly becoming a point of interest for the Shadow King, then he'll have a reason.

But he can't possibly permanently ruin both of Laurance's eyes. He still needs another for at least semi-proper comprehension of how fucked he is. Gene doesn't need more than one eye. And I like to characterize Gene as a bit of a mad scientist, testing out his magic and Shadow Knight powers in extreme and unhinged ways.

Who knows what he did to Laurance's eye, what happened when he destroyed it and regenerative powers brought it back over and over. What effects traversing between realms had on whatever the fuck Gene did to make it so bad it didn't even resemble his original eye color.

Irene's blessing is able to mitigate the damage on his other eye, the one that was only blinded by realm travel, and bring it almost back to its original state. A pale sage color that has partial but still restricted vision. Laurance is grateful for what little eyesight he has. His other eye, the one Gene targeted... It doesn't come back. After the realm barrier blinded it, there was no undoing the damage anymore. It remains a cloudy pale blue, scars running across the skin around it and through his retinas.

I want to make it clear that Laurance isn't ashamed of this. He doesn't try to hide his eye, but he is cagey to answer questions about it. Most people are smart enough not to question, and he'll open up to the people he cares about (ie Garroth and Aphmau) when he's ready. I have a whole arc related to his blindness that's a whole side blog post I'm working on, but Laurance doesn't forsake the sight he has and he also doesn't lament what he's lost.

"Cad[endza] and Aphmau keep saying they want to bring my sight back. [I] know they mean well but... I can't tell them what happened. I don't think either one of them could take it. Garroth might be able to, but I don't think either of us trust each other enough for that conversation yet. I don't need my eyesight back, and I don't need anyone to fix my left eye. If they knew what that monster did, they would be grateful I have an eye to be blinded.

He doesn't encourage anyone to try and bring it back, and he might even get upset if they're too insistent about it. He's not exactly eager for another magic user to get their hands too close to an already severely damaged eye. He might not say it out loud to someone, but... [blinks my gay little eyes] There's a page in his journal that reads--

Text ID:

[milamilamilax]

Sydney's mental health

I’ve read plenty of theories about Sydney’s potential health issues, particularly whether she might have lupus, but I think the show could take a different approach. There are various clues throughout the two seasons pointing at mental health issues for Sydney, which I think these point towards things potentially getting worse for Sydney as she puts too much pressure on herself - or perhaps hints of a backstory for Sydney, but the clues are definitely there. 

We’ve seen general hints about Sydney having anxiety, e.g. struggling to sleep, haunted by memories of catering, and the stomach problems she has, likely due to stress. We also know that she is closed off emotionally, to the extent that she arguably even hides the truth about her mother’s death. Although we haven’t seen it officially yet, her “c’est pas grave” tattoo feels like something someone with anxiety would say to themselves as a kind of motto.

Specific things I’ve noticed while rewatching that support this include:

Sydney talking to Carmy (1x05) about the collapse of her business “My whole shit got rocked. And there’s not a night I don’t stay up just thinking about what I could’ve done different.” Sydney refers to her shit getting rocked separately to her credit getting fucked. Notably, when talking with Marcus about the same thing (the collapse of her business) in 1x08 is how this affected her finances - her negative credit score and moving back in with her dad, so she must be thinking of something else here. (I also think this is a sign of Sydney/Carmy > Sydney/Marcus; she’s more open with Carmy when they barely know each other than she is with Marcus when they’re hanging out outside of work as friends.)

In the shots of Sydney's bedroom (also in 1x05) the choices of posters could mean something more. There are 2 film posters that we see clearly in Sydney's room: (1) Jumping' Jack Flash, a film named after a Rolling Stones song, which recounts stories of intense suffering only to come out stronger, and (2) Speed, a film about a bus that has been rigged to explode if its speed drops below 50mph. This also made me of all the references to Sydney driving and how this is a metaphor for her ambition and work ethic (see here) - could it be a reference to this drive also being a weakness?

Sydney talking to Marcus (1x08), after he compliments her for not taking a day off and getting right back to cooking: “I’m just the type, like, as soon as I stop I just *mimics falling apart*". Clearly, she’s experienced this falling apart before, but this is something we haven't seen on screen. We don’t know the timelines of Sydney’s business and exactly when it fell apart, but could it be that the collapse of Sheridan Road drove her to also collapse? (This is also the conversation where she explicitly says to Marcus "It would be weird to work in a restaurant and not completely lose your mind," but I think this is something different to her references to losing her mind when she's not working.)

Sydney talking with her dad (2x02), she differentiates The Bear from her previous business, saying: “I’m in a much better place than last time.” I found this choice of words interesting - separately, she mentions that she’s learned lots of lessons, and has a partner now, but the reference to a “better place” is distinct. What kind of “place” she was in when she started and closed Sheridan Road? It sounds like whatever her emotional and mental state was, it was at least a factor in her failure there. It’s also interesting that she didn’t mention this as one of the reasons for leaving catering when she discussed it with Carmy in 1x05: she didn’t refer to any personal factors, focusing instead on the logistical challenges (on her business getting too big too fast, and the difficulties of running it out of her garage). 

Emmanuel to Sydney (2x09): “I know you can put a lot of pressure on yourself”; Sydney responds: “why can’t we put everything that we have into everything that we can?” And then, “I don’t know if I could do another one.” This exchange isn't subtle at all, because Emmanuel is a great dad and cares about his daughter, but I find it interesting how much he is focused on the pressure Sydney puts herself under; he's no longer focusing on the risky nature of the industry or her change in plan as he was in 2x02, he’s only concerned about her wellbeing here. We know how much pressure she is in fact putting on herself (to get a star, and to generally be the best) so could she end up pushing herself too far again?

Sydney talking to Carmy (2x09) in the infamous table scene: “What if I just, like, completely melt? Like I just, fuck up and fail?” Now, at this point, we haven’t actually seen Sydney completely melt. In 1x05 and 1x06 she handles crises at the restaurant like a boss and saves the day with her quick thinking, and even with the to-go crisis in 1x08, her initial response is to try to help - what makes her throw in the towel is Carmy’s attitude towards her. She could also be referring to the final pasta dish she did for Sheridan Road, but this also didn't sound like "completely melting" to me. I think she’s remembering another time here, a different memory that we haven't seen yet - or perhaps foreshadowing melting in the future.

I’m also interested in how the writers have made Sydney so similar to both Carmy and Mikey, two characters who we know have struggled with extremely poor mental health.

Now, Sydney and Carmy's clothes (think matching jumpers, uniforms, the Thom Browne connection - see post here), language (see this post), and even their names (see here) show how similar they are. This post, however, made me realise how much the writers have also made Sydney mirror Mikey. Maybe the writers are hinting at a similar spiral (although I couldn't imagine this involving drugs specifically, which is something we've never seen referred to in the context of Sydney). 

When Mikey was spiralling, Carmy was away - he didn’t even know Mikey was using drugs, and he didn't go home in the immediate aftermath. Likewise, in 2x10, Carmy is (for all intents and purposes) away and unable to help Sydney when she begins to lose control of the situation. Just as with Mikey, Richie is the one who is available - and, this time, he’s able to save the day.

Generally, Sydney appears relatively stable on the surface, particularly when we compare her to some of the Berzatto family - but I think this is at least partly a case of her being a character who doesn't let her emotions show as much. My own theory for S3 is that the above is either hinting at a larger spiral for Sydney, or is some heavy hinting for Sydney's backstory, which I hope to God we get to see more of.

[sophieinwonderland]

hey i hope this doesnt come off as aggressive!! i dont know much about this topic so thats why im asking: when medical professionals and scientific sources mention "multiple personality states" outside of discussions about dissociative disorders, how do you know theyre referring to systems or distinct identities seen in plurality? i just see the defense that sources like the ICD-11(?) mention multiple personality states existing without trauma, but at least to me that seems like kind of vague phrasing that could be a lot of different things. has that phrase ever been scientifically defined? sorry if i sound like a dummy writing this lol like i said im not very educated on this and i really would like to know more

It's no problem!

The phrase they use is multiple "distinct personality states."

I believe the "distinct" wording is what's pulling a ton of weight here, as it seems to refer to separation from each other and them having their own identities. "Personality state" may appear in other contexts. But I can confirm that after browsing the first 10 page of Google Scholar, every link using the phrase "distinct personality state" is related to DID and using it as a stand-in for alter.

That specific phrase just hasn't been used outside of DID, which is what makes it pretty huge when the ICD-11 comes out in 2019 and says you can have multiple distinct personality states without a disorder. It's a specific phrase that's just always been associated with DID alters before that point.

And remember, the ICD-11 itself uses this phrasing synonymously with alters as well.

But it is still unclear what being "distinct" means in this context.

In The Haunted Self, it's mentioned at one point that they believe BPD also involves dissociative parts, but that those have a less distinct sense of self than in DID.

I suspect this is likely the meaning of the word in the diagnostic criteria, but I haven't been able to find a source for that.

But the example of spiritual mediumship would reinforce that definition, IMO. Spirit channelers regularly commune with other agents who have their own names, autonomy and distinct senses of self separate from the host's.

There is a pretty big portion of the endogenic community, in fact, who are plural for spiritual reasons.

With this context, I feel it's safe to say "distinct personality states" are being used to mean the same thing as what we would describe as "headmates."

[catboybiologist]

Holy fuck this got long.

@glorhatransgal asked about my "queer timeline", and I'm making a separate post for reblog control. Feel free to engage in the replies or my DMs, though! I'm a pretty open book, except some stuff I would rather leave to DMs.

The tl;Dr is that I think I knew from the time I started puberty, but I had a weird commitment to suppression and misery. I've only managed to tackle that feeling in the past year or so, and I still need to socially transition.

Long long thing under the cut with mental health CWs!!!!!

I'm pretty sure the first awareness I had of queerness was when California proposition 8 was a thing, in the 2008 election. I was ~10 or 11 at the time, and asked my mom what the big deal with letting two men marry was. She explained a bit, explained that "you'll like girls when you get older but you shouldn't judge what other people do" and then emphasized that I shouldn't really ever worry about dating or relationships ever because I should focus on school.

That was a HUGE underlying theme, not just from my parents, but from the area I grew up in overall. Very high academic pressure just kinda.... Oozed out of everywhere, without any one specific parent or teacher particularly overemphasizing it (with notable exceptions). This came up a lot, and made me feel stupid or vain for engaging in any other aspects of my personality, including queerness.

I remember having some semblance of trans thoughts back in Middle School, without ever learning what trans people are explicitly. None of the adults in my life wanted to discuss the subject, mostly brushing it off as "it's something other people do and you shouldn't judge them". Very little explicit hate, to be fair, which is good. But a lot of changing the subject. So to me, it felt like basic vanity- eg, a shallow desire to be "pretty" that everyone had, of course, that I just needed to get rid of to focus on academics.

And of course, on top of that, I was more tech literate than the average kid. So my head was stuffed with the.... Unique.... Perspective on queerness, particularly trans people, provided by the unrestricted wilderness of the 2009-2016 internet. Since no adult in my life would really address it, it gave me a lot of really bad perspectives on the whole thing.

I'm not quite sure when bisexuality entered the picture, but I called myself "straight with exceptions" from the ages of 14 to 21 at least. My earliest clear memory of being attracted to a man was when I saw Aragorn in LotR for the first time (can you blame me?). If you want to make fun of my little nerd ass more, my first distinct attraction to a woman was probably Padme's midriff outfit in Attack of the Clones. Again, since my head was stuffed with weird ideas of queerness, gayness was often portrayed as a disgust or lack of attraction to women. I didn't have that, so I couldn't be queer, right? "Straight with an asterisk" it was.

Dysphoria kinda crackled in the background and grew as I went through puberty. The way I've described it is that my "resting state" was never happy pre-HRT. I could easily make myself happy and distract from it, but I didn't "come home" to a good feeling. Not an overwhelming feeling, not a suicidal one, but just being miserable in the background if there wasn't something to make me happy.

So when I hit a wall with my mental health in high school, it ended very poorly. I was in mostly advanced programs until then, but couldn't keep up due to things I *now* realize were ADHD symptoms. I had ongoing physical health problems that meant orthopedic surgeries, multiple extended times on crutches, limping around a lot, and ongoing pain and lack of physical ability that most people couldn't see, making me feel hopeless about my body and future. Add in a nice little dysphoria bundle in the background of all of that…and yeah. That's the self harm and suicidal period of my life. I was very weird in high school, oscillating between AP classes and almost failing out. I was also really just... Nasty to a lot of people around me, as a shield for how miserable I was. So uh, if you knew me in high school and stumble across this somehow... I am truly sorry. But I made it through, mostly through the patience and good graces of friends and teachers.

Anyways. I'm on a tangent.

Undergrad wasn't that memorable for my queerness- I lived at home while attending a local state college, and dated one cis girl for about a year there. Years later she told me that she realized she's bi, so that was kinda validating. I dove a lot into a academics, research, and volunteering to distract myself, and was academically successful.

I was asked out by a gay guy at one point in undergrad. He was someone who I had talked about my uncertain sexuality with and helped me work towards calling myself bi. When he asked me out, I got a bad vibe, and told him I actually thought I was straight. He was later arrested for rape. So uh... Bullet dodged? After his arrest, I started openly calling myself bisexual, but didn't really do anything with it- no dating and no community. It was a long time coming by that point, and the experience made me realize that I didn't have to be attracted to *all* men to say I'm attracted to men. After all, I wasn't attracted to all women either.

I graduated from undergrad in 2020 and stayed at the same uni for my MS. And this is where we enter "how much do I say" territory. My MS was instrumental in figuring out my transness, but was also a fucked up ongoing situation that involves several other people's dirty laundry that I don't necessarily want to air. I can talk a bit more about this in DMs if I know you and trust you, I guess. Sorry OP. So uuuhhh... Let's just say that I was extremely miserable and living mostly alone, so in the Fall of 2020, I ordered my first skirt to try and alleviate that background misery. I called myself a femboy as a last ditch effort to “just be a feminine man”. It was a key part of figuring myself out, though, and I loved the online community I made that way. About a year afterwards, I was having a shit time, and started the CatboyBiologist account on reddit to distract myself from it. I worked more and more from home, and would dress up as a "femboy" as I did.

I graduated from my MS in 2022 in a miserable state, probably worse than I was even as a teen. But it made me realize three things: one, some kind of mental illness made it really easy for my life to derail, two, my dysphoria made it such that *when* my life derailed, I had nothing to be happy about, and three, my weird standards growing up gave me the subconscious sense that I HAVE to be miserable, otherwise I'm not "accomplished" or whatever.

That's kind of the theme of my queer experience. I always knew it was there, but I excused it as "stupid" or just ignored it because I thought everyone was supposed to be miserable by default.

When I entered my PhD, I made a promise to myself to get rid of my weird connection to misery, and actually work on the first two. I joined a grad student queer group and started therapy almost immediately. At first the focus of therapy was essentially immediate trauma support. Slowly, however, I was able to tackle the underlying issues in therapy. I also brought my "femboy" fits to events organized by that queer org, and social events with the friends I made there. I fully engaged in my bisexuality and had a hot girl summer last year, dating men, women, and enbies for the first time since my undergrad GF.

Oh, and btw. Being a feminine man gets you laid. I'm sorry, it's just how it is. Take notes, alpha males, and put on the fucking dress.

With that support, I finally started HRT in August of last year, at the age of 25. I'm still a mix of boymode and girlmode- I girlmode around queer friends, and boymode most of the time otherwise. I've also told several people that I'm transitioning, but just to treat me as a man for now and wait for me to come out more publicly. My plan is to take a hiatus from my PhD this summer, and use that to travel and socially transition. So that's my upcoming landmark experience.

Up until this past month or so, I was the happiest I've ever been. Some out of the blue bad things happened this January. But I realized something- for the first time ever, bad shit happened in my life, and I didn't derail. I was sad. I cried. I was frustrated. I yelled. I had dynamic emotions and handled it. That's never happened before.

Obviously it's always an ongoing process, and it's linked to so many details of my life that it's really hard to say things about “just my queer experience” but uh yeah. Idk if anyone read all that and I'm taking multiple passes to trim out details that got too personal, but fuckit I'm already extremely doxxable at this point.

[soylent-crocodile]

Phyrexia

(The Fourth Sphere by Dave Kendall)

What is Phyrexia?

Phyrexia is a disease. It spreads, infects, and consumes. Phyrexia is a faith. It has gods, beliefs, and practices. Phyrexia is a threat. It's coming for you.

Phyrexia is one of the oldest and most unique factions in the card game Magic the Gathering. It has a focus on machinery and body horror that blurs the line between fantasy and science fiction. It has a long history, both within the fiction and as a fiction, and style that draws inspiration from a lot (Hi HR Geiger) but is fully its own idea; all this makes it ripe to translate to Pathfinder. (Innistrad, for example, also has rich history, but is the exact same niche as Ustalav, so I have no reason to make conversions.) This page intends to serve as a guide to Phyrexia for outsiders, as well as outline the conversion I'm making.

Old Phyrexia in Magic: the Gathering

(I am not an expert on the pre-mending lore of MtG; this intends to serve as a drive-by of the important points. That era of Magic is messy and has a lot of nits and details.)

In lore, Phyrexia began as a sort of cult surrounding a man named Yawgmoth, a doctor from an ancient science-magic society called the Thran. Technically, the original plane of Phyrexia was not created by Yawgmoth, but by a powerful Planeswalker (interdimensional godline being whose power would later get massively nerfed, as a category), but Yawgmoth quickly made it his own.

From there, the humans he brought with him turned to biomechanical experimentation and built a religion aroung Yawgmoth, who became known as the Father of the Machines. They were, unfortunately, trapped on the plane- Yawgmoth (who had ascended to a godlike state) wished to bring his conquest back to Dominaria (the plane from which they came) and beyond.

(Gix, Yawgmoth Praetor by Anna Bodedworna)

There were two major incursions of Phyrexia into Dominaria- first, the Brother's War, a story that was old when Magic was new. Two brothers- Urza and Mishra- had found powerful Thran artifacts, which lead to a power struggle between them. Mishra eventually found a Phyrexian portal, became corrupted (a recurring theme of Phyrexia), and eventually lost when Urza unleashed a magical nuke on the plane, hurtling Dominaria into a supernatural ice age and turning him into one of the godlike Planeswalkers.

The second was the conclusion of the Weatherlight Saga, an arc somwhat orchestrated by the now-ancient being that Urza had become and focusing on a man named Gerard and the crew of an interplanar vessel called the Weatherlight. They first show up having corrupted and taken over Rath, as well as Gerard's adopted brother Vuel. The saga concludes with the plane of Rath being overlaid onto Dominaria in an event that ended with most of the cast dead and Phyrexia and Yawgmoth as it stood destroyed, where they would stay for about a decade.

New Phyrexia in Magic: the Gathering

In 2009 Scars of Mirrodin was released, revealing that the setting of Mirrodin (Magic's other most original and interesting setting, sigh) had in fact been corrupted by Phyrexian Oil. The war, which lasted a year in real life, saw Mirrodin being almost entirely consumed and remade into New Phyrexia, a setting with a new art direction and five new leaders.

(artist unknown)

New Phyrexia, and exploring it card-by-card on a now defunct MtG card archive, was my personal introduction to the setting, and the style of Phyrexia that I am most fond of. It now encompassed all five colors of Magic, each with their own distinct subfaction, and felt less like an 80s metal album cover and more like its own, separate thing (for better or worse, to be clear, 80s metal album covers own).

In the 2020s, New Phyrexia had an arc where they had managed to successfully travel to other planes, and used that to do a big multiverse invasion that ended with all but one of their leaders dead and the nature of planes and planeswalkers in the wider MtG setting changed in a precedented paradigm shift.

Phyrexia on Golarion

So, with all that out of the way, let's talk about how I plan to translate that into MtG.

Phyrexian Beliefs Phyrexians are supremacists of a sort; they believe that their way, darwinist philosophy surrounding the forced merging of metal and flesh, is the one true way. Fortunately, they are not here to exterminate others- simply to convert them, by force. "All will be One."

To this end they spread across the galaxy, consuming entire planets and converting their flesh to glorious Phyrexian constructs.

Yawgmoth Yawgmoth is the progenitor of Phyrexia and its god, although by New Phyrexia he's very much dead. The five praetors took his place, with him existing mostly as allusions, even as a past failure that they will not replicate! (spoiler: they fail).

Personally, I like Yawgmoth existing in past tense. He was the god of Phyrexia, but he has been killed- possibly by some great Good divinity trying to end his scourge, more likely through conflict with the nihilistic Dominion of Black. Either way, his name is spoken in Phyrexia with both reverence and shame, and the five Praetors now each carry a fraction of his divinity.

The Five Praetors Now in Magic canon 4/5 of them are dead now, and during the lead-up there was a lot of political jockeying, but I will have them as they existed in between NPH and the Invasion arc; With Elesh Norn as de facto leader, Jin-Gitaxias and Vorinclex respecting her but doing their own thing, and Sheoldred and Urabrask believing in Phyrexia but not in Norn's graces.

Planes and Planets The nature of Planes in MtG is different from planes in Pathfinder/DnD; they're their own self-contained world, each possibly with their own cosmology, rather than being the cosmology of one coherent world. As such, I am changing Phyrexia from an interplanar threat to an interstellar one.

The Praetors, while about on the level of a nascent demon lord, are divinities of the material plane; they lack a home in the outer sphere.

Phyrexia and Other Factions Because the Praetors are acting as their own divinities, Phyrexia has little to no relationship with the gods at work on Golarion, as well as with the Outer and Elder gods.

As I alluded to before, Phyrexians have a poor relationship to the Dominion of Black. The Dominion is nihilistic, seeking to destroy all life, while the Phyrexians seek to consume and convert it. If you want to take the Illithids from @thecreaturecodex's conversion, they almost certainly have a poor relationship with them too.

If your Dark Tapestry is feeling a bit crowded but you want to include Phyrexia, I would personally use them as a replacement for the Dominion. If you did so, I would moisturize Numeria so to speak, replacing much of its harsh desert with noxious swampland more palatable to Phyrexian tastes.

[pen-observing]

GENSHIN HAREM MANHWA AU

Opening up the pages of the newest fantasy novel had you wishing for a more exciting life. Perhaps you should have been careful because the glowing light made sure to give you what you asked for. Underneath one sky, they all love you. As time passes, you will have to make a choice. Remember, choices are only for the brave and love must find you before you search for it. Out of the thirteen paths, just which one will you choose?

CHAPTER TWO OF SEVEN. characters: albedo & dottore (seperate) x gn! reader word count: 6.2k (3.6k & 2.6k respectively) warnings: these are vaguely connected but you can still understand them completely separately, the rest of the fic is in regular font.

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

ALBEDO - THE SPOUSE YOU GAVE UP YOUR TITLE FOR. HE IS GENTLE SUN THAT HELPS YOUR MEMORIES COME BACK.

Sometimes you think that falling droplets are a more intense feeling than an all-out rain pour. There is something about your head and arms and clothes being touched by that slow and gentle push from nature that leaves you feeling languid. Or do you feel so because you somehow remember you went through a designated door? – pushing and pulling your feet to go on while knowing every step means losing and gaining? Something isn’t right with you. But you feel like forgetting whatever it was you experienced makes this easier for you. And just what the fuck is that thing that is dripping on your arm? Droplets rarely fall in just one place and this is not a rain pour either. 

There is a distinct itch on your left eyebrow, and you scratch it as you rise. Hoping not to feel the drops anymore. There is only so long before something gentle becomes irritating. When you do rise it is with a heaviness in your bones. As if you were sleeping for a very long time on something uncomfortable. And once you try to stretch out your back – you realize that feeling is right. Who knows how many minutes or hours you spent sleeping on this sturdy floor?  

As your eyes begin to focus on things around you – you realize that on the right side is a big table. You felt the droplet hitting your arm over and over again because of something that looks like a glass tube. The table is larger than you while you still continue to sit down on the floor, but, even from this position, you can see just how many colors and papers and glass flasks take up all of that large space.  

You stand up and place your hands on the papers to look around more. Does this belong to you? Were you actually a scientist in this life researching something important? The notes are not in your handwriting, and you almost understand none of the words on those papers or on all of the boards written out with chalk. A shiver runs up your body and you realize just how cold and distilled this room really is. There are windows but they are closed and covered by curtains as well as books?  

A shiver runs up your body again and you hear the door hinges. As they open, sunlight draws its shape under your feet and you immediately feel warmer. You aren’t surprised that sunflowers seek the sun because you immediately turn around to feel that warmth again – and it is not just the sun that greets you – you notice sunlit hair and the outline of someone’s body.  

“Huh? Darling, what are you doing here?”  

Darling? Does this person with the calm voice see you as their darling? Their nickname for you is as tender as droplets themselves. It somehow feels warm. And while you should feel scared for not knowing this man, who is hurriedly walking over because of your confused face; you feel no fear. No malice. And no darkness. He holds your hands and you think how odd it is that he seems as warm as the sun, yet his hands are cold against your own. Maybe you feel so cold and sensitive because you just woke up?   Besides finding comfort in his cold but gentle hands, you catch sight of a ring on his finger as he examines your state.  

“How long have you been here?”  

His intonation remains the same but should you perhaps not have entered this room? His gaze sharpens as he catches sight of something. He tugs your hand towards him to extend it fully – and that makes you spot the same ring on your own hand.  

“This doesn’t look good.” he says, and you think how he just said your inner thoughts. Are you supposed to be married to this man? The dumb doors never give you a warning when you pass through them.  

You are absolutely frozen. Your mind is thinking over things too fast, trying to force itself to remember anything, but it fails. It fails you completely. And you continue to stare at him. 

“What is this? You are not trying to reassure me of your state? That is surprising.”  

He looks at you. His eyes are searching for something within you and when you blink; he looks away and sighs. Something tells you he knows that you are not his spouse – that you are not the actual person he loves and worries over so much.   His hands leaving your body and the step he takes back are enough of a confirmation of that. You miss the feeling of such proximity.  

“Tell me, do you feel cold? Perhaps any chills?”  “I uhm, yes. But I think that is just from sleeping in this room.”  “You slept in this room?” he says it with complete disapproval, but it is not directed towards either of you.  

“I will need to be quick. Leave this room on your own, go down the very end of the hall and turn to the right. When you enter that room, just sit completely still on the bed and wait for me to come.” 

After he says that, he bypasses you to the table and picks up those papers you touched earlier. You feel like an intruder with no reason to stay any longer, and with one glance back, you close the door and do as he instructed you to. 

And you almost regret it. This room is filled with sunlight. There are no traces of dust or any mess. But this is clearly the room of a couple. The shared closet and the shared large bed are enough for you to know. You still feel like an intruder but as another chill overtakes you, you realize it is better to sit down and rest no matter how out of place this makes you feel.   You sit on the bed, completely still. Somehow you are actually afraid to move.  

You look outside the window. It must be spring or summer. The trees and grass are completely vibrant in their green hues. Something tells you this house is fairly isolated. There seems to be a small town in the distance.   For 20 or so minutes, you sit still and look at the window to see what changes. Nobody walks towards this house and the small town continues to look like a painting instead of a living and breathing thing with people who lead their lives there. You grow impatient and plant your feet on the ground to rise up and walk closer to the window; halfway through the door opens again and you quickly sit down to make it seem like you were not about to break his instructions.  

“It is futile to pretend like you were not just about to get up.” There go your hopes. 

“Extend your hand.”   You eye him and extend your hand in his direction. He looks unimpressed while holding a white packaging in his hands.  “Your other hand. The one the liquid touched.”   “Oh.” 

You extend it, and he sits down next to you with the weight shifting. 

“Luckily, the liquid only dripped down on the upper part of your arm. Not on your face, or worse, in your mouth.”  He takes some white cream on the tip of his index finger and brings it to your arm. When you look at it, you notice for the first time how red it got with a small centre part that can only be described as maroon.

“You are lucky this didn’t completely break the first layer of your skin. This way, you will only be feverish for a few days once I apply this cream on you.” 

He is completely calm and you don’t even think of asking what could have happened if that liquid actually dripped down on your head instead. Something tells you it is better not to know the details. But... just.. He was so comforting when he first touched you in that room, and now it simply feels like any regular doctor appointment but inside of a room that should be the most intimacy ridden place in this house. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth. This feeling. The fact that you really do not know this man but wish to have him close to you. That you wish he would treat you as if no chance has taken place.  

But he is calm, and smart and calculating. He seems like the rational type who has no qualms about any of this. The cream stings your arm, but you find it more bearable than your need to be coddled by this man.  

“There. Now all you need to do is rest.”   “Thank you..”  “Albedo. That is my name. I never thought I would have to reintroduce myself to the love of my life, but we have been through so..” he stops himself. “Nevermind.” 

You do not know what to say.  

“Just make sure you rest in this room. I will bring you fever medicine, food and anything else you might need.”  “Thank you, again. I am sorry I look like your significant other but I have no memories of you or..this home.”  “I will sleep on the couch until you remember or...whatever it is fate will play next. Are you sure you absolutely have no memories of me? Or your ‘previous’ life?” 

You nod your head. It stings. 

“I see. The evening is here. As soon as you feel the fever, call me. Until then.”  

The evening casts a cold blue over the sky before it completely turns dark. The town which you see through the window seems more alive now that you can see the few lights turned on. The bed you climb into reminds you of your current situation. You find the perfect spot and you already know it is perfect because your body made these small dents to accommodate it – and it just makes you feel like this situation (yes situation, not life) was not something you should be thrust into. You are an intruder in the worst way possible. It is with those thoughts that you actually feel the fever which overtakes you. You do not want to shout, so with a shaky but regular voice you call out his name – you call out ‘Albedo’ and it rolls off your tongue far easier than you wish.

You expected that you would have to call his name more than once, but while you do not hear his footsteps – you hear the door opening. For some reason, Albedo didn’t change his clothes. Did he even sleep? He didn’t take blankets from this room either. Maybe he is working into the night?  

There is a tray in his hands. It has two glasess of water, a syrup and what you can only describe as a plethora of pills and vitamins in the center. He is a meticilous man. You think how he always worries too much. The medicine he gives you is so bitter you forget about that thought reeking of familiarity when it really shouldn’t be.  

“By your face I can see you are still a baby about the bitterness. Here, drink this water. I would bring you milk but it might taste even worse after that pill.” There is a soft smile on his face. Reminiscence is a luxury sometimes you realize. 

“Albedo, how long do you think I will have to stay in bed?”  “Around three to four more days. You do not know this, but you were lucky I was the one who found you. My skills in alchemy are said to be grander than most.”  “Alchemy? So that was your lab!”   “Yes, I still do not know why you were sleeping there. Do you have any idea why?” 

You’re sweating from the covers and the fever going down. His pills work quickly, and your head is clearing up.  

“I only know a few things about myself.” 

He looks around and with some hesitation, sits down on the bed not allowing you to get up.  “Could you tell me what you do know? It might help us both.”  “I know that... I am an intruder in this domesticity. At least that is something.”  “Even a slight change is an intruder in domesticity we built. It becomes easily noticeable. Please, go on.” 

Was that his way of reassuring you?  

“I just know I keep switching places. There are doors that greet me and that I sometimes run towards but.. I have no way of knowing what is behind them. I have a feeling I was asleep in your lab, because every time I switch places, my eyes are closed? I think.”  “Interesting.” 

Albedo brings a hand to his chin.

“Could we say your eyes being closed is a trigger for this phenomenon? Are you aware how many times you switched places? Do you usually regain your memories?” 

Albedo is a curious man you realize. His questions are never-ending. 

“I think I...at least regain parts of memories of the people I play? Well, live. This isn’t theatre but...” you are getting sleepy now and your words are growing quieter. “but at least I will stop being an impostor. And no, I am not aware how many places I have changed so far.”   “I see. I will give this more thought and time.” 

Albedo brings up the covers to your shoulders and tucks you in with that same reminiscent look in his eyes.  

“Please rest up. Your eyes are getting watery from a lack of sleep.”  

And you fall asleep with that image of Albedo in your mind. The Albedo that cares for you. In all his gentleness.  

The next morning you wake up in a very different way which makes your heart race. Through your sleepy state, you hear the door burst open and suddenly something jumping on your bed. And then it jumps right off, even faster.   You continue to lie down, but your watery eyes make out a big blur of something red. Something that immediately approaches your head once it sees you rubbing your eyes. And once you move your hand away, you are met with wide, curious eyes who are looking at you without blinking.  

“You’re awake! Yey!”  

You realize this blur of red is just a very jumpy child celebrating the fact that they get to see you. You should know this little girl, but despite the fact that you do not, you move your hand to put some of her hair back in place.  

“I am!” You try to match some of her enthusiasm.  

“Big brother Albedo said you would be sleeping and that I shouldn’t disturb you because you are sick. But, I snuck out while he was making me breakfast!”  

You can’t help but to giggle. “I see.” Behind her, you can see Albedo at the door.  

“Do you think your big brother noticed that you left so soon?”  She laughs and says how she hopes he did not, but it is interrupted by Albedo touching her shoulder.  

“Well, I am sorry to say that your hopes turned out to be empty. I told you to stay away because we have a patient on our hands Klee.”  “So? I always make them feel better when they catch a cold! I wanted to help again!” 

She is so earnest and full of energy.  

“And how will you do that now that you are here might I ask?” 

Klee looks around and thinks. “By hearing stories! That always helps. I want to hear my favorite one!”  “Klee, I don’t think that is a good idea right now.”  

Before Albedo can take her out of the room, she jumps on your bed again.   “Oh please! Please tell the story of how you fell in love with my brother because he was a genius! And then how you two had to escape your strict father and how you gave up your status to marry him!” 

You freeze up. Albedo rushes to take her off your bed.  

“No, big brother! Please! Miss Lisa wants more details. Please tell me the story again!”  “Klee, it is time for medicine. Cooperate with me so that we help the sickness go away, okay?”  

He takes her off your bed, but she grabs onto your hand instead.  

“Tell me!”  

You look at her and the look you give Albedo lets him know you will handle this.  

“Klee, I did not fall in love with your brother because he was a genius. I fell in love with him because he was kinder than anyone I met.” 

She laughs and lets go of your hand. Albedo finds that the perfect moment to help guide her out of the room.  

“You have your answer now Klee. Come on, I will tell you the details while you play with the dog.”  

Albedo gives you a smile and a nod to which you nod back. It means understanding but...despite the moment, you still feel like an outsider. Albedo and you own a dog? Until when will everything be a revelation to you?  

Albedo enters your room again while carrying lunch. You’ve realized just how much of a good cook he is.  

“Klee suddenly dropped by; I apologize. She was passing by to carry a letter and decided to visit us. If I knew, I would have told you.”  “I understand. It is not your fault. Your little sister seems like a very energetic girl.”  “Ah yes. You know, it is odd how similar you are to the person you say you are impersonating. You, they, said that during our wedding too when she dropped the cake.”  

The domesticity gets broken again. You wish to know so much, and Albedo doesn’t do anything but reminisce.  

“Albedo, could you tell me the story you told Klee? It might help my memories. I might be the person that you love again.”  “You already are that person, albeit, without remembering me.” 

He catches you off guard as he sits down next to you.  

“If that is your hypothesis, I will tell you.” Albedo places a warm cup of tea in your hands.  

“I told you of my alchemy skills before. With them, I managed to gain a patron when I was struggling, and that patron just so happened to be your father.”  

He watches you take a sip. 

“Because of my genius, I was offered a place in your home. With your father being a duke and all, the mansion was large enough for me to live and research there without disturbing anyone. Back then, at the start, my unknown origin did not matter to anyone. I was a genius and that was more important than anything else.”  

Albedo sees the way your hands seem to curl up around the cup. 

“By chance, you happened to stumble upon my lab. We will call it your curious and bratty nature at play. And before I knew it, we were in love and confident it would be accepted. Unfortunately, as soon as you told your father...It didn’t matter that I was a genius – I was unworthy of the duke’s child.”  

He finally looks up at you instead of your hands. You are listening intently. Albedo does not know if your memories are returning but he cannot doubt the love in your eyes. How it looks just like it did before, on the day you stood up to your father.  

“When I packed up my things, you refused to let me leave without you. In short, we escaped that night to this small town. Lived in it while I worked as an alchemist and doctor, so that we could move away and build this house right here.”  

The cup in your hands proves to be too distracting for you, so you leave it on the tray instead. 

“After a while, you sent your father a letter to officially confirm you gave up your title and inheritance. I would say your greedy cousins now see you as a hero for that.”  

He takes off his gloves and holds your arm, expecting the same place again.  

“It is healing up quite nicely.”  

And you can’t stand it. The memories that rush back to you, his cold hands on your body, this proximity and domesticity that makes you restless. His closeness makes you feel warm again and you know it is definitely not the fever this time.  

“I don’t regret running away with you. Even if my father said you were not human Albedo.”  “Ah, have the memories truly returned to you? You are not surprised by my hands being cold anymore either.”  

You nod as tears swell up in your eyes. You finally remember this. You are finally in the place you are supposed to be.  

“I cannot believe you have made me wonder if you loved me. Didn’t you promise I would never have doubts?”   “Oh, were you foolish enough to ask if I loved you? You should have asked yourself if you would be able to handle it if I didn’t hold back my love for you in your current state.”  

And he says that with all the gentleness of the sun; of the droplets you love so much. He says it with a playful smile on his face because your lover has always been a tease. He loves you. He loves you more than anything. You just wish this fate didn’t toy with you like this. Just as Albedo places a kiss on your collarbone, you are met with another door.  

And this time, you are hesitant to move towards it. 

DOTTORE - THE MAN WHO BECOMES A SINNER FOR YOU. THE MAGIC MIRROR URGES YOU TO HATE HIM BECAUSE YOU ARE NEVER ALLOWED TO KNOW THAT HE TURNED BACK TIME FOR YOU.

Is this the first time that this has happened? When you are back in this idyllic white room, it makes you forget almost everything; but never have you stood still when a door manifested before. You remember running and grabbing onto the handle as if it was the only hopeful thing to exist. But never have you stood so...still. So hesitant to approach this novelty.  

It is like this door represents a certain darkness that you realize hides amongst this world. It is intimidating; looks like it towers over you no matter the fact that you are at least fifteen steps away from it. It looks grandiose unlike anything you have seen so far. To think that a door can have such an intricate design, with vines of silver coating the corners; with a blue glow around the outline – it still holds you in place.   Maybe if you stand still long enough, you will be able to avoid venturing inside the life that hides on the other side of it? It is not cowardice – well, even if that was the true name – you just consider it something to be visited later. When bravery and spitefulness overtakes you perhaps.   So you wait. Patience is a virtue that might manifest a different door in front of you. Or behind you? You look around, orbiting around yourself for something different to invite you in.  

But sadly, instead of a new hope – the silver vines from the door come alive, they wrap around your body like harp strings – and you are pulled towards that blue. The pull itself does not hurt; it just makes you panic. Whatever hides behind this door you will have to deal with, that much is painfully clear.  

With a deep breath, you twist the handle. The blue glows even brighter and it makes you gasp. That is the last thing you remember.  

The sensation of gasping proves itself to be more painful than usual. You wish you hadn’t done it. It feels like your lungs are on fire and you are coughing with small tears decorating your eyelashes. You don’t know where you are, but you are sure it is a big room by the way even this seems to echo.   Nobody is speaking, but there is a hand at your back – rubbing soothing circles into it to calm you down.   Your coughing eventually dies down and you are able to open your eyes. The world around you seems blurry, but the first sight you see is your lap and a pristine white tablecloth. Instead of looking behind you to see the person that is helping you, your gaze shifts upwards and across all the cutlery and food; across that stretched out table that seems to swallow you up – is a man with blue hair and round glasses looking at you in endearment. He doesn’t seem worried about you – he seems enamoured. His chin rests in his hand as his iceberg eyes look at you in such an adoring way you can’t help but scoff and turn your gaze towards your lap again.   The least he could do is ask if you are okay. He shouldn’t be free of worry for you. Even complete strangers would be. Is he too reliant on the servant rubbing your back? Or is he just so above it all?  

“Oh, my love,” his voice is deeper than you imagined it would be. Your shoulders tense up as he continues to talk. “I know that is your favorite food but please refrain from consuming it so quickly you end up choking on it and worrying me.”  

Bullshit. He didn’t look worried at all.  

The warm hand on your back disappears and you realize it was a servant that helped you as they walk back into the hallway. You wish to thank them but the tense atmosphere and your irritated throat make you keep quiet.   The man across from you taps his wine glass and the sound just means a ring for your attention.  

“To our anniversary, my love.” His voice is sickeningly gentle. 

Anniversary? This man with iceberg eyes and a misty voice is your lover? And this whole ordeal is just a dinner to celebrate that anniversary?   If he really loved you – he would have realized immediately that you did not know him and that you had no recollection of any love living and extending in this place. But he looks at you with love, impatient to see you bring up your own glass above your head for a toast.  

You do it. You raise the glass and mumble ‘happy anniversary’ and all the while, you think, how dumb it is for your glasses not to clink against one another. Even if you did not remember him – it is utterly foolish to sit this far apart while talking about love. 

After the dinner, he walked over to your side and leaned against the table. That closeness makes you feel uneasy. It makes you note just how intense his gaze really is. Across the table, you only saw the depth flicker but like this, the intensity makes you break and you look away.  

You do not even know his name, and yet, this man is taking hold of your hand, rolling down your glove and pressing kisses from your knuckle, over your wrist, and all the way up to your elbow. Then, with a sigh of pleasure, he drops your hand down and you can’t help how you squirm. He pulls your glove back up and rests his hand on your head.  

“My dearest,” another sweet nickname in that deep voice of his, “make sure you get enough rest tonight.”  

With that, he leaves the room. Are you two not supposed to share a living space? Why did he say it like that? Shouldn’t you two go into shared quarters? It surprises you. The way that intense presence is fine with leaving you alone like this.  

The same servant walks into the room and says she will escort you to your room and run a warm bath.  

At least this way, you will not be lost and looking for your room in a manor you know nothing about. 

While washing your body in water that seems too perfect to fit your needs, you realize it is a bit odd to be so calm about this current state. You were more scared of the door leading to this place instead of being in it.  

Was the person you are supposed to be this sullen? And this calm? Maybe you are just acting out a script they wrote?  This state of...celebrating an anniversary (numbered what? You do not know.) and then leaving for separate rooms doesn’t seem as anything unusual. The room this maid took you to had traces of life for just one. It had traces of only you.   Ornaments according to your own taste. The organised bookshelves and the desk – even the curtains all seemed like the exact choice you would make.   It didn’t seem like anyone else’s tastes were part of these corners – but why? 

Even this bed you are lying in after the bath – it fits you perfectly. Nothing is lacking. Even the sheets are scented according to what brings you pleasure. It is as if everything was perfectly ordained by your desires.  

You have to wonder if that man wants to enrapture you. 

After so much thinking, you imagined this world would have let you sleep and ‘get some rest’ as your alleged lover put it. But instead, when you close your eyes, you see the same blue glow that dragged you in. And in an instant, sleepiness leaves your body as you jump up out of the bed.  The blue glow this time is radiating from the mirror. No matter how hard you look at it, you do not see yourself reflected. Matter of fact, nothing is reflected. It only glows and this time you willingly drag your feet towards it.  

Your hand touched the surface of it, but nothing happens. You are not plunged or tugged towards another fragmented scene. Instead, the mirror feels cold and you can hear a voice talking to you. 

“Oh you, the blessed path seeker,   Remember that he has broken the rules.   Oh you, the choice maker,   Remember that you have to hate him, for the fear of fools.” 

When that voice says he – the only image your mind is able to conjure up is of that dinner. How his head was resting in his hand and how he looked at you. He has to be the man you must hate. Why? What rules has he broken? You do not know.  

But hating him does not seem like a hard task to fulfil.  

When the glow stops, you return to your bed strangely calm.  

In the morning you do not wake up by your own violation. You wake up because your maid moves away the curtains and your needed rest gets interrupted by the dimmed sun. Before you can rub away the sleep from your eyes, she opens your closet and starts sorting through clothes. 

“Lord Dottore has requested that you join him for some morning tea.”

So his name is Dottore? And they refer to him as a Lord?  

“Don’t you just find this brew excellent for this morning my dearest?”

He never seems to run out of sweet nicknames to call you by. And you just grow to hate them more as they continue to pile up. But he is right, this tea is excellent. He probably knows more about brews and taste than you – but as long as you enjoy drinking it – the tea is perfectly fine.   Plus, this garden pavilion is not only decorated in luxury, but by the autumn leaves falling down and the dimming sun that woke you up. They are an enjoyable sight that proves to make you avoidance of Dottore’s eyes even easier. 

“I have to agree with you.” 

Dottore seems reminiscent of something. Completely giving into the feeling. Almost wistful. 

“Ah, you are not using a nickname for me. Tell me my darling, have I done something to upset you? Was perhaps the anniversary celebration not to you liking?”  

And you freeze. Wouldn’t admitting you do not remember large parts of the anniversary put you in danger? Dottore seems perfectly calm while talking to you like this but you can sense just how on edge the servants are around him. As if he could grow impulsive at any second from the smallest thing.  

You try to scramble your brain for a coherent answer, but it just so happens that a male servant saves you by quickly approaching your table.  

“Lord Dottore, there is an emergency concerning Sir Ragnvindr! We need instructions on-”  

Dottore’s cup of tea flies directly at the man’s feet and it shatters. The grey liquid spilling everywhere makes for an odd sight to behold. It shocks you.   Dottore, on the other hand, acts as if nothing just happened. He crosses his arms and speaks in that same calm voice.  

“What did I say about anyone interrupting me during my private moments?”  

He leans back against the chair and looks at the servant mockingly.  

“What did you say? Sir Ragnvindr being an emergency?”, he seems to be smirking as his voice lulls along. “That man will never be a serious emergency for you to break our peaceful time. Deal with Ragnvindr on your own before I decide to come.” 

The servant picks up the large pieces of the teacup before he scurries away. You look down at your lap instead and mumble the name Diluc Ragnvindr over twice.   Dottore simply looks at you as his smirk stretches out.  

“What is this? Do you know the man named Diluc Ragnvindr?”  “I... think I do...” This whole situation is unclear to yourself. You seem to remember the name but not the face of that individual.   “Might I ask how? Wait, you don’t have to tell me, he must have been one of your toys before you met me. Am I right?” 

Dottore seems really pleased with himself. Does his arrogance know no bounds?  

“I think I ..” your mind only draws one scene. Someone is holding your hand and guiding you – so you answer honestly. As honestly as you can amidst all of the confusion. 

“I think I .. danced with him once.” 

Dottore clicks his tongue.  

“My, my, he must be a truly talented dancer if you remember him for such a meaningless thing.”  

But by the way Dottore stands up and invites you to waltz in the garden – you doubt he truly finds it meaningless.  

After that, Dottore does not disturb you for the rest of the day. When you open a book to read – he does not have a request to see you. When you eat your lunch, it is by yourself in the garden. When you take a walk, he doesn’t randomly appear to join you as much as you convinced yourself that man would find a way to ruin your fun. And even as dinner approaches, you end up sitting all by yourself at that large table. It doesn’t feel right to look at so much food for just one person, so you only end up taking a few bites before retreating to your room for some sleep.  

You did wake up before you wished this morning after all.   This night – there is no blue hues that could wake you or disturb your sleep. Nor is there any voice to strike fear and order. You fall asleep without any issues; but you awake in the middle of the night to the feeling of your sheets being pulled.   No, they are not being pulled, it just feels like someone is gripping on them behind your back. Their hand stays in the same position, rustling the fabric and you hear someone’s voice breaking.  

“Why were we cursed like this?” the voice asks. You keep your eyes closed and pretend to still be asleep.   The voice belongs to Dottore, but it is just a broken-down whisper.  

“I turned back time for you out of love. And they considered me sinful.”  

He has done what? He turned back time for you? What does this mean? Is Dottore the reason you keep opening all of those doors? Is he the reason for this fragmentation?  

He rests his head on your bed and now his voice is even more muffled.  

“And yet, I was punished. It doesn’t matter that you are here with me. They cursed me. Made you forget me or hate me over and over again. As soon as you start to love me – you revert back to someone who has no memories.”  

He lifts his head up.  

“Like you did..at that anniversary dinner. Oh, what must I do? What must I do to have you come back to me completely? Tell me!”  

You think that even he himself is unaware who he is talking to. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that his voice is painfully hoarse. And, when you turn around to look at him, because you cannot deal to hear such pain and ignore it – you realize that he is even unaware of the tears that coat his cheeks.  

His iceberg eyes light up when you reach to wipe them away.  

“My foolish Dottore,” , you forget about the voice from the mirror. You forget about the hatred. “You have to make up for your sins.”  

You look at him with love. And as he gets off his knees to pull you closer, as his hand touches your own – you are being pulled by the silver strings once more.   Dottore is a sinner. He has sinned for you. And until his repentance is done – you will continue to be separated from him. 

a/n: kekekeke i love dottore but he should suffer. And it is fun to make him like this. I hope u enjoyed it! This took me so much work omg

TAGLIST: (send an ask to be added)

@isasimp , @irisxiel , @sunsethw4 , @sketcheeee , @thelonelyarchon, @magicalink , @ladycoleigh , @luvr-exe , @yuus3n ,

[spacecasehobbit]

After seeing yet another popular tumblr post with thousands of reblogs bemoaning the state of comments on fanfics these days - more specifically, the supposed lack of commenting these days, as opposed to The Good Old Days - I have decided that this is in fact a hill I am willing to die on. I'm making a separate post about it rather than reblogging the latest iteration, though. This is hardly the first time I've seen these types of discussions, and my issue is with the mindset in general, not any of the specific people who hold it.

In the most recent version, the entire post with all its various arguments and assertions was plenty frustrating across the board, but it included one line in particular that cut beautifully to the heart of my issue with this type of discussion. The line in question:

"fanfic authors now are treated like content mills, and not like valued members of a creative community who thrive on interaction."

Once I read this bit, I had to stop, take a few deep breaths, and then go make my own post before I imploded over the sheer level of NOPE this line inspired. And okay. The thing is... I want to say this as gently and kindly as I possibly can, but I need to be real blunt for a minute, too.

That line I quoted sounds like a wannabe social media influencer.

It sounds like a person who thinks fandom is - or should be - comprised of fanfiction writers, aka Valued Content Creators, and their respective communities of readers, aka Content Consumers, a strictly distinct group from fic writers, for whom they create fanfiction content and who in turn pay them back with attention and validation in the form of comments and praise.

It does not sound like a fanfiction author who enjoys the creative hobby of writing stories based on characters and worlds from existing stories, engaging in their hobby within a community of other likeminded creators of fan content.

Frankly, fandom has always been worst when it starts obsessing over Big Name Fans who wind up treated like elite fandom social influencers, instead of hobbyists engaging in a fun hobby together based on mutual interests. A shift towards the idea that every fanfic writer should be effectively a social media influencer whose community consists of fans reading the content they oh-so-lovingly create (but only if they get enough positive attention from passive consumers, presumably readers who don't write their own fic or expect comments back from the author in return) sounds like an absolutely awful direction for fandom to take.

I don't want fanfiction and fandom spaces to turn into another social media space full of Our Valued Content Creators, all fighting to build the largest "community" of passive consumers turned devoted followers.

Again, that sounds frankly fucking awful.

The people who only read fanfiction are not your fanfiction community, because they are not engaging in the shared community hobby of writing fanfiction. Your fanfiction community is, perhaps, the other people who are also writing their own fanfiction based on someone else's original work.

So perhaps if comments really are declining on fics these days, instead of asking why passive readers aren't heaping praise on every fic they read and making sure it all happens where the Valued Creator can hear it, you should ask yourself how many other fanfics you've commented on recently, and then go comment on another one if you're still feeling down about your own work.

Or, I dunno, find a fic author you admire and send them a message on tumblr, if you've already commented on all of their fics that you read and enjoyed.

Or start your own discord for likeminded fans, or find a way to set up your own fandom forums centered on your personal fandom interests and invite other fic authors to come join.

Or, like, anything that involves reaching out to the actual community of hobbyists you can reasonably consider to be a community you are actually a part of.

Aka, other fanfiction writers.

[troius]

The Kids in the Room

The Fullbringer Arc is tighter and more coherent than anything in the manga so far, telling a very straightforward story about a young person’s alienation from the world he lives in. It has very specific things to say about the role of parents, mentors, and friends in the process of a kid becoming an adult and does a pretty decent job of looking at how different organizations (the state, gangs) can play into that young person’s life. And then, at the climax of the story, it very intentionally takes all that hard work, and for what I must assume were business reasons, tosses it all away.

The Arrancar Arc was a glorious, grandiose mess. It featured no fewer than three separate worlds, four distinct factions, and probably around twenty characters with active character arcs. Although it started off with the truly breathtaking ambition of weaving all of this together, by the end Kubo had cut a considerable amount of the subplots in favor of actually getting to the end of the story he was telling. And it still mostly worked! Ichigo’s character arc, at least, ended where I think it was always going to: sacrificing his nigh-unlimited power after understanding the price of that power.

But of course, giving up all of your powers isn’t really a long-term solution for Ichigo, just like it isn’t for any of us in life. Ruling over three worlds might tend to corrupt a person, but we all want—and need—to feel like we have some power over our own lives. Ichigo, in his final year of high school, living on the precipice of adulthood, feels this in more than one way. He had this power. He sacrificed it. And yet now, he’d do anything to get it back. Anything except ask for help.

You see, asking for help is hard, but especially in the context of “seeking power”, which in this story is an even less veiled metaphor for “growing up” than it usually is in shonen manga. Asking for help means admitting both weakness (you don’t have the power to get what you want right now) and discontentment (there is something you want that you don’t have). For Ichigo, whose primary method of coping with his mother’s death was asserting a premature independence, this would be difficult even if the thing he was seeking wasn’t something he had very publicly given up in front of his friends and family. Yes, there are times when he doesn’t want to involve them to protect them, but a big part of his self-imposed isolation is his own ego, his unwillingness to reveal to people who love him just how miserable he is, out of fear that it will reveal him to be somebody they won’t love anymore.

And that’s where the Fullbringers come in. Ginjo puts in a tremendous amount of work into getting close to Ichigo—lying to him, giving him little bits of information piecemeal without telling him the whole thing, and of course, offering him power that Ichigo desperately wants. But none of it would be possible if Ichigo didn’t have this preexisting desire to do it all himself, or at least to appear to his friends and family like he’s doing it himself. Ginjo does what nobody else in Ichigo’s life does—offers him assistance without making him ask for it. Hook, line, sinker.

The body of the arc covers this masterclass in manipulation from Ginjo, and it’s a huge change from what has, up until this point, been a very standard shonen battle manga in terms of content, where the fights happen on a more or less weekly basis. Here, it takes over half the arc for Ichigo to fight anybody! It’s all character development, even for the side characters like Orihime and Chad, who don’t get fights of their own but do get to express themselves and show initiative in ways they were largely denied in the previous arc. It’s all a long, slow burn to the climax, where Tsukishima suddenly strips away the support system that Ichigo had so undervalued, leaving him defenseless against Ginjo’s theft of his power.

And that’s my big frustration with the climax. It’s not that I like the Karakura kids more than I like the Soul Reapers, although I very well might. It’s that so much work has been put into drawing out and developing these relationships, so much effort put into showing how this is affecting all of them. And it’s not just metatextual effort either—yes, we spend a lot of pagetime with Chad and Orihime and Uryu, but Xcution also targets them all because of their importance to Ichigo! The very story itself recognizes that they’re the support system that Ichigo needs to be an emotionally healthy adult! Any logical resolution must therefore involve them!

But it doesn’t. Instead, it’s the Soul Reapers, who have not been physically or even narratively present at all for four volumes, who come in and repower Ichigo. They’re the ones who pair up for the fights against Xcution, fights that are very light on the sort of character work that is so characteristic of Bleach fights because there just isn’t the grounding for it! Even the fights that show character are mostly showing development that seemingly occurred off-panel, leaving you wondering when exactly Toshiro and Ikkaku achieved their newfound maturity. But the supporting characters from the bulk of the arc are written out, and even the personal feelings of Shigekuni Genryusai Yamamoto wind up being more important to the narrative.

This isn’t just unsatisfactory on the level of the supporting characters, it also fatally undercuts Ichigo’s own development. We expect the story to end with him overcoming the challenge set in front of him, which at the beginning is clearly his alienation from the people he loves. But he doesn’t really do that—instead, the Soul Reapers showing up is what solves his problems, which suggests that the actual problem in his life is just “they weren’t around”. I don’t think that’s actually what we’re meant to take away here, and the narrative doesn’t seem to think so either, which is why we end with the character development being passed on to Soul Society instead. They learn something in this arc, which is to trust Ichigo. But he doesn’t seem to have learned a damn thing.

And that’s what frustrates me so much about this arc: the lost potential, the fact that there was a very obvious story being told that was abruptly discarded, right at the moment it mattered most. There was probably no way Kubo could have fulfilled all the potential of the Arrancar Arc: there were just to many characters, too many storylines. But here, he condensed his writing, narrowed his scope, and still told a compelling story up until he suddenly threw it all away. Whatever the reason for it-- and I have no insight into the editing or business pressures that might have motivated a climax so different from that the story was obviously building to-- it’s disappointing.

[masochisticallygrumpy]

top 3 monster girls, go

I spent too long thinking about this question.

Disclaimers

I will be including sexual appeal in my choice; I know this is implied, but I wanted to state it. It is also not the only criteria I will be using to pick my top 3 monster girls.

However, sexual appeal does eliminate a lot of options under these categories:

Minors

Pokemon. Some may pass the Harkness test due to their intelligence, but people get weird about Pokemon, so I won't consider it. Gardevoir may be as smart as a person, have the figure of a woman, and talk in Pokemon Mystery Dungeon, but I just don't want to go to the Pokemon well for this list.

Those that may not be minors but still really look too young for me. This eliminates a lot of BHA characters, and I'm certain some of them are still minors.

No robots :(

I'll also stick to media that I have consumed for my choices. This will be relevant for a few honorable mentions later on.

I can't list a character that I am unfamiliar with, so I'm sorry if your monster girl of choice isn't mentioned.

I don't watch a ton of anime these days, so I haven't watched Monster Girl Doctor and most anime featuring monster girls.

I did read some Monster Musume, and most of the girls seem pretty one-directional. While a lot of them have strong sexual appeal, they kinda stutter there.

I like that Interspecies Reviewers gets pretty kinky with its monster girls, but the treatment of Crim gives me the ick, so I haven't really had a desire to see all of it.

I will be excluding demi-humans (i.e. elves, dwarves, orcs, etc.).

Listen, the answer is pretty much always smash when it comes to demi-humans, but they don't really capture the "monster" element that I'm looking.

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MY TOP 3

3. Panne, from Fire Emblem Awakening

Some would probably argue that Panne classifies as a furry rather than a monster girl, but it's my list. This is more of a sentimental pick, because she was my first Fire Emlem waifu and likely formative in my sexual deviancy.

I'm not generally a fan of slapping animal ears and a tail on someone and calling them a "monster person." However, Panne has way more going on her design than that with distinctive armor and shorts that are simply made of her fur. In addition, her people have a distinct culture that she talks about, and I like when she talks about it. I think that background fleshes out her character enough to keep me intrigued.

I think the big thing that separates Panne from your typical furry or person with animal ears/tails is her ability to transform into a giant rabbit-beast. To me, that's evocative of werewolves, which fall firmly in the venn diagram overlap of furries and monster people.

Maybe it's just me, but that ability to transform makes me question deep down if I'm ready to get it on with an intelligent monstrous rabbit. That's the real monster in Panne.

I probably would.

2. Kerrigan, Queen of Blades from Starcraft

Source: https://rafater.artstation.com/projects/2kWwJ

I've only played Starcraft 2 once, and that was almost a decade ago, but I think Kerrigan is the perfect balance of "Dangerous monster" and woman that I crave. I'm also a sucker for a fallen hero archetype, so she's got me there. However, I do remember that she regained her humanity and free will for a bit, so she does pass the Harkness Test.

She doesn't keep her human appearance for long, because she fully embraces the zerg after presumably, her love, Jim Raynor, dies. However, she keeps her free will this time! Maybe I'm just a romantic, but I'd love if a woman embraced the monster within her to avenge me.

I never finished the Protoss campaign, so I don't know what happens to her in the end, but I like to imagine that she and Jim got freaky.

1. Midna, from Twilight Princess

Midna really balances on that line between demi-human and monster girl for me, but what pushes her over the side to monster girl is her color palette, almost alien head proportions, and her multiple forms.

I confess, I would get freaky with imp midna.

Also,

Would.

Midna's appeal isn't all sexual or aesthetic either. She's sassy, mischievous, and devoted to her people. She's an admirable character. She can make me laugh, which goes a long way. I like her.

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Honorable Mentions

Medusa from Greek Mythology

I have a ton of respect for Medusa. She was a victim of Poseidon and Athena, and she only turned home invaders to stone. She got done dirty. There's a feminist movement thing I've seen that celebrates Medusa. I like her as an icon a lot.

Karlach/Lae'zel

If I had played Baldur's Gate 3, these two girls would probably make it to the top 3 easy. I just haven't gotten around to it. I'm sorry.

Alcina Dimitrescu

I feel like I had to mention Lady D somewhere. I haven't played RE Village, so she doesn't make the cut. I think I have a lot of conflict about her. Like, yeah, I find her very sexually attractive. She's tall, well-dressed, got a nice aesthetic going. She's certainly got that dangerous quality of a monster, but that's just kind of about it. She causes a lot of conflict in me emotionally too. There's sexual appeal, but I should be afraid of her in the context of the horror game, and I don't want to just overtly sexualize any woman I see. Maybe I've tried conditioning myself too strongly about that. Idk, there's an ick in my gut. Maybe because there's no outcome where I don't end up dead if we were put in a room together. I understand that some may find that appealing. I'm also not into hardcore femdom. I'm way more into gentle stuff. She does reach that perfect height for me when it comes to mini-giantess/giantess stuff. I like that.

Ahsoka Tano

I like Ahsoka, and I know she's grown up now, but I primarily see her as a minor still. I'd have more to say if I hadn't fallen off of Star Wars a few years ago, but she deserves some recognition.

World Of Warcraft Vanilla Succubus

You could throw a dart at any of the playable races in WoW and I'd likely say "smash", but they primarily fall under demi-human category or furry. However, I consider demons to be monsters.

Vanilla WoW Succubus, my beloved

She says the darnedest things.

Those polygons hit me at a developmentally important time of my life and likely had a hand at me looking at other polygons. I don't think I'd consider monster girls without her.

Thank you, if you made it this far. Tell me your favorite monster girls.

@kingdedede8 This ask took a large portion of my day