#the implications are there and intentional

[infinitatis-ink]

Made With Love

Gojo x Reader - Ao3 Link 

Summary: After giving your coworker the obligatory Valentine's Day chocolates, he insists on giving you a return gift. Little do you know that his gift has his own special and personal touch to it.

A/N: Happy belated Valentine's Day! I'm a little late lol, but I hope you guys enjoy!

Other Notes: In Japan, giri chocolates are chocolates given by women to male coworkers or friends on Valentine's Day to express friendship or gratitude.

Content Warnings: Implied obsessive behaviour, implications that Gojo's been stalking you, Gojo feeding you his cum without your knowledge, bodily fluids, Gojo being creepy towards you, female reader.

MDNI. MINORS AND BLANK/AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

“Oho, a gift for me? This really is a holiday!”

“Just take the chocolates, Gojo.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you hold out a small bag of chocolates to Gojo. In hindsight, you shouldn’t have stalled until the end of the day to give Gojo his share of giri chocolates. At least you could’ve avoided seeing his dramatic declarations of thanks with excuses of work if you’d done it in the morning. Now that it’s just the two of you in the school's offices, you doubt Gojo's going to let you go with just a “thank you.” 

“If you insist!”

Gojo plucks the bag out of your grasp with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. His fingers linger against yours, pressing into them, and you’re parting your lips when he pulls away with a satisfied smile. Pinpricks bloom in the spots his fingers had touched yours as you watch him pull down his blindfold and delicately cradle the bag in his hand. He takes out a chocolate, gazing at it before popping it into his mouth with a loud hum.  

“Delicious.” Gojo licks his lips. “And homemade too?”

His eyes are shining too. You've seen that look before, in the way Gojo only follows you on missions, in all the times he keeps getting you to help him provide “hands-on demonstrations” while he’s training his students, in how he always finds you outside of work, your paths crossing too many times for you to call it a coincidence anymore. It’s tinged with hunger, like you're his target for something you can’t seem to name.

“Yeah. I wanted to try making everyone’s chocolates this time,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “I’m glad you liked it too.”

Gojo’s smile flickers. 

“Is that so?”

You furrow your brows. Gojo’s never reacted like this when you gave him chocolates before. Ieiri always gave him giri chocolate too, and he’d never made…a show of receiving and trying her chocolates on the spot. 

An awkward silence engulfs the room. Gojo's still gazing at you intently, as though he were expecting you to say something more. Against the setting sun, the shadows on his face grow sharper, deeper.

The room suddenly feels colder. 

“Um, I’m heading out then. Night,” you stammer out, hastily grabbing your stuff from your desk. Relief washes over you as you make your way out of the room. Now that you’d gotten that out of the way, you could go home and— 

”Wait! There’s something I wanna give you too.” 

You stop, a few steps away from the door, willing yourself to turn and face him again.  

“What is it?” 

Gojo grins and reaches into his jacket pocket. He takes out a small white box topped with a blue bow, the same shade as his eyes, and offers it to you with a flourish. “I made some chocolates for you! As a thanks for the ones you gave me all these years.” 

This is new. You raise an eyebrow. 

“White Day isn't for another month.”

“Yeah, but you know me.” He shrugs and flashes you a cheeky grin. “I've never cared for tradition.”

“I appreciate it, but you didn’t have to—”

“C'mon,” Gojo half-whines, pouting. “I stayed up all night to get it right!” 

He offers you the box again, giving it an insistent shake this time. He gazes at you expectantly, his pout hardening into a pursed frown the longer you hesitate. Something heavy crackles in the air, like a gathering storm. 

You dry swallow and stiffly hold out your hand. 

“Thanks, Gojo.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen Gojo look so pleased as when you accept the box. To be honest, you’d half-expected a more unusual gift. Something like a souvenir he’d picked up on one of his missions, or dessert from one of the cafes he keeps trying to get you to visit with him. Handmade chocolates feel too friendly for what's supposed to be a return gift from a coworker.

“Wanna try one?” he asks eagerly. The edge in his tone only leaves room for one answer.  

Your fingers are cold and numb as you open the box to see large white chocolates shaped like hearts and drizzled with brown icing lined up in neat rows. They look professionally made, like something you’d find in a luxury goods store. It’s a lot of effort put into what’s supposed to be a return gift for giri chocolates. 

Too much effort.

“They look nice,” you comment politely. “And well made.”

“That’s because I made them with my love!” Gojo chirps, clapping his hands. His smile is painfully wide and uncanny. “I used your favourite flavours too. You’re a fan of fruits, yeah?”

A knot forms in your stomach. You don’t think you’ve mentioned to him what your chocolate preferences are. Maybe he guessed it from your reactions on White Day, but you’ve never been picky about what you got. Despite his antics, he’s always been an observant person too, so there was that, you suppose. 

“…I am, I guess,” you reply. You pick up one of the chocolates, turning it over with your fingers. Gojo’s only asking you to try one piece. You could play along for a little longer, couldn’t you?

Before you could regret your decision, you take a bite of the chocolate. It’s sweet and milky, with a smooth coating that melts away when you bite into it. You wonder how much time Gojo spent on this, because it has to have taken more than a night for him to—  

A sharp, strange taste suddenly assaults your tongue, and you almost choke. It's salty and bitter, like the filling has gone bad, and every instinct in your body screams for you to spit it out, but you force yourself to swallow because Gojo’s still watching you. The bitter taste clings to your mouth and throat, drowning out everything else until it’s all you can breathe in too. 

You look down at the half-eaten chocolate still in your hand. Filling drips out of the shell, thin and cloudy white, trickling down your fingers in droplets.

You wish the ground would swallow you up whole. 

“What did you put in them?” you rasp. Your voice sounds alien to your own ears and you don’t know if you want to hear the answer anymore.

Gojo’s eyes bore into you, his gaze threatening to swallow you whole. His smile turns hungry, almost feral. Too late, you see the walls closing in on you.

“Like I said,” he says simply. “They’re made with my love.”

[wusnus]

more homunculus fried rice stuff

I think human greed looking like ling as a kid is so funny so i had to include it First Homunculus Fried Rice AU Post

[the-oblivious-writer]

Let the Light In |9|

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Chapter Nine: Struck by Cupid's Knife

Summary: After working up the courage, Tara asks you to spend Cupid’s birthday with her, but neither of you could have predicted the results.

Warning(s): Swearing (I think), arguing, Tara wearing The Skirt™️, innuendos, miscommunication/shit communication and mentions of masochism.

Notes: Reader’s a thirsty son of a bitch.

Masterlist|Previous Part|Next Part

You're sprawled on Tara's couch, one hand absently scratching behind Dookie's ears while the other reaches for your water. The cat purrs contentedly in your lap, a rare sight according to literally everyone who's ever met the notoriously selective feline. On screen, Leatherface is doing what Leatherface does best – terrorizing unsuspecting teenagers with questionable decision-making skills.

"You know," you muse, "for someone who claims to hate slashers, you sure own a lot of them."

Tara throws chips at your head. It misses spectacularly and lands on Dookie, who gives her the most withering look a cat can muster. "I never said I hate slashers. I said modern slashers lack the psychological complexity of—"

"—of 'Prom Night,' yes, we've all heard the dissertation," you interrupt, earning yourself another chip projectile. This one actually hits its mark. "Which, by the way, is absolutely not better than 'Sleepaway Camp.'"

"Oh my god, are you seriously starting this again?" Tara pauses the movie, turning to face you fully. "Angela Baker is iconic, sure, but—"

"But nothing! The psychological implications alone—"

"The psychological implications of a movie that ends with—"

You both start talking over each other, your voices rising with practiced familiarity of an argument you've had dozens of times before. Dookie lifts his head to watch the verbal tennis match, tail twitching with mild interest.

"Okay, okay," Tara finally concedes, though her tone suggests this is far from over. "We can agree to disagree. For now. But only because I'm starving and we still haven't decided on dinner."

"Indian?" you suggest innocently, already knowing the response you'll get.

Her eyes narrow. "You know damn well what happened last time."

"You mean when you insisted you could handle the spice level and then spent three hours complaining about heartburn?"

"I did not complain for three hours."

"You literally texted me at 3 AM to tell me your esophagus was staging a coup."

She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Fine! What's your brilliant suggestion then?"

You pretend to think about it, even though you both know exactly where this is heading. "Well, there's this place I know. Makes great burgers, killer onion rings, milkshakes that'll change your life…"

"You mean the same place we always go?"

"If it ain't broke, princess."

The nickname slips out before you can catch it, an old habit you can't seem to shake. Tara's expression does something complicated – a mix of annoyance, fondness, and something else you're not quite ready to analyze.

"Speaking of things that aren't broken," she starts, then stops, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "There's this Valentine's party next week…"

You focus very intently on Dookie's fur, suddenly finding the pattern fascinating. "Oh yeah? Sounds fun."

"Yeah, it's at Chad's place. You could… I mean, if you wanted…" She trails off, then quickly adds, "But you probably have plans."

"Actually," you say, still not looking up, "I was just gonna stay in. The new season of 'Yellowjackets' dropped and—"

"Oh." There's something in her voice that makes you finally look up. "That… that sounds good too."

A moment passes, filled only by the sound of Dookie's purring and the paused image of Leatherface on the TV.

"You could join," you offer, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them. "If you wanted. Instead of the party."

Tara's face brightens for a split second before she schools it into careful neutrality. "What happened to your sacred solo binge-watching ritual?"

"Well, Dookie's already broken that rule," you gesture to the cat who's now fully asleep in your lap. "Besides, someone needs to be there to judge my commentary."

"Your commentary definitely needs supervision," she agrees, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "But what about Chad's party? You sure you don't want to…" she waves her hand vaguely.

You raise an eyebrow. "Want to what?"

"Nothing," she says quickly. "Just… you know. Meet people. Or whatever."

"Careful, Carpenter. That almost sounded like jealousy."

"You wish," she scoffs, but there's a faint blush creeping up her neck. "I just don't want you blaming me when you miss out on finding your soulmate at a frat party."

"Right, because nothing says true love like keg stands and questionable punch."

She throws more chips at you, but she's smiling now. "Shut up and watch the movie, dork."

You press play, and Leatherface resumes his rampage. But you can't help noticing how Tara seems more relaxed now, how she's shifted slightly closer on the couch. Dookie stretches in your lap, completely unbothered by the chainsaw sounds from the TV, and you think maybe this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

Even if Tara is completely wrong about "Prom Night.

—

Valentine's Day arrives with all the subtlety of a horror movie jump scare. You're pacing your apartment, pretending you haven't spent the last hour deciding what to wear for what's supposedly just another movie night. Dookie, who somehow managed to sneak into your place during Tara's last visit and never left, watches you with judgmental eyes from his perch on your bookshelf.

"Don't give me that look," you mutter, adjusting your shirt for the hundredth time. "This is completely normal behavior."

Dookie blinks slowly, unconvinced.

Your phone buzzes with a text, and you definitely don't lunge for it like a teenager waiting for their crush to call.

Tara (6:45 PM): omw Tara (6:45 PM): with snacks Tara (6:46 PM): and NO you cannot veto my candy choices this time

You smile despite yourself, typing back a quick response.

Dork (6:46 PM): If you brought those weird swedish fish again, we're going to have words

When the knock finally comes, you open the door to find Tara wearing a skirt that makes your brain short-circuit. It's not even particularly revealing – just a simple black pleated number that hits just above her knees – but something about the way it moves when she walks past you makes your mouth go dry.

"Earth to Y/N," Tara waves a hand in front of your face. "You gonna let me in or just stand there having a stroke?"

You snap out of it, closing the door perhaps a bit too quickly. "Sorry, just… wondering if I should be concerned about what's in that suspiciously large grocery bag."

"Liar," she smirks, dropping said bag on your coffee table. "But I'll let it slide because I'm feeling generous."

Meanwhile, in a group chat you're blissfully unaware of:

CORE 4 & CO.

Mindy: TARA CARPENTER Mindy: YOU DID NOT JUST LEAVE THE HOUSE IN THAT SKIRT Mindy: TO GO WATCH TV Mindy: WITH YOUR “NEMESIS”

Sammy: Let her live, Mindy

Chad: anyone else find it sus that they're both skipping the party? 👀

Mindy: "skipping the party to watch yellowjackets" sure jan

Tara: i can see these messages you know

Mindy: EXACTLY Mindy: WE KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING

Chad: yeah wearing The Skirt™️

Tara: it's just a skirt omg Tara: and don't you all have better things to do??

Mindy: than watch you attempt to seduce your nemesis? Mindy: absolutely not

Sammy: I'm turning off notifications Sammy: have fun sis Sammy: and remember to text me if you end up staying the night

Tara: SAM

Back in your apartment, you're trying very hard to focus on setting up the TV and not on how Tara's legs look when she's curled up on your couch. It's just a skirt. You've seen skirts before. This should not be affecting you like this.

"You know," Tara's voice breaks through your internal crisis, "for someone who was so excited about this show, you're spending a lot of time staring at everything but the screen."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but she cuts you off with a knowing look.

"The remote's upside down."

You look down. The remote is, indeed, upside down in your hands. "I'm trying a new technique," you deadpan, refusing to acknowledge the heat creeping up your neck.

"Uh-huh." She shifts on the couch, the movement causing her skirt to—nope, you're not looking. You're absolutely not looking. "You know, we could still go to Chad's party if you're having second thoughts."

There's something in her tone – a careful casualness that doesn't quite mask the uncertainty underneath. You finally look at her properly, taking in the way she's trying to appear nonchalant while picking at a loose thread on your couch cushion.

"And miss the chance to prove how superior 'Sleepaway Camp' is to your precious 'Prom Night'? Not a chance, Carpenter."

The relief that flashes across her face is brief but unmistakable. "Oh my god, you're still on that? You know what, just for that, I'm eating all the good candy."

"Bold of you to assume any of your candy choices qualify as 'good.'"

She throws a Swedish Fish at your head. You catch it with your mouth, surprising both of you.

"…Okay, that was actually impressive," she admits.

"I have hidden depths," you say solemnly, finally settling onto the couch beside her. "Now shut up and watch the show. I have theories about Lottie that will blow your mind."

As the opening credits roll, you're hyper-aware of every inch of space between you, of how her skirt brushes against your leg when she reaches for the snacks, of how this feels simultaneously like nothing and everything has changed.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket – probably Henry asking how your "not-date" is going – but you ignore it. Right now, all that matters is this moment: Tara's commentary about the show's color grading, the way she unconsciously leans into you during the tenser scenes, and how maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you both want to be.

The thing about watching TV with Tara Carpenter is that she can't sit still to save her life. She's constantly shifting, readjusting, finding new ways to accidentally-but-maybe-not-accidentally end up closer to you. It's maddening in the best possible way.

"That's not how decomposition works," she critiques, reaching across you for the popcorn. Her skirt rides up slightly with the movement, and you suddenly find the ceiling fascinating. "The timeline is completely unrealistic."

"Sorry, I didn't realize I was sitting next to a forensics expert," you quip, trying to ignore how she hasn't fully moved back to her original position. "Please, enlighten us with your extensive knowledge of body disposal."

She turns to face you, and you immediately regret your life choices because now she's even closer, her eyes sparkling with that dangerous mix of challenge and amusement that always spells trouble.

"Well, considering the ambient temperature and soil composition—"

"Is this the part where I should be concerned about your search history?"

"Please," she scoffs, but there's a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Like yours is any better, Miss 'I-need-to-research-medieval-torture-devices-for-academic-purposes.'"

"That was one time!"

"The FBI agent watching your browser history probably needs therapy."

You're about to retort when she shifts again, and suddenly her leg is pressed against yours. All coherent thoughts evacuate your brain without so much as a goodbye note.

"You okay there?" she asks, and there's something in her tone that suggests she knows exactly what she's doing. "You seem a little… distracted."

Two can play at this game.

"Just thinking about proper body disposal techniques," you say innocently, stretching your arm across the back of the couch. Not quite around her shoulders, but the implication is there. "You know, for academic purposes."

She raises an eyebrow. "Is that your way of threatening to murder me? Because I've got to say, your technique needs work."

"If I was going to murder you, Carpenter, you'd never see it coming."

"Promises, promises."

The air between you crackles with something that definitely isn't just friendly banter anymore. On screen, someone is probably being dramatically eviscerated, but you couldn't care less because Tara is looking at you with that half-smile that makes your stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics.

Your phone buzzes again, breaking the moment. This time, it's a series of texts from Henry:

Henry (8:15 PM): so how's the not-date going?? Henry (8:15 PM): has anyone been murdered yet Henry (8:16 PM): either literally or metaphorically Henry (8:16 PM): also tony says hi and wants to know if you've kissed her yet

"Something important?" Tara asks, and you quickly lock your phone before she can see the messages.

"Just Henry being Henry," you say, silently plotting your best friend's demise. "Probably asking if we've murdered each other yet."

"Night's still young," she shrugs, but she's still got that look in her eyes that makes you want to either kiss her or start an argument about horror movie tropes. Possibly both.

"Speaking of murder," you say instead, because you're a master of deflection, "want to hear my theory about why 'Sleepaway Camp' is actually a groundbreaking commentary on—"

She groans, throwing her head back dramatically. "Oh my god, you're actually the worst."

"That's not what you said when I brought you soup when you caught the flu."

"That was before I knew you'd use it as ammunition in your endless crusade against good taste in movies."

"Bold words from someone wearing a skirt that's clearly meant to be a distraction from your terrible opinions."

The words are out before your brain can stop them. Tara goes very still, and for a moment you think you've miscalculated spectacularly. But then she looks at you with an expression that's somewhere between amusement and challenge.

"Is it working?"

Your mouth goes dry. "What?"

"The distraction," she says, and you swear she moves even closer. "Is it working?"

You're saved from having to answer by Dookie, who chooses this exact moment to jump between you, apparently deciding he's been ignored for far too long. The cat gives you both a look that clearly says "I've had enough of your nonsense."

"Traitor," you mutter to the cat, who responds by making himself comfortable across both your laps, effectively creating a furry barrier between you and Tara.

Tara laughs, scratching behind Dookie's ears. "My hero," she coos to the cat. "Saving me from another lecture about Angela Baker's psychological complexity."

"You're both against me," you declare dramatically. "I'm being ganged up on in my own home."

"Cry about it," she suggests sweetly, but she's leaning against your shoulder now, and Dookie is purring, and maybe being ganged up on isn't the worst thing in the world.

—

"I cannot believe you're still defending this," you say, watching in horror as Tara drowns her mac and cheese in a truly concerning amount of hot sauce. "This is actually painful to witness."

"You're being dramatic," she retorts, adding what appears to be her entire body weight in ketchup to the already crime-scene-worthy pasta. "Some of us actually like flavor."

"Flavor? That's—" you're interrupted by the doorbell, which is probably for the best because you were about to launch into a dissertation about the difference between flavor and masochism.

"I'll get it," Tara says, but you're already standing up.

"Absolutely not. I've seen enough horror movies to know the cute girl who answers the door always dies first."

The word 'cute' slips out before you can catch it, and you practically sprint to the door to avoid seeing her reaction. This proves to be a tactical error when you open it to find possibly the most conventionally attractive pizza delivery guy you've ever seen, complete with the kind of jawline that belongs on a CW show.

"Hey," he says, then looks past you to where Tara has appeared behind your shoulder. His entire demeanor shifts, voice dropping an octave. "Hey."

You resist the urge to close the door in his face.

"That'll be twenty-four fifty," he says to Tara, completely ignoring your existence. "Though I could make it free if you'd let me take you out sometime."

Something hot and uncomfortable coils in your stomach. You reach for your wallet, but Tara beats you to it, pulling out cash from her pocket.

"Here's thirty," she says, a slight flush creeping up her neck. "Keep the change."

"You sure I can't convince you?" He flashes a smile that probably works wonders at frat parties. "I make a mean pasta. No ketchup required."

Your head snaps up at that. He must have overheard your earlier conversation, which means he's been standing here long enough to eavesdrop, which means—

"She likes her pasta exactly how she likes it," you say, perhaps a bit sharper than necessary, taking the pizza from his hands. "Thanks for the delivery."

You close the door before he can respond, turning to find Tara looking at you with an expression that makes your heart do something complicated in your chest. The flush on her neck has spread to her cheeks.

"So," she says, voice carefully neutral but eyes dancing with something that looks suspiciously like amusement. "No ketchup required, huh?"

"Don't start," you mutter, carrying the pizza to the kitchen. "And don't even think about putting hot sauce on this. I saw you wincing earlier from your mac and cheese."

"My tongue is fine," she protests, following you. "Besides, maybe I like the burn."

"Your masochistic tendencies are concerning, Carpenter."

She hops up onto your counter, legs swinging slightly in that stupid perfect skirt. "Says the person who just went full guard dog on the pizza guy."

"I did not—" you start, then catch the look on her face. "I was just… concerned about food temperature maintenance."

"Uh-huh." She's full-on grinning now, cheeks still tinged pink. "And I suppose the death glare was just about proper pizza handling protocols?"

"You know what?" You grab a slice, pointedly avoiding her gaze. "I preferred it when you were defending your crimes against pasta."

"Speaking of which…" She reaches for the bottle of hot sauce she apparently manifested from thin air.

"Absolutely not." You snatch it away, holding it above your head. "I'm not listening to you complain about tongue burn all night again."

"Bold of you to assume I need your permission," she says, sliding off the counter and stepping closer. Much closer. Close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

Your breath catches. She reaches up, ostensibly for the hot sauce, but her hand lands on your wrist instead. Neither of you moves.

"Tara," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Your mac and cheese is getting cold."

She laughs, the sound soft and close, and you think maybe this is better than any Valentine's party could ever be. Even if she is completely wrong about pasta condiments.

"You're impossible," she says, but she's smiling, and she hasn't moved away, and maybe—

Dookie chooses this exact moment to knock over the entire box of pizza.

"Traitor," you both say in unison, then look at each other and burst out laughing.

The moment breaks, but something else settles in its place – something warm and comfortable and maybe a little bit inevitable. Like the way Tara's hand is still on your wrist, or how she's looking at you with that half-smile that makes your heart skip beats.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up with a notification. Tara glances at it reflexively, and something in her expression shifts �� subtle enough that someone who doesn't know her as well as you do might miss it, but you've spent months cataloging her micro-expressions during horror movie marathons.

"Charlotte?" she says, and there's something in her voice that makes your stomach drop. "Didn't realize you two were still talking."

You reach for your phone, but Tara's already turning away, suddenly very interested in reorganizing the scattered pizza toppings on her plate. "It's not—"

"No, it's fine," she cuts you off, but her shoulders are tense in that way they get when she's trying too hard to seem casual. "I mean, obviously you can talk to whoever you want."

"Tara."

"I just thought after what happened at New Year's—"

"Nothing happened at New Year's," you say, perhaps a bit too quickly. "We just talked."

She lets out a laugh that doesn't sound like a laugh at all. "Right. Because that's totally why you disappeared for an hour and came back looking like—"

"Like what?" There's an edge to your voice now, the playful atmosphere from earlier evaporating like morning dew. "Come on, Carpenter. Say what you really mean."

She finally looks at you, and there's something raw in her expression that makes your chest ache. "Like you'd rather be anywhere else. With anyone else."

"That's not—" you start, but she's on a roll now.

"You know what? It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have…" she trails off, pushing her plate away. "This was stupid. I should go."

"Are you seriously doing this right now?" You follow her as she starts gathering her things. "Over a text message you didn't even read?"

"This isn't about the text," she says, but she won't meet your eyes. "This is about you always having one foot out the door."

"Me?" You can't help the incredulous laugh that escapes. "That's rich coming from someone who can't even admit why she really skipped Chad's party tonight."

She freezes, one hand on her bag. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means." Your heart is pounding, words spilling out before you can stop them. "You're not the only one who's allowed to be scared, Tara."

The silence that follows is deafening. Even Dookie seems to be holding his breath, watching from his perch on the bookshelf with unblinking eyes.

"I'm not scared," she says finally, but her voice wavers slightly.

"No?" You step closer, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. "Then why are you running?"

She looks up at you then, and there's something in her eyes that makes your breath catch – a mix of vulnerability and defiance that's so uniquely Tara it makes your heart hurt.

"Because you let her kiss you," she whispers, and the words hang in the air between you like smoke. "At New Year's. You let her kiss you, and then you came back and acted like nothing happened, and I—"

"She didn't kiss me," you interrupt softly. "I stopped her."

Tara blinks. "What?"

"She tried, yeah. But I stopped her." You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. "Because apparently I'm pathetically gone for someone who puts ketchup in her mac and cheese and thinks 'Prom Night' is better than 'Sleepaway Camp.'"

A beat passes. Then another. Tara's still holding her bag, but her grip has loosened.

"Pathetically?" she repeats, and there's a hint of something in her voice that might be hope.

"Absolutely tragic levels," you confirm, taking another step closer. "It's embarrassing, really. I can't even enjoy pizza delivery without getting jealous."

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "That was pretty embarrassing."

"Says the person who wore The Skirt™️ to watch Yellowjackets."

She flushes, but she's not running anymore. "You noticed that, huh?"

"Tara," you say softly, "I notice everything about you. It's kind of the problem."

She looks at you for a long moment, then slowly sets her bag down. "You really stopped her?"

"Of course I did." You reach out, tentatively tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Some of us don't have terrible taste in everything."

She laughs, the sound watery but real. "Just in movies, right?"

"And pasta condiments," you agree, and when she smiles, it feels like coming home.

The moment stretches between you like taffy, sweet and fragile. Tara's looking at you with those eyes that always make you forget how to breathe properly, and you're close enough to count her freckles, to see the way her pulse flutters in her throat. Her hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with a certainty that makes your heart stutter.

You could kiss her. You should kiss her. Everything in you is screaming to close that final distance.

Instead, you step back.

The hurt that flashes across her face is gone so quickly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.

"I can't," you whisper, and the words taste like ash in your mouth. "Not like this."

"Like what?" Her voice is carefully neutral, but you can see her walls going up, brick by careful brick. "With me?"

"That's not—" You run a hand through your hair, frustrated. "You're upset about Charlotte, and the pizza guy, and—"

"Don't." She pulls her hand away, and the loss of contact feels like a physical ache. "Don't you dare try to explain away what just happened."

"I'm trying to protect—"

"Me?" She laughs, but it's a hollow sound that doesn't reach her eyes. "From what, exactly? From making my own decisions? From wanting something that apparently terrifies you?"

"That's not fair."

"No?" She takes a step back, and somehow that small distance feels like miles. "Then what is this, really? Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot like you're the one with one foot out the door."

The words hit like a slap, echoing your earlier accusation back at you. "Tara—"

"You know what the worst part is?" She's gathering her things again, movements sharp and jerky. "For a second there, I actually thought… God, I'm such an idiot."

"You're not—"

"Save it." She's not looking at you anymore, focused intently on collecting her scattered belongings. "I get it, okay? You're not ready, or you're scared, or whatever excuse you want to use. But don't pretend this is about protecting me."

You want to stop her. Want to explain that you're terrified of ruining this, of losing her, of what happens when the Valentine's Day magic wears off and she realizes you're not worth all this trouble. Want to tell her that you've never been good at keeping the things you love.

Instead, you watch her shrug on her jacket, that stupid perfect skirt swishing with the movement.

"Tara, please—"

"I should go," she says, and her voice is steady even though her hands are shaking slightly. "Before I say something we'll both regret."

Dookie watches from his perch as she heads for the door, tail twitching like he's judging your life choices. You don't blame him.

She pauses at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob. For a moment, you think she might turn around, might give you another chance to fix this. But then her shoulders straighten, and you know what's coming before she says it.

"For the record?" Her voice is quiet but clear. "You're wrong. About everything"

The door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than a slam would have. You stand there in the silence, surrounded by half-eaten pizza and the lingering scent of her perfume, thinking about all the ways hearts break in horror movies versus real life.

-------

A/N: I feel like a cartoon villain. It's nice.

[carrymelikeimcute]

#It does what to gray matter?!

YES! AND IT HORRIFIES ME!

"The findings showed highly consistent gray matter volume losses in the mothers and not in the other groups, the team reports today in Nature Neuroscience. The changes occurred primarily in areas of the brain involved in social tasks like reading the desires and intentions of others from their faces and actions. The hippocampus, a region associated with memory, also lost volume. What's more, the team found that the mothers' scores on a standard test that gauges the degree of a mom's attachment to her infant could be predicted to a significant degree based on the changes in their gray matter volume during pregnancy."

And

"Two years later, 11 of the 25 mothers—those who had not become pregnant again—returned for MRI scans. The scans showed that gray matter loss remained—except in the hippocampus, where most volume had been restored. The changes were so consistent that a computer algorithm could predict with 100% accuracy whether a woman had been pregnant from her MRI scan."

This is also referred to as 'synaptic pruning' where your brain basically cuts connections in order to restructure around your new task of motherhood. Basically robbing you of memory in favour of making you a better caretaker to others - which I find deeply horrifying, but which is obviously being downplayed or made out to be a good thing. But I think it's something more AFAB people should know BEFORE making the choice to have children.

"In Dr. Hoekzema’s study, the images showed reductions in gray matter in the hippocampus, which is largely responsible for regulating memory. Instead of focusing on relatively inconsequential tidbits of information, like a movie title, your pregnant or new-mom brain may reallocate resources to the parts of the brain that control “theory of mind,” which allows you to figure out what someone else wants and needs. Dr. Hoekzema says these same areas of the brain also lit up when mothers looked at their infants, suggesting that synaptic pruning might even promote mother-baby bonding."

The above makes it sounds like the hippocampus is used for 'trivia' but it actually is responsible for:

Learning.

Short- and long-term memory.

Visual-spatial memory (remembering the position of your body in relation to nearby objects).

Verbal memory (remembering the right words to say).

Declarative (or explicit) memory (the recollection of facts or experiences).

'relatively inconsequential pieces of information'??? More like your VOCABULARY AND ELOQUENCE!

There's also a lot of disagreement about when/if this stuff ever comes back, some say right after birth, some say after 6 years, some say they don't know yet. And then you've got the implications of repeat pregnancies.

Does this loss of memory make people who've had children more susceptible to dementia symptoms? No idea. Because studying AFAB bodies is waaaaaaaaay down the list of priorities and most of this research only happened in the last decade.

struck today that trans guys in the UK are being told 'you're setting yourself up for a lifetime of medicalisation!!!!!' by scandalised older women who bemoan their 'having breasts removed that have never known a lover's caress' (yes that's a direct quote, fuck you allison bailey).

But apparently birthing a child, which literally shrinks your grey matter and permanently alters your body - significantly effecting your quality of life with incontinence, hernias, loss of sexual function/sensation, not to mention depression and body dysmorphia as your entire body literally changes forever and you suddenly have a dependant human that will be with you for the rest of your life...that's just something you can do on a whim with no need for anyone else's input or approval. 'Oh you can just have the one' 'it's not that hard' 'yI know it was an accident, but you might as well keep it'.

Apparently AFAB bodies are only allowed to be permanently changed and 'medicalised' for the benefit of others - the production of children/new tax payers, and not for the actual person inhabiting them.

Like, AFAB people don't just owe the world their bodies for the pleasure of (predominantly) cis straight men. They also owe them their health and body functionality.

Terf rhetoric literally frames AFAB bodies as a community resource.

Terfs are inherently against bodily autonomy.

[percywinchester27]

The new Mrs. Winchester (21)

Word count: 3.3K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Chapter warnings: Implications of sexual abuse, mentions of torture, PTSD, angst, flesh trade, language, mention of violence and murder; reader discretion is strongly advised.

Series Summary: After spending over two years in captivity, and enduring assault, torture, and degradation of every kind, Y/N is finally sold off to the highest bidder. But when the deal is masked as a hushed marriage to a wealthy and powerful man, Y/N knows it means a few more nights of brutal torment ending in certain death. After all, why else would a man like him, want someone like her, except to fulfill desires so depraved that they would require owning a person. However, the Winchester mansion has mysteries of its own, woven in lies, betrayal, and death. Smack in the middle of it, she finds both hope and a home, in the person she least expected to find it with. But when it comes down to it, will she be able to save the thing that matters the most?

A/N: Look who is posting regularly now ;)

Beta: My darling, @deanssweetheart23

The new Mrs. Winchester masterlist

“Miss, you can’t keep waiting by the door for him all day!”

“Watch me,” you muttered and Abby let out a sigh. She must be convinced of your obsessive insanity by now.

“I called Jack and he called Castiel. Mr Winchester will not be back before evening. You will fall sick in this cold.”

“It’s already five… won’t be long before evening. You go on.”

Abby gave you a look that most definitely doubted your sanity but left you at the foot of the staircase where you sat with your book, feet tapping so rapidly, that the anklet Sam had gifted you started to sting.

For the umpteenth time, you wondered what the last, engraved square charm stood for.

Abby had seen you through a week's worth of anxiety but did not know the reason behind it. You knew. Sam was to return today and he had every intention of completely avoiding you and there was no way you were giving him that chance.

Since finding it, you had read Sam’s letter so many times, that the crumpled paper had lost most of its composition and now lay flat, the words already etched in your mind. At first, the pain and sadness in his words riddled you like bullets, but the more time you spent with his words, the angrier you felt about the whole situation.

How dare he apologise for saving you? Stupid, stupid man! How dare he make you fall in love with him even more? 

Admitting to the things he’d admitted to couldn’t have been easy… his childhood, how he truly thought himself to be responsible for his mother’s death and then Jo’s. How his father had treated him, and watching his brother, the only family he had known waste away right in front of his eyes just like his father.

You shuddered to yourself, thinking of your Han that way. Dean had an easy-going way about him. If bringing you into the picture had eased his anguish, how could it have been a bad thing? Sam, with his principles, couldn’t forgive himself for the act, but you, who was the one affected by it, wanted to find him and kiss his hands for signing that cheque now. He hadn’t just saved his brother, he had also saved you.

Then there were things he’d admitted to about you. 

…but what if I confessed that I liked the fall of your hair…

… I could nearly imagine the feel of your skin, your lips…

A soft shiver ran through your body at the recollection.

If Sam had stripped himself naked before you, he’d have still been less vulnerable. By admitting to the shame he felt over the simple act of choosing you, he’d bared more than you in that godforsaken picture. You understood him now… understood him to the depth of his soul. 

But you wished he understood that with all his principles, he was only a man. And he couldn’t keep punishing himself for having the reactions and instincts of one.

…How am I any better than all those men? How could I ever face you after that?

Reading those words? All you wanted to do was climb into his skin, dissolve into his being and hold him so tight, he’d never feel that shame again.

Footsteps echoed outside the door and you got to your feet, the book falling to the ground with a thump. Had you been less lost in thought, you would have realised those footsteps didn’t have the crispness of Sam’s.

“Hey, Honeybun!” Nick smirked. “Waiting for me?”

The air in your throat coagulated then disappeared to nothing seeing his face.

“You are as jawdroppingly gorgeous as ever.”

“And you are just as bastardly,” you heard yourself say. Any other day words might have evaded you, but living through Sam’s anguish over something he had no control over, made you livid at this asshole’s audacity, who hadn’t lost even a second of his sleep over destroying your life.

“Oh, she shows teeth now,” he said silkily.

“Get out of my house,” you hissed. “Get lost before I call the security.”

“And tell them what?” He challenged. “Why you’re kicking Sam’s cousin out? Mary was my mother’s sister, you know. I’m part of the Trust. Or do you not want the people in your house to know about us.”

“There’s no us.”

Nick took a few calculated steps close to you. “Come on now, Y/N. I know you love your secrets, you’ve always thrived in them. Secret siblings in a boarding school. Never thought I would become your dirty little secret, too.” He grinned and you shuddered. “What a privilege.”

He circled you slowly and you pressed into the balustrade, grabbing the handrail. 

“Poor little Sammy, does he know how you secretly met his brother at the pier in the middle of the night? That’s right, I saw little Y/N sneaking out in the dark. Do you still have Dean’s leather jacket in your drawer?”

The blood in your vein suddenly ran cold. “S- Sam knows… Dean and I are friends… He knows.”

“Tch Tch Tch,” laughed Nick, the sound grating your brain. “Sam knows his brother thinks of you as his friend. But you tell me, which respectable wife would tiptoe out of the house in the middle of the night to meet a complete stranger? Now good Ol’ Deano knew who you were, but you didn’t know who he was, did he now? So didn’t you lie to your husband about your secret rendezvous with a man?” He sighed dramatically. “What they say is true after all. Once a slut… always a slut.”

“Don’t you…”

“Dare?” He mocked, hands in air. “Does Sammy even know everything you did with me? Did to me? That you’ve gone down on your knees for me and–

The clatter of a briefcase had you jumping out of your skin.

Sam stood over the threshold, face white as a board. 

“Sammy!” Nick greeted with glee. “My man! You look ready to drop. Bad trip?”

He placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam shirked it away in disdain.

“I was just telling Y/N how wonderful it is to catch up with her after all these years. Did you know we used to date in college? Well, she was in college anyway. I never had time for that shit.”

Nick turned to face you with a grin. “I was telling her how… great she still looks. Doesn’t she?”

At long last Sam’s gaze slid from Nick to you, absolute disbelief etched in his expression. 

You stared back helplessly.

When Nick turned back around, Sam had gathered his expression and settled into a perfectly blank face.

“Nick,” said Sam, voice composed. “I had a long flight back and I’m in no mood to see your face when I could have a much better view. I’d much rather be in bed, having dinner with my wife than stand around listening to you reminiscing about things that don’t matter anymore.”

“You knew?” Nick challenged, doubtful.

Sam picked up his briefcase and briskly crossed the distance, surpassing Nick. “I sure remember gagging when Y/N mentioned it in passing. I find it hard to believe she had such terrible taste.” He picked up your fallen book and handed it to you, beginning to take the steps. “Now if you��ll excuse me, I have more important things to do.”

At the top step, he turned and said, “Y/N, come on up. Find Abby and get her to send the dinner up for us. I’m starving.” With that, he disappeared into the corridor.

Shock held you in place for a few moments, but eventually, you turned your back on that grinning bastard and followed Sam up the steps. The door to his room was already closed and when you tried to push it open, the door held. 

“Damn it,” you cursed, crossing to the next door and getting into your own room. Things were already as fucked as they could get and this was not how you had wanted Sam to find out about Nick.

Horrifyingly, Sam and Dean now had one-half of the story. Dean knew your boyfriend had sold you to the boss and now Sam knew Nick had been the boyfriend. Only you knew the whole truth and had known it for a while. The mole on the estate that the brothers were searching for had to be none other than Nick. After all how many such assholes could be around? And it made perfect sense now. Nick was part of the Estate Trust, someone who could have easily offered Rosalie a new job, and lured all these women associated with the estate into the flesh trade. Even Jo, who might have just stopped the car to acknowledge Dean’s cousin had paid for that mistake with her life.

The true horror of the situation was how you could tell neither brother the truth because if Dean found out that Nick was the reason his fiance was dead, he would kill Nick and the boss would know. And if Sam found out what your Ex-boyfriend had done… you still remembered the murderous rage in his eyes when he’d found out about Michael inserting hot pins in your heels. If he confronted Nick, the boss would still know. Then what would happen to Jamie and Danny? You’d never see them again.

The sheer helplessness of holding the Ace that Sam and Dean so desperately sought in your hand, and yet unable to hand it to them.

Now, Sam knew and you felt ashamed of what he must be thinking.

Rushing inside the bedroom vestibule, you pushed at the connecting door, but for the first time, found it locked… from the other side.

“Sam!” you banged on the wood. “Open the door.”

Nothing.

“Open the damn door! Let me explain.”

Oh, how the tables had turned. What a wretched feeling to be on the other side, locked out. The medicine did not taste sweet.

“Open the door,” you tried again. “P-L-E-A-S-E”

Except the last word came out as knocks and pats on the wood.

You were about to give up when the door opened and you were only a couple feet away from Sam. Being away from him for an extended amount of time always made you forget just how tall he was and right now the buttons of his shirt appeared more appealing than meeting his eyes. 

“What?” Sam asked, point blank, his voice without inflection.

All you wanted to do was close the little distance and hug him, but the two steps in between felt like miles.

“Won’t you invite me in?”

A second passed, and then Sam moved aside. “It’s your house as much as mine. You’re welcome to any part of it.”

Tears pricked your eyes. Sam’s words and tone were polite, but each detached syllable stung like a pin in your heel.

“So this is how it’s going to be?” You remained resolutely at the threshold. 

“How?” 

Something about Sam’s quiet rage rankled you from the inside. Despite his absence, you felt like you had uncovered more of Sam from Dean’s words and then his letter. Sam had always seemed like an ocean on the verge of breaking into a cyclone, that something always simmered under it, barely restrained, but dangerous all the same. Seeing him now, face cast out of stone, you finally understood how he could have fooled all the staff into thinking of him as a cold man. The truth was that whatever darkness he restrained within him, whether it was anger, fear or hatred, all of that was at its thinnest now. If you pushed, that unhinged darkness, for better or for worse, would come unleashed.

You decided to push it.

Crossing into the room you walked past Sam and took a seat at the edge of the bed. He stared at you. Sam had gone from bad to worse… his skin was shallow and his eyes sunken, looking nearly black in their intensity.

“What do you want, Y/N?”He asked once more, not moving an inch.

“I want to talk.”

“Yeah?” He walked to the bed, towering over you. “Now you want to talk?”

You ignored the question and countered with your own.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

“How much, Sam?”

“Nick’s your college boyfriend.” He took a deep breath and let it out. Calming the sea, keeping the cyclone at bay. “It’s alright. You don’t owe me answers.”

But you weren’t having any of it. “Yeah, he’s the one I told you about on our walk into the forest. My boyfriend from back home. We used to go on long rides on his Harley, cruising through the streets of California on hot nights. He was shacking up in a friend’s place in LA and he’d take me there on Friday evenings all the way to Sunday morning. Just the two of us–”

“That’s.. That’s enough. I don’t want to hear it.” His fists were clenched, tendons standing out white against his skin.

“Why?” You shouted, getting to your feet. “You’re my friend and you told me I can share anything with you. So why not?”

He twisted his body and grasped your shoulder with both his hands, fingers digging into your skin. “You know why!” His sunken eyes were watery, the white tinged with red. “You know why, Y/N. Don’t do this to me, don’t break me like this.”

You finally closed the distance, snaking your arms around his thin waist. “He is nothing but a person from my past. Nothing. Do you understand?”

“Why didn’t you tell me then? You locked yourself for days when you saw him at the inauguration. It’s been a month since and you never said a word.”

Stepping back, you looked up at Sam and admitted part of the truth. “I was ashamed. Seeing him reminded me of my past in the most jarring way, and you’ve been so kind to me, I suppose I needed time to wrap my head around it all.”

Sam peered into your face, scrutinising.

“Believe me, please.”

He deflated just a little, then nodded.

“But him? Really?” His incredulity nearly broke you, but you held your own. “Of all people, Nick?”

Oh, if only Sam knew.

“I was naive and daddy issues are a thing.” You shrugged. “C’mon, let's go to our room. All your clothes are there and you need a shower.”

Taking his hand in yours, you led Sam back over the threshold into your bedroom and closed the connecting door behind you. 

He took the room in for a minute then dragged his feet to the walk-in-wardrobe. “I’m not hungry,” he said passing you. “Just call for some coffee.”

You still had Abby bring in some fruits along with the coffee. She sat by you, nibbling on a piece of apple as Sam finished in the shower, then waited long enough to wish Sam a good night when he returned. Sam had stepped out in a thin wet tshirt, hair dripping water into the neckline, and a towel wrapped around his waist. The way Abby averted her gaze, face flaming, gave you an idea.

She left quickly after and you watched Sam put on his drawstring pants and then remove the towel from around his waist. He got on his side of the bed, pulled the covers over his legs and reached for the cup of coffee.

“How do you expect to sleep if you drink coffee right before?” You asked, but then couldn’t help adding. “Not that the thing in the cup is remotely close to coffee. Stop doing business in Bali if this is what they give you in return.”

Sam rolled his eyes while taking a sip. “Enough with the coffee already.”

“It’s such a shame that you came out of the bathroom wearing the t-shirt today. Remember that time you came out with just the towel wrapped around your waist? Short towel, too.”

He drained his cup, put it back on the side table and faced you, brow furrowed. “When?”

“Last time you were here. Great abs. Guess all that working out helps, huh?” You put your fingers on his arm. “And that time we were all wet in the shed? I slipped and fell on you, I could feel the bulk of your muscles. Made my throat go dry.”

Sam gulped. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Very slowly, holding his gaze, you moved to straddle his hips and Sam flattened himself against the headboard, a deer caught in headlight. 

“The first time I saw you, Sam Winchester, even through the veil, I knew you were an attractive man and I can’t count the number of times I have found myself staring at your body— the shoulders, the chest, arms, all of it. If you want me to go into details about what seeing you shirtless does to me, you are welcome to be my guest, but the point is, I don’t feel ashamed about it. I don’t feel ashamed about a natural reaction.”

“You read the letter…”

Raising your hand, you gently skimmed the side of his face with the back of it and he closed his eyes at the touch. 

“I did, and now you know how I feel. What are you going to do now?”

“It’s different,” he said finally. “You didn’t pay money–”

“You said yourself that you paid the price for my freedom, for a chance to know the truth about Jo and not for my body.”

“You don’t understand–”

“Don’t complicate emotions to the point of no return, Sam. I’ve wanted to kiss you, and I took both of those chances.” You leaned it, face inches away from his now, lips only a whisper away from his. “But you didn’t answer my question. What are you going to do now?”

He opened his eyes, and they smouldered. Sam’s fingers found your hair and fisted in them. He crushed his lips to yours, devouring your mouth. His other hand slid from the base of your throat, down your body, decidedly feeling the shape of you. You followed his lead, rejoicing in it… in the following. His self-control had cracked at last and he was finally staking the claim, he should have staked a long time ago… making the first move, claiming what was his… you.

Maybe it was seeing you with Nick, knowing about your past, or hearing your admission, that had caused the careful wall of self-control that Sam always held around you to crumble. Some of that self-control must have survived because he broke off, breathing hard. 

“I’m not going to apologise,” he said.

“You better not.”

Sam smiled, skin stretching over his cheekbones, but it still lit his eyes. “Yes, Ma’am.”

When he slid into the bed, he grabbed your hand and pulled you against his side instead of restricting himself to his end of the bed. “Sleep, Y/N. We have to be up early tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

“Humour me,” he said. “I have the day planned.”

“Okay,” you agreed readily, then wound your hand around his waist, snuggling as close as you could. Between the two of you much had been said, and even more implied, yet a lot was yet to to be put into words. But Sam was here now and you had all of tomorrow. Right now you simply wanted to savour the feeling of holding the man you loved in your arms and being held by him.

*****************************

A/N 2: I LOVED writing this chapter! The nuances of Sam’s admission and the delicate nature of his emotions were just so damn satisfying to put into words! What did you think?

Oh, I can’t wait to share what’s coming with you!

Please do let me know what you think of this part. Reblogs and comments are what keep me going!

If you want to be tagged, you can send me an ask or you can add yourself to the taglist here.

Or here’s my side blog @percywinchester27-writes. You can give that blog a follow and turn the notifications on to know about updates.

Taglist:

@cosicas-cuquis  @daughterleftbehind  @maliburenee  @spn730015  @aeo10fan

@stoneyggirl2  @houseforwhores  @like-a-bag-of-potatoes  @linki-locks11  @cookiechipdough

@impalaimagining  @gabavaldman  @multifandom-slxt  @chalicia  @mrswhozeewhatsis

@mackiemcb  @qveenmikaelson  @lightchesters  @deanwanddamons  @mlovesstories

@sams-bubblegum-bitch  @chinosherlock  @hoboal87  @sandlee44  @mariaenchanted

@little-x-wolf  @theanniewisegirl  @supraveng  @i-is-for-inspiring  @fandom-princess-forevermore

@sammedeansandwhich  @trexrambling  @strawberryycoww  @joseyrw  @lacilou

@giggles1029  @perpetuallyoverwhelmed  @borhapparker  @wafflezo  @sammysgirl

@goodbyemilkyway  @winnifredburkleismyhero  @impalaspixie  @edwardsfangirl1712  @fandomoniumflurry

@pbandjellly  @sammysgirl1997  @aloneatpeace  @spnexploration  @sojuxxi

@vickyfarley  @esoltis280 @mayafatimakhan @sweetiecelin

[sufferthesea]

Flash Fiction Friday #6 (Greek Mythology)

Word: πληγές. Greek. “Wounds.” 

Pairing: Penelope x Odysseus

Warnings: Mentions of war/death, blood mention

Penelope doesn’t remember the last time she cleaned Telemachus’s wounds. He’s had so many growing up. Scraping his knee as he climbs the rocky hillside of Ithaca; chasing around sheep and goats and getting snapped on the scrubby brush; slicing his fingers open after endless attempts at stringing his father’s bow. It seems that Telemachus’s life has been a series of paintings of wounds. His hands, his arms, his legs, his feet. His head. 

The bruise on his forehead where a young shepherd, younger than Telemachus, accidentally kicked a rock at Telemachus. It sailed high in the air, like a bird, and struck Telemachus in the middle of his forehead. It was, all in all, a minor wound. It hurt mostly his pride, but there was the bruise. 

Oh, Penelope, Odysseus’s mother had chastised her, you really ought to do something about that! You can’t let these people get away with hurting the future king of Ithaca! 

There had been no intention in the harming of Telemachus. It had been an accident, and Penelope knew that. She knew all about accidents. (Telemachus had been one, not that she would ever admit it. It was not good to admit that the future heir of a kingdom had not been planned. It made it seem as if the gods were not crafting some divine plan through her womb, weaving his fate through her blood.) And the rock had been an accident. So Penelope had not punished the shepherd, or anyone else. She’d simply cleaned up Telemachus, held him in her arms, and told him that kings face all sorts of battles in their lives, but they must choose which ones are really important. To waste time and resources on an unimportant battle is tantamount to foolishness, and a quick path to defeat later on. Did his father ever get into spats over silly matters such as pebbles and bruises and broken egos? No, of course not. Odysseus was above that. He had to be. If he had a pride that could be wounded so easily, he would not live on Ithaca, nothing more than a rock full of goats. 

Telemachus is much older now, nearly a man. He walks about the palace as if he is ready to inherit it, and perhaps he is. It has been so long since Odysseus has walked these halls, smelling of perfumed oil and the sun’s baked heat. She remembers the last wound of his that she cleaned, though, even if Telemachus’s have all faded into childhood missteps. 

It had been the night before he left for Troy, when everyone was anxious to leave for the glory of bringing Helen back. The night was full of the rich scents of roasted meat and new wine. Odysseus’s men were dining together, a farewell to Ithaca and all that it offered them. They’d been promised a short war, barely a war at all. Agamemnon and Menelaus said that they would have more than enough men to overpower Troy, and that they had the element of surprise. They would arrive on the shores in no time, scare the Trojans with their best fighters (Achilles and Ajax, naturally, though there was implication that Agamemnon and Menelaus may have meant themselves), and bring Helen back. They would be home before their wives even missed them; that was the promise. 

Odysseus had, somehow, cut his finger while working on his bow. He didn’t intend to take the bow with him – perhaps he knew that it would be a much longer journey than promised, perhaps he had no intention of being on the battlefield himself – but he still wanted to handle it before he left. The cut was miniscule, barely a pinprick on his finger, but it bled. Penelope sat with his hand in her lap while she dabbed the edge of a water-dipped cloth over his finger. Odysseus did not need to be tended to, he didn’t even feel the cut when it happened. Penelope had only noticed because he had smeared blood on his tunic. 

While she cleaned his wound, Odysseus watched her carefully with warm eyes and kept the humor in his voice while he spoke. 

I’ll face much worse wounds than these in battle, my dear Penelope. You ought not let me go if you are afraid of such a small cut. 

Penelope was not afraid, not of the cut. Not of the blood. She was afraid of something else, something that sat in her stomach like a stone plucked from the embers of a fire. She was afraid of Odysseus never coming back. She was afraid of Odysseus landing on the shores of Troy and falling before the battle had even begun. She was afraid of Odysseus seeing Helen and falling in love with her – fair and pale and beautiful, perfect Helen, the face that launched one thousand ships, the face that men pledged themselves to die for. 

She held his hand in her lap for a while longer, rinsing out the rag and dabbing it along his cut, though it had long ago stopped bleeding. Odysseus teased her a little more, though never with any malice. 

We ought to bring you along, so you may tend to our soldiers. Though I am not sure if they would heal just from the sight of you, or if they would feign illness to stay in your tent longer. 

Agamemnon and Menelaus should have thought to send you to Troy first. Perhaps you could talk some sense into Helen and bring her home. You could convince anyone to do anything, my Penelope. 

I don’t know why they call Achilles ‘aristos achaion.’ I think the best of all the Greeks are the wives who stay behind. They’re smart enough to not get into wars, and they run the households without us. The only thing Achilles can do is wield a spear. 

But eventually, the night drew to a close, and they rolled themselves into their marriage bed, and Penelope prayed and prayed that the gods would not take her husband away. Before the sun rose above the horizon, Odysseus and all his men were gone. Penelope was now the ruler of Ithaca. 

It has been several years now, and Penelope’s faith in her husband swells and shrinks like the waves on the shore. In some moments, she is so full of hope, she feels as if she could burst from happiness. And in some moments, she is so empty, she feels that the one thousand ships launched for Helen could not fill the barren sea of her heart. 

The suitors come to Ithaca as time goes by, each one taking residence in and around the palace. They eat her food, drink her wine, seduce her maids. They ravage the land. They disgrace the world Odysseus has built. Penelope keeps order as much as she can. The maids must clean and cook and lie on their backs and soothe and coddle and reciprocate every lewd stare and groping touch. Telemachus must fight for his place, his father’s place, in the palace he was born, but he must not overstep and insult the guests. Penelope must balance the world in her hands, like an overflowing cup of wine, and try not to spill anything on herself. 

And all the while, she sits in her room, and weaves, and wonders when anyone will come to tend to her wounds.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Rolan x Tav

plot: Blessed Hearts Day was a special holiday in Baldur's Gate. Celebrating love, intimacy, and unity. For Rolan it was just another Thursday....

rating: G [just a cute little thing for Valentine's Day]

pairing: Rolan x gn!reader/Tav

---------------------------💜----------------------------------

When Rolan first heard the name Lorroakan, he thought he was a great man. A god, even, in the ways of magic and was truly in awe that someone like him would take an interest to be his teacher. Now Rolan realized he was just a fraud, and worse yet a hoarder.

After the battle with the Elder Brain, he set off with the staff to rebuild Sorcerous Sundries to its former glory. Trade and commerce of equal importance in the rebuilding Baldur’s Gate as well as the structures. That taken care of, Rolan set about making sense of his former master’s personal inventory. However, between his stock in the tower and the vault, it was a slow process. Lorroakan seemed to be a glutton for all things. Magic. Power. Punishment; or at least dishing it out.

He had spent weeks combing through what was on offer to sift out the wheat from the chaff. Which was what he was doing when he heard Cal & Lia come in before they even made it through the foyer.

“I’m telling you! He was totally flirting with me! A fine woman like me can sense these things in a man. Sense their intentions.”

“More like desperation.” Cal quipped. “It was so obvious he just didn’t want to be alone for the holiday. Hardly a match made in heaven sister.”

Lia barked out a harsh, sarcastic laugh at her brother. “You’re just jealous that I’ll have an invitation out, and you won’t. The only invite you’ll be getting come morrow is an invitation to pay your bill from Sharess Caress.”

Cal blushed at his sister’s comment. His skin turning almost magenta in the act. “Th-! That’s not--! Rolan! What are you doing tomorrow then??”

“Same as I have been for the past few months, trying to make sense of this mess called a library.” He sensed a shift in the air, or was perhaps just caught off by their silence, and turned to his siblings with a curious look. “What?”

“You really haven’t planned anything?” Cal asked in all sincerity.

“It’s Blessed Hearts Day, you idiot.” Lia just told him, forgoing sincerity or letting him get there on his own.

Rolan’s eyes widened. He had completely forgotten the date on the calendar. “I…of course not!” He lied. “It’s just that Tav and I have no need for such superficial, frivolous holidays.”

“Are you sure? Did you ask them?” Lia asked. Stepping a little closer and peering past his side when he turned around to avoid an answer. “Look, I’ll be the first to admit Tav is a cool customer when it comes to things. But even heroic adventures like a little romance now & then.”

“And how would you know?” Rolan bit at her.

“Look Rolan, you need to plan something.” Cal told him. “Even if you’re right and they things this is all ridiculous, what’s the harm? Worse the two of you have a good laugh. But if you’re wrong….” The male tieflings both gulped at the implication. “Better safe than sorry, is all I’m saying.”

His siblings continued to jeer & pester him for a while before Rolan blew up at them and requested to be left alone. Suddenly the wizard felt panicked. He couldn’t be caught out a fool tomorrow for forgetting the holiday, and it was nearly too late to plan anything properly.

Racking his usually clever brain that was coming up empty, Rolan remembered that in his sifting he had found a few magical pendants dusting up some trunks. Most were useless, but there were a few worth keeping or selling downstairs. Acting quickly Rolan went to get one that he thought would be suitable, wrapped it, and then waited for tomorrow to come with a sigh of relief that he had narrowly escaped danger once again. Who said he couldn’t be an adventurer as well?

“Oh Rolan! It’s stunning!” Tav cooed the next day when Rolan presented it to them. He smiled, pleased that he had pulled this off, and listened to Tav gush over his gift.

However, as they continued to praise him, Rolan suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “It’s nothing. Truly.” He felt awful now. Making them believe that he had been thoughtful and loving when in reality he had been neglectful & petty. “This is just something I found in the archive.” He told them honestly. “In truth I forgot all about this silly holiday, because it never mattered to me before. I never had someone to share it with. No Heart of my own. But…” Rolan reached out and took Tav’s hand in his, “I realize I was being self-centered. Thinking only of my own opinion as usual and not about you. I’m sorry.”

Tav of course accepted his apology and told him it wasn’t that big of a deal. Rolan just shook his head. “No. It is. You deserve someone who thinks of you. Someone that cherishes you, and doesn’t try to cheat his way out of it. Someone thoughtful.” The tiefling shifted to kneel down in front of Tav. “I promise I will try to be more considerate in the future. Think on the ‘we’ and not just ‘me’.” It would be hard. So much of Rolan’s life had been looking out for himself, because if he didn’t then no one would. But Rolan realized that it wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about them. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you something truly worthy of your value. But I’ll make every effort to make it up to you, and not repeat the same mistake next year.”

The adventurer chuckled and leaned forward to wrap their arms around Rolan’s neck. He accepted it and was at last truly relieved as he let out a sigh.

This was a stupid, frivolous holiday. But perhaps a little frivolity was worth the effort from time to time.

[ohtobealady]

hi there! i was wondering if you know of a fic about or if you would be interested in writing a drabble about cora and robert going up to bed at the end of 2x09? it’s such a quick scene but so loaded with implications of what had recently transpired in their plot line, and i’d love to read a further exploration of it! <3

This is a very good prompt! Thank you for the suggestion! Something that I noticed upon rewatch is that this is the episode (which takes place in Jan 1920) before Mary's wedding episode (May 1920), and Cora's "Because when two people love each other, you understand, everything…is the most terrific fun" line.

With that said, I ended up exploring it with Les Langage des Fleurs - my smut drabble series LOL. If you want, you can read it here on FF or on AO3.

little preview under the cut because it's smutty:

She stopped, and with her face warmly prickling, she peered over her shoulder at her husband who lifted his chin again in her direction. “Alright,” she grinned, and she switched the lamp off at her dressing table. She lifted a brow, and tried to flirt. “Though I have heard it said that patience is a virtue.”

In reply, Robert grunted a small laugh. “That may be, but perhaps we leave virtues for the morning?”

She couldn’t help her small chuckle as she let her dressing gown fall from her shoulders and arms, and then as she climbed into her bed, shifting herself down under the blankets next to her Robert, who now also moved toward her. 

It didn’t take him long to wrap an arm around her, lying nearly atop her, as she lay on her back. It didn’t take him long to resume kissing her the way he had been before—slowly and with intention, his warm lips trailing from her mouth to her throat. 

She closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel him, letting her mind float away from the thoughts of the day…the week. Thoughts of Bates, and Sybil, and Mary and Matthew. Her mind swam with thoughts of only Robert—Robert, as he kissed her beneath her ear, as his thumb passed over her breast, as he hummed when the smallest air escaped her at the pulse of nerves she felt between her hips. 

“Oh,” she whispered, and her fingers grasped at his shoulder, and then the back of his soft, graying waves of hair. “Kiss me.”

[heartless-aro]

Sometimes I find it frustrating that, when criticizing Harry Potter, people will bright up every form of bigotry or problematic implications in the books except the arophobia. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone outside the aromantic community criticize the fact that Voldemort is quite explicitly evil because he doesn’t feel love. I know I’m not the only aromantic person who takes issue with this, but alloromantic people, even within the LGBTQ+ community, don’t ever seem to think it’s worth mentioning.

People can argue all they want about how Rowling didn’t intend to write Voldemort as aromantic and that she just meant to make him a “psychopath” (as if it’s better that she was “just” trying to demonize people with ASPD), but quite frankly, her intent doesn’t change the fact that reading Harry Potter books as a kid made me feel dirty and broken for not feeling romantic attraction.

The fact of the matter is that most writers don’t intend to add bigotry to their works, and this doesn’t change the fact that the bigotry in their works still exists and causes harm. Any time people criticize arophobia in fiction, there’s almost always someone who wants to say “The author probably doesn’t even know aromanticism exists! It’s not about aromantic people.” There is no amount of bigotry against aromantic people that alloromantics will not try to excuse by citing our marginalization and erasure.

Society doesn’t consider our existence important enough to acknowledge, so how could anyone ever be arophobic? We are seen as insignificant if we are seen at all, so that means that we shouldn’t complain about arophobia. Because arophobes don’t mean to be arophobic. They just don’t know any better, which excuses any harm they may inflict on us. Right?

[dogydayz]

I stood up upon that old cliff out in the forest and looked out at the drop below. I usually wasn't so damn... Sad... back then, or at least I never admitted that I was, but... At that point I'd hit an especially low point. I'd say it was maybe a year or two ago, not super sure at this point, keepin' track of time is a fuckin' waste nowadays anyway.

I'd been... Battlin' with lotsa thoughts, thoughts 'bout where I came from, who I was. It was... At a point where I'd accepted that I wasn't meant ta be here, but I also felt super fuckin' lost all the same. I'd accepted it, but I wasn't at peace with that shit, so it made me angry and upset and I sometimes thought I was gonna just burst into tears. Fuckin' weak, if ya ask me, but at the same time... Lettin' myself cry later on was the best feelin' I'd had in so long...

But at this point, I wasn't alright with that idea. I couldn't act like that, I'd told myself. But all the same, I felt lost and confused, and useless too. I wasn't a fuckin' hero, and I couldn't even make myself into a competent adversary. I was just some guy who fucked shit up for the others, just an asshole with no place in this realm. Even at that point I was still stuck on wantin' ta be a part of shit, yet not wantin' ta become one of those "goody goody" folks, cause that shit's not me.

So I didn't see myself goin' anywhere. No buddies, not anymore, I hadn't seen those fuckers in years by then. No purpose, nothin' ta strive for or do. Bein' "above" people didn't even appeal to me anymore.... No real reason to stick around, huh?

So that's what I thought about. Would probably make their lives easier, I thought. They'd probably like me better if I took out the damn trash, I convinced myself.

But I'll admit, heights fuckin' scare the shit outta me, so I hesitated, I hesitated for a long while.

Long enough ta hear the sound of an engine, and the sounds of rough wheels digging into the dirt and underbrush, approaching, getting louder fast, before I heard the sounds of breaking and skidding to a halt. The low rumble of the motor slowly died down, and I heard feet hit the ground.

I turned my head to see who was there, then spun and tensed up, facing the familiar person.

And, as usual, he only stared back at me with a blank sort of expression, classic look for the stupid bastard huh?

Shadow... He knew me all too well. For all I knew he hated me with a passion. For all I knew he hadn't killed me yet because that blue idiot absolutely refuses to let him. Too fuckin' merciful man, he coulda avoided so much shit had he just eliminated me...

And yet, as we stared at one another, not saying a word, his expression... It... Slowly changed. Not to rage, not to hatred, not to any sort of disgust or anger.... It was... More like some weird fuckin' mix of... Empathy and... Sadness? Not... Not sadness, somethin' like sadness though. Those same vibes.

All he did was give a soft sigh, before turning away and hoppin' back on his bike, giving me one last look... One as if to say "follow, if you want", before he drove away back into the forest on the nearby track I think he'd been travellin' on prior.

Somethin' about that... How he'd looked at me and just.... Said nothin'... It got to me a lil. That shit hurt, and I still don't really know why.

He'd had every opportunity to kill me, then and there. He coulda gotten ridda my sorry ass 'n avoided dealing with my bullshit later on. Yet, despite all that... He... Almost... Seemed like he'd wanted to say somethin' to me.

And... He also didn't try ta stop me. Something about that too just fuckin'... I dunno, it... Confused me so much that... When I looked back over the cliff's edge, I... I didn't desire that anymore. I didn't feel like it was needed. I was curious, I... Had ta figure out why the fuck he'd just... Been like that to me. Why he'd looked like he cared about me. He's wasting his damn time caring about a fuckin shitfaced loser like me, but...

I can't help but want it to be true.

Maybe I am just a selfish prick, who fuckin' knows. All I know is that I...

I desperately want to have somethin' to hold onto here, in this world that's not my own... I don't think I'm ever goin' back anyway...

And I decided then that I'd... At least attempt to make something for myself. Homeless, idiotic, and, admittedly, depressed as shit... I still, in that moment, wanted ta try.

[sexcromancy]

@justsomeguycore basically what I'm doing in my ali hazelwood tag where I pick apart the intentions/implications of the fantasies put forward in the very popular contemporary romance+romantasy right now. imo these fantasies often reflect an attempt to cope with the patriarchy by romanticizing/eroticizing real elements of it (breeding kink, obsessive behavior, possessive behavior, literal patriarchs). all of it belies an awareness of the straight woman catch-22: you must find a man to spend your life with, and all men are violent because of their participation in patriarchal culture, so you have to decide what kind of violence you're okay with. every romance book i have read in my attempt to understand the genre either accepts that catch-22 at face value, attempts to subvert it, or ignores it completely. i find the last option least interesting; they generally have no stakes and/or therapy brain. in short, i think there is a lot to mine from how these books are written and received (to say nothing of the complex capitalist industry they exist within), and i can happily do all of that without saying the women reading these books are either condemned to hell or like, girlboss feminist icons. approaching horniness with a radically value-neutral stance lol

and these are the two youtube videos i was thinking of: bazazilio and the contrapoints twilight video.

straight men saying these women are diseased for reading so much porn queer tumblr users saying hey wait they can do whatever they want actually fuck you . has anyone considered that perhaps there is something happening here that does not necessarily have to hold moral weight but is still worthy of specific analysis. or is it just me and the youtubers

[clairesbeauchamp]

2.08 | 3.04

[octavianacidicbreastmilk]

asoiaf fandom still stuck in the discourse tarry pits of talking about dragons as if they are nukes, utterly ignoring the wartimes implications of robb stark using his land assault vehicle, otherwise known as direwolf. and i think that says something about society

[rmbunnie]

It's most likely just Starlin trying to get to Jason dying faster because he did not like Robin, but the whole "Jason's spiraling because of his grief for his parents" thing they were trying to spin was honestly really weird, not supported by the rest of the run INCLUDING the parts Starlin wrote, and kinda reads like an unreliable narrator situation because all of the information supporting it is given through Bruce's narration, him speculating on Jason's thoughts and actions.

The plot thread of Jason's grief for his family affecting his behavior shows up like TWO issues after Jason first becomes Robin back when Collins was writing, and gets sorted out after one conversation where Jason gets to confront Bruce about hiding his father's death from him for 6 months. After that Jason is behaving normally until they encounter three predators in a row, and each time Bruce insists that they can't do anything because of The Rules and assorted red tape/diplomatic immunity plotlines. (The sister of a woman who got dismembered actually tricked the violent-misogynist killer who dismembered her sister (and then got his serial killings dismissed through a technicality) into attacking her, and ends up killing him in self-defense, and then Jason's like "seems fair" and Bruce is like "no. it's NOT. we need to follow laws and not take justice into our own hands. which like wtf Bruce! you are a vigilante who just used a custom tank to fight an evil televangelist! who then got ripped to shreds by his followers while you watched!)

Bruce kinda just decides with Alfred that it must be grief upsetting him and not the dozens of brutally killed women and their predatory killers who the law inexplicably protected, (all written by Starlin, so retconning it for DitF like five issues later would be an odd move) but the only text claiming that's why Jason was upset is from Bruce's POV and through Alfred's dialogue. Jason himself doesn't display any signs of grief in the story itself, or even act or speak in a way that alludes to Catherine and Willis beyond looking at a picture of them and smiling fondly while he sorts through their possessions. He kinda just happens upon the box with his mother's info by chance, and is like ok i guess we're doing mom searches now. He was only going for a walk through his old neighborhood, not actively searching out info on his family. When Jason is deciding whether or not to run off without telling Bruce, he considers telling him and then goes "no, all he cares about is being Batman, he wouldn't even understand why I want to see my mom." Which, I mean, "Bruce wouldn't get it" is a REALLY odd angle if the sole motivator for spiraling, then getting benched* and running away to search out his bio-mom, was because he was mourning his dead parents, a thing he notably has in common with Bruce. That statement only really makes sense if he's thinking about a different thing that was greatly upsetting to him that Bruce brushed past, like maybe a combo of hiding the murder of his dad for half a year and allowing several cases involving sexual violence to freely develop body counts in the name of the law.

Lots of people have written about how Jason's stay in the manor might have seemed dependent on being Robin with how he was kinda just scooped up, but (if we're including Detective Comics in our characterization,) Bruce had offered to let him resign from Robin and just live with him (a little late, but still. It's worth noting Batman proper shows Jason afraid and uncomfortable at the thought of Dick taking Robin back, which lends more merit to the housing-dependent-on-Robin-misunderstanding interpretation, but canon is pick and choose anyways.) The lack of trust involved in his choice to search out his mom kinda reads like it was bred by more than that alone, and Bruce's prioritization of the law over the protection of the people it ignores is notably upsetting to him in the prior issues. tbh I really do believe the outcomes of those cases could have informed Jason's stance that Bruce's method of justice is ineffective right alongside his own murder and his experiences in Lost Days.

It would make sense for Bruce to not consider his own actions while he's thinking through things that would upset Jason, because from his point of view the things there that were bothering Jason were the criminals alone, not the way that the methods with which they were approaching their crimes continually led to the perpetrators evading actual justice. During the point in DitF where he's thinking through motivations for Jason's running away because something isn't adding up for HIM, the idea doesn't so much as cross his mind. It would also add another layer to Jason's sulkiness upon Bruce's arrival if he held the belief that Bruce is ignoring the consequences his brand of justice has on victims (and the way it's affecting him to helplessly watch it play out), starts to hope that Bruce actually can understand his thought processes/relate to him when he shows up, only to be told to his face that Bruce is prioritizing his style of justice over Jason again. With the way everything that led Jason to his bio-mom was comically circumstantial and the context of the previous issues, it's kind of the ONLY way Death in the Family makes sense to me. Tldr: I feel like the grief claimed as reasoning for Jason's actions leading up to his death is mainly speculation from Bruce and Alfred and the more textually-supported reason for his erratic behavior and lack of trust in Bruce is the lack of intervention in several sensitive cases that led them to worsen unobstructed and eventually permitted them to escalate into casualties in 2 out of 3 cases.

*Also, side note, but the idea that Jason got benched for the Filipe situation, while perfectly reasonable, is not quite spot on. The Filipe situation escalated into the fight in the junkyard where his dad is crushed by a car and Bruce is all "everything you do has consequences" which is kinda big words for a guy whose lack of action indirectly lead to a girls death earlier in the storyline, but true. Jason actally gets benched because he jumps directly into gunfire while fighting the third set of predators and Bruce starts to worry he's getting a little suicidal with it. He baits a guy into shooting at him on purpose again trying to protect mom prospect number 1 later on in DitF, so Bruce might have had a point with that one.

[khaire-traveler]

Digital Temples are really lovely, and I adore the fact that all these temples are suddenly popping up (I actually have been thinking of dedicating one to two deities as well), but the usage of the words "priests" and "priestesses" is genuinely concerning to me. It makes me feel a bit wary.

Why, might you ask, would that even be a problem? Let me explain.

These words carry a lot of power with them. With these words comes the implication of religious authority. If I went around saying that I was a Priest of Hermes himself, it asserts a sense of power and authority in a religious space. There are a lot of people who would love to use that power negatively; I have been directly impacted by this many times over. I am always wary of people who use this title as a result of what I've seen and experienced.

Those titles also carry the implication of having an established religious knowledge that others do not. It's not just a title used to identify people who are in charge of a Temple; it is a title that explicitly identifies someone as a researched, trustworthy, religious figure who is extremely experienced. This ties into how these words carry power. A lot of people I've seen stake claim to this title have also claimed to speak for the gods directly. Either that, or it is often assumed of them, and that bothers me a lot. I have yet to meet someone who genuinely speaks for the gods in every situation.

On the inverse, I'm sure some who use these titles mean it in a harmless and genuine way (I've met one before), and that's fine, but if you are one of such people, realize that these words seriously do carry immense implications along with them, and do not fall into the trap of moral superiority or dictating rules in a religion you do not own. The most genuine people I've met who identify with these titles are the ones who don't advertise them publicly. I'm not saying the use of these titles are wrong, but I am saying that people seem to be inclined to abuse them. Horrifically abuse them.

Instead, I suggest using a title such as "Cleric". I've seen another temple do this, and personally, I feel it is less intimidating and claims less power of authority. Or maybe not using a title at all. Why use one if you don't need it? Hell, you could call yourself literally anything else.

So, please, those who run digital Temples, I ask you to be aware of the power the words "priest" and "priestess" have before applying them to yourselves and ask yourselves why it is that you're choosing to identify with these titles in the first place.

[blasphemousclaw]

I’ve been seeing a lot of people argue that Radahn would never agree to Miquella’s plans because he loves the Golden Order and would never want to replace it… but I think there are some nuances about the current state of the Golden Order that call that assumption into question?

The first thing to know about Radahn is that he’s defined by his idealization of Godfrey and his reign as Elden Lord. His lion armor is an explicit tribute to him, and he tries to emulate the “Lord of the Battlefield’s” martial prowess and heroic, honorable nature. When looking at the iconography associated with Radahn, it is always directly tied to Godfrey alone.

But Godfrey isn’t here anymore, he was banished… and the current state of the Golden Order is now extremely culturally different than it had been under his rule. The crucible and those associated with it gradually became less and less accepted, and more and more “disdained as an impurity as civilization advanced.” Godfrey’s crucible knights used to be heroes, and it’s even implied that they were the very face of the colosseums’ ritual combat… the Ritual Sword Talisman is “patterned after swords used in ritual combat held to honor the Erdtree,” and it’s the exact same design as Crucible Knight Ordovis’s sword:

so there’s this connection between the colosseums under Godfrey’s reign and the crucible.

But, in the present day, both the crucible knights and the colosseums have fallen by the wayside: “In time, the strength shown by these knights, and even their appearance, was seen as chaotic and deserving of scorn,” and regarding ritual combat, “the practice had died out by the age of King Consort Radagon.”

We do in fact see these hallmarks of Godfrey’s reign in association with Radahn as well — from Freyja’s backstory, we know that Radahn first met her by watching her fight as a gladiator at the colosseum (probably the one in Caelid!). And there’s a boss fight at Redmane castle with a Crucible Knight and a (red-haired!) Leonine Misbegotten! It’s also worth nothing that Godfrey, his crucible knights, and Consort Radahn all share the same earth-stomp move! Another interesting point is that Godfrey is associated with lions (Beast-Regent Serosh), and of course Radahn wears lion armor inspired by this, but there is also a Lion Guardian enemy at Redmane castle that has horns:

the old crucible society of the Hornsent revered the horned lion above all…

and Radahn, the “Lord of the Battlefield’s lion,” gains horns after being resurrected in Mohg’s body… literally becoming a horned lion!

I think it means something that Radahn is associated again and again with these symbols of the OLD Golden Order and the crucible… the time when Godfrey ruled, the crucible still flourished, and glorious combat reigned supreme. Yes, Radahn is absolutely defined by nostalgia and trying to recapture the glory of an old age… but I think this is actually a reason for him to OPPOSE the current Order, because now all the things he loved and admired about it are GONE! Indeed, there’s no evidence that Radahn made any attempt to preserve the current Order during the Shattering, and Morgott considers him to be a “willful traitor” with the rest of his siblings!

Does this mean that I think Radahn planned to be where he is with Miquella at the end of the dlc? Not necessarily, and I personally am really skeptical that where he ended up was entirely of his own choosing… I just think that the logic of assuming Radahn would want to preserve the Order in its current state is flawed, because the differences between Godfrey’s reign and Radagon’s reign are quite significant!