#the resolution is palpable this time tho

[yther]

somehow Palpatine DID come back

[tima7fa]

Talk To Me

Gojo Satoru x Therapy

Contents: satoru being stupid, reader is a therapist, reader is sugurus sister, didn't adress it that much because my hands hurt and I'm lazy, mention of character death, I honestly don't think this is very romantic probably more platonic, I hate this actually for some reason, this is the longest shit I've written in a while

Note: Satoru doesn't know reader is sugurus sister because she has a different last name, and while she was studying at the same school suguru never knew he had an older sister reader knew she has a younger brother but she never approached him or said anything to him what she regrets the most

And do not attack me yall I don't know how therapy works okay? I've never been there even tho some people tell me I should go to therapy

"Suguru geto is dead."

Your hand froze, the pen you were holding punched a jagged hole through the paper, which became surrounded by a spreading pool of ink. You stared blankly at the damaged sheet, the room falling silent around you in a suffocating hush.

Your gaze slowly met the somber expression of the man seated across from you. "Why are you telling me this, Principal Yaga?" you asked, your voice laced with a veneer of mournful softness.

The man shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "He was your younger brother-"

"No," you interjected firmly, cutting him off. "I do not know such a man, so please do not speak of him to me here." The harshness in your tone was palpable as you released your grip on the pen, crumpling the ruined paper into an uneven ball and tossing it into the nearby wastebasket.

"You were always a terrible liar, you know," Yaga remarked, reaching a hand out to gently wipe the tears that had carved burning paths down your cheeks. "I would have believed you if your eyes weren't betraying so much grief."

"I'm not crying because of him," you protested desperately, though your futile attempts to stem the flow of tears proved fruitless.

"Child..." Yaga murmured, pulling you from your seat and enveloping you in a comforting embrace. You clung to him tightly, burying your face into the reassuring solidity of his chest as you surrendered to your sorrowful outpouring.

After some time, you finally managed to regain your composure. Yaga handed you a stack of files, and your eyes immediately fell upon a photograph of a white-haired man.

"There is someone I need you to help," the dark-haired man began. "Satoru Gojo." You uttered the name of the renowned child prodigy, staring at Yaga with a look of confusion.

"Satoru and Suguru were close friends, with a deep connection to one another..." Yaga trailed off, his expression heavy with concern. "The one who ended up killing Suguru... was Satoru himself. And he is not in a good mental state."

"I know I'm asking a great deal of you, to help the person who took your brother's life, but-"

"I'll help him," you interrupted, offering Yaga a weak, but resolute smile.

The man's eyes widened with surprise, but his gaze remained clouded with worry. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

You simply nodded in response, steeling your resolve to assist the one who had taken your beloved sibling from you.

___________________________________________

It's absolutely preposterous. No, wait - it's downright hilarious. Satoru Gojo, of all people, being forced into therapy? What a cruel twist of fate. He never wanted this, never needed this. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, he's been strongarmed into it, all thanks to Principal Yaga's meddling.

Surely, this has to be some sort of twisted joke. But alas, he has no choice in the matter. It's either submit to this ludicrous therapy session or risk losing his teaching position - a job he cherishes, as it allows him to continue molding his students, pushing them to heights greater than even his own.

And so, here he sits, in this cozy little room, across from a woman armed with a pad and pen, scrutinizing him through his thick black shades. How is he, a sorcerer tasked with the mastery of curses, supposed to confide in this simple human about the intricacies of his life? She likely doesn't even have the faintest idea what "cursed energy" is, let alone the trials and tribulations he faces on a daily basis.

But he can't ignore the neatly maintained amount of cursed energy emerging from her.

Of course, he has no intention of revealing anything of substance. If he so much as mentions the nature of his work, she'd probably have him committed to a mental institution faster than he can blink.

"So what brings you here today, Mr. Gojo?" the woman asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness, a saccharine smile plastered across her face.

Satoru huffs heavily, the irritation seeping into his tone. "I'm not here by choice. Principal Yaga forced me to come here."

"I know," she responds, and Gojo raises a brow, surprised by her candor. "And I can see that this is your first time here."

"I'm asking you why do you think you're here," the therapist probes, her brows furrowing as Satoru satoru shifts in his seat, crossing his legs defiantly.

"Because I was forced to be here-" he begins, only to be swiftly interrupted.

"Why?" she presses, her tone infuriatingly calm and measured.

Satoru falls silent, staring at her blankly, his irritation palpable. This is supposed to be his time to vent, and yet she keeps interjecting, undermining his attempts at explanation. He already finds her immensely grating.

"Mr. Gojo?" the therapist gingerly tilts her head, awaiting his answer. Satoru sighs heavily, the frustration clear in his voice.

"Because Principal Yaga thinks I'm in desperate need of therapy," he spits through gritted teeth, the mere recollection of that argument making his blood boil.

"What about you? What do you think?" she probes further, her expression maddeningly serene.

"That all of this is stupid. I'm not in need of therapy - I'm perfectly fucking fine," satoru retorts, turning his head away to gaze out the window, where the rain has now begun to fall. He's the strongest sorcerer, for God's sake - he doesn't require aid from anyone.

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't need it," she calmly asserts, and satoru can feel his nails digging into the flesh of his biceps through his clothes, crescent-shaped indentations surely imprinting his skin.

His gaze snaps back to her, a scowl etched upon his features. "The hell you mean?" he spits, his tone dripping with venom. "I just told you I was forced to be here. Why the hell don't you understand that?"

"If you were actually fine, Mr. Gojo, you wouldn't be here," the therapist repeats, her saccharine smile infuriating him to no end.

"Since it's your first time here, I'll explain to you how therapy works-" the therapist begins, only to be swiftly cut off by satoru's acerbic retort.

"I know how it works. I spill my guts out to you, you give me some useless advice, write some bullshit on your pad, diagnose that I'm somehow mentally ill - blah, blah, blah," he interjects mockingly, rolling his eyes with palpable annoyance.

The therapist pauses, staring at him for a moment before chuckling softly. "Therapists aren't actually supposed to give advice, as we know that it won't help our clients in any meaningful way or may even make them feel worse. So we avoid doing that. Rather than giving you advice, we guide you to see how your feelings, thoughts, choices, and actions affect one another. And we teach you about emotions, thoughts, coping skills, facing fears, and more."

Satoru scoffs in return, unimpressed. It doesn't matter to him what her job description entails. How the hell is he supposed to feel comfortable when he's paying a person to listen to him? She doesn't genuinely want to hear his problems (not that he has any, of course). And who knows, she'll probably gossip about the shit he says with her friends.

"Now, how about you start telling me about your day?" she inquires, switching the subject, having likely noticed his lingering irritation. Satoru scoffs, as though that were a mind-numbingly dull question.

"My day? Same as any other day," Satoru shrugs. "What do you want to know? The weather? I took a very interesting dump in the morning? Got myself some food, did whatever the hell teachers do - the usual."

The therapist sighs, seemingly ready to give up on that line of questioning, or perhaps regretting having asked it in the first place. Even so, she jots something down on her pad, and Satoru isn't sure if what he said was actually so worthy of being noted.

"Do you seriously have to take notes? What was so important in my answer to write down?" he questions, his tone mocking.

"Everything you say is important, Mr. Gojo," she replies with a hum.

"Really? Is it really that important that I took a dump this morning?" Satoru laughs derisively. Therapy is a joke, as far as he's concerned.

The therapist looks at him with those eerily calm eyes once more, her irritatingly artificial smile still plastered on her face. "You're a teacher - what did you teach your students today?"

What.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me what subjects I teach?" Satoru looked at her suspiciously, wondering if Yaga had somehow explained to her that he is a sorcerer.

"You're a jujutsu sorcerer. There's no need for me to ask what subjects you teach," she replied calmly.

Satoru leaned in, his elbow resting on his thigh as he held his chin in his palm. "You seem to know a lot about me, doc. Just who are you exactly?" A grin appeared on his face, as he considered the possibility that she might also be a sorcerer like him. Outside of the jujutsu domain, humans don't typically know who Gojo Satoru is.

"I'm your therapist," she simply replied, and his brow twitched slightly. "You know what I'm asking, miss."

"What do you think?" She tilted her head, smiling at him. Of course, she would turn the question back to him - it always has to be about his feelings and thoughts in therapy.

"You are a sorceress," he muttered, no longer doubting the amount of cursed energy he felt in the room. She must be a skilled sorceress, able to maintain her cursed energy at a small, unnoticed level surrounding her.

But why would Principal Yaga assign a sorceress to him? Was this some kind of trick? The woman before him is probably not even a real therapist. Still, he's never heard of her name before - perhaps she's a sorceress from another nation?

"Close. I was a sorceress," she revealed.

Satoru's brow furrowed. Why did she quit? And why did she become a therapist? Just who is she exactly?

"Now, why don't we get back on track?" she inquired, smoothly switching the subject and ending his train of thought.

The rest of the session was simply her attempting to get to know him better, or rather, analyze him. However, satoru did not give her that opportunity. Why should he? Yaga had only instructed him to attend therapy, not that it had to be effective. Honestly, satoru did not particularly care about this endeavor.

Why should he divulge information about himself to someone he barely even knows? Not to mention, she is being paid to listen to him - she is not doing this out of her own volition or good-hearted intentions.

She likely does not truly care about his problems (not that he has any, in his opinion). So why should his feelings and thoughts matter to her? She is merely performing her job, nothing more, nothing less.

Satoru has no intention of pouring his heart out to a complete stranger he knows little about. He understands that therapy is meant to provide him with a safe space to be vulnerable and open about everything. But he does not feel comfortable in this room.

___________________________________________

Satoru sighs, leaning his cheek against his fist as he relaxes in the chair in front of her.

"You worry too much," he says casually. "Why don't we ever talk about your feelings? We only ever talk about me."

Satoru is aware that she only wants the best for him. He simply does not care. He is here because it is mandatory, not because he wants to be. He does not believe he needs therapy, despite her claims otherwise. As his therapist, of course she would tell him he requires this treatment.

It has been a month since their therapy sessions began, and satoru has not been the least bit cooperative. The only aspect he has enjoyed is the freedom to freely criticize the higher-ups without anyone chastising him or telling him it is inappropriate.

She would always listen intently to every word that came out of his mouth, diligently noting things down in her little pad. Honestly, not even his own students gave him the same level of attention that she bestowed upon him. He couldn't help but appreciate the fact that his feelings mattered in this space, that what he said truly held significance. He liked that. And he couldn't deny that he enjoyed her undivided attention on him.

"Because I'm your therapist, and I'm supposed to listen to you. Not the other way around." She sighed softly, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "How many times do we have to go through this conversation?" She looked utterly exhausted, and he almost felt a tinge of guilt for making this so difficult for her. Keyword: almost.

He knew that she was simply doing her job. But he didn't care - he would make her tired of him until she gave up on him.

Yet, at the same time, the thought of her giving up on him left a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn't really want that.

He shrugged, smirking. "As many times as you want to," he said, with his ever-present sense of humor. "I can keep dodging questions all day, if you like. I'm perfectly fine just existing in this room while you try to wrangle me into being vulnerable."

"However, I can't say the same about you, doctor." He taunted.

"I am not trying to make you vulnerable, I'm trying to help you understand your feelings and maybe find solutions for your problems, Mr. Gojo," she said calmly, as she crossed her legs and leaned back into her chair.

Satoru rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, waving his hand dismissively as he slumped against the back of his chair. "Help me understand my problems. Solve them. Figure out why I am the way I am. Heard it all before."

He knew he had to be here, in therapy, every week. However, that didn't mean he had to be vulnerable or cooperate with all this touchy-feely stuff. He simply didn't like that kind of thing.

"What makes you the happiest, Mr. Gojo?" She began asking him again. Seriously, how many questions did she prepare for him every time? He couldn't deny that he didn't dislike the fact that she worked so hard, just for him.

Hm.

It was a question he had genuinely considered. What made him the happiest?

"Fighting," he said after a pause. He gave a casual shrug. "I enjoy fights. They're fun. And when they get hard, it makes me want to try even harder. So... I guess that's what makes me the happiest - winning a difficult fight."

"The rush of adrenaline makes me feel... I don't know, excited? You know," he muttered, finding it somewhat challenging to articulate.

She scribbled some more notes in her pad. "Is there any fight that made you especially happy?" she then asked, her gaze shifting back to him from her pad.

"Mhm," he hummed, a small smirk forming on his face. This was a fun question for him. "Well... there was the time I got to fight a special grade," he said, the smile widening as he recalled the memory. "And that time I beat Toji. That's a really good memory."

"I would've died. But he didn't use a cursed tool, and didn't cut my head off," he chuckled, as if it were something to be happy about. "You should've seen the look on his face when he saw me, the one he supposedly killed, still alive and kicking."

"But I can't say I'm not grateful to him. Because I got to finally learn how reverse cursed technique works," he said with a wide grin on his face, and she followed suit by taking more notes in her pad.

He noticed her actions and stared at her with an exaggerated eyebrow raise. "Go ahead, make your notes about me being a sadist and liking to inflict pain or something. Then go back and analyze it with all your other therapist friends."

"I already said this before, whatever happens in this room will stay in this room, Mr. Gojo," she replied. "So be not afraid to spill anything to me."

"Yeah, yeah," he smirked, amused.

"What's my diagnosis, doc?" He tilted his head, staring at her as she lifted her head up from her pad to meet his gaze. "I'm a very bad person, don't you think? I love the pain I inflict on curses, I love the way they fear me, the fear in their eyes makes me feel so fucking excited," he laughed loudly.

"And when their blood taints my skin and clothes, it's such a disgusting texture yet it makes me want to be covered more with their blood. It feels so fucking amazing," he stared at her, awaiting a visible reaction, but he was met with nothing but an empty smile and empty eyes.

He hates this. He hates her. She's just an empty shell.

"You're just as crazy as I am, doc. Aren't ya?"

___________________________________________

But before she could say anything, the session had already ended, and Satoru was quick on his feet to get out of there.

Satoru rolls his eyes at her words and sighs. He leans back into the chair and spreads his legs, getting comfortable.

"This is such a pain," he mutters. "Do we really have to talk today? There's nothing to discuss. I'm peachy keen."

"Mr. Gojo, I need you to be a little more cooperative," she uttered gently.

"Do you, now?" Satoru's tone was dry, like sandpaper, his expression unchanging. He tilted his head slightly to the side. He could tell she was running out of patience, but that didn't stop him from being intentionally difficult. In fact, it made it more fun for him. "Yes, it's for your own good."

Satoru chuckles a little bit. "Aaaand here's the old 'it's for your own good' trope again, huh?" He shook his head, feigning mock disappointment. "I thought we were done with that by now, honestly."

"I do think that you really need this," she said seriously. "Look, Mr. Gojo, you might show your playful and cheerful side to everyone around you, but that is only a way to make them feel safe around you. I don't know what it's like to be the strongest, but I know that it can get pretty lonely standing on your own on top."

"You make it sound like I'm unhappy or something," he replied, shaking his head again. "Is it really so crazy for you to think that I'm perfectly fine being by myself? That I prefer being alone?" A small smile appeared on his face again. "I'm not lonely, doctor. I get more attention than I want, actually."

"That's not it," she sighed, shaking her head. "I know you have friends, you're a pretty talkative person and also a person who's approachable." She gave him a small smile. "Still, being surrounded by people doesn't mean that you feel the warmth of comfort. You keep them around you but still hold a certain distance between you and them that you never let them cross. You never let people get too close to you, which is a problem because you're isolating yourself from the world even if you think you're doing the opposite."

His small smile faded, and he rolled his eyes as he began to look agitated. He sat up, leaning forward towards her, his elbows on his knees. "What's with the armchair psychology? Where are you even getting all of this? You don't know me. You can't just assume these kinds of things based on just a few therapy sessions."

"I'm sorry if this is making you uncomfortable, and please do correct me if I'm wrong. But there are a lot of people who feel lonely even while being surrounded by people," she sighed.

"Regrettably, I struggle to forge meaningful connections with others," he murmured, running his fingers through his hair. "They fail to comprehend me. They do not know the true me. They would be unable to accept me as I truly am, so I ceased exerting the effort. I stopped attempting to force something that was simply never going to materialize. Therefore, I shall keep everyone at a distance, for that is what they deserve. I do not grapple with the kinds of issues you presume I do, so desist in your efforts to analyze me."

She replied softly, "They are unaware of your authentic self because that is the outcome you desire, Mr. Gojo. If you are unwilling to be truthful about your personality and emotions with another individual, can you genuinely call that a connection? A relationship? It is all constructed upon walls of deception, intended to keep them at bay."

Satoru's response was tinged with bitterness. "So you are asserting that the fault lies with me for people's rejection, correct?" He leaned forward, his arms crossed defensively over his knees. A sardonic smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "I have made attempts to be honest with others. I have exerted the effort before, yet all I ever received in return was judgment and fear. I shall not place myself in that position again."

"The fault does not lie with you that they do not like you. However, the fault lies with you in presenting a false persona to them daily. Allow me to pose a question - from all the individuals surrounding you, can you name a single person who truly knows you?" she inquired.

Satoru's expression darkened at her words, the façade he maintained for others striking a chord. How could she discern this about him? It irritated him, albeit slightly. His gaze hardened with annoyance.

"No," he admitted in defeat. "I am surrounded by those I call friends, yet not a single soul among them truly knows me."

"Why not try opening up to them?" she suggested. "I will not ask you to confide in me, for I understand you do not particularly enjoy conversing with me, and that is perfectly acceptable. However, I am certain that at least one person would be willing to listen. Believe it or not, if they truly care for you, they will accept you with all your vulnerabilities and flaws."

A scoff escaped his lips at her proposal. "I'd rather not," he stated firmly. There was a sense of finality in his tone, and he was resolute in his decision. He had no desire to open up to anyone. That struck him as a waste of time.

"Even were I to open up to someone, there is a zero percent chance they would genuinely accept me for who I am. It is merely wishful thinking on your part, and you know it," he added.

"I would be truly delighted if you felt inclined to open up, Mr. Gojo. I sincerely implore you to believe me when I say I am fully attentive and receptive to whatever you wish to share," she sighed.

"Yeah, yeah..." he responded dismissively.

Satoru maintained his smirk, genuinely impressed by her unwavering conviction. He leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin pensively. "Why are you being so uncharacteristically kind?" he inquired. "Most therapists I've encountered are arrogant, know-it-all types. You, on the other hand, seem far too amiable. I'm not entirely convinced."

His expression suddenly hardened as he leaned forward, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "You're deceiving me," he declared. "You must have some ulterior motive. Therapists do not pose those ostensibly benevolent questions out of pure kindness. You must be attempting to extract something from me - perhaps a salacious story to sell to the press, or you may have a reporter willing to pay handsomely for such information. Or, it could be that you are merely trying to bolster your own image, and I am the unfortunate individual you intend to 'utilize.' Well, let me inform you of something, my dear."

He seized the arms of her chair, pulling it forcefully towards him until their faces were mere inches apart. Satoru could hear the subtle hitch in her breath, a sign of her surprise at his sudden, assertive action. Maintaining unwavering eye contact, he leaned in closer, a smirk playing on his lips.

"You should understand," he whispered, "that I am no stranger to individuals who believe they have me all figured out. So no matter how genuine you may seem, my dear, I am not so easily cracked." With that, he reclined back in his chair, releasing his grip on her seat. "You'll have to try something else."

For a moment, she remained silent, before letting out a soft sigh and offering him a gentle smile. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Gojo." Her words, rather than indignant, carried a sense of empathy.

Satoru's eyes widened in surprise. He had expected her to refute his accusations, to insist that she harbored no ulterior motives. But instead, she had responded with gratitude for his candor.

He stared at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her facade of kindness to crumble. Yet, it never did. This woman, it seemed, was genuine in her compassion.

"If you feel uncomfortable in my presence, please do not hesitate to request a different therapist," she suggested, her tone measured and understanding. "I would be more than happy to make the necessary arrangements."

Satoru's expression darkened at her offer. "No," he said, his voice harsher than he had intended. He paused, taking a breath to regain his composure. "No, I want you," he stated firmly. "I'm cooperating, aren't I? If I wanted someone else, I would have requested a change long ago."

Satoru took a deep breath, his expression softening slightly at her gentle suggestion.

"You were more cooperative than before. And I appreciate that," she said, offering him a warm smile.

Satoru blinked in surprise. He had not expected such a genuine acknowledgment of his progress.

"So... what?" he asked, tilting his head as he considered her words. "You're saying you're proud of me?"

"I am. You're doing great," she hummed softly.

To both her and his own surprise, Satoru suddenly burst out laughing – a loud, unrestrained sound that filled the small space as he leaned back in his chair, clutching his stomach in an attempt to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he managed after a moment, taking a deep breath as he looked at her. "That... that just took me by surprise."

"No, please don't apologize," she quickly reassured him. "I must say, this is the most expressive I've seen you in this room." She chuckled lightly.

Satoru couldn't deny the truth in her words. His laughter finally subsiding, he smirked, crossing his arms. "Expressive? I guess if you count 'laughing like a maniac' as being expressive, I can agree."

He paused, a touch of amusement still in his tone. "I guess I'm improving, if I'm entertaining you."

"So, got something else to ask me, doc?" he inquired, a hint of challenge in his voice.

"Tell me, do you know who you are, Mr. Gojo?" she asked, her gaze steady and her tone sincere.

Satoru's features twisted into an expression of annoyance at the question. "Of course I know who I am," he retorted, the defensiveness evident in his tone. "What is this, a therapy session?"

"I'm not asking you about the position you've been forced into, and definitely not the personality made up," she said, shaking her head. "I'm asking you – do you really know who you are?"

He let out a dry laugh, the irritation seeping through. "Who I really am? What kind of question is that? Are you seriously going to ask me to define my entire existence right now? Are you expecting me to have some groundbreaking revelation or something? Because I hate to break it to you, doctor, but I'm tired of all this self-reflecting nonsense."

"Tell me the first thing that comes to mind when you think about yourself," she sighed, her patience unwavering.

Satoru tilted his head back with a sigh, closing his eyes. He was doing this not because he genuinely wanted to, but to get her off his back.

After a few moments of contemplation, he responded, "The strongest. I'm unreachable, untouchable."

"If you ask someone else the same question," she trailed off, "what's the first thing that comes to mind when they think of Gojo Satoru? They'll reply with the same thing. But is it really what you want?"

He opened his eyes, looking at her with a furrowed brow. "What I want?" he said, his voice filled with disbelief. "What I want is for you to not ask me weird questions that have no point or answer. I'm perfectly fine with being unreachable and untouchable. That's how I's always been. It's the natural order of things."

"Is strength really what defines you?" she asked. He raised a brow. "What's your point?"

"Do you know who you are?"

"Tell me, will you be Gojo Satoru without your powers?"

This question - it struck a chord within him. He remembers the day Suguru left, and the question that had remained unanswered until now. He had chosen to ignore it, but now it was haunting him once more.

Without his powers? His powers had been such a central focus in his life; he'd never truly considered his life without them. He... didn't even know who he would be. He was Gojo Satoru, the strongest of the strong. Take that away, and who was left?

He couldn't answer that. He simply remained silent, looking down at his hands, his grip tightening on his knees as he felt a sense of defensiveness.

But then, he stopped himself, his grip loosening as he looked at her, still frowning but with slightly less irritation in his expression.

"The therapy session is over," she said softly. "I want you to think about this question and try to find an answer to it."

Satoru let out a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, the session was finally over. Despite being overjoyed that he no longer had to continue, his expression darkened a little, his brow furrowing in thought. He knew he would be thinking about this, whether he wanted to or not. She didn't even have to ask.

He stood up from the chair and left the room without giving her a last glance. He heard her say something about how he should take care of himself.

The drive back to the Gojo Clan's compound was spent in relative silence. Ijichi kept a watchful eye on Satoru, who remained uncharacteristically quiet. His thoughts were consumed by the question posed to him during the therapy session.

As the car pulled up to the gates of the compound, Satoru suddenly spoke. "Ijichi," he said, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty, "if I weren't the strongest, would I still be Gojo Satoru?"

Ijichi's gaze shifted to Satoru, surprise flickering across his features at the unexpected question.

"Of course," he replied without hesitation. "Your strength is a significant aspect of who you are, but it is not the essence of your identity." He watched Satoru for a moment, noting the expression on his face. "May I ask why you're asking this, Gojo?"

"Just something that I thought about," he said dismissively.

The rest of the evening was spent in a haze of thought for Satoru, tossing and turning in bed as he wrestled with his questions, doubts, and insecurities. They swirled in his mind, keeping him from finding respite. He had never felt so uncertain, so lost before. Who was he without the mantle of the strongest? What did he even have left?

He tried to shake off these thoughts, to push them to the back of his mind, but the questions persisted, gnawing at him like a relentless ache.

Gojo's thoughts returned to the question she had asked, "Do you know who you are?" He couldn't help but scowl at the recollection. He had taken offense to the question then, but now, alone with his thoughts in the quiet of the night, he found himself truly grappling with the magnitude of that question.

Who was he? This question had never posed a challenge before. He had always known who he was - the strongest. That had been his identity for as long as he could remember.

___________________________________________

The days that followed were restless, as her questions flooded his mind at all times - while teaching, on a mission, or at home. Her question occupied his mind constantly.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. There was no point in lying here, unable to sleep. He needed air.

Satoru grabbed his jacket and threw it over his shoulders before quietly making his way out of the room, the floor creaking under his feet in the otherwise silent compound.

As he walked, the echoes of his footsteps reverberating down the hallway, he couldn't shake off the persistent questions that had been plaguing his mind all night.

He reached the entrance of the compound and stepped outside into the cool night air. The stars twinkled above him, a blanket of sparkling lights against the inky sky. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, savoring the quiet and the solitude.

But even in the silence of the night, the questions stayed with him, refusing to give him peace. He found himself facing an identity crisis that gnawed at him like never before.

Satoru walked, the snow crunching beneath every step his feet took. He walked with no destination in mind, hoping that maybe the movement and the fresh air would help clear his mind. Yet, no matter how far he walked, he couldn't escape the questions that haunted him.

Suddenly, the thought struck him - perhaps he needed guidance. But who could he turn to? His mind flitted through the people in his life - Nanamin, Ieiri, Ijichi, but ultimately he dismissed each one. They would never understand what he was going through.

But the thought persisted. He couldn't shake off the idea of her help. She had already managed to get under his skin, planting this seed of doubt that had grown into this existential crisis. Perhaps she was exactly the person he needed right now.

Satoru clenched his fists, silently cursing to himself. He had always prided himself on being in control, but now, here he was, considering seeking help from the very person who had caused his turmoil in the first place.

But it was late at night, would she even help him if he called her right now? Would she help him without getting paid, without being in that stuffy room?

As the dial tone rang through the line, anxiety began to creep into his mind. What if she didn't answer? What if she hung up once she realized it was him? He had never called her outside of their sessions before. Why would she answer now?

After what felt like an eternity, the line clicked open, breaking the silence. Satoru's heart pounded in his chest. She had actually answered.

"Hello? How may I help you?" Her voice was sleepy and confused at the late call.

Satoru hesitated for a moment, the sound of her tired, confused voice sending prickles of guilt through him. Should he really be doing this? But he had already come this far; he couldn't back down now.

"It's me," he finally said, his voice low and a little apologetic. "Gojo Satoru. I - I need help."

"Mr. Gojo?" She was suddenly wide awake, she didn't expect him of all people to call. "Of course, where are you right now?"

"I'm... I'm outside," he replied, a hint of shame in his voice. He didn't know how to explain where he was or what he was doing out so late. "I was walking. But I can't stop thinking about that question you asked me in the session that day. And it's driving me insane. I - I need answers."

"Can you be more specific? I'm on my way— ah, shit!" She cursed as she hit her foot with something she wasn't able to see in the dark, she quickly put on her jacket and her scarf and went downstairs.

Gojo heard the clatter and curse from her end of the line, making him flinch slightly. He felt oddly guilty for waking her and even making her come out at this late hour.

"Be more specific?" he repeated, his irritation seeping into his voice. "Isn't it enough that you threw my whole world off-balance? Now you need more specifics...?" But his tone softened as he mumbled, "I guess it'd be better if you were here."

"No. Where are you right now exactly?" She asked, putting her shoes on and finally going outside as it had begun snowing. She quickly got into her car.

Gojo huffed out a sigh, glancing around to get his bearings, "I'm about three miles north of Jujutsu High."

He was still outside the compound, which meant he had walked a considerable distance in his thoughts. The snowflakes were slowly falling from the sky, each one descending gently to the ground. Gojo stood there, watching them fall, waiting for her to arrive and, hopefully, provide some clarity to his chaotic thoughts.

"Okay, stay where you are. I'll be there in 10 minutes." She said as she started driving. "Tell me how you've been feeling today?"

Satoru rolled his eyes slightly as he heard her questioning. This woman just didn't know when to quit. But he was here for an answer, so he might as well satisfy her with some small talk beforehand.

"I've been feeling lost," he admitted after a moment, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "Like everything I've ever known about myself has been turned upside down." He paused, a hint of resentment in his voice. "All because of what you said during the session."

"I see. It's good that you've thought about it, Mr. Gojo," she muttered softly.

"Is it?" he snapped. "Because right now, I feel like you've thrown my whole world off-balance. And for what? Because you wanted me to 'think about it'?" Satoru let out a bitter chuckle. "You're cruel, you know that? Or perhaps you just find pleasure in messing with my mind."

"A person needs to know themselves before trying to help themselves." She said. "You don't know who you are."

"And whose fault is that?" He muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. "I had this issue before, but I had somehow gotten rid of it. But now that you've planted this seed of doubt again, all I can think about is questioning who I am. It's maddening!"

He let out a bitter chuckle again. "Are you happy now, that I'm having this crisis?"

"Thank you for sharing your feelings." She said, as if trying to comfort him.

"Don't act so sweet, like you actually care about how I feel," he snapped. He was tired, irritated, and at the end of his rope. "You have no idea what this revelation is doing to me. My whole identity was built upon being the strongest. If you take that away, what's left of me? Who am I without that identity?"

She parked near Jujutsu High, getting outside of her car. "I do know what you're feeling right now, believe it or not I was in the same state that you were in." The snow crunched beneath her shoes as she started searching for him.

Satoru scoffed slightly, disbelief clear in his voice. "You know what it's like to have your entire identity shattered like this? Please. As if you could ever understand my struggle. I've dedicated my whole life, my very existence to be the strongest."

He shook his head, his expression a mix of bitterness and desperation. "But now, all I have are questions. Why am I here? Who am I, if not the strongest? It's like a never-ending abyss of uncertainty."

Here is the expanded version of the dialogue with more descriptive language:

She strode towards him, her eyes finally landing on his familiar form. "Turn around," she instructed gently.

Satoru's brow furrowed slightly, confusion etching across his features at her sudden command. After a moment's hesitation, he slowly pivoted to face her, his expression guarded, eyes wary.

"Where's your blindfold?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern.

He blinked, surprised by her question. In the whirlwind of emotions, he had nearly forgotten about the blindfold when he left the compound. But what did his lack of the customary covering have to do with anything?

"I don't have it," he responded slowly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't want you to have a headache." She spoke softly, aware of his unique situation - the six eyes that made him perceive the world differently, often leading to painful migraines. Reaching up, she untied her own scarf. "Here, put this on."

Satoru stared at her, a mix of surprise and wariness evident in his gaze. He was unaccustomed to anyone showing him such genuine concern. She had already managed to see through his carefully crafted bravado and delve into the depths of his mind, and now she was extending this empathy? It was unsettling.

Still, he hesitated for a moment, torn between his reluctance and the throbbing ache pulsing at his temples. Finally, he reached out and gently took the scarf from her outstretched hand.

Satoru carefully wrapped the soft fabric around his eyes, tying it securely in place. It felt unusual, a stark contrast to his familiar blindfold, yet it offered a surprising sense of relief. The gentle pressure against his eyes was soothing, and the plush material was a comforting contrast to the chill of the night air.

He took a shallow breath, feeling a slight easing of the headache. He couldn't deny the scarf was helping, but it felt peculiar to be seen and cared for in this way.

"I want you to think about the moments in your life that didn't involve your powers," she said gently, her words a gentle nudge.

Satoru's expression darkened slightly at her prompting. His life had always revolved around his abilities, especially after discovering the rarity of his Six Eyes.

But the thought did pose an intriguing question. He had never truly considered the times when he wasn't constantly using or contemplating his powers.

After a moment, he spoke, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability. "What if there are no such moments?"

"Right now, right here. You aren't using your powers," she pointed out. "I'm sure there have been many instances in your life where your abilities weren't the primary focus - going out with your students, spending time with friends, studying, taking walks, even just everyday tasks like eating or running errands."

Satoru's frown deepened slightly as her words sank in. She was right. In that very moment, he wasn't relying on his Six Eyes to protect himself or perceive the world around him.

He couldn't deny the existence of those more mundane, seemingly insignificant moments in his life that didn't revolve around his powers. Simple joys like laughing with his students, or the solace he found in the company of his friends - times when his abilities weren't at the forefront of his mind.

"You're human, Mr. Gojo," she said, her tone gentle yet firm. "So, please, don't treat yourself as if you're not. Your power is a part of your identity, but is it really everything about you? That's the question you need to ask yourself."

Satoru's breath caught slightly as her words sank in. He had spent so many years defining himself by his power, by his role as the strongest, that it was difficult to imagine there was anything else to him.

But she was correct. His abilities were a part of him, but they did not encompass his entire existence. He was more than just his powers. He was a jujutsu sorcerer, a teacher, a friend, a human with emotions and a complex inner world.

"Now let me ask you again," she trailed off. "Do you know who you are, Mr. Gojo?"

Satoru exhaled slowly, feeling a sense of clarity wash over him. He understood now what she was trying to convey. His identity was not solely tied to his powers. There was so much more to him than that.

He lifted his head, the scarf over his eyes lifting slightly. His voice was quiet but sure.

"I am Satoru Gojo. Jujutsu sorcerer. Teacher. Friend. Human. And so much more."

"Exactly." She chuckled. "I'm proud of you."

Satoru felt a flicker of something unfamiliar stir within him at her words. He had never heard someone express pride in him, at least not on an emotional level. Usually, it was about his prowess or his accomplishments in battle.

He gave a small snort, trying to downplay how her praise affected him. "You make me sound like a child, Miss Therapist," he muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Oh..sorry, I didn't mean to come across that way," She quickly apologized.

Satoru waved her apology away with a dismissive hand gesture. "No, no. I wasn't offended or anything like that," he reassured her. "It's just..a little surprising, that's all."

He gave a small laugh, shaking his head slightly. "People usually praise me for being the strongest, not for being...human. But it's not a bad feeling, to know that someone is proud of me as a person. So thank you."

"No. Thank you for being truthful with me, Mr. Gojo," She hummed softly.

A small chuckle escaped Gojo's lips, a hint of amusement in his voice. "You know, I'm not sure why you're thanking me for doing the bare minimum," he teased. "Being truthful should be expected, shouldn't it?"

"I'm thanking you because I know how difficult it is to be truthful about yourself with someone and to be truthful with yourself," She chuckled.

Satoru's smile widened slightly. Her words carried a sincerity that resonated deeply within him.

"You're right," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's not easy. In fact, it's damn near impossible sometimes." He took a deep breath, letting out a small sigh.

"Being honest with yourself, and with others...it requires a certain level of vulnerability and courage, and frankly, I'm not always very good at it."

Here is the response with more detailed and descriptive wording:

"That's perfectly understandable, you are only human and thus not impervious to imperfections. We all have our flaws, fears, and moments of fallibility at times. But that is what makes us distinctly human, what sets us apart from the animal kingdom. We have the capacity to learn and grow from our mistakes, to confront and overcome our fears, and to refine our shortcomings. " She spoke softly, her voice tinged with a gentle empathy. "You should never forget that you are just as human as anyone else—" Her words were suddenly interrupted by a delicate sneeze.

Satoru flinched slightly as the unexpected sound pierced the crisp, cold night air. On some level, he was somewhat relieved that her soothing words had been cut short, as they had started to hit a little too close to home for his comfort.

"Bless you," he murmured, his tone a curious blend of playful teasing and genuine concern. "It seems the frigid weather has gotten the better of you."

"Sorry about that...I'm just not terribly well-suited for cold climates," she admitted, rubbing her hands together in a futile attempt to generate warmth.

Satoru couldn't resist the temptation of a mischievous smirk. Here he had been feeling vulnerable and exposed, and now the tables had turned, with her appearing to be the one struggling against the biting chill.

"That's not something one usually hears from someone who was living in the northern regions," he teased, unable to resist the opportunity to poke a bit of fun. "I thought the hardy folk up there were practically immune to the cold."

"Well, you see, I wasn't actually born and raised in these parts, i just lived some years there." she chuckled.

"Ah, I see," satoru nodded, a playful glint sparkling in his eyes. "So you're not a true northerner. That certainly explains a lot."

He paused for a moment, a mischievous thought crossing his mind. "But you'll never truly adapt if you don't embrace the cold," he declared dramatically. "And what better way to do that than by engaging in a good old-fashioned snowball fight?"

Without warning, she hurled a tightly packed snowball directly at him, the frozen projectile striking him with surprising force.

"You should be more careful!" She laughed as she scurried away.

Satoru was momentarily caught off-guard by her sudden attack. He blinked, stunned for a moment, before a wide grin spread across his face.

"Oh, it's on now," he declared, his eyes twinkling with competitive delight.

He swiftly leaned down, scooping up a handful of snow and shaping it into a compact, aerodynamic ball, before launching it towards her with remarkable precision.

"Agh!" She groaned as the snowball hit its mark, but her laughter quickly followed. "Cheater!"

Satoru chuckled, not holding back a hint of smug satisfaction. "Cheat? Perish the thought, my dear," he declared, his tone dripping with feigned innocence. "I'm merely making use of my natural talents."

He quickly formed another snowball, his movements quick and elegant, and with a flick of his wrist, he released it, aiming straight for her. "I am, after all, the reigning champion of snowball warfare," he boasted.

"Hey! Go easy on me!" She laughed again, retaliating with a well-aimed snowball of her own.

"Easy? What is this, a snowball fight for beginners?" Satoru teased, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He dodged her projectile with effortless grace, his steps light and fleeting like a shadow.

He swiftly countered with his own snowball, a perfect shot that struck its target, causing her to stumble slightly. "Come on, you can do better than that," he taunted, reveling in the adrenaline of their playful conflict.

"No fair!" She whined as she threw another snowball, this time finally hitting him squarely. "Ha!"

Satoru let out a theatrical groan, pretending to be wounded by her snowball. "Oh, the agony," he clutched at his heart dramatically, a grin betraying his amusement. "I've been hit! What a catastrophic defeat this is."

Not one to be outdone, he swiftly retaliated, launching a flurry of snowballs in her direction with deadly accuracy. "You can't stop the king of snowballs!"

She deftly dodged his barrage of snowballs, her movements agile and nimble. "The rightful queen of snowballs will reclaim her throne!" She chuckled as she threw another well-aimed projectile.

Satoru raised an eyebrow at her declaration, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Oh, is that so? The rightful queen of snowballs, you claim to be?"

He evaded her snowball easily, his laughter echoing through the night. "Well, let's see how rightful you truly are!" He retaliated with a series of perfectly aimed snowballs, each one a testament to his skill and precision.

Some snowballs found their mark, but she quickly retreated behind the shelter of a nearby tree, emerging to launch her own volley of icy projectiles in his direction. "You're cheating!" She accused playfully.

Satoru laughed heartily, his eyes glinting with a competitive spark. "Cheating? Or simply better at this than you?" he teased.

He ducked, weaved, and dodged her snowballs with a casual ease that made it appear as though he were dancing rather than engaging in a fierce snowball battle. "Admit it, darling. I'm just naturally gifted at the art of snowy warfare!"

"Nuh uh!" She laughed, her voice filled with playful defiance as the relentless snowball fight continued.

As the intense battle of wits and wintry wonders wore on, their laughter filled the night air, echoing through the trees. Satoru's competitive spirit was fully ignited, and he wasn't holding back. His movements were swift and precise, each snowball hitting its mark with remarkable accuracy.

"Admit it, admit it!" he called out, his voice teeming with playful taunting. "You can't defeat the Snowball King!"

"The queen will reclaim her rightful place!" She said playfully as she suddenly ran up to him and tackled him, sending them both tumbling into the soft, powdery snow. "The king has fallen!" She laughed triumphantly.

Satoru's eyes widened in surprise as he felt himself falling, his balance thrown off by her unexpected attack. He landed on his back with a thump, sinking slightly into the snow, a look of mock indignation on his face.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be, queen?" he chuckled, his tone filled with playful defiance. "You really think you can take down the king with a sneak attack like that?"

"Yeah!" She laughed as she straddled him, triumphantly launching a handful of snow directly into his face. "Payback!"

Satoru sputtered and spluttered as the cold, powdery snow landed on his face, momentarily obscuring his vision. But the unexpected sensation of her sitting atop him, coupled with the icy touch of the snow, sent a shiver of exhilaration down his spine.

He blinked, his eyes glinting with a mischievous sparkle as he grinned up at her. "Oh, you think that's payback? That won't do. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

And in a sudden, swift motion, he flipped them over, now pinning her down to the snow, a triumphant smirk spreading across his face. He took a handful of the icy powder and gently placed it in her mouth before she could react. "How does snow taste, my queen?"

She quickly spat out the snow, coughing and sputtering, but he merely laughed in response as he collapsed down beside her, both of them lying in the snow, their breathing heavy from the exertion of their playful battle.

After a moment of catching their breath, satoru turned his head towards her, taking in the sight of her flushed cheeks, a result of the cold. He couldn't help but find her endearing in that moment.

"I would like to know more about you, miss therapist," Satoru murmured, his curiosity piqued. She was silent for a moment, contemplating his request. "What would you like to know?"

"I don't know... perhaps you could start by telling me why you decided to quit being a sorcerer?" Satoru's expression sobered slightly.

She paused for a moment before speaking. "I was previously involved in a perilous mission and perished back then, but I still clung desperately to life. So I made a binding vow, offering my cursed technique in exchange for the preservation of my life, I suppose." She shrugged, as if the matter was trivial. "I'm sorry to hear about your experience," I responded sympathetically.

"It's alright, the practice of sorcery simply was not meant for me. Instead, I have decided to become a therapist, helping people who are part of the jujutsu community, as I understand the daily realities they face as sorcerers."

He hummed thoughtfully as he looked back up at the sky. "That explains why I have never heard of you before," he mused. "Do you have any surviving family members?" he inquired.

"They have all passed away," she replied solemnly.

"I see," he said quietly.

"I apologize for-" he began.

"No need to apologize," she assured him. "I understand your curiosity."

[poledancingghostson]

Favourite Tarlos Scenes!!

Tagged by @guardian-angle22 and @whenshereads thank youuuu

5. “I love how big your heart is for bringing in strays.”

This whole episode could go on here to be honest. I love when this show just embraces how insane it is and goes full comedy and Rafa and Ronen both could easily star in a sitcom. This episode is such a nice light view of their often heavy relationship and it shows how much they love and support each other without either of them being in pain, which is a really nice change. Plus, I love TK loving animals and relate to it a lot because I would also bring home a lizard like that. And also Vegan!TK is canon to me okay.

4. “Lou 2, or Louis the Second”

Can you tell I love lizards??? This scene is just all kinds of lovely and adorable. Never mind the most adorable and gorgeous bearded dragon I have ever scene, the way they support each other and put the other’s needs first here is just *mwah*. I love watching their conflict resolution skills in seasons 3 and 4 because we really see how fucking healthy their relationship is in a way that I don’t think we often see on TV, especially soap operas. Of course this episode drove home that Carlos is not Mentally Healthy lol so he should really go to therapy cos Gabriel (rip tho I notoriously never liked him) fucked him up soooooo bad. Also shoutout to Jewish TK in this episode cos that made me deeply happy. Second shoutout to the entire Riddle of the Sphinx episode which I’m not including only because my explanation for why I love it is pretty much the same as it was for this scene and there’s too many fucking amazing scenes to choose from.

3. “And we’re soulmates.”

Gotta love a comfort scene. I mean. Just the way they love each other so hard in this scene and the way Carlos comforts TK with touch and the way TK wants to protect him but Carlos just can’t fathom a world where he wouldn’t spend whatever life they have together and the way they end the scene hugging instead of kissing??? (Cue Dear Baby from Waitress lmao) They just. They’re so ???? You know??????? Sorry I’ve run out of words. You get it though.

2. “Breathe.”

There’s just so much relief and care in this scene. The number of times I’ve watched it just willing it to be LONGER. I love a reunion scene, I love a comfort scene and this aces both. There was so much great build up to this moment and so many emotions riding on it and it could have fallen flat but it didn’t. TK barely being able to open his eyes but still noticing that Carlos wasn’t okay and taking care of him the only way he could even though he literally just almost died??? Fucking inspired. This enveloping hug???? The love is fucking palpable. What a scene man. What a fucking scene. Wish it was longer.

1. “Tyler, can I say yes now?”

What can I even say really?? It’s the perfect proposal scene. It’s so deeply romantic in its simplicity. It’s raw and honest and not some big public spectacle (which just makes me cringe) it’s just them sharing their love. The scene is emotional and funny and so VERY them. The acting is wonderful, the writing is wonderful, Carlos calling TK Tyler is a God-tier choice every time… I cannot tell you how many times I’ve watched this scene. And it still makes me cry. I want to be enveloped by this scene. I want it pumped into my veins. I want to LIVE in it. Absolute perfection.

Idk who to tag so just say I tagged you if you wanna do it!

[bits-of-bedlam-writing]

That's Not Yours

Very trigger light, mentions of sex, but a moment of blood drinking. Fair warning tho, ya gotta read the earlier chapter or you won't understand what's up with my weird magic items.

Things had been largely peaceful for a moment. Keya and her companions settled into camp just across from the last light inn and took some time to find their bearings in this cursed place. The judgment could be made that Astarion and Keya were letting themselves get distracted in eachother, often carrying on together in the early morning and late into the night. But there were perks to only needing four hours rest and they'd earned it.

One unsettling thing badgered at Keya though, the drow woman. She appeared wherever they went and watched them blatantly. The hungry way she looked at Astarion was especially bothersome, even more so when she realized that it unsettled him as well. No, if they were to accomplish anything, this issue needed to be delt with.

Hoping for a peaceful resolution but not counting on it, she sought out Karlach. Her non-judgmental support had been an amazing gift that Keya relied upon often. "Will you come along with me love? Nothing to exciting, I just need to figure out that woman who's been making eyes at us."

The large tiefling drained her ale and stood, shaking the ache from her shoulders. "No problem. She's been givin me the creeps to be honest."

Astarion, of course, appeared by her side like a shadow as she made ready to leave. It had become their comfortable custom, giving eachother space in their relatively safe camp, surrounded by their friends, but neither ventured far without the other. Exception being when they curled into the often-laundered bedrolls and blankets that they shared.

She set off to seek out the woman, expecting it to be easy, having seen her everywhere around the towers since they arrived. But it took longer than she'd thought. She tried so hard to set aside the bias she knew she held against their kind, but when they acted so untrustworthy...

Finally though, they found her. Surrounded by an assortment of laboratory equipment, all dingy, wreaking of stale blood and an odd electric smell. She caught how Astarion wrinkled his nose momentarily before composing himself.

The drow lit up upon seeing them enter the dank chamber. "Oh, hello." She gestured broadly around her, "Welcome. I am Araj Oblodra, trader in blood and the sanguinous arts. It is a pleasure to stand before a True Soul." Her eyes ran over Astarion, hunger plainly visible, "and your pale companion."

Keya was quiet as an unfamiliar sensation occurred to her. Disgust, but not her own. She knew instinctively that it was his. An odd effect of their artifacts, perhaps, allowing strong emotion to bleed over into eachother.

Had her silence become awkward, she worried. She hurried to correct it. "No need for True Soul reverence, I am Lorsha Athelmīr." She hid her shock and disgust as her "proper" name fell from her lips instead of her real one. Some kind of zone of truth fuckery. That had been why they couldn't find her. She wanted them here.

Her smile was wicked, her plan already baring fruit. "I'd like to offer my services, if you're willing." She held a syringe already and her words were heavy with more magic. She expected compliance and Keyas mind felt sluggish, amicable.

A swell of possessive anger in her mind blew the fog away just as Keya went to consent and hold out her arm. Her connection of Astarion felt palpable, she felt it reeling her mind back from the spell. Saving her. The idea of sharing her blood in general revolted him, and with this creature even more so.

Services, of course not. She'd been raised on cautionary tales about fools that sought help from the twisted magics of the drow. Maidens wishing to improve their beauty made into beautiful specimens of drider. Warriors seeking strength in battle given volatile augmentation they drove them mad, turned against their allies.

No. She held on the thread of civility as best she could by brushing the question and attempted compulsion aside unanswered. She moved pointedly right to the heart of the matter. "What is your interest in my pale lover?" She let the last word fall heavily, intending it to sting. Astarion looked like he straightened himself, preening slightly. Karlach seemed to stifle a laugh.

If Keya side stepping the magic daunted her, she didn't show it. "He's a vampire, no? One of their spawn at least." She didn't seem bothered by the revelation, and that was sufficient cause for alarm.

While Keya was still staggered by the incursion into her mind, Astarion played at being unfazed effortlessly. He responded quickly "Don't worry, we're all friends under the Absolute." With a charming smile, "I won't bite."

"Oh, I'd prefer if you did." She responded cooly, eying him like a piece of meat. She regarded Keya again, "I assume he belongs to you?" As though she were discussing a horse or a rug.

She felt a tremble of fear from Astarion, clear as day, and her body responded without thought. She shifted her weight to one heel, poised to defend him. "Yes. All mine." She spoke with resolution. Her smile had turned wolfish, more a show of teeth than a show of friendliness. Her grasp on civility was wearing incredibly thin, but she held on tight.

"Well I hope you don't mind sharing him for just a minute." The way Araj laughed as she spoke grated on her. "Do you have a name spawn?"

Keya felt a pang of shame over their bond. She had a sickening awareness of how his gut clenched, being addressed as such.

"A-Astarion, but hold on-" He sounded off balance, fear threatening at the edges of his voice.

She cut him off, "Good. Now, Astarion," the lust that dripped from her tone made him recoil more into himself and Keya balled her hand into a fist at the feeling. "I've dreamed of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl."

As Keya wrestled her own jealousy and anger, she realized she recognized the feeling he shared in their bond now. She hadn't known why, but she'd felt it when she woke to Astarion having a nightmare.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, incredulous. "You want to be bitten?

"To feel your life's blood slipping away? To dance on the edge between life and death? Yes, I want it." Having played on that edge, Keya understood this explanation. But not like this. This wasn't how it worked to surrender oneself to the hungers of another. Araj only cared for her own lustful needs.

"I'd even compensate you," she continued, mostly addressing Keya now. "A potion of legendary power that forever increases the strength of the one who consumes it."

At the mention of compensation, she felt a shift. His fear fell... toward her? Was he really worried she would ask him to do this against his will? She didn't even hear the rest of Arajs prattling, turning toward him, carefully keeping the drow in her periphery.

He caught her eye and found her concern. It seemed to bolster him. "I will have to..." He faltered, looking to her for reassurance again. "Decline."

Arajs face fell, disgusted. "Excuse me? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it."

Keya faced her fully now, glaring daggers. Karlach took a couple steps closer, perhaps over eager to intercede.

"I've given you my answer." He sneered forcefully. Keya could tell it was a false bravado but gave no tell.

She addressed Keya again, oblivious to the fact that her forced smile held much more danger than pleasant disarmament now. "Can't you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?"

"He said no. There is nothing more to discuss." She responded flatly. Her hand rested on her wrist sheath, unsure if she wanted this to end here and now or in five minutes with Araj bleeding on the ground. She made up her mind when she felt Astarions relief. No, she just wanted to get him away from here.

"How very disappointing." She began to advance toward Astarion, continuing. "A lowly spawn should seek every-"

She was cut off as Keya stepped between them. In the sudden silence, everyone could hear the ominous hiss of her dagger leaving its sheath. Her body was still as a statue as she stared down the drow.

"He said," She spoke slowly, enunciation each sylable with care. "No." Her eyes narrowed and she looked the other woman up and down preformativly. She continued in a hissed whisper. "Besides, why would he want the likes of you when he can sup on me every single night?"

With an angry howl, the drow rushed toward her. She tried to duck her swing only to be wrenched upward by her hair. Nails like talons dug into her arm and scratched their way down to her blade, wrestling it out of her hand.

As she struggled to grab it back, she felt a searing pain in her palm and a pair of strong cold arms pulling her away. As her palm grew warm, she realized she was bleeding. Not badly, barely a graze. She strained against Astarion, trying to get free, to keep fighting, to beat the smug look off the vile creatures face with her bare hands.

Karlach picked Araj up by her tunic as though she were a small child and moved between them. "Calm down now, there's no need to fight." She set the drow down just a pace away but held her place between them.

Araj steadied herself against her worktable and looked down at the dagger she had in her hand. "No," she responded smuggely. "I suppose there isn't anymore." She turned the blade in the light, inspecting the crimson smeared down the side of it. Like a trophy.

Finally settling into his grasp, Keya felt a burning sense of possessiveness from him. He glared up at the woman, the anger in his eyes something feral. She responded spitefully, turning her face up into his and kissing his cheek softly. She held her bleeding palm up, offering it wordlessly.

She felt his low laugh, enjoying the way her wicked little mind worked. Cupping her offered hand in his own, he brought it to his lips. He licked from the finger where it dripped to the wound itself. Slowly, savoring. Letting himself moan in appreciation.

Karlach did not not suppress her giggle this time. "Cmon lovebirds," she walked past them to the door and waved for them to follow. "I'm not breaking up any more fights tonight."

Keya kissed his bloody lips one more time before she stood. They entwined their hands and began to walk away but Astarion stopped just short of the door as a thought occurred to him.

"Just a moment," he said quietly. "I want to try something." He turned back to the room and held up his ringed hand. With the slightest beckoning gesture, he felt it warm around his finger and watched as the blood lifted away from the blade. As if carried by a supernatural wind, it floated gently toward him. There wasn't much, just enough to coat his finger tip. But that would've been enough for her to preform her strange alchemy upon it.

"That's not yours." He stated simply before sucking it from his finger with a smile.

[himluv]

Inevitable Update

Fuck it. We’re celebrating up in this bitch. HAVE SOME SMUT! (Set directly after Never Again).

Reminder, you can read Inevitable from the beginning here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998044

They walked back to the forward base in silence. Varric and Dorian walked ahead of them, close enough to defend in case of a threat, but far enough to afford the couple some privacy if they wanted to talk.

Riallan did not want to talk.  After her visit to the Fade, her body was exhausted, her heart weary. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, twining and tangling in whirlwind fashion, too fast to keep up with. The Nightmare, the Divine, Alistair, the tombstones. One after another, endlessly circling and pulling her under. The only thing keeping her head above water was Solas’ fingers laced through hers.

He walked in silence beside her, closer than he normally would. His hand was warm and dry, like the desert at night, and focusing on his skin against hers calmed her somewhat. She dreaded reaching the forward camp, when all eyes would be on her and he would let go of her hand to vanish into the background.

Except, he didn’t.

He glanced at her as they entered the camp, checking to see if she was ready to face the Inquisition. She nodded that she was, and when she loosened her grip on his hand, his tightened.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a fleeting kiss to the back. “Come,” he said, the word all the encouragement she needed. They stepped into the forward base side by side, hand in hand, and she took all the silent strength he offered.

Soldiers nodded to her, their eyes flicking to Solas, to their hands intertwined, and then back. There were gasps, whispers, money exchanged hands as bets were settled, but there was no outrage. No condemnation at the two apostates. And there was no outcry, no demands for her time or her attention. It was as if Solas were a barrier between her and the Inquisition forces.

Still, the relief was palpable as Solas raised the flap to her tent and followed after her. She had done all she could that night. Let the Inquisition fend for itself for one evening. Let the mantle of Inquisitor fall from her shoulders. Let her just be Riallan for a little while.

Solas lit the candles with a careless gesture. “Are you hungry?” He asked as he helped her unbuckle her armor. It wasn’t a task she truly needed help with, but his hands seemed unable to be far from her.

She knew she should be hungry, but she wasn’t. She shook her head.

Concern flickered across his face, but he nodded.

Once free of her armor and dressed in her customary leggings and oversized tunic, she sank onto the pile of blankets in the center of her tent. Normally, her field tent had just enough room for their two bedrolls and their supplies, but the Inquisitor’s tent in a forward base demanded something much more grand. She had a cot in one corner, a desk in another, and even a wash basin and mirror along one canvas wall. The first thing she had done the night before was lay out her bedroll and the bedding from the cot onto the floor. She would be much more comfortable there, even after all these months sleeping in a bed in Skyhold.

“Would it be too much to ask for a bath?” She smiled, meaning the words as a joke.

Solas frowned down at her. “Perhaps in a desert, vhenan. I can inquire with—“

She took his wrist in her hand. “I was kidding.” She chuckled, but it wasn’t as heartfelt as usual.  “Lie down with me?”

His mouth smiled but that little crease in his brow never moved.

She tugged on his hand and he sank to sit cross-legged in front of her. “Stop worrying,” she said.

“I cannot.” The candlelight lent his face a warm glow, playing across the long slope of his nose. “I worry about you, Ria. No matter how hard I try.”

She looked down at her hands. “I’m sorry, Solas. I needed you to stay, I —“ His palm, warm and dry against her cheek stopped her.

“I do not blame you, vhenan.” A little frown, that crease in his brow deepened. “You made the right decision. Even if I could not see it at the time.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He shook his head, once and so softly, more to himself than to her. “I fear we are well past the time where either of us could hope to avoid heartache.” His tone was light, offsetting the grim words, but his eyes carried a different weight now. A familiar one. He held her gaze as his thumb traced her jaw and then her lower lip.

She kissed him, swift and sudden. She expected to surprise him, but Solas met her desire, his fingers grasping the back of her neck and drawing her into him. Riallan’s hands roamed, bunching in his tunic, scraping his scalp, tracing an ear. And with every touch, every little gasp she pulled from him, it felt like her blood had set aflame.

She let out a little yelp as his hands moved to lift her onto his lap. He laughed, low and breathy against her neck and Riallan’s head spun. She dropped her head back, bit her lip, and sighed as his mouth explored every inch of her throat.

“Is this real?” She asked.

“Yes, vhenan.” That throaty chuckle again. It was such a rare and beautiful sound.

She rolled her hips against him and a wave of heat crashed over her at his moan. He pulled her closer, his fingers digging into her hips. She grabbed at his shirt, slow at first, but he didn’t protest as she lifted the hem. Instead he obliged her, raising his arms to let her pull the tunic over his head.

This was new territory for them. They occasionally helped each other out of their armor, saw and felt bare skin when one of them needed healing, but this feverish removal of clothing? Only in her dreams.

But she wasn't dreaming, not this time. The fire of his touch proved that. His hands, those long, artist’s fingers, crept beneath her tunic to rove over her skin. It was the most forward he’d been since that afternoon in the Forbidden Oasis. Not that there had been much time alone for them since then. But still, it’d been weeks of heated glances, lingering touches, and too brief kisses. She needed this.

Especially after the day they’d had.

It seemed, for once, that Solas agreed. Usually he was so hesitant, unwilling to initiate contact beyond a kiss here and there. But tonight he felt resolute, desperate even. And that worried her. As badly as she wanted this, wanted him, this wasn’t like him.

Riallan pulled back, her hands on each side of his face. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide to leave the barest fringe of sea grey around them. His lips were bright, even against the flush of his face in the candlelight. He looked amazing, suddenly so real beneath her touch.

“Vhenan?” He blinked. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you sure?” She ran a hand through her hair. “We’ve never… We haven’t — I just want you to be sure.” She was an idiot. She had stopped them so she could babble half sentences and ruin the entire mood? Riallan sighed and looked down at their laps.

Gentle fingers lifted her chin. “I am certain, Ria,” he said. He kissed her cheek. “I thought the worst today.” His lips pressed to the other side of her face. “And all I could think was that the last words I ever spoke to you were in anger.” A brush of his mouth against her forehead. “That your last memory of me would not be one of love.” His voice was low, rough and fragile.

She shuddered at the sound, at the emotion, a display so rare for Solas.

He kissed her, his mouth tender against hers. There was no rush, no desperate heat, just longing and need and relief. She melted against him, her arms looping around his neck as she deepened the kiss. They went slower, relishing in one in other, in the fact that they both still lived.

Impossibly.

With sure fingers, Solas tugged at the hem of her tunic, and once it was off and tossed across the tent, any lingering doubts Riallan had went with it. He did not hesitate. His touch was firm, decisive. He knew what he wanted and he would have it, if she would let him.

She gasped when his hands found the edges of her breast band. She had longed for this, for him to be so bold, to feel his hands on every inch of her skin. But now that the moment was here, she couldn’t seem to believe it was real.

And then the breast band was gone, tossed aside like her tunic, and his mouth moved to her chest. Her world narrowed to where his tongue pressed against her flesh, how good it felt, how his merest touch suffused her entire body with warmth.

He released her, the air suddenly cool against her skin. “I would make amends,” he said. The emotion in his words was still there, but something dark thrilled in his voice. A promise. “Isalan sera na aron tuelan.”

She didn’t understand everything he said. Something about lust and touch and the Creators. But she didn’t need to understand. She got the meaning just fine: he would make up for lost time. She nodded, she wasn’t really capable of more than that at the moment, and kissed him.

His tongue met hers, explored her mouth, teased her lips, as he tilted her back and laid her onto the blankets. Then his mouth traveled. Down her chin, her jaw, trailed along her throat to pause at each breast. A flick of his tongue on each nipple made her arch and writhe, and the smile he graced her with was utterly predatory.

It had been too long since a partner had made her feel this desired. Too long since she had craved someone as much as she craved him.

Her leggings went next, his stare transfixed as she wiggled her hips free of them. His touch was slow, reverent. Fingertips blazed along the tail of her vallaslin, claiming the territory as his. Marveling at the shiver that rolled through her. Solas’ eyes soaked her in, watched her every movement as if he could draw his pleasure simply from the sight of her.

“Please.” The word was a hush of breath on her tongue.

He smirked, all wonder replaced with stark hunger. His touch ghosted along her skin, those eyes watching for her frustration, glinting when she caught her lip between her teeth. Riallan closed her eyes and focused on the feel of those hands on her body, the casual touch that ventured up her thigh until it was intimate enough to make her moan.

“People will hear, vhenan,” he said. There was a smile in his voice.

“Let them.”

He hummed at that and then pulled her small clothes down her legs. More rapid-fire elvhen, too fast to catch, too low to hear, his breath against her skin as he bent down to press featherlight kisses up her leg. Then Riallan’s world went white as he tasted her for the first time.

She’d dreamed of this moment. Fantasized. But neither had ever captured the worship in his eyes. The shiver of elvhen that poured from his lips, spoken in reverence against her most sensitive places. The tremble of his fingertips where they bit into her hips.

Heat swirled low in her belly, spiraled, taut and desperate. “Solas.”

He hummed against her and smiled at her gasp.

“I — Fenedhis, emma lath, I…” Her eyelids fluttered, her sight flickering from the dark brown of the canvas above her, the flash of candlelight, the spread of the wolfish grin on his face as she fell apart around him.

She shuddered and shook, heat and light crashing through her in delicious waves until it was all she knew.  

Solas sat back and watched blissful agony wash over his vhenan’s face, consumed by the sight. The smell of her arousal overwhelmed him, the taste of her thick and cloying on his tongue. For the first time in his long life, a lover had conquered him completely. In that moment there were no Elvhen besides her. No Elvhenan to restore. No betrayed kin haunting his every step. There was simply Riallan.

He had not felt so free in millennia.

As her trembling eased, Solas trailed one hand across her skin to resume the work of his tongue. Tiny touches, light and wondering. Asking, was she ready to continue? The whimpers that came with each flick of his fingertip were answer enough.

And yet his hands hesitated at the lacings of his breeches.

This was the final piece. The last barrier he had built up between them, his heart’s last remaining defense. She would never know whole truth of him, he vowed then never to be Fen’Harel when he was with her, but that didn’t mean those truths wouldn’t belong to her. If he did this, if he succumbed to the desire decimating them both, he would surrender his every truth at her feet. If he relinquished his burdens, she would take them up, whether she knew it or not.

“Solas?”

Dark eyes stared up at him, wide and wanting and worried. For once he couldn’t bring himself to allay her fears. In the dim, flickering light of her tent, he was guileless and raw, nothing more than her apostate lover. Nothing more than that name on her lips.

“Let me help,” she said. Riallan sat up, delicate fingers on his lacings, twining with his until they worked together to remove this last obstacle between them. The breeches slid off his hips and she made to lie back, but his hand on hers rooted her in place. He kissed her fingertips, her palm, her wrist and the crease of her elbow, guiding her down with each press of his lips.

He breathed his love against the crook of her neck, tasted the salt-sweet warmth of her and relished the tiny gasp, the curve of her body against his. She made it painfully clear that she wanted him, needed him, and at last he admitted that he needed her too.

For months he had lied to himself, had denied her touches and her skin and the heat of her body pressed to his. He’d believed it was in her best interest to maintain his distance, even after he’d declared his affection. That it would protect her in the long run. But he knew now that was just another selfish excuse.

He was merely protecting himself, as ever.

But after watching her die, again, he couldn’t bear to imagine spending this night alone. He wanted to taste every inch of her, to know her body with his every sense and to let her know him in turn.

“Please.” The word fell from her lips, a chant, breathless and needy. He caught the word on his tongue, pressed his mouth to hers and relished in the heat of her kiss. Her nails bit into his hips, begging him closer.

Solas obliged her.

He stifled a moan and watched her eyelids flutter. Her lips parted, the heat blossomed on her cheeks for once not from embarrassment but from pleasure. Yet again he was struck by how real she was under his hands. Riallan was vibrant, visceral and all-consuming. She tethered him to this world in a way he had never known, in a way he didn’t think he could ever un-know.

His hands roamed, as if they hoped to map every inch of her body in the course of one evening. He moved gently at first. There was no need to rush, he reminded himself. There was time, for now. For this.

But Riallan had different ideas.

Her hands pulled him close, urged and pleaded, guided and instructed how she wanted to be loved. Solas had never known a lover so confident — love-making in Elvhenan was a languorous thing, much like everything else — and Riallan’s urgency thrilled him.

He’d thought to go slow, to cherish this moment, but as she moved with him she moaned and bit her lip and looked absolutely devastating in her passion. A millennium alone was far too long to withstand such perfection.

So, he gave her what she wanted. He worshiped at her altar, whispered his truths in elvhen so fast she could never understand. He gave her everything he had to give, body and spirit.

And though it terrified him, it was the sweetest surrender.  

[prudentiae]

for as much as i adore noctis and will go to bat for him whether he’s right or wrong — that shove is incredibly rude. despite their forged friendship, the potential for friction between them is nearly palpable at times. the line they walk can be blurred between friendship and royal obligation, the latter of which ultimately takes precedence over the former ( precedence, yes, but that doesn’t necessarily diminish the friendship ) — 

it stands true that when ignis says he has noct’s back; he doesn’t mean only when it’s easy. 

he means it through thick and thin. he proves it, too.

as debuted in episode duscae, ignis will be the first to rush after noctis, whether it be for his recovery or his defense in variable forms. when i first observed this scene, my thoughts were in noct’s defense, and understandably. it’s frustrating to be knocked back or to be in need of aid. so while ignis assumes a defensive stance after healing noctis to secure him a moment to get back up on his feet, i presume noctis doesn’t want his defense. likely,  he wants to dish out some serious payback to whatever got to him first. 

but to see that look ignis throws back at him after being shrugged off? -- there’s a strong dissonance i feel in that interaction between them. he’s not overt in his reaction, but it has to sting a little. maybe i feel it two-fold because it’s blind!ignis model? 

regardless, this isn’t something ignis is going to take to heart. he gets a taste of the frustration, but he’s not exactly ( ? ) the source of it. he’ll do it time and again, regardless of how noct feels about it. sorry, but when it comes to noct’s safety, when it’s the difference between life or death, there’s not much room for compromise—he’ll do what needs doing because noct’s well-being and safety are among top priorities. not only does that fulfill his own personal desire to see him alive and well, but it also serves as his respect to the late king regis and his departing words ( his royal duty, as per his majesty. )

despite his responsibility ( which he bends, but won’t break ) he does his best to lend to noct’s autonomy as an individual, prompting as much choice as possible from noctis, building up opportunity for him to breathe, to learn, to grow, to adventure, but still strives to keep them on the right path. he doesn’t lead noctis so much as he merely offers guidance based on tactical acumen / a different perspective, and noctis ultimately has the choice of taking it or leaving it. whatever noctis decides, ignis will abide by it ( while also sticking to his guns. i.e. if noctis wants to drive at night despite the risk, then noctis can take the responsibility of such a choice and drive it himself. but mfw noct drives all night and ignis offers to switch so that he can get some rest, bless his soul. ) 

ignis realizes, especially in the midst of brotherhood, that even though noctis harbors an incredible disdain toward this royal schtick everyone wants to shove up his ass ( and shove it they will, one day, just through his chest instead ) ; noctis is much more privy than what most credit him, and quite capable. he believes in noctis, and trusts that he’ll do the right thing, even when a little personal navigating is necessary.

prone to wander, but born to lead.

anywho. i really appreciate this interaction because even the strongest relationships and friendships progress through rocky territory at some time or another. there’s value and strength in conflict-resolution. it’s easy to be friends with someone when it’s all going right all of the time, but the real test of a relationship is endurance through the shadows and valleys as well as the mountaintops. no relationship is perfect, and certain ( sometimes, seemingly insurmountable ) battles are high-stress, intense environments. impulsive behavior can be seen from any member of the party as they work to achieve synergy with one another, and because of their willingness to continue working at it, their success together far outweighs these few and far moments.

last, but not least, ignis isn’t so weak that this feeling persists outside of the moment ( best to let sleeping dogs lie ) because the most important aspect of this is that noctis is back on his feet and ready for more.

still, tho. mcFuckin’ rude, noct, ignis is just worried.

[stayonyourside-blog]

In the age of Trump, Christian and White Supremacy are flooding our courts. The trajectory of society has bent itself toward equality and inclusion and is conversely met with a fever pitch alarm decrying the end of decency and the dissolution of the Great American Family. The supposed soldiers of Christ will not rest while gay men and women, transgender men and women and our allies gain ground in establishing our rightful place as equal citizens. The #10 song of the year, HIM, by Sam Smith, appeals to both groups and sets the stage for the possibility of a resolution. Assuming the point of view of a young preachers son in Mississippi, Sam comes out to his father, both here on Earth and his Father in Heaven. The unabashed use of the male pronoun in a pop song being used by a relevant pop star is a revelation, of not actually the first time it’s ever happened. Sam enlists the help of an empassioned Gospel choir declaring without apology that HE loves HIM. From here on out, this subtle song is the document of RESISTANCE. No more will Christian Fundamentalism determine who can love whom. The laws on paper may be safe now, tho ever threatened in this age, our declaration of our existence will not be silenced. Not just our declarations of love but our declarations of existence persisted in 2017. The rise of trans visibility exploded in all facets of our society. Our military, politics, entertainment, journalism, fashion, sports, and for the purpose of this post, our music. Antony & The Johnson’s frontman Antony Hegarty transitioned to her true identity Anohni this year and released her most palpable and purest work of her career. She has eschewed common love songs, as was the case in her earlier work, and used her voice to expose the fragile hypocrisy and violence of humanity. She tackles nuclear war as a metaphor for the social warfare we engage in as we tear each other down while also exposing the literal threat of avoiding the humanity of the lives who die at the rainstorm of bombs into their backyards. While we in America fight about politics and continue to demonize Hillary Clinton, slut shame, grapple with whether black lives actually matter, and absorb ourselves in consumerism, a Trans artist from the UK is the only one calling us to be aware of what’s happening to our forgotten brothers and sisters, the victims of hate and violence and extremism. #9 Crisis by ANOHNI is a clarion call to wake up. She made it easy with gorgeous vocals and a synth arrangement that envelops your body with pulsing bass and strings invoking drone sonar. Her warm tenor voice does not judge us but admits her own complicity in this violence. She is the voice of mankind, showing us what we’ve done and apologizing profusely throughout. Heed her call.