#this story has done irreparable damage to my psyche

[trans-rights-coastalmangoes]

just finished trigun maximum. can't believe they expect me to just continue on with my day like nothing happened

[v3joker]

that's still 20 years and now i feel old

[buttercupblu]

Satoru's Psyche|Surfacing

"Power dynamics, they're fluid."

Session 1 of 10|Next Session

🗂️Patient Chart Update: Routine patient visit and care performed. Patient is stable, mostly corporative, and only mildly rowdy today. Vitals are clear, appetite is normal, nothing of interest to report other than slightly abnormal behavior resulting in the [REDACTED] incident, pending Nurse deliberation on how to proceed with patient disciplinary action. 📋 Length of Session (w.c): 5.2k out of "we will cross that bridge when we get to it 🤠" 💊Intake Chart (tags): this is a full-blown AU with a slowww build-up, yandere-ish behavior, pet names, angst, compulsive flirter Gojo (he literally cannot help it), mentally unstable Gojo, Nurse!Reader ✏️doctor's angel’s note: there’s something very, very special about how this story was born. extended author’s note at the end of this chapter if you’re curious|kk I'm done talking - enjoy Satoru’s Psyche. 🎼 Waiting room music: Child's Play|SZA

They all worshipped the strongest. 

But no one saw the man; no one noticed the cracks until it was too late.

The first appeared after the Star Plasma Vessel mission—Gojo's near-death experience and first awakening. 

Then, it was his best friend, Suguru Geto. His betrayal, death. Murder. 

The blood on Gojo's hands left such a deep mark.

Devastation. Irreparable damage.

No matter what Gojo did after that, death followed him like a loyal dog. 

And when the final crack happened in the Prison Realm, with no distraction from his own thoughts and burdens and painstakingly harsh reality, Satoru Gojo bent..then snapped.

He can't remember what happened after being unsealed. 

All he knew was the blood that came afterward.

Apparently, he went on a rampage, but in his psyche, it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

And he didn't feel guilt—not in the slightest. 

They must have gotten what they deserved, right? 

The thoughts were deafening.

But Gojo’s natural tendency to play the hero was even louder and got the best of him. The realization of what he’d done was haunting—plaguing and persuading him like a Devil in his ear until he turned himself in to shut the voices the fuck up. 

Once again, good ruled over evil and the world was safe.

In Gojo's own sick and twisted way, he had once more saved the day.

And as a thank you? He's here, in a fucking straitjacket, seals all around to make his cursed energy dormant. At least, that's what those old fools believe…

Gojo can't help but scoff, recalling all their nonsense. 

“You're unstable. The mind needs to be healed.”

Blah fucking blah. What a load of bullshit. 

However, society never took too kindly to a little mass murder, so fine.

Gojo will play nice... for now.

And for the most unexpected reason why.

His grin only deepens, a borderline predatory look as he hears those familiar footsteps. 

Ah...how wonderful.

“There you are.”

The man waits by the door, shoulder framing your entrance and leaning on the wall. Welcoming, warm and expectantly, before the locks can disengage. 

Like many times before, your eyes meet through the window pane. A dull blue under snowy white lashes, heavy and following yours, but barely piercing the plastic—small and artificial—only a thin layer of careful separation, but you both see right through it. Neutrality on your face but wavering sharpness in your eyes. And a glint in his as the familiar buzz! ushers you into his world.

“How’s my favorite nurse?” he asks like a broken record. All casual-like, as if his arms aren’t meticulously tucked into tight restraints that work hard against his muscled frame. “Missed your favorite psychopath?”

He couldn’t sound more arrogant, but still has to smirk watching you brush past him—expecting nothing less—but feels a different air.

There’s a pep in your step, carrying you into the stark white room and making it impossible to miss the subtle sway of your hips and dangling supply bag on your arm. Naturally fluid as if you’re oblivious to its sensual nature.

Gojo rarely saw you wear any emotion on your sleeve, let alone what he thought was hints of joy, but something was slipping through the cracks.  

And what’s that? A slight grin on your face? 

What exactly do we have here?

This attitude is foreign. Better than the blank slate or frequent exhaustion you usually walk in with, but this was a side of you that was unfamiliar. 

What’s got you in such a mood, he wonders? And what else could it be, if not him? 

It’s all because today is an “okay day”. And in places like your ward, “okay” is as good as gold.

Rounds have been fairly simple in the usually chaotic hospital—a small win if you put things in perspective, but it’s enough for you to feel good about it. 

Hell, with the way things usually go around here, it feels like Christmas came early and you got just what you wanted. 

A big, whopping present called “all of your co-workers showing up to work”. The standard for most workplaces but here, such miracles only exist in your daydreams to get through your usually fucked schedule.

But not today. Today, the angels personally visited your ward to carry your burdens and lighten your load. For the first time in months, you didn’t groan the second you saw your patient roster for the day and instead had to do a doubletake because the list was surprisingly short. Only your regulars sat on it and that could only happen if the ward was fully-staffed.

You thought it was a mistake when you checked the schedule this morning, but no, everyone’s name sat prettily on the sign-in sheet at the front desk—a sight you hadn’t seen since orientation and was confirmed with every familiar and slightly foreign face you passed in the halls. 

There were no call-outs, no extra work, and the best part, no unexpected shift changes. 

Overtime would not get its hands on you today and the thought alone made you feel lighter because enough time is spent in these melancholy walls as is. 

With thoughts on the week’s end, you found yourself drifting through the day on autopilot. Wondering if you should make plans—doubtful you’ll see them through—and time seemed to be flying by with your thoughts. Following the rarely-seen routine you know like the back of your hand helped you blaze through the morning and grow closer to sweet rest for your already aching feet. 

Miracles were coming in left and right, proof that today just might be your day. It’s still early, but no one had broken out of their room or flung any property around yet. Guards sit comfy and reclined at their posts, lounging around more than they’re being called, and you haven’t even had to run off to the lockers to change your scrubs that are usually ruined by now. Luck is keeping you high and dry—free from accidents or patient tantrums, both of which are all too common. And always seem to have your name on them.

But the cherry on top, second to none, pièce de résistance.

Is a possibility.

Just the teeniest, tiniest, sliver of a chance…to walk out of these doors early. 

Be still your beating heart.

Early release?? Unheard of. You almost skipped through the halls thinking about it. Dreaming of the reclaimed time—the deliciously healthy heap of rest. 

With no signs of trouble, aside from forcing yourself to chug a wildly unhealthy energy drink to fight off tendrils of sleep, you just may be in the clear.

Things seem steady in the sleepy ward today. So sure, you’re in a relatively good mood. 

But is it good enough to deal with Gojo? 

It puzzles you, how he always knows you’re coming before he sees you. How he sort of announces your presence before you get the chance. Like the honor belongs to him.

The psychopath. 

Your head tilts at the diagnosis, hearing it come from his lips for the first time. Even if unseriously. 

He’s self-aware, at least. Not that the confession makes your visits any easier. 

Over time, after working so closely with a personality like Gojo’s, you’ve learned to take everything he says with a grain of salt. Especially when it comes from such shameless lips.

Answering his question with an eye-roll, you set your supplies down to pull out your clipboard and check his vitals. Something that once upon a time made your palms sweat and throat dry, but never showed on your face. You knew what the role required, what it would need for you to survive—intimidation and cowardice were not a part of it—and eventually, after you banged that into your head enough, even if you had to fake it til you made it, you became used to the routine.

As has Gojo, complying with each step on the checklist like it was second nature. Walking over to his favorite spot to be taken care of, the bed. Lifting his tongue to take his temperature. Offering his arm to check his blood pressure. Noting that his eyes aren’t bad today—not needing to wear his blindfold due to the security system. Doing it all without needing you to say a word. All within his control.

But the one thing he can’t get a grip on is how his heart begins to beat. Every time like clockwork the moment you lay a hand on his back to listen to it. Racing in his chest—thumping through your stethoscope—while he wears the calmest face. 

Curiosity called you after noticing it a few times once you determined it wasn’t a condition. Guaranteed to start up with the gentlest touch that he was surely used to. 

So, what exactly goes on in his mind in these moments? Despite hiding it so well? 

What could possibly be making Tokyo’s most unhinged, mass-murderer, so flustered? 

You never have much time to think about it because it won’t matter in the next few seconds anyway. Sitting still enough to get through vitals was as serious as Gojo gets, making the quickest part of your visits with him the easiest. 

Everything that follows the second you put your kit away is pure…surprise. 

“So…are you gonna undo the straps this time, sweet nurse? My arms are sore.”

He pouts. Sweetly. So devilishly charming. As he did so often with a flash of those cerulean, blue eyes that could make and break hearts.

You sigh. One could almost forget that by society’s standards, he’s a “dangerously unstable individual.” 

Something you’re acutely aware of. And trained for. Which is why you don’t mind the coquettish jabs he throws your way—and why he keeps on throwing them.

You aren’t aware but these hourly visits, along with his agreement to stay put, are the only reasons why he’s still here despite being Satoru fucking Gojo and simply walking out. It’s not like anyone could stop him if they really wanted to, and he knew that. 

Truth is—it pissed Gojo off, being stuck here. Cooperative. It was fucking irritating, to say the least. 

He’d rather be tortured than bored and might’ve second-guessed his decision to surrender if he knew the punishment would be…this. 

But lo and behold, here you are. Relief in the flesh while he bides his time. One that he wasn’t expecting.

“You sure are possessive today.” You hide a smirk, draping the stethoscope around your neck, his heartbeat returning to normal after losing your touch. “Am I really your favorite?” The leather straps hug his pale skin a bit tightly, but his mobility is good enough to ignore his request to loosen them. That would be suicide. 

He tsks, eyes sparkling at your words—a warning glimmer hidden beneath the icy gaze. 

Chilling. But the least bit surprising. 

Gojo and cattiness go together like love and war—and he wears it with his whole chest. 

Even when unprovoked, he’s known for being….testy. Trying his hand again and again until he gets some kind of reaction. Waiting to see what makes someone bite. 

But there was something disingenuous about this petty quirk. The repetition and how it seemed to lack a goal. How he seemed almost…desperate for interaction—attention—any attention.

Eventually, once you sat in his face long enough to learn how to disassociate with a straight face, you figured out that he just loves to hear himself talk. Like that one kid in class who’s always inserted themselves into every conversation and made it about them. 

He rarely gives you a hard time though—less than most of your other patients in fact—and usually sends more kisses than cuts. Occasionally, when you find them…okay, or tolerable enough, you indulge him and this charade between you two—like the high school crush it resembled. Strict. But harmless. 

And you’re only entertaining him now because he’s one of your last patients for the day. A fact not lost on him, but disregarded nonetheless. Even if you were just playing along, he knew there had to be more depth. All the masks in the world couldn’t hide that smile on your face.

His laugh breaks the tension. “I'm a yapper, not a liar...Am I yours?” He raises a brow. “You didn’t answer me earlier.”

His low tone carries an unspoken weight. Cryptic. Eerie. Needy. Almost calling you like a possession more frequently than ever.

It isn’t lost on you that his affections have blossomed as you’ve spent more time together. Visits are supposed to be 10, 15 minutes tops—collect vitals, serve meals, give meds, and avoid accidents. But Gojo? He drinks up your time. Going on 30, sometimes 45 minutes of routine maintenance and “extra care”. This wasn’t standard practice, but they didn’t tell you that, among other things when you accepted the position.

Every time you cross Gojo’s threshold, you’re reminded that you’re not actually supposed to be here. You’re just a nurse after all, not a therapist, and lacked the credentials to even begin to handle a patient like Gojo. But in the end, qualifications don’t matter when his staff has a famous history of running away. 

A fate shared by his previous nurse and therapist. Both fell victim to Gojo’s whimsical and relentless personality and suffered a mental breakdown from hell before quitting the ward. Capacity for hospitality completely shot, they nailed the coffin shut by ditching the healthcare industry altogether. 

And that was after only a few hours. 

In the beginning, you had absolutely no faith in yourself. Swore it was a sick joke as you couldn’t begin to fathom why they would even consider you for the job. 

You??

Gojo the Psycho’s nurse? It would’ve been easier to turn in your resignation right then to avoid living in hell.

You wondered how your life would change as you got to know the world’s most hated man. 

How long you would last—if he would let you. 

Anxiety and nausea gnawed at the back of your throat as time grew closer to meeting him. But eventually, after running the scenario in your head a million times over and trying to come up with some sort of plan or plea for your life, the day came, and you stood before the unpredictable man who looked like he saw right through you. 

Just the idea of being in Gojo’s presence is enough to let you know it’ll be unnerving. 

But the moment was…odd. 

Naturally, you wanted rely on book smarts and previous patient experiences to get you through what you knew would be a short and traumatic failed attempt at connection. But then you took a second to really look at Gojo, not study, but a kind of look that catches something…a conflict in his eyes—and instantly knew he was no ordinary patient. 

He was something you’d never met before, and any attempts to use a cookie-cutter facade would quickly be chewed up and spat out. 

So, you went with your gut—hoping to escape with some remnants of your sanity at least. 

Who knew you’d end up surprising not only yourself but also the Director and all the other staff in the ward who watched with held breaths? 

Gojo practically welcomed you with open arms. Flashing his pearly whites and dimples in a closed-eyed smile. You could hear a pin drop.

He didn’t bark, he didn’t bite. Only teased, feeding you sultry words with cunning lips until your face visibly flushed with blush. They didn’t warn you about charm. Debatibly the “worst” part about working with the blue-eyed lady-killer. Or that his devilishly handsome face would make you second-guess his sanity and guilt.

But you knew what this was. Or at least what it wasn’t and quickly put on blinders to every distraction he threw. Holding your breath the whole way through and surprising yourself every time you walked out his room. After your trial period had run for a few days with no mishaps—the opposite, really— you were promoted. And given a big, fat new check (certainly not for collateral). 

You didn’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or concern.

Congratulations! You were now in charge of Gojo’s physical AND mental health. 

Which meant longer, more thorough visits.

The idea was nerve-racking for weeks, to say the least. And because he has the nerve to be a karate-chopping ‘sorcerer’ or whatever it is that makes the man so dangerous, he needs careful safeguarding. Which means having his very own wing and accommodations in the ward. The only barriers between Gojo and doing whatever the hell he wants is one guard stationed near the entrance and some type of security system they can’t disclose to you. It’s supposed to suppress his abilities or something, you don’t quite understand itself yourself, but most importantly, it keeps him tame.

Still, choosing to grace his space almost daily always feels like tempting a snake. 

But somebody has to do it. 

And in a way, by his own means, offering a satisfied grin and all, Gojo had chosen you. 

Even in the confines of a cell, with seemingly nothing left to live for and no room for emotions, you, this wonder, have managed to catch his eye. In a way that made him want to sink his teeth in and soak up your attention. For reasons you couldn’t be more unsure of. 

“It would break my heart if it weren’t true,” he continues, sitting in the only chair in the room, “You’re my entertainment, you know? My doll to play with.”

You scoff, arms folding. The word doll echos in your ear like a chamber. That was a new one. 

“You sure talk a lot of game for someone in your situation.” 

“I love games.” He leans, eyes drinking in his favorite powdery blue scrubs that hug your frame in an all too professional manner. “Play with me, Nurse.”

Time belonged to Gojo, and he chooses to bide it with a little fun until release—or escape. His ever-changing mind hasn’t decided yet but it was far from a concern. Because the truth of this truce was painfully obvious. He knew he wouldn’t be here forever. And is quick to mention that he’d love to take you with him.

“If you can handle me.” He licks his lip. “Unless I’m too much for you.”

And there it is. That cool smile that sends shivers down spines. Irresistibly stirring your core every time he parts his lips. 

You hated it—no one could deny his charm or his intimidating presence. Even in chains, shackled and restrained, he maintains some kind of control: crumbling walls with his charisma, waving around his amorous, overassertive reputation like a big red flag.

But you’ve already proven to not be like the rest, easily swayed or reduced to puddles. Your wall is firm. Solid. He baits you time and time again—a smile here, a sinful gaze there—only to be met with dismissive yawns. Rousing something inside of him that deemed you a challenge. Something worth exploring. You were…difficult.

You’re the one who laughed this time, shaking your head and tucking a hair behind your ear. He oozes confidence from every fiber of his being—and bores you.

“Are you going to tell me what you’d like to lunch today or just keep bothering me?” 

And goddammit he has the audacity to grin. To tuck his lip under his teeth slow enough to make you catch it. 

Your insolence is adorable, yet maddening; a cocktail he drinks with delight before realizing how much he loves the taste. 

You were becoming really good at it, beating up his ego and turning a blind eye to his silly little flirts, but interest never faded from his gaze no matter how careless you seemed. Or were trying to. 

He tsks. “C’mon, Nurse. If I can’t have fun here, where can I? Besides,” Sunlight streams in from his barred window as if on cue. “You’re the only thing here worth talking about.”

Butterflies? Knots? Maybe both fill your stomach.

Neither can be good for you in a situation like this.

The dreamy words whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and stroke your ego with a delicate thumb. Soft and gentle—and from a shell of a man. 

A good turned evil. 

And you don’t have to look too far to remember how he got here—to remember why the enchanting man before you is dressed in heavy white restraints and public enemy number one. 

Guilt tugs at you for even joking around with him sometimes. You picture his victims. The lives forever changed. And how he didn’t seem sorry for it. 

Besides, even if Gojo wasn’t a basket-case, it’s hard to look past how childish he is anyway—something you heard has always been a part of him. Something you couldn’t imagine dealing with for too long, even casually. It certainly wasn’t your taste, and under different circumstances, you’d no sooner fall for him outside of these walls than you would now.

But above all of the boundaries, restrictions, and pep-talks you give yourself, is the simple fact that you aren’t the day-one nurse he once knew. Now, you have a backbone and don’t hesitate to remind him.

“You’re such a flirt, Patient Gojo.” You make sure to catch his eye when you say it, “But compliments only get you so far.”

Patient. 

It hangs in the air. Brisk and stale. A bit sour on the tip of your tongue. And acid in his ears.

With that, Gojo sits back, resting his cheek on a propped-up arm, gaze long and longing. Breathing slow as he thinks and nerves buzz between you two. Then his request comes, simple and direct.

“How about sushi? Raw and fresh.” And a psych ward delicacy.

He’s the only patient in the entire facility with such privilege—envy-worthy and used to his heart’s content. With full-scale unlimited access to all the gourmet treats and fine dining he could ever want, his meals are often better than the ones you bring to work. Gojo is above common hospital dishes, of course, and his indulgent appetite would accept nothing less. 

But it wasn’t just about the food, no, negotiating that was too easy and barely worth mentioning.

This is a conveniently constant reminder that he is still capable of influencing things and making decisions with ease, from those he’s allowed to have access to him, down to his choice of meal.

It intrigues you. How he subdues himself to the masses but finds meaning in smaller wins. What he finds significant.

But none of that mattered right now, you’d finally been given an order and another win, even if it felt like pulling teeth. For now, it’s time to feed him and let him believe whatever he wants.

You pick up his tray from this morning, scanning the room to make sure no cutlery or dishes are missing. “Sushi it is,” you wink and call to be let out.

None of his staff are allowed the room key as a preventative measure to keep his chances of escaping to a minimum. As if a door would stop him but a key does exist and you’ve only seen it on the day the Director introduced you two, and it looked nothing like the keys used for other rooms. 

When you come back with lunch, Gojo grows curious. Noticing how your body has relaxed over time, getting used to his presence every time you come in. Little nuisances like how you breathe a little easier in his space and sometimes smile with your eyes when he tells a stupid joke. The air is…changing. He wonders just how comfortable have you gotten?

“Finally back? I started to miss you.” It’s light but he can’t possibly resist testing the waters. “Would you like to eat with me, pet?” And it takes everything in you to suppress a visceral reaction.

He’s on a roll with the names today and you wonder what his affections might have been like in his life before. Sure, he’s a talker and a flirt, that much is obvious, but you wonder what his actual love was like? How did he show it if he ever got to? And if so, if he ever left anybody behind?

“You know the procedure, Gojo.” You wait with the tray in hand, brushing the thoughts away. Though the temptation savor what you knew would be premium cuisine begs you to do it, you know better than to start breaking boundaries now.

He deflates, brows furrowing. “Is it…really so necessary?” He knows the answer, of course.

You gesture for him to turn around but he holds your gaze, having a little stare down like he enjoys the silent confrontation. You raise an annoyed brow. “The food’s getting cold,” and tap the tray.

“It’s sushi.”

 You huff.

He smirks before finally facing the wall, stilling his body in the tight jacket. When you’re sure he won't move, you set his food to the side and slowly approach to attach him to the latch on the wall. 

Skilled fingers reach across his waist and you have to crouch a little to glide the heavy chain towards the loop at his hip. His skin flushes at your warmth, your proximity, as he can’t help but enjoy the intimacy of the routine power shift. Even if it was a sham, it was still one he reluctantly agreed to. To play nice. To be weak. 

But this exchange, giving himself over to your authority, was oddly invigorating—like placing himself in his victim’s shoes to get a minuscule taste of his own medicine.

“Well, don’t look so happy about it,” he chuckles. Relief finds your face as you gently tug on the chain to make sure it’s secure, amusing the man towering over you.

The thoroughness is cute, all a part of a job well done and strict boundaries that drive a heavy wedge between you two. But it doesn’t bother Gojo. Because he’s certain, he knows, that your guarded walls will crumble sooner than later. All it takes is patience.

“Remember, Nurse,” he doesn’t turn around, “Power dynamics….they’re fluid.” 

And you can almost hear the wink—the implied warning living on his slick tongue that pokes and prods with every interaction and sends heat to your rosy cheeks. 

“You have a way with words, Gojo.” Again your eyes roll as you reach for the key to his restraints. The shackles fall to the ground, shrilling in the mostly empty room to allow him to feed himself.

A mix of groans and relief escapes his lips as he relishes the freedom from the stiff leather. He sighs, “Thank you, Nurse.” and rubs his tender wrists before abruptly filling your space. Nearly knocking you off your feet, but stopping just shy of your face. The monstrous chains strain against the wall, playing tug of war with the beast of a man and the florescent lights cast a spotlight on the sudden distance between you two. 

You had never been this close. 

“But don’t forget, I can turn these roles around. Anytime.”

Twinkles play in his eyes, dazzling you with a shine so bright you can see your reflection. But you also see the unhinged nature behind them just as easily as he sees the quiver of your lip feeling his breath graze the curve of your neck and raise goosebumps on your skin.

This isn’t just idle banter. It’s a stark reminder of Gojo’s capabilities that you had grown comfortable enough to forget. That you thought maybe you had become the exception to. 

As he steps back and leans against the wall he could’ve torn down, there’s an unmistakable silence filling with tension. Hot and sharp like pins and needles. But instead of pushing you to run for the hills, to quit while you’re ahead and savor what’s left of the life you know, for once, your unrelenting mind dares to wonder where this twisted ballet will go.  

It kills you to admit that their is something interesting about cat-and-mouse game he thinks you’re playing. Just as his affections have grown, your thoughts push you to imagine what could happen if you were actually…caught..

It’s idiotic, you know. You don’t need a sign telling you not to play with your life.

This is Satoru fucking Gojo, for Godsake. The murderer. The villain. A literal stain on the face of humanity. 

Forget about what he may have been before. You never saw that Gojo, and he’ll never be seen again. 

Your motto has always been that everyone is redeemable—but these types, Gojo’s type, are so beyond saving that it feels more like babysitting than redeeming a mentally unstable murderous toddler who could destroy a city in seconds.

Even for a man who speaks so carelessly, but teases a sugary-sweet tongue, it’s easy to see how and why he ended up here. Life had made him an example.

Proving that too much of a good thing will always spoil.

And as you watch him turn a wink and begin to casually snack on his meal, completely unconcerned with you or your reaction or response, it’s plain to see that his “affections” spare no one. Not even you. 

You clear your throat and steady a breath. With the lightest voice you can muster, you remind him, “Empty threats are the best you can do, patient.” And turn to leave.

“I’ll be back later for your bath. Or maybe send someone else. Since you’re so excitable today.”  

He pauses. “Oh?”

Is that a challenge?

His laugh echoes around the room like something out of a cartoon, fading away just as quickly as it came. He leans back, hair blending into the wall as he licks bits of rice off his thumbs—gaze sharp despite the jest. 

Because the stakes are clear and you’re both aware. 

But in case you don’t know the consequences he asks, “Do I seem threatened to you?” 

You shift your weight. If Gojo is anything, he’s always playful. The man does not have a serious bone in his body, which makes him damn near intolerable sometimes, but it’s something you’re used to it. But not this tone. This tone has rocks in it, hard and heavy as he calls your bluff. 

“Because my threats—,” he continues eating, “—are never empty.” He pops the last roll into his mouth. “You sure you wanna do this?” 

There’s no denying the chill running up your spine at those words—playing out like casual banter over lunch instead of the battle royale it was.

As if the question were rhetorical, he adds, “Okay but like,” and coughs up another laugh, as if finding the entire idea ridiculous. “Who’d be dumb enough to replace you?”

To feed or not to feed? Now was a chance to bail out.

“Don’t worry about that.” And you don’t as you call to the guard, hoping to catch your break on time. “Just behave yourself.” Gojo would keep you here playing 20 questions all day if he could.    

A bemused smile settles on his face and he shakes his head at your antics. 

You were becoming increasingly enjoyable to interact with. And steadily digging yourself into a hole. You’ve been sitting front-row to the darkness within him enough times to be sure it is, in fact, very real, but still it’s impossible to ignore that there’s something driving you to pick up the shovel. 

It isn’t just his pretty face and boyish charm. No.

It’s like he wants to get under your skin. In the best way.

Yeahhhh, this death wish is turning you every way but loose.

It’s silly, so stupid to even think about. Giving Gojo a smidge of an inch just because you feel there may be something more. Like there’s depth to his pretty words and clashing ways. Who's to say any of it is “real” anyway? He is insane after all. 

Your mind and the door shut behind you, and you turn to peer at him through the small window. A mischievous yet bored look rests on his face. 

You think you actually will send someone else. Just to show him what happens when he crosses the line. To reinforce business and boundaries. 

You could also use a break yourself—Gojo is starting to feel… claustrophobic these days and if you aren’t careful who knows what could happen. 

“Choose wisely,” came his voice from within the room,. “Every move you make counts. And cheating has consequences.” Footsteps approach the door. “You may think tagging out is all it takes to avoid our game, but let me tell you something…” He stops. “...you underestimate how quickly I can escape confinement before I’m noticed.”

And suddenly, this isn’t just a game anymore. And Gojo isn’t just some harmless tease.

Your throat is too tight to swallow and you fidget with your lanyard as if responding to his words. 

Of course, he’s capable of breaking free. That’s not what’s worrying. But if it was because of you poking the bear, you trying to get on even ground with him and have the upper hand, would you be responsible if he did?

“No matter where they send you or who they send instead—” And Gojo’s comment makes it crystal clear. 

“—I promise you, you’ll end up right back here.”

extended angel's note: first and foremost, just to give credit where credit is due, this is a chatbot i turned into a short story🧍🏾‍♀️. it was actually my first time dicking around with janitor a.i. back in like...april? and i came across this gojo bot with a suuuuper interesting prompt. [all of the prompt idea and calibration credit goes to the original creator.] i didn’t decide to actually get serious and start creating a story until around the end of part 2 - i realized i was having too much fun and was in too deep 🙇🏾‍♀️. SO after my decision to indulge madness, i didn't want to run up 10000 messages on janitor a.i. and decided to create the rest of the story on my own from there.  everything after the prompt are my own words and i've had to weave every last bit of part 1 and 2 into a coherent story but everything afterwards is all me.

you can find the chatbot and play around with it yourself here but i strongly recomment doing so after finishing this short - think of it as a choose your own adventure afterwards in case you want my head on a stick after the ending 🤠.

tags list p.1: @reddiamondjazz @blkkizzat @kiwismoother @rune1920 @suguwife

@xerroe @enthyn @gloomuri671 @startatdawn @heijihatsutori

@inluvkai @ixqiix @strawnanamilk @rosso-seta @05-simply-06-simping

@sims-4lifers @bratidol @hyunsuks-beanie @luna-v-roiya @neteyamsluvr111

@supsiii @natadecoco30 @chiyokoemilia @ririoutspoken @kyoxko

@strawberrymilkshakes-posts @nen-nyy @cinnamorochiroll @kazeniya @maybe7tommorow

[slobber-teeth]

hi!!! your art amazes me. I wanted to ask, is your scarecrow design just a design or a developed OC? I would love to know more about the story if there is one! :)

HI THERE YOU'VE ACTIVATED MY TRAP CARD <3 you are very sweet for saying so!!

yes he is an oc!! or like, as much of an 'original character' as he can be, having been based off of the comics (mostly scarecrow: year one!!), but i've given him so much more lore and attention than dc has in years, so. y'know. mine now <3 i've been working on his story for abouutt a decade now?

MASSIVE loredump under the cut that i've copypasted from my still unfinished toyhouse page for him, alongside some gifted/traded/commissioned artwork of him!! cw: slavery, antiblack racism, child abuse, drug abuse, harm to children

artwork by @ emeraldfox11 !! (i love u emmyyyyy)

Jonathan Keeny Crane was born to a seventeen year-old Karen Keeny, daughter of the wealthy Keeny family, and Gerald Crane, a slave working on the Keeny’s plantation, in Arlen, Georgia. She abandoned Jon with her mother (Marion Keeny) and grandmother (Mary Keeny) before skipping town to seek a new life elsewhere. Gerald was drafted in the Vietnam War shortly after Jon was born, and died in the line of service. Jon shouldered a lot of hate from his grandmother and great-grandmother, who took their anger with Karen out on him from the day he was born. Great Granny Keeny was a bitter widow who abused everyone around her, most of all Jon for the circumstance of his conception, and held lofty standards for Jon despite believing he would never accomplish her idealized version of him. When Marion had finally had enough of Mary’s abuse she also fled the state, and Great Granny Keeny’s malice narrowed down to the only member of her family left, Jon.

Due to his upbringing, Jon developed a passion for psychology, specifically the psychology of fear and child psychology. In his mind he considered fear to be the root of all psychological ailments, and figured that if he could conquer fear, he would be able to help himself– and more importantly to him, other children who had gone through experiences similar to his. He had in some form already decided by the age of fourteen that he was a lost cause; that the damage that had been done to him was irreparable. Still, this feeling of hopelessness would be much lesser compared to what was to come.

While his childhood was terrible, adolescence brought a few good things into Jon’s life. At age fourteen he had already learned to drive the old family truck, and the freedom this granted him was a solace. He was too terrified by his Great Granny to ever defy her (which would be all too easy considering the frailty of age) but between running errands for her he would take two hour drives to the nearest city– Atlanta. There Jon developed a greater sense of self at late-night discotheques, finally able to socialize with other Black people, especially gay Black men like himself.

At age seventeen Great Granny Keeny finally bites the dust. Jon is listless, unsure what to do as he still feels the weight of her abuse on his psyche, but eventually he makes up his mind. He applies to Gotham University, writes essays for scholarships, and after days has summoned up the courage to bury his great grandmother. With her in the dirt, it’s hard to be afraid anymore– but Jon is superstitious and has nightmares for the rest of his life about her ghost. He buries the deed to the house (and the land) with her and only takes a few heirloom jewelry pieces before burning the degrading mansion down. With cash from the pawned jewelry, he takes his truck on a fourteen hour road trip to Gotham.

Jon is much more accustomed to city life. Gotham is a shit-hole, of course, but he carries the courage of knowing that he has most likely gone through the worst of his life, and nothing that might happen to him could compare to that. He studies chemistry and psychology while in University, working at the campus library in what little free time he had left after studying, and graduates magna cum laude in both his preferred subjects. After that is medical school, and with his sights now set on becoming a child psychologist, he takes a residency at Arkham Asylum’s children’s ward. It’s there he meets and bonds with a young Tommy Elliot, who was on a seventy-two hour hold after his mother admitted him on the account of the eight year-old boy refusing to eat, sleep, or clean himself because he claimed he was ‘dead.’ With therapy it’s revealed Tommy is experiencing symptoms of Cotard’s Delusion, triggered by the murder of his mob-affiliated family (his mother and him being the only two spared.) Jon also learns Tommy had been abused by his father, and his mother took no action to protect him from said abuse. Seeing himself and his traumatic childhood in Tommy, Jon works hard to not only help Tommy get better, but also put together a document requesting Tommy be placed in a foster home and his mother denied custody.

Despite the best of Jon’s efforts, Tommy is discharged and placed back in his mother’s custody. Jon feels like a failure for not being able to save the child from further abuse, as well as feeling enlightened to how poorly the government works. This failure increases Jon’s fixation on the psychology of fear, and he transfers out of the children’s ward staff to the general population of Arkham, where he begins studying and experimenting on how far fear controls the mind.

By the time Jon’s residency is done he’s concocted the idea for Fear Toxin, a liquid (and later, gaseous) drug that inspires pure terror in those injected with it. Thoughts of pursuing a career as a child psychologist are pushed aside in favor of perfecting his new drug and experimenting on himself, subjecting himself to nightmarish hallucinations just to mentally conquer the experience. He believes that injecting folks with certain mental illnesses will grant them the opportunity to conquer their ailments, too. The absurdity of this idea is lost on him between his severe depression after failing Tommy, and the hard drugs he has been abusing in order to alleviate himself from the psychological pain.

Paying for the equipment and raw chemicals to make Fear Toxin (not to mention his own recreational drug habits) takes a toll on Jon’s funds, so when Gotham U reaches out to offer him a position as professor of their psychology department, he agrees. Jon teaches for around four years while he continues his personal downward spiral. It all comes to a point when he brings a loaded gun into the classroom and fires it into the air to teach his students a thing or two about real terror. He’s promptly fired, and without tenure, Jon resorts to petty robbery in order to fund his work– thus, the Scarecrow is born. Stealing from ATMs becomes large-scale heists against pharmaceutical plants, and along the way Jon begins to use Fear Toxin to incapacitate his opponents in lieu of experimenting only on himself. Jon spends years creating different variations of Fear Toxin and torturing the public with his mad science– some blends are subtle enough that any hallucinations experienced seem completely unprompted, while others are created specifically to kill, causing so much shock to the system that victims literally die of fright.

Every variation has been personally tested by Jon, and that paired with his trauma, depression, and drug abuse results in a severe degradation of emotions. At age forty-five, Jon now suffers from alexithymia and apathy. He injects or huffs Fear Toxin almost all of the time in order to encourage his battered mind and body into function, as well as to try and coax some emotional response out of his body. What emotions he does feel, he feels weakly, and in the years to come he will have become completely immune to fear (which is no longer the great boon he had once imagined.) His morals erode alongside his mind and body to the point where he’s morally accepting of harming children, a line he formerly refused to cross. ....there is still like so much i could say about him relating to his relationships with the other rogues, his gender identity, his experiences growing up, his taste in music... feel free to ask specific questions!!

[incesthemes]

considering each episode as an allegory for sam and dean's story has done irreparable damage to my psyche. if bugs is about cursed land and if bugs is about sam and his relationship to his father, his family, then bugs is about how sam's body (his "land") has been cursed, later even confirmed to be by his ancestors just as oasis plains was cursed by its ancestors. mary sacrificed sam's body to azazel, poisoned him, sent him to the slaughter. you can't break a curse, you can only outrun it. the fact that sam and dean were stuck within the curse only solidifies the connection: they're fruitlessly fighting the literal curse while sam fights the metaphorical curse within him. it's an episode about sam and his anger at john, about dean and his loyalty to john, about how they're both wrong in different ways. it's an episode about family and ancestors and killing your children, making your lands infertile so no future generations can survive on them. it's an episode about sam.

and it comes right before home, the episode which presents with full, explicit confirmation that sam has developed psychic powers. there's evil inside him and he's scared—"what's happening to me?"—and he's uncertain about himself, his past, and his future. the episode that reveals his psychic powers is the episode they return to their childhood home, is the episode where mary's ghost makes an appearance. sam was cursed by mary and their home was made inhospitable; she forced them out like the white man forced out the euchee.

and it comes right after hook man, the episode which wraps sam's feelings of being cursed in sinful, evil, religious language, which shows his deference to the christian god, which implies there's something evil within him that's hurting the people he loves. sam is evil, sam is cursed, sam is harboring something bad within him and the way to absolve him of his sins is to pray for divine retribution and punishment, for death, because the thing inside of sam is inextricable from himself, is bound to him.

all three episodes are about family and repeating curses, the echoes of harm carrying through generations. all framed through sam's relationship to john, to his past, to the people who came before him he knows nothing about. all culminating in the revelation that sam's fears are coming true and the curse he mentioned two episodes ago is real and it's getting worse and no one knows how to stop it.

but you can't break a curse. you can only get out of the way.

[asurrogateblog]

David's Role in The Wall

as always my favorite hobby is Reading Into Things about the concert tour of the wall, and this week's topic is: "since roger is clearly supposed to be playing pink, then 'who' - if anyone - is david?" obviously david sings a good portion of the songs, and in the audio-only album its easy to say "they're both pink who cares" but in the live show, the audience isn't just listening, they're also essentially watching a play, so it matters if two different people have 'lines' for the same character***

...and one interesting thing I noticed is that david never sings lines in which pink is speaking directly to another character. whenever it's his turn, he's either speaking to no one in particular (young lust), as a voice pink has internalized (mother), is physically obstructed by the wall (hey you), or is singing at the same time as roger (run like hell). when its time for pink to actually speak out loud, roger takes over. "well what about comfortably numb?" nobody asks. well, if you watch the concert videos, when david begins his verses in comfortably numb, roger (playing the doctor) freezes still – indicating that pink is thinking that, not saying it.

my conclusion from all of this is that yes, they are both pink, but its not arbitrary. roger is the "real" pink***, and david is a storytelling device that represents pink's internal dialogue, as well as different facets of his psychology that were not outwardly expressed during the album's events.

(***remember that "in the flesh?" takes place at the opening of one of pink's concerts, so during the shows for the actual tour of the wall, the concert itself is -part of- the storyworld. the live show is not roger telling the audience pink's life story, it's pink (played by roger) telling the audience his own life story. the narrative implications of this have done irreparable damage to my psyche)

[ceasarslegion]

My roommate and I have been sitting here discussing coffee creamer guy for the last 10 minutes. Given the average limit for human stomach capacity is between 2-4L, coffee creamer has a high density, and planes famously tend to make people a bit nauseous, I said 'you just know that guy is throwing up later'. My roommate says that for the average person, this may be likely, but they think they could do it, and if this guy did it, maybe he had reason to believe he could, too. It has sparked a mild debate and they said they want to know if you think you could do it too.

Anyway thanks for sharing because our household is now plagued with thinking about that guy and it has caused irreparable damage to the collective psyche.

Hi! Im glad i caused a calamity sharing a work story that will plague me until the day i die

Allow me to recite how this moment went for me, just for all of your amusement.

Picture me. I'm tired. It's the end of my shift on the second last day of my work week, and I'm stationed on the position everybody hates whether they are officer or passenger: the guy who picks people at random. This sucks.

The next guy who walks in has one bag, nobody is with him, he looks nice. Yay! I won't get yelled at! Come with me sir, come come! I'll get you past that line, i just need to rifle through your bag real quick okay :))

He's not rude. He's friendly. We talk about our days and i go through the pockets of his backpack top down, and I find a 2L bottle of delight brand caramel machiatto flavored coffee creamer. Oh no! Sorry sir, that's way too big to go :(( the good news is that you can still give it to like a family member or friend outside of the checkpoint if you dont want to get rid of it

He goes "oh its fine, that's my bad" and i let him consider it as i get my hands back in there. I hear a popping noise. I look back up. He has popped the lid and is now throwing his head back and drinking it like a squeeze bottle of gatorade after a hard workout. This man is suckling caramel machiatto flavored creamer like a newborn calf that owns Beck's Odelay on vinyl. He is not stopping. I can't look away. I... I guess that's allowed. I am vaguely upset and making a face one can best describe as ":/"

I finish his bag. He finishes the creamer. He looks a little pale. He asks where the garbage is. I scan his boarding pass and point to the garbage and stutter out "uh... line number 3 when you're done."

He says thanks, grabs his stuff and goes. My supervisor jumpscares me and asks if I want to sit on x-ray for a bit. I'm off in half an hour. I watched that guy drink coffee creamer for 8 minutes. Sure, yeah. I'll do x-ray. Whatever.

To answer your question no, i have IBS. I would violently shit myself for hours at a time if i tried to attempt this. I'm sure he's having a great plane ride as we speak now that his arteries no longer exist

[nyminish]

Thoughts on Joseph/Cartaphilus?

Oh boy what a loaded question...

I am not very good at making my thoughts too cohesive but I hope that I can at least make my overwhelming thoughts somewhat understandable.

And actually I'm gonna put all that rambling under the cut cuz BOY is this spoiler heavy

First and foremost, it seems since the fusion between the two that Joseph is the one primarily conscious? I'm gonna have to watch the first season again as I was a little confused about that. But considering that's how I'm understanding it, I'll be referring to the fusion of the two of them as Joseph unless stated otherwise.

Joseph is a fucked up guy. The experiments he conducted gave me the same icky feeling as that scene in Full Metal Alchemist when we find out Nina was alchemically fused with her dog... Wow...

That being CONSTANTLY in my mind when I say he's my favorite character.

From the moment the gravedigger Joseph fused with Cartaphilus, his life was constant pain. The things he had to do just to try and alleviate the pain he was experiencing would've done irreparable damage to anyone's psyche. That's why he lacks empathy and the reason he does what he does.

When I see Joseph, take away the fantastical world that he's in and that fact that he's immortal and... He's a guy with chronic debilitating pain. Add back that he's immortal and he's been dealing with this for a VERY long time. I don't know exactly when the fusion between Cartaphilus and Joseph takes place but I know Cartaphilus has been around for thousands of years. If Joseph has been hurting for even half of that, I do feel bad.

Maybe that's why it was so satisfying to see him sleeping in Elias's well? The giant nest of a bed he has down there is so cozy. And I think that's what he needed. Somewhere to sleep through the pain. And yeah maybe he's a little bored or whatever but he's staying down there so... *shrug*! Seeing him all cozy in that bed makes me almost forget the atrocities.

Now another anon was talking about how him and Chise are foils of each other and after I finally(!!!) finished season two I understand what they're talking about.

I wish I knew how to articulate what I'm feeling!!! But seeing that conversation Chise and Joseph had at the end of season two about being selfish and wondering what the right thing to do was- it really hit me. The struggle of everyone telling Chise she should be selfish because of her trauma and then Joseph being TOO selfish. And it's like.... How much is too much? Where is the line on how selfish someone can be? At what point are you the bad guy for wanting to care about yourself instead of others? And sometimes... Knowing you've grown and healed will make you the bad guy in the eyes of the people who were terrible to you.

Now that last sentence wasn't something that was brought up in the anime but!!! It is part of my speculation of where the story could be going. I'm excited to see Chise make mistakes and learn along the way. As well as what the hell Joseph is cooking up in that fucked up brain of his between his naps.

And for reading everything I give a little drawing from my sketchbook of our sleepy guy

(Also did anyone else catch that Joseph hates the cold... Maybe because it makes his flare ups worse and those are the days he hurts the most 👀)

[poptod]

i don’t usually talk about my private life unless it interferes with my writing or maybe inspires it, but i wanted to share something with you all. i talk a lot—because i want you to understand—so i will put this under a read more

well, it’s been a tumultuous two or so years since moving with my parents to this beach town in CA. some very good, some incredibly bad. and… it’s coming to an end. it’s a very complicated story and i suppose i don’t really want to share all the details, but i think i will share the big parts

like most people i have a complicated relationship with my parents. they are very kind but they also have done some irreparable damage to my psyche, like a lot of parents do. and maybe irreparable is the wrong word because i do forgive them, but regardless i will be moving out of this home without their knowledge.

i tried to do it once and i got caught. who i thought was my best friend decided to tell my parents and i got yelled at and berated for weeks, and my dreams crushed. i was going to go to egypt. i was going to go with my partner, my soul partner, who lived in another country. don’t worry, i met her in real life first while i was traveling. but.. i was going to go to egypt! the land of my Deities! my beautiful Gods Nefertem and Nuit, Hapy, Heka, Khonsu, and Amun… all of Them. Their beautiful faces. carved in the stone of Kemet. my parents never would have let me go but i was ready, i was willing, i would give up anything i own to be there in egypt with my Gods and my love. and then my friend, who was living in my room since he didn’t want to live with his parents, told my secret and nearly had my passport taken away permanently. he left my house and i can’t talk to him anymore because i won’t. can’t stand his words or his voice. but i forgive him.. i just don’t want to communicate with him anymore. i wish him the best.

i travelled to my ancestral homeland of korea after the separation and heartbreak. i visited many Buddhist temples and learned and engrained myself more with the act of worship and the Buddhas teachings; i fell in love with worshipping. i fell in love with the temples. and i revisited the ideas i’d learned in the sixth grade—idea of giving things up. of releasing material want, which leads to the cessation of dukkha. the idea is beautiful. and i think it’s accurate. stopping our desires for material things of this world will stop our suffering; suffering emanates from our greed. fear emanates from greed. in the end what matters is our connections to people, and in this case, my connection to my Love and my Deities. in korea, i found the knowledge, independence, and courage that has allowed me to bring to realization what i want not from this world, but from my life.

and now i’m trying again. i’m telling no one of my plan. actually, two people know—one is my closest friend of eight years who lives five hours north of me. another is someone i vetted thoroughly to confirm his ideology and make sure he wouldn’t tell my parents. and actually, he supports me! he almost admires my decision, the courage to get what you want despite the odds. and he is helping me. he’s a blessing from Hathor, an aid of Khonsu to help me travel to the airport to see my Love and my holy land.

there is no greater excitement than this! i will be able to feel the Nile through my feet and hands and hair. and the light of Amun-Re and Khons will shine on my face. and my love will hold my hand. does it seem like a fantasy? well, the world is love, the world is hate… the world is what you make of it. i know people who have easy lives and are incredibly depressed. and there is my Love, who has had an incredibly hard life and will talk much about it, but she is incredibly happy. she is enlightened. i want to be like her—i want to be with her.

do i sound insane? probably. but i’ve learned being crazy is a good thing. especially for writers. i don’t know how many more stories i will write about our beloved Ahkmenrah. i still have the Breeding Kings to finish as well as the Night Grows Dim. then i have a story i want to write about Nabataeans, and i might write a long forgotten story i used to call Hiding in the Light. i hope i will get published some day but it’s not my greatest desire. my greatest desire is to see the world with unending clarity, to know things as they truly are; in other words, to be enlightened. to worship my Deities. this is my path towards that.

to put it in perspective, i have two paths. literally two. i can follow what my parents ask of me; go to college, get a job, work for a long while, and then i can travel when i happen to get free time once a year for one or two weeks at a time. i can settle down in america without my Love; she is already a refugee in israel and can’t move to america. so i would be alone. this path has its good parts. my parents will love me, so will my grandparents. i’ll be well-off with many physical belongings tying me to this realm (which is debatably good thing—bad thing in my eyes), and i will be a normal person. how delightful.

the other path is the one i am choosing. i am going to follow my dreams, which is a terrifying thing to hear a 19 year old say. but i didn’t even think i’d live this long. i’ve healed so much. and this will further my healing. i wonder if it is possible for you to understand… maybe not. it’s difficult to comprehend. but i want you to know. i want you to understand. and it’s not because i want you to know what’s going on (though i do of course), actually it’s selfish, because i want to be understood, very desperately i want to be understood because no one except my friend who is driving me to the airport understands me. and even he is a little on the edge with it despite fully supporting me. this feeling of desire to be understood fades slowly from my life, little by little. i come to realize—or perhaps question—is it worth it? most people are incredibly close minded. most people live their lives blind to happiness and the truth of the world. most people do not even care about themselves. and i do not want to end up like that. that is not the future i’ve worked so hard to heal myself for.

everything will go. and all will change.

someday i will die. someday my love will die. someday all my possessions will be dust. someday this land will erupt in lava or sink into the crevices of earthquakes, or maybe it will slowly fade into the ocean. someday this earth will be unrecognizable. someday, our home will not seem like our home at all, and the only indication that we ever existed will be stones in the shape of our skeletons, and maybe even those will not exist. and someday the earth will be gone. our sun will implode, and the black love of space will enshroud everything. at that point, i really don’t want to be walking around talking about how i went to college. i don’t even want to be talking about how i managed to run away from america and go to egypt.

i want to be learned. i want to see it all in its beauty as the earth dies in its many wondrous colors—i want to smile as the sun evaporates into particles of gold, i want to understand this cycle and it’s end. and the way to get here—to this sense of bliss and enlightenment—is to separate from what the modern world wants me to be.

listen to me very well, because no one ever really does this—you have to live.

please live. this word carries weight like love; which means that not many understand it’s depth. you know it’s definition. but the meaning of it is indescribable and beautiful like a supernova the size of a galaxy.

You have to love. You have to live. Please.

[crescent-cubed]

learning about the concept of the public domain has done irreparable damage to my psyche bc i am now unable to think up original stories without my brain suggesting famous characters to throw in there

[realbeefman]

revising a story for my creative writing class where i write normal stories that aren't fanfiction and coming to the devastating realization that the character i'm writing is just. thirteen if she was a cryptobro. the damage hate crimes md has done to my psyche is genuinely irreparable

[savorypink]

“welcome to the sf podcast, its mike here and today we are welcomed by alex turner of sweetener!”

“ey, glad to be here.”

“alex, you recently released an album, suck it and see! its amazing to see you venturing into music, but we hope you won’t leave the porn industry. the song ‘love is a laserquest’ caught our attention. is it about your girlfriend, bling?”

“i hope not, cause in the song its over.”

i hope im not bothering u w these short stories 💗 i remembered the thing he said abt lial and i had to do it with bling and al

you’re not bothering me dw!! 😭 this has done irreparable damage to my psyche /pos

[yurissweettooth]

5 Comfort Characters, 5 Tags

Thank you @grandmaswormsoup for tagging me! �� Even though I am responding like a week late lol

It is super super hard to narrow it down because I have so many and they change at any given time but here are a small selection of some of the current ones in no particular order (minus Yuri, he's number 1 always):

1.) Yuri Petrov (Tiger&Bunny)

Not even gonna open this can of worms, it is well known that I am absolutely unhinged about him in every conceivable way. 💙💚

2.) Anders (Dragon Age 2 but also Awakening to a lesser extent)

He is almost tied to Yuri for me. He has done irreparable damage to my psyche and I just love him so dearly and am so invested in him and I want nothing more than for him to be happy and heal and be loved and accepted.

3.) Zagi (Tales of Vesperia)

Certified little freak. Will tear a man to shreds in the queerest way imaginable. What more can I say? He was a minor and slightly goofy character but his vague story and it's tragic undertones left a big impact on me.

4.) Sebastian Vael (Dragon Age 2)

As much as I tend to disagree with him and love to dunk on him, I actually think he's kinda neat and he has the most of amount of HCs and AUs in my head of any DA character. I was captivated by his often overlooked pathetic charm and I think I can fix him (or make him worse. or both). He takes up an inordinate amount of space in my brain.

5.) Merrill (Dragon Age 2)

Would die for her, actually. As an autistic person I feel a very strong connection to her. She is a lot smarter and more complex than she's often given credit for (both in the game and in the fandom) and she makes me feel a wide range of emotions. Amazing character, she deserves the absolute world <3

Tagging (only if you want to! feel free to ignore!): @ormspryde @ivorymoon3 @lulalou @vivispec and @crush3dmary and anyone else who would like to participate!

[curiousred44-blog]

Me Time....#freedomfromfear

Dear dear hearts....those who wear their hearts on sleeves, in their smiles, with words, with gestures....with open arms and open minds....isn't it time?  Isn't it time you took a little time for you?Isn't it time you remember who you are without the monster?Isn't it time you remember what you are without the abuser?Without the games...without the fear....without that deep-in-the-gut sickness that pervades every waking moment and many times your sleeping ones too...Without the sorrow...without the confusion that permeates your mind, regularly....Without the bitterness of knowing you are not the one they choose, not the only.....no, their need for perversion and online addiction controls their actions, their choices.I could go on ad nauseam but I will spare you dear friends as I am preaching to the largest choir in the history of mankind, to date.  I could relate story after story after story...of the many women I have come in contact with who have suffered greatly at the hands of the monsters that walk among us, disguised as sheep...disguised as people who care...disguised as happy, funny men who switch gears in the privacy of their own home.  Cowards....every one.   I have been lost in self reflection the past few days....lost in fear and loathing....lost in remembering who I AM.  Do you know how pervasive the damage?  I am lost within a mind I no longer remember...no longer recognize as my own.  I walk amidst a dark and foreign land, searching and crying for the woman I was before the abuse, before the mind-f*ckery, before the monster/s stepped into my life.  The damage done....I am lost within my own mind, my own heart and I fear some days that I will never find my way...the landscape has changed so drastically and so permanently I am forced to make new paths, new in-roads into a psyche that I am unfamiliar with. This...this dear people, is the damage done by the hand that reached out in love...until with slight of hand brings hate, brings discord...confusion...the fear of someone you believed had your best interests at heart, from the hand meant to protect not harm...do you see how just these few things mentioned can cause irreparable harm to the recipient?The victim/survivor is forced to re-think, re-shape and re-write all they've known prior...it no longer has place to grow or thrive within the hot mess the monster has created. And so we circle back to compassion, we call to mind the many small kindnesses and begin the journey to forgiveness...not just for the abuser/s in our lives, but for ourselves.The shame, the embarrassment, the absolute self-recriminations that circle in a constant bid to be heard...cringe-worthy thoughts that must be brought out to examine and with a gentle love be released....over and over and over again until they no longer have power to debilitate.  It is a process... a long one for some, depending on the experience and length of time they were under control of the evil that led them by the nose, by that fickle organ...the heart.My plea today is this....be kind and do not judge anyone who has been through the fire and walked away, burned, scorched and scarred, but alive.There is no timeline, there can be no timeline....the victim/survivor must never be made to feel shame or told they 'just need to be ok.'  They haven't been ok for a very long time and finding their way through a space that should be theirs, and only theirs.... but which holds no familiarity any longer is a devastatingly painful undertaking.  Be patient dear friends.  To others as well as yourself.  Take the time to do even the smallest of things that bring life and joy back to your soul.Thank you....to all who speak life and love over the suffering, over the un-lovable (so the thinking goes), and over the unreachable. You are reaching them, they do hear you....a surfeit of love is needed to guide the lost back to a land of hope, faith and love. Thank you.....

[spxnglr]

THE NEWS THAT HUMANS HAD BEEN ACCEPTED INTO THE ACADEMY, IF ONLY BRIEFLY, GENUINELY SURPRISED HIM. Even for him, one who was willing to venture to every known and unknown corner of the universe and beyond for the sake of knowledge, available texts on Gallifrey were irritatingly scarce. His travels with The Doctor had proven to utilise a very mixed bag of tidbits; yes, they'd been birthed (or loomed, they'd always been very vague with which version of their origin story was true) and lived their most formative years on Gallifrey - but they'd turned renegade, something that was deemed as nothing short of shameful in the eyes of their native planet. So, while they'd answered some of his questions, he was all too aware that their perspective was always going to be skewed, the potential for even the faintest ebbs of resentment to filter through into their words ever-present. That wasn't even taking into account that, at a certain point in their lives, they'd witnessed the supposed destruction of Gallifrey - did Carmen know about that? Regardless, he would keep his lips firmly sealed, understanding that the fabric of time was, in that respect at least, too delicate to risk such recklessness.

THUS, WHEN HE AND CARMEN WERE STILL ESTABLISHING THE EXACT DYNAMICS OF THEIR BOND, HE WOULD'VE BEEN LYING IF HE'D SAID THAT HIS INNATE THIRST FOR DATA HAD IN NO WAY DRIVEN HIM TOWARDS HER. Such a thirst would never be truly quenched, that he'd accepted for a while now, his own pitiful years of existence little else than a blip insofar as time was concerned...but what had started as skepticism towards her character, and a need to keep a watchful eye on her, had morphed into...something else. Something all the more comforting to him. Yes, she was a being who was perfectly capable of keeping herself safe, but - his wary gaze was now one of protection, and wonder. Here sat the most complex, cryptic, beautiful person he'd ever met. Would he ever decipher her in the same way as he'd done The Doctor? No, not in his singular lifetime - but, for once, not having all the cards didn't matter to him, especially given the uncharacteristically vulnerable side she was now displaying.

❝ I trust you completely, Carmen. ❞

HER WORDS HAD COME FROM THE HEARTS - SO IT WAS ONLY RIGHT THAT HE OFFER JUST AS SINCERE A RESPONSE. Granted, he wasn't one for expressing himself as elegantly as she could - emotions presented themselves as social stumbling blocks every now and again - but he made a clear point of maintaining eye contact, something he almost never possessed the ability to do with anyone else, his hand subconsciously reaching for her own...only to pause, the reminder of her own reluctance to engage in physical touch rekindling itself in his psyche, before he withdrew it altogether.

❝ I know how strong your powers are - but I'm not afraid. Not of you. If anything, I should be afraid of myself, and how weak my psyche has the potential to be... ❞

WHAT IF HE WAS RENDERED INSANE? What if, in spite of Carmen's best efforts, their exchange brought about irreparable damage to his state of mind? Then what? All his work to try and understand time, the universe, everything that only a select few of his kind had ever had the honour of being shown, would've been for nothing. The thought curdled in his stomach like milk....a hardened expression soon drifting onto his features. No. He wasn't just a human. He'd proven that time and time again over the course of his life. Every expectation, exceeded. Every doubt, proven wrong. If nothing else, this was just another opportunity to demonstrate just what he was capable of - and Carmen believed in him. That alone was enough to shatter any hesitancy to smithereens.

❝ Do it. ❞

WORDS UTTERED WITH A RENEWED CONVICTION. One that signaled that he was clearly not in a position to question himself anymore.

❝ Give me what you know I want. ❞

A quiet, genuine laugh escapes her, her gaze softening as her fingers flex minutely in a rare glimpse of anxiety under her calm exterior at the apparent rejection of her offer - it's not one she makes lightly, or without thought for his safety, after all. She likes this human, and that alone is enough to ensure she did keep his best interests in mind while willingly offering him a glimpse into her mind.

"As much as I am sure there are plenty who would loathe for me to admit it, there are Time Lords who are not Gallifreyan, Dr. Spengler," she offers, a wry smirk tugging at her lips as she reveals another crumb of her own peoples' truths. "My own dear cousin, Romanadvoratrelundar, opened our Academy to other species, for a time, during her presidency. There were humans among the students - in fact, one of the instructors was human herself, though she did not hail from Earth."

She pauses then, shaking her head at the thought of a time nearly lost to her - too risky to return to Gallifrey then, no matter how much she longs to at times. With a soft sigh, she leans a little closer to him, watching him as intensely as ever as she continues, "I value your mind as it is - it is a rare and beautiful thing to behold, even in the faintest glimpses through your own words and actions alone. I would do nothing to knowingly endanger you. I do not intend to open my mind to you unfiltered - doing so could easily kill you outright, and well..."

A wistful look momentarily flickers over her features, for once not keeping her emotions so hidden behind the mask that so many of her kind are expected to maintain. "I like coming here," she admits quietly, surprisingly straightforward for a change. "I like coming here for you, specifically. It is... not what I expected, at first, and yet... I would not see any harm come to you, if it is within my power to prevent it. Especially from myself..."

"I asked if you trust me... because to show you even a glimpse of my mind, I would have to protect yours from mine at the same time. I am a danger to you - I will admit that, as much as I do not like it being so."

Her gaze lowers to stare at her gloves, her smirk fading as she seems resigned to needing to keep her distance. As she speaks once more, her tone is quiet, subdued, as she notes, "I would have sought to protect your mind as diligently as I do my own. I would have gone mad myself long ago if I did not have control over the connections once they were made, given what I was expected to do for the Agency. I have deliberately torn minds asunder on the command of those who I used to serve..."

Looking at him once more, her gaze searching as she meets his. "I would never willingly do such to you, Egon," she murmurs, for once dropping the formalities of his title and surname as she says his name.

[lyctorism]

never EVER ask me how i feel about the star wars sequels because i will get so MAD that they made a masterpiece like the force awakens and then because some fucking tasteless nerds were mad that “they’re just making the same story three times” we got some awful fucking pile of shit with no plan, no meaning, no value where KYLE, the VILLAIN of the story, mind rapes rey with the force (as sith inquisitors and such do, as machinations of evil) and becomes “redeemed” by the end with a love plot. where rey, with her story paralleling both luke and anakin’s upbringings gets a story WORSE than being a “nobody” that has no depth or awareness other than to give her “scary evil powers :(”. where FINN, who was standing there THE WHOLE TIME, gets no development, no confirmation of force sensitivity (which he HAS), shafted for a boring entitled white villain with daddy issues, and reduced to nothing by the plot where he was given a central role in the original. poe reduced to an reckless idiot with no loyalty to principles outside his dedication to the rebellion. luke bastardized so heavily to the point where he’s practically an entirely different person AND he dies for nothing. no caring mentor arc with rey OR finn. no legacy outside the ONE availing redeeming aspect of rey taking the title as “rey skywalker” in the last three minutes of the last movie.

it’s awful. it’s terrible. i think about it too often after so many years. done irreparable damage to my psyche. imagine what we could of had. it keeps me up at night sometimes fr