#what a difference exposure training can make

[mozart-the-meerkitten]

me, hyped up about Star Trek Enterprise again after finishing my beloved season 3: I wonder if there are any posts about it on tumblr *searches*

me, twenty minutes later, closing the results: ah. I see. it has suffered from fandomification, where fans threw out canon and replaced it with fanon. one hundred and thirty seven polls asking "what was your first/favorite star trek" and it is at the bottom of every one. this between 14million other posts about every other star trek series. some funny memes thrown in for ~flavor~. great. wonderful. I'll just go back into my happy little corner with my parents who unironically enjoy the show with me then.

[whirlybirbs]

— CAN'T WE BE SEVENTEEN? ; shoto todoroki ; 焦凍

summary: he's loved you since he was seventeen. pairing: f!reader x pro hero!shoto ; reader was a 1-A student tags: mutual pining, heavy make-out, thinly veiled sugar daddy shoto, reader does not go pro, touya might be a dick but he's a hero now, shoto is bad at feelings wordcount: 5.6k a/n: i do not fucking know what came over me, enjoy your food my little todorokinas. yes the title is what you think it is. no i will not elaborate.

You never did go pro.

Truthfully, you thought there would be more pushback when, in your senior year, you announced your plan to pursue a degree in early childhood education with a focus on non-conforming quirk development. 

The War changed a lot. It changed you, your classmates, and the world. But, through it all one thing stuck with you:

What if someone helped Tenko Shimura?

How different would his life have been? How different would history have spun? 

You graduated at the top of your class and joined the faculty at Chiba Prefectural Preparatory School for Quirk Specialties two years ago. 

Chiba Prep was opened eight years ago in response to a societal cry for more infrastructure around what was dubbed "non-conforming quirks": a nice way to say quirks that can injure, maim, or kill. Maybe even all three on a bad day. Some parents still see their child being labeled as a non-conforming quirk user in the national database as akin to social suicide. 

You see it differently.

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

Not so seventeen anymore, Shoto Todoroki. 

[ofbatsandballads]

i love you, i’m sorry

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

warnings: injured character, explicit descriptions of wounds, brief mention of reader having a panic attack, emotional angst, bad dad Bruce implied

a/n: i just feel like jason showing up half dead at your door would be a massive turning point in your relationship, y’know? can be read as a successor to this or as a standalone.

divider credit: saradika

When Red Hood comes to you, he’s almost always hurt. You’ve learned to keep a first aid kit that would make any hospital jealous and with no formal training you’ve picked up skills that rival that of an army medic. Over the last year, you’ve seen gashes, bruises, concussions, even a dislocated shoulder.

You have never seen anything like this.

You spot him the second you walk through your front door. He’s slumped against the wall just below your window. His armor has gashes in it and blood steadily drips from the tears. There’s more blood dripping down his chest, making the red bat symbol look like it’s melting. More concerning than anything else is the helmet. It’s broken. There’s a huge chunk of it missing on the left side of his head. You can see the red domino mask underneath, the battered skin that’s already coloring the initial red-purple of a black eye, and the blood flowing from a nasty looking cut on his eyebrow.

You freeze. A bolt of panic shoots from your head to your toes. No, not panic. Fear. Pure, undiluted fear. Because he looks like he’s dying. The thought startles you out of your haze and you slam your front door shut, locking the five different locks he’d insisted on installing around three months into your partnership. You run to him. You don’t know what to do. All you know is you need to get to him.

You drop to your knees and place your hands on either side of his head. For the first time, your right hand meets skin instead of cool metal. Maybe another time you’d savor that, but your hand is slick with his blood the second you make contact.

“Red?” you call, voice frantic.

You repeat the nickname over and over, fear rising into your throat when he makes no acknowledgment of you, when there’s no sign of life. You continue to call for him, begin gently shaking his shoulder. Finally, the white lens of the domino mask narrows and expands. A blink. He’s alive.

“Hey.”

His voice is broken, weak, filled with pain. He’s hurt in a way you’ve never seen him hurt. Underneath the fear you feel a surge of anger. Whoever did this to him…you want their head on a pike.

“Hi…hi,” you greet him shakily.

You’re lost. He’s in such bad shape you don’t know where to begin. You decide to look at the wounds on his torso first. There’s many, but the blood that leaks from them is the bright red of surface wounds. Most of the blood he’s drenched in comes from a brutal gash situated just between his helmet and his body armor. It’s a tiny sliver of skin, maybe an inch of exposure, but it’s raggedly cut open.

Whoever hurt him had aimed just right to target the inconspicuous vulnerability. The rage flares again before it’s swallowed up by fear. You press your hand against the wound to stem the flow of thick, dark blood. Your heart breaks at the groan of pain he lets out.

Finally, you look at his head. This is the first time you’ve seen any part of his face. You’ve longed to know who your nighttime companion is, who your friend is. You never wanted to see him like this. The eyebrow cut is long, a slice from just above his eyelid to the middle of his forehead. Bruises cover his brow bone, his cheekbone, his forehead. Every bit of exposed skin looks battered. It clicks in your brain in one horrifying instant.

His wounds aren’t from a shootout or a tussle with a criminal gone south. He’s been beaten. Badly. And there’s only one person who you can think of that would be capable of harming him like this. You pull your curtains shut and say a prayer to whoever’s listening that the World’s Greatest Detective isn’t still hunting him.

“Red? I need to get you to the bathroom, okay?” you ask, the cracking in your voice betraying any sense of strength you were trying to convey.

He doesn’t respond and you feel fear shoot through you again. Then his arm wraps around your waist and you breathe a sigh of relief. You can’t lift him to his feet, nor could you support his weight if you managed it. You realize you’re going to have to crawl to your bathroom.

The process is slow and awkward. Red Hood lifts himself off the wall, slumping forward toward you. You pull his arm over your shoulder, and even with both of you on the ground his weight is heavy against you. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist, the other slowly helping to drag the both of you towards your bathroom.

Your muscles are burning and your arms are shaky when you finally make it. With his help, you manage one last burst of strength to get him into your bathtub. You think that that’s the last bit of help you’ll get from him tonight when he goes limp against the tub wall.

You feel a sudden wave of anxiety come over you. You’re going to need to get his clothes off. Worse, you need the helmet off. You feel wrong even thinking about it. Once when he’d had a bad concussion, you’d woken him every hour on the hour with your eyes closed so as not to see his face.

“Red…I know you’re not going to like this, but I have to take off your helmet, okay? I need to see if there’s any other wounds under there,” you say carefully, slowly, like trying to comfort a wounded animal ready to bite.

You feel his shoulders stiffen under your hands. You wait for him to tell you no, to fight you on it like he has every time before. Instead he gives a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. It makes you feel even worse. You had hoped that if he ever revealed himself to you it would be because he trusted you, not out of necessity.

His hands reach up to push on the undersides of the helmet and you hear the distinct click of it unlatching. He weakly pushes it off his head and drops it on the bathroom floor. It’s more of him than you’ve ever seen and you try not to look too long. But then his hands are up by his face again and you can’t stop the look of shock that creeps on your face as he willingly pulls the domino mask off.

For the first time, you see his eyes. They’re a beautiful seafoam green. You feel your breath catch in your throat. You already felt a fondness in your chest for the man that keeps you safe. He scoffed when you told him that for the first time. Made some snide comment about if you were aware of the fact that he kills people. You just remained steadfast, told him that he protected good people, innocent people. You told him that he was good.

You never doubted the phrase, but now you know firsthand how true it rings. Eyes are the window to the soul. Now there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s good. And no doubt that you care for him deeply. He lets out one shaky breath that pulls you from your trance. He looks a little nervous, a little vulnerable. You suppose he is, so you keep moving.

“Lean forward for me, just a little? I need to see the back of your head,” you murmur.

He obeys, a slight hiss leaving him at having to crane his neck. You’ve got your hand pressed against the cut under his jaw and you feel blood gush as he tilts his head down. Your other hand gently combs through his hair as you look for gashes or bumps. Thankfully you find none, though you suspect he might be concussed.

“I’m gonna patch you up now, but I need to get all this off. Is that okay?” you ask.

He looks extremely put out by the idea of being undressed. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. After all, you don’t know how thrilled you’d be if you had to strip down in front of him. You think you could stitch him up through the tattered gear, but then he’d need to shower. He can’t even stand by himself right now. He realizes it too. He gives one jerky nod, his sea green eyes staring right through you.

You pull the easiest stuff off first. His boots, socks, and holsters lay abandoned on your bathroom floor next to your small waste bin. You move on to his body armor. He has to help you but you get it off without causing him too much pain. His tactical pants are next. Belt, button, zipper. Simple. You pull them off and add them to the pile of bloodied gear.

Now that he’s undressed you see that your lightbulb moment was correct. Bruises are starting to color across his body, a memento of blunt force. You fix what you can. It’s easy to stitch the little cuts on his torso, slightly harder to close the neck gash. Soon he’s all patched up, the blood beginning to dry on his skin in that uniquely gross sticky-crusty mix.

“Can I—I mean, would it be okay if I ran you a bath?” you ask quietly.

He looks wide eyed at you. You tell him that it’s fine if not, that you can figure something else out. It’s important to you to be careful of his boundaries, always respecting what he was willing to give. Perhaps that’s why he finally gives a slow nod of consent. His final item of clothing comes off and you add his boxers to the literal laundry list of clothing on your floor.

You start running his bath, leaving to grab a washcloth and toss his bloodstained clothing in the washer while the tub fills. As you're setting the cycle to run, your mind flashes with muddled, disjointed thoughts.

Thoughts about pain and sacrifice and betrayal and trust. The Batman did this to him. The Batman also helped him take down a Falcone drug ring three weeks ago. The man in your bathtub was Robin, a bright light in a city so dark that it snuffs any glimmer of hope that shines through. The man in your bathtub is Red Hood, a scourge to the ilk of Gotham with so much blood on his hands that he’s drowning in it. It’s all so much. Then you wonder if anyone has ever extended their hand to him and never curled it into a fist later on. And it hits you hard and soft all at once: you’re in this forever now. You won’t leave him. You love him.

It’s ridiculous. You love this man whose face you had never seen until tonight, whose name you don’t know. But you know that he loves classic literature after the night that he’d browsed your bookshelf after you wrapped his sprained wrist. You know that he has a fondness for chocolate chip cookies after the night he crawled through your window while you were baking a batch. You know he’s kind after the night he came by just to check on you, only to find you having a panic attack on your bathroom floor. You know he’s gentle after he picked you up off the ground and carried you to your bed, after he put your hand to his chest and made you breathe in time with him, after he held you until you fell asleep. And what was a name or a face compared to a heart and soul?

You swallow down the confession you’ve made to yourself and head back to the bathroom because right now it doesn’t matter. He needs help; you can worry about your being in love with him later. The tub is just about full when you get back and you turn the knobs shut. You dip the washcloth beneath the warm water and grab your bottle of soap off the ledge.

“This is all I’ve got, so you may just have to deal with smelling like me for the night,” you say, attempting to crack a joke.

“Well, y’smell nice, so ‘m okay with that,” he mumbles, Gotham accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

You can’t see yourself, but you’re pretty sure your face is as red as his helmet. You busy yourself by squeezing an unnecessary amount of soap into the cloth, scrubbing it until it’s more suds than fabric. You begin slowly, making sure his watchful eyes can see every move as you bring the cloth to his neck. You wash the blood and sweat off him gently, careful not to go near the stitched up gash.

“Can you raise your arms for me, Red?” you ask quietly as you run the cloth over his shoulders

“Jason.”

Your head snaps to face him and you feel like someone’s just slapped you.

“My name’s Jason.”

He whispers it like it’s a confession. You smile at him, soft and warm.

“Okay, Jason. Can you lift your arms?”

You spend the better part of an hour bathing him. Once all the blood, sweat, and grime is gone, you give him a towel fresh from the dryer to wrap himself in and leave him to dry off. You give him a thick red hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants you’d bought for him after the concussion incident. You still feel bad about him having to sleep in his gear that night.

You turn your favorite classical music playlist on low volume and the two of you sit comfortably in silence on your couch. You’re reading an Agatha Christie novel and Jason is resting with his eyes closed, no doubt nursing the migraine you gave him some Tylenol for. You think that maybe he dozes off a couple times when his breathing goes even and deep.

You take the time to memorize details of him, uncertain if you’ll ever get the blessing of seeing him as he is again. He’s got inky dark hair that’s on the longer side of short. There’s a stark white tuft in the front that stays neatly curled to itself, not a single hair slipping into the night black mess of waves and curls. His hooked nose and strong jawline give him a striking, rugged handsomeness. Scars litter his face. Some are barely there little white lines, while others are thicker and jagged at the edges.

Scars cover the rest of his body too. Every bit of skin you saw while bathing him has some form of scarring. You recognized healed slashes from knives or glass, thick circles with rough edges from bullet wounds. The one that took you by surprise is the largest of them. It’s red and raised in the shape of a Y, the two forks extending from the edges of his collarbones and meeting in the middle to carve straight down, taking a little curve around his belly button before disappearing into the dark trail of curls that leads to his pelvis. You’ve seen enough NCIS to know what it is: an autopsy scar.

You can’t even begin to fathom how he got an autopsy scar. You quickly remind yourself that it’s none of your business and push the sharp ache in your chest down, down, down. Your mind is still a hazy mess, a deluge of thoughts that leave a faint numbness and sorrow in their wake. You feel so deeply for this man that lies quietly on your couch. You wish you could protect him, as ridiculous as the idea sounds. You don’t even realize you’ve lost yourself to your thoughts until his sweet voice pulls you out.

“You’re in your head again,” he says quietly.

You turn your head to him slowly, still in a daze.

“Sorry, just thinking,” you reply, giving him a strained smile.

Anxiety washes over his face. He pushes himself forward, elbows on his knees like he’s trying to take up less space.

“I’ll get goin’ soon. ‘M sure I’ve wasted enough of your time,” he murmurs.

“Please stay here tonight.”

You spit it out without thinking. The last thing you want is him to think you were spacing out because you didn’t want him here or because he was an inconvenience.

“What?” he asks blankly.

His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks an odd mix of dumbfounded and agitated.

“Please stay. I don’t want you heading back out there tonight. Please, just stay here where you’re safe,” you whisper.

It’s a quiet request, but a desperate one. You need him to stay. You need to know he’ll be safe, that he’ll make it through the night.

“I…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You don’t hafta take care of me, y’know?” he finally spits out, “I’m not somethin’ you can fix.”

You bristle. Is that what he thinks of you? Even after all these months? That he’s some fixer upper to you? Some pet project?

“I’m not trying to fix you, Jason,” you say firmly.

His name is new in your mouth, but it feels natural even in the midst of your frustration.

“Good, ‘cause I can take care of myself. Been doin’ it for years now,” he bites.

Okay, now you’re starting to get a little annoyed. He’s done this a couple of times over the past year. Pushing you away when you just want to help him, just want to make sure he’s okay. And that’s fine. You can handle that most times. But not tonight. Not when you’ve just coaxed him back to life, not when you felt like you were so close to losing him.

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore!” you snap.

You see him tense at your harsh tone and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm your storming emotions.

“I…I’m not doing this because I’m trying to fix you. I’m doing this because you’re a human being. That first night…I’m sure you could’ve handled it yourself once you woke up. But I couldn’t leave you alone, hurting. Not then, not now,” you begin, leveling him with a stare so fierce that it holds him in place.

He goes to open his mouth, no doubt to argue, and you hold up a finger to quiet him.

“And I have no illusions that you won’t come back hurting again. None. I know you will. I know we’ll keep doing this over and over and over again. And I don’t care. I’m not leaving you alone. I won’t do it. So push all you want, but I refuse to be anything less than someone you can count on.”

Silence. The weight of your words is heavy in the air. You’re expecting him to leave. Even with his clothes still in your washing machine. You’re sure if he wanted to go, he’d just unplug the thing from the wall and throw his damp gear back on. You brace yourself for it. A small part of you even feels the pang of heartache at the thought that he might never come back.

You’re not expecting him to surge forward and thread his fingers into your hair to pull you into a kiss. You’re not expecting the burning intensity you feel him pour into it. You’re not expecting the warmth of his scarred mouth pressing against your soft lips. You’re not expecting how easy it is to kiss him back, as natural and simple as breathing.

He pulls away all too quickly. Doubt flashes in those sea green eyes and his entire body recoils back from you. You don’t let him run far, fingers curling in his night black mess of hair. You pull him back to you, his forehead resting against yours even as his body is strung tight as a bowstring.

“Well now I can’t let you go,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’ta done that,” he mutters shakily.

“You should do it again.”

You have no idea where the sudden burst of confidence has come from. It’s so very unlike you, you who are normally so passive, so calm and docile. But it seems to bring Jason to his knees because a desperate noise sounds from deep in his chest and his big, warm hands come up to cradle your face as he slots your mouths together again. You sigh his name against his lips when he pulls you closer and then he’s pushing you away. With no effort at all, he picks you up and gently shoves you to the other side of your sofa. He rises too quickly and sways on his feet.

“I can’t–I can’t do this. I won’t do this to you,” he rushes out as he staggers toward your window.

You’re bolting in front of it before you can even think.

“You’re not doing anything to me. You’ve already told me the risks of being associated with you. I’m okay with them. I want this. I want you,” you tell him, and you’re so earnest that it leaves no room for doubt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for. You can’t just show me a little kindness and fix me up to love you right,” Jason insists.

You should be mad again, but this time his statement lacks all the bite that it held before. Instead, you can hear the self-loathing in his voice, recognize the burn of it from the countless nights you two have sat on your floor debating whether he’s a hero or a necessary evil. And that just won’t do. You cradle his face and angle his head down to lock eyes, anchoring him in place.

“All I want is you, just as you are, come what may.”

There’s a shine to his pretty eyes, soft silver pools in the pale moonlight of the Gotham night. He shakes his head.

“Can’t make me somethin’ I‘m not,” he says, “‘m not made for this.”

And, oh, how your heart aches for this beautiful man. He’s so convinced that he’s violence incarnate, nothing but blood and gunpowder.

“We decide what we’re made for, what we want to be made for. What do you want, Jason?” you ask him softly.

Your hands are so gentle combing through his hair, thumb stroking his cheekbone sweetly. He flinches at the contact and you go to pull away, but he leans into your touch once he recognizes it won’t hurt him.

“I…don’t deserve it,” he whispers.

There’s something unspoken there. Something buried deep down in his chest. It aches to get out. He wants to scream it but the walls he’s built brick by brick around himself muffle the noise. I don’t deserve it, but I want it. He doesn’t have to say it, though. You understand loud and clear. And that alone is comfort to him, that he doesn’t have to say the quiet part out loud, that you just know him. No one has known him in years.

“This isn’t something you have to earn. And even if your answer truly is no, I’ll still be here in any way you want me to be.”

That’s what breaks him. Because it has only ever been something he’s had to earn. He had to earn it from his mother; earned it with cans of stolen soup heated in a rusted pot when Catherine was lost in the fog of her addiction, earned it with each spoonful he held to her mouth. He had to earn it from Bruce; earned it with every case solved, with every batarang that landed home in a bullseye, with every civilian saved. He had to earn it from Talia; earned it with every hit and kick, every blade mastered, every life taken. He’s had to earn love, earn affection, earn open hands instead of curled fists all his life. And you’re here offering up your love for free. You’re not even asking for him to love you back.

So as his defenses scream at him to tell you a thousand words that would cut you to ribbons–I don’t want you at all, go find another soul to save, you’re wasting your time–his heart hammers, demanding he be honest for once. He takes one shuddering breath before he whispers two words that change the trajectory of his life.

“…I’ll stay.”

And he does. He lets you nurse him back to health with water and painkillers. He lets you read to him after he sheepishly asks what your book is about. He lets you sit closer to him, shoulders and knees brushing under the soft blanket you’ve tossed over both of you. He even lets you guide him to your room, lets himself fall asleep tucked under your covers with your pinkies interlocked. It’s the first night that Jason Todd spends in your bed. It will hardly be the last.

[sirfrogsworth]

This is some speculative bullshit. I swear if these people saw me in 90 degree heat while wearing a suit they'd think I was a demon. My face turns beat red and I look like a damp naked mole rat.

I don't think some people realize how different you can look under various lighting conditions.

Specular highlights are direct reflections that appear as bright spots or sparkles. Think catchlights in the eyes or glare on the tip of the nose or glistening on freshly glossed lips.

Usually light obeys the inverse square law. It reflects much dimmer the farther it travels. But not *direct* reflections. So things like mirrors, glossy surfaces, or drops of water can all reflect light straight back instead of scattering and diffusing it. So that directly reflected light remains the same intensity as the light source.

Now imagine a powerful spotlight that is 50 feet away. It has to be super bright to light a person up on stage because it is so far away. Every time you double the distance, light diminishes by a factor of 4. But all of those little beads of sweat are reflecting the full intensity of the spotlight, so they light up like a Christmas tree on someone's face. And they kind of group together to create bright patches on his skin. Our brains have been trained to register that as sweating. And the brighter and larger those patches, the sweatier we assume someone is.

You can see just how bright his sweat was reflecting by looking at the catchlight in his eye.

Look at the exposure of the whites of his eyes compared to the catchlight.

So he looks red from the heat and the lights are making his skin look super clammy. And as a fun bonus, a small, hard light source exaggerates pores, blemishes, wrinkles, and skin texture.

What's interesting is if you move that spotlight closer, the specular highlights will start to appear dimmer.

This is because the light source doesn't need to be as bright because it is closer. And those direct reflections match the intensity of the light source. They also spread out and appear softer because the light source is larger. Larger lights are more flattering.

John basically had everything working against him in this situation and now people think he's doing coke again because the event didn't set up a lighting truss a little closer.

Also, everyone's memory of what John looks like is mostly from TV appearances. They don't typically see him right after a jog, so their mental image is skewed towards a single circumstance.

This was only a few months ago where he is wearing makeup and under professional studio lights.

And here he is... fucking yesterday.

Maybe the fancy lights and makeup are covering up his drug addiction.

Here he is in the temperature controlled SNL writers room under soft room lights. Again, yesterday.

Looks fine to me.

I know he is a celebrity and he'll be fine, but a bunch of people who struggle with addiction are going to see all of these people judging and speculating and being shitty because a person was hot. And that sucks.

[39472034658449305249465224devils]

for those who forget who these 2 are...

yesepher

rising sun

winter and spring (and the ashen season)

morning from the night

the gathering of people

to suffer (mainly for a extensive period of time) and to be freed

to love and lose

to be unable to use ones plentiful skill

connection to godliness (complicated. god is not a 'person', it is a complicated culturally regarded as both unbeing, thinking individual, and unthinking material, for example, time, a person and water. a really old mountain harnesses godliness, godliness can pool into places on the earth, flows and cycles and fills a persons body, but godliness can also create things and make decisions, but is not necessarily conscious so it cant be bartered with. individual figures may be regarded as 'gods' as well, but are considered lesser to godliness and are simply beings with incredibility high concentrations of godliness. godliness is the absence of animal nature and person nature, it stands above both of them on the triad. as such it knows itself unlike animals, but can do no wrong as it cannot do, unlike people.)

cycles (generally regarding abuse, torment, insanity.)

to create one's own gain (usually from a poor situation / to suffer for nothing, so to create something. sunk cost god)

the animal nature (to know no evil, and thus commit no evil.)

violence and dominion (sexually) (culturally sexual violence is seen as physical violence, they are not divided in categories. furthermore, 'dominion' refers to hierarchy, and as social higher figures may strike someone lower than them as a punishment, sexual punishment may also be used, though generally does not involve penetration.)

iionei

setting sun

summer and autumn (and the rainy season)

evening into night

solitude

to face suffering after a long period of kindness

to never have known (and to mourn unknowing)

to need skills one does not have / be demanded of something one does not have

connection to the common person

doing something new / breaking cycles / rebirth

to resign to lack (rather, to not seek out gain.)

the person nature (to know evil, to persecute evil.)

violence and domination (nonsexual) (so like beating your servant for being a war traitor or whatever. or likewise partaking in a war at all.)

yesepher as a coiled serpent and iionei as a outstretched eagle with a triad sun

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Psychology

psychological concepts as reference for your poem/story (pt. 2)

Learned helplessness - Animals (including humans), when subjected to unpleasant and inescapable circumstances, often become passive and accepting of their situation, in effect learning to be helpless. Researchers surmised that if people were in an unpleasant or painful situation, they would attempt to change the situation. However, if repeated attempts to change the situation failed, they would resign themselves to being helpless. Then, even if the situation did improve so that they could escape the discomfort, they would continue to act helpless.

Machiavellianism - A manipulative strategy of social interaction referring to the tendency to use other people as tools for personal gain. “High Mach” persons tend to tell people what they want to hear, use flattery to get what they want, and rely heavily on lying and deception to achieve their own ends.

Narcissistic paradox - The fact that, although narcissistic people appear to have high self-esteem, they actually have doubts about their self-worth. While they appear to have a grandiose sense of self-importance, narcissists are nevertheless very fragile and vulnerable to blows to their self-esteem and cannot handle criticism well. They need constant praise, reassurance, and attention from others, whereas a person with truly high self-esteem would not need such constant praise and attention from others.

Ought self - A person’s understanding of what others want them to be.

Possible selves - The notion of possible selves can be viewed in a number of ways, but two are especially important. The first pertains to the desired self—the person we wish to become. The second pertains to our feared self—the sort of person we do not wish to become.

Responsibility training - Life experiences that provide opportunities to learn to behave responsibly, such as having younger siblings to take care of while growing up. Moderates the gender difference in impulsive behaviors associated with need for power.

Subliminal perception - Perception that bypasses conscious awareness, usually achieved through very brief exposure times, typically less than 30 milliseconds.

Tender-mindedness - A nurturant proclivity, having empathy for others, and being sympathetic with those who are downtrodden.

Unconditional positive regard - The receipt of affection, love, or respect without having done anything to earn it. For example, a parent’s love for a child should be unconditional.

Xenophobia - The fear of strangers. Characteristics that were probably adaptive in ancestral environments, such as xenophobia, are not necessarily adaptive in modern environments. Some of the personality traits that make up human nature may be vestigial adaptations to an ancestral environment that no longer exists.

Source ⚜ More: On Psychology ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ Notes & References

[wlntrsldler]

heartless | luke castellan

MDNI!!!!!!

fuckboy! luke (kinda) but also kind of loser!luke a little bit. enemies to lovers (more of sexual tension really); not canon, no betrayal, and pokes fun of aphrodite girls but yk i love them, this is just for the plot. ares!reader x luke castellan.

i. never need a bitch, i'm what a bitch need, tryna find the one that can fix me; i've been dodging death in the six-speed.

there were many things about being a half-blood that luke hated. having a deadbeat father ranks highly on the list, obviously, and the lack of exposure to the real world was up there, too. he ran away from camp once during the year when there weren’t many kids around. it was right after his eighteenth birthday when he thought that his life would magically change for the better now that he beat the odds (sue him for being hopeful), but when the clock hit midnight and he was still stuck on his cramped, cot in the corner of the hermes cabin, he decided enough was enough. 

he did his final cabin checks and left camp after, wandering aimlessly until he found the train station to take him straight to the city. he hopped over the turnstile and squeezed himself into the crowded subway car. the first thing that struck luke was how different each group of people was from each other. in one corner, there were businessmen in itchy suits, trying to check out the group of girls across from them, clearly dressed for a night out. luke scoffed at them, smirking to himself when one of the men flushed in embarrassment at the fact that luke caught him. 

what a fucking loser, luke thought. 

there was a girl around luke’s age, sneaking glances at him. she was pretty; blonde, pouty-lipped, and definitely interested. at this point, luke hadn’t been experienced. other than the aphrodite girls flirting with him and the occasional hazed and rushed makeout sessions during the campfires, luke hadn’t done anything with anyone. but if he can make the daughters of the goddess of love blush, surely it couldn’t be that difficult to make a mortal fall under his charm too. 

he was right. 

he shot her one of his signature smirks, feeling a sense of pride bloom in his chest when she had to grab onto the pole in front of her to keep steady. luke adjusted the navy sweater he had on, tugging on the collar a bit to show off a little skin. his silver necklace sat nicely on his neck and he watched subway girl’s eyes rake over his body. luke bit his bottom lip, motioning for the girl to take the empty seat beside him. her eyes widened, but she did what she was told. 

unfortunately, reality caught up with him quickly when a hellhound found him as he was exiting the subway car with the pretty girl (jessie? jane? janet? he doesn’t remember.) around his arm. luke castellan was a lot of things, but a killer wasn’t one of them, so he made some stupid excuse to the girl about why he had to leave just so he could keep her safe. (it killed him to do it. he’s a teenage boy. he has needs.) the girl walked away, upset, huffing to her friends about how he wasted her time and got her hopes up. luke just rolled his eyes and dislodged his small knife from his pocket sitting beside his half-smoked cigarette box, ready to take on the hellhound. 

“you couldn’t wait ‘til i at least got to second base?” luke cringed, partly at himself for talking to the hellhound like it could talk back to him. “had to show up right now, huh, buddy?” 

he received a growl in return. 

the fight wasn’t too terrible, but after the hellhound whimpered, walking away in defeat, luke was too tired to continue his exploration of the real world. he hopped on the train back to camp, clutching the scratch the hellhound left on him. his (only nice piece of clothing) navy sweater was ruined. the thread was falling apart where the hellhound dug its claws in and it was stained with his blood. he would’ve fought better and avoided the injury if his balls weren’t fucking blue. 

luke closed his eyes, breathing heavily. even though it was only for a few minutes, the idea of being a regular teenager, flirting with girls, going to clubs, drinking cheap tequila from a plastic bottle, was something luke yearned for. he only got to experience a fraction of it. he wanted to experience it more, preferably without testing death each time. 

the older kids heard of luke’s adventure when they saw the counselor walking into the apollo cabin the following morning to get his wounds treated. he made a note to never tell chris anything again because the boy couldn’t keep his mouth shut if he tried. by lunch, the entire camp, including chiron and mr. d, heard about luke’s unplanned visit to the city and his interaction with one of hades’ guards. 

“luke.” 

he turned around, eyebrows furrowed, then raised in surprise. in front of him were three aphrodite girls, pouting at him. he crossed his arms across his chest, smirking, “what’s up, gorgeous?” 

“heard you went looking for some fun last night.” 

“are we not good enough for you, luke?” 

“why would you go looking for better when you have the best right here in camp?” 

luke wanted to laugh. the aphrodite girls were always so bold with their words, but when it came down to the wire, they would never want to disappoint their mom by being with the golden boy-turned-teenage dirtbag. he respected it, though. their allegiance to their mom was admirable. if aphrodite was his godly parent and she gave him the power to always be attractive, he didn’t think he’d do anything to piss her off either. 

“why do you think i came back?” luke flirted, running a hand through his curls, “realized there was nobody like you.” 

the three girls blushed and giggled, even if none of them knew who his comment was actually directed toward. they waved goodbye to him, and he watched them walk away, admiring the view. 

“you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

luke couldn’t stop his lips from quirking upwards at the sound of your voice, “what now, y/n?” 

you and luke had been at each other’s throats since you first got to camp half-blood. you, as the daughter of ares, one of his favorites coming only second to clarisse, pushed luke’s buttons like no other. you walked into camp and immediately saw through his boy-next-door facade and saw him for who he truly was. usually, luke would hate you for it, but now, it was hard for him not to think about shutting you up in other ways. less friendly ways, but if he had his ways, just as harsh. 

the rivalry began when you were fourteen. the title of best swordsman bounced between the two of you over the years. luke currently has the title, but it was only because he cheated; he swears he’s just better, but there’s no universe where you’d actually admit luke castellan was better than you at something. the five seconds between you being chosen to be head counselor for the ares cabin and him being chosen as the head counselor for the hermes cabin were the best five seconds of your life. it was the only time you held a higher position than him. 

luke quite enjoyed your little banter (when you weren’t around to ruin his game). it only got better when he had his huge growth spurt and you could no longer reach things when he held it up over his head. when you didn’t talk and run your mouth (usually cursing at him or cursing him), luke thought you might even be cute. he loved making you turn red, even if it was out of pure anger over his antics, but his favorite is when he gets you tongue-tied because his dirty, teenage brain makes him say something before he thinks.

“there’s no way that actually worked on them.” 

“take a look for yourself,” luke motioned to the group of girls who were now whispering and shooting heart eyes at him. “it always works.” 

“oh, get your head out your ass, castellan,” you spat. 

“spitting is not going to get you the reaction you might think,” luke smirked, eyeing you up and down. your eyes widened and you looked away from him to hide the redness of your cheeks. like that. luke licked his lips, “might actually have the opposite effect on me.” 

“you’re disgusting.” 

luke let out a full belly laugh as you walked away from him. sure, there were some pretty shitty things about camp half-blood, but there were some pretty great things there too, and messing with you is on the top of his list. 

ii. hundred models gettin' faded in the compound, tryna love me but they never get a pulse down.

“do you guys always fight like this?” 

you and luke peeled your eyes away from each other at the sound of percy’s voice. the poor boy was looking between his two mentors, torn because he had no idea who to listen to. you sighed, walking over to him. 

you placed a hand on his shoulder, “sorry, percy. luke is just… forget it, let’s just try it one more time, yeah?” 

“luke is just what?” luke asked, an eyebrow raised in a challenge. “finish your sentence, y/n. c’mon.” 

“the words i’d like to use wouldn’t be appropriate for a twelve-year-old to hear.” 

“‘m from new york, i probably heard it already,” percy shrugged, pausing. “come to think of it, i probably used it before.” 

luke let out a chuckle, patting percy on the back. “my man.” 

“can you not encourage cussing, head counselor?” 

“fine, i guess you’re just gonna have to tell me what you were going to say later. in private.” 

“castellan,” you smacked his chest. hard. you were furious with luke, but you couldn’t help but flush at his suggestive words, “don’t start.” 

percy frowned, “i don’t get it.” 

luke took mercy on you and wrapped an arm around the boy. he led percy away, promising to continue working on his sword skills later after capture the flag. before they disappeared from your view, luke made sure to turn around to shoot you a wink. you flipped him off in return. 

it wasn’t always like this between you and luke. once upon a time, your banters were innocent, like kids fighting over the last piece of candy in the jar. luke literally used to pull your hair when he was behind you in the line for food and you used to stick your foot out to trip him when he was playing tag with his siblings. 

but then, he returned from his quest. at first, you felt bad for him. he came back unable to complete it, and he was permanently scarred from it. it must’ve been difficult to have that constant reminder. after a few months, though, when his scar was almost fully healed, the whispers about how attractive luke castellan was started. luke closed himself off after his quest and spent his time doing extra training. you could lie and say that all the extra workouts didn’t do wonders for him, but nobody would believe you anyway. 

in short, luke castellan got hot. he was no longer the pesky little boy you bantered with. he got taller, broader, and dirtier. you weren’t dumb, you knew the innuendos that he would throw at you. you were in the same sex ed class as he was in. (side note: mr. d teaching teenagers about sex ed was your own personal version of hell. tartarus be damned.) somehow, luke turned into a teenage heartthrob at camp and all of a sudden, all the girls were throwing themselves at him. it made you sick, but what made you more sick, was that you understood why. 

ever since luke’s confidence skyrocketed and he leaned into his bad boy persona, there was a different charge in your banter; as if instead of trying to push your buttons, now, he was trying to get you under him. from blowing his cigarette smoke directly into your direction to all his dirty comments, luke castellan was acting like he wanted you. and surprisingly, you didn’t stop him. 

“can y’all just fuck already?” you spun around to find clarisse leaning against a tree, her spear mounted on the floor. she had a teasing smile on her lips, “maybe once you hate-fuck, you guys will get it out your systems.” 

“ew, castellan?” you sneered. your nose scrunched up in disgust, though your stomach churned at the thought of it. “never in a million years.” 

“dude, the sexual tension between you guys is insane,” she shrugged, walking over to you. “come on, sis, you can’t pretend like you don’t feel it.” 

“i feel a lot of things for luke castellan, but wanting to fuck him is not one of them.” 

you’re a liar. you knew that. clarisse knew that. but you’re thankful that your sister didn’t call you out on your bullshit. 

she laughed, “whatever you say. now, ready to train me?” 

you spun your sword around expertly, “always.” 

this week’s game of capture the flag was eventful. you lost, much to your dismay, but the results of the game were overshadowed by poseidon claiming percy as his kid. the subject of forbidden kids were a touchy subject, for obvious reasons, but you knew that it was especially hard for luke. you didn’t know thalia well, but with how often annabeth talked about her, you felt like you knew her. 

luke never talked about thalia, though. you figured it was because it was too painful for him to think about. he knew her longer than annabeth did and his memories of her were much more vivid than the young girl’s. with percy being poseidon’s kid, you knew that it was bound to bring up some unwanted memories for the hermes counselor. but what shocked you was seeing luke sitting with his siblings at the campfire instead of being surrounded by fawning girls like he usually was. whenever his team won, he would bask in the glory of the win, shotgunning smoke into the mouth of whoever was closest to him before disappearing for a bit only to come back with marks all over his neck. 

but tonight, he was sitting next to chris, a beer can in his hand, staring directly at you. the red cup in your hand filled with mysterious liquor was cold to the touch. clarisse was trying to hide the smile on her face as she watched you and luke lock eyes. she mumbled a fake excuse, running away to leave you alone while she tried to find silena. luke chugged the rest of his beer before crushing the can in his hand and walking over to you. 

you stood your ground, feet planted on the floor, with your arms folded across your chest. “no celebration tonight castellan?” 

“not unless you want to celebrate with me,” he replied. 

“shut the fuck up,” you sighed. 

luke watched as your arms pushed your tits up your chest. he couldn’t stop himself from biting his lip, watching your chest rise and fall as you took your breaths. he was almost tempted to burn his toast tomorrow morning just to thank the gods that you decided to wear a low-cut shirt tonight. your camp necklace was resting on top of your tits and he wanted to reach over and count the beads on your necklace. four, just one less than he has. 

“i love that you’re a sore loser,” he said, pulling out the cigarette that was tucked behind his ear. “makes it so easy to mess with you.” 

“‘m not a sore loser,” you argued, absentmindedly pulling out the lighter in your pocket. 

he was surprised by your actions. he knew you smoked, but you’d never smoked with him before. he pulled out a cigarette for you which you gladly took. you lit yours first then leaned over for him to light his own. luke shook his head, bringing up his index finger for you to come closer. he lit his cigarette with the burning end of yours, humming in appreciation when the nicotine hit his senses. 

“you are,” he blew out the smoke, “but it’s adorable.” 

“flirting with me isn’t gonna get you very far, castellan. you should know this by now.” 

“what, you want me to be mean to you?” luke said it teasingly, but then he saw your shoulders freeze for a millisecond. he chuckled, darkly, voice dropping an octave when he spoke again. “holy shit, you’re into that.” 

“none of your fucking business,” you shook your head, thankful that you had at least one substance already in your system to keep you from turning red. 

“it’s hot, y/n, own it,” he shrugged his shoulders, turning a bit to face the rest of the campers. all of the younger kids were off in their own world. they knew better than to hang out with the older kids at these things. he had a cocky smile on his face when he turned to you again, “i can be mean, if you want, y’know. just say the word.” 

you downed the drink, needing some sort of liquid courage if you were going to keep this conversation going. clarisse and silena were watching you and luke a few feet away and you can tell by their faces that they weren’t going to come save you from the conversation even if you begged them to. “that kind defeats the purpose, no?” 

“what do you mean?” 

you wiped the drop of liquor away from the corner of your lips, “having to ask you to be mean. you should just be mean without me asking.” 

luke’s eyes darkened. sure, he flirted with you, but you never kept up with him before. you usually tell him to fuck off and walk away, leaving him with a head full of images of your red, embarrassed face, to keep him occupied at night. “noted.” 

you shoved the empty cup into his chest, taking a puff out of your cigarette before walking away, “no need to take notes, castellan. i know you’re all talk anyway.” 

iii. 'cause i'm heartless and i'm back to my ways 'cause i'm heartless.

luke was pissed. you can tell by the way his shoulders were tense. you just disarmed him during practice, the tip of your sword resting comfortably under his jaw. the title was yours again. 

“say you surrender,” you taunted, pushing the sword just a little deeper on his skin, but not enough to cause any damage, “say you surrender and i’ll let you leave with some dignity.” 

“this doesn’t count,” he replied, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “i was distracted.” 

and he was. you took your shirt off, leaving you in a sports bra, at around the third sparring session. the sun was beating down harshly on the both of you and the lack of a breeze in the air didn’t help. your chest was glistening with sweat and you were breathing heavily. luke took his eyes away from your moves for a second to look at your figure and you took advantage of it. 

“no excuses, castellan,” you lifted his face up with your sword, “surrender.” 

“fine,” he relented. he got up from his knees when you removed the sword from his jaw, “i surrender.” 

“good.” you twirled your sword in your hand, walking away from him to grab a sip of water. your back was turned and luke couldn’t help but let his eyes trail down the curve of your spine. your muscles were defined, no doubt due to the hours of sparring you just did, and your hair cascaded perfectly down when you pulled it out of the ponytail you had it in. he wanted to wrap it around his fist and pull it. 

“fuck,” he groaned, trying to push down his hardening cock in his cargo pants. the action didn’t do anything to help. it was no use. 

“what was that?” you tossed the bottle of water on the ground as you turned to face him. your eyes widened as you took in the image in front of you. luke was staring at you, lips slightly parted, hair in disarray as if he just ran his hand through it, and his pants were tight around his dick. “luke…” 

fuck it, he thought. 

“shut up.” 

luke marched over to you, grabbing your face with a force that knocked you off balance. it was disorienting feeling his lips hungrily over yours because it felt so damn good. his hands migrated from your face down to your ass, gripping it and massaging the flesh so he could push you closer to him. you could feel his hard cock poking against your skin and you moaned at the feeling. luke wanted to bottle the sound so he could listen to it whenever he wanted to. 

he pushed you against a tree, grinding his aching hips against yours. he could feel your wetness growing against his pants. he pulled away from your lips, turning your face to the side to give himself access to your neck. he licked a stripe up your jugular, mixing his saliva with the sweat on your skin. he started his attack on your neck, nipping, sucking, licking, everywhere he could. you couldn’t help but whimper at his actions. 

against your better judgment, you pulled him away by threading your fingers through his curls. his eyes were closed, mouth agape when he knocked his forehead against yours. you tugged on the hair by the nape of his neck, “you’re not fucking me, luke.” 

“fuck, okay,” he breathed out. he was horny, but he respected your wishes. 

“not today,” you placed a chaste kiss on his lips before pulling away. his lips followed yours, but you tutted, “but you can watch me if you let me watch you.” 

“yes,” his eyes snapped open, moving away from you to give you space. 

“come here,” you walked away from him, motioning him to come to the patch of grass secluded from the training area. he followed you, hissing as he tried to adjust himself in his pants. you lay on the grass, propping yourself up on your elbows. your hand slowly trailed down to your pants before you dipped your finger inside your underwear. your back arched as you felt how wet you were from the earlier interaction with luke. 

luke sat at your feet, undoing his pants. he pulled out his cock; red, dripping, and angry. he felt his confidence rise when you moaned at the sight of it. his veiny hand was wrapped at the base of his cock, slowly pumping. his voice was broken as he spoke, “let me see you.” 

for a moment, you were vulnerable, hesitating to expose everything to him. but luke’s face showed nothing but desire and you melted under his gaze. you shimmied out of your pants, tossing them somewhere near, before opening your legs for him to see you. your fingers pulled apart your folds, showing him your slick-covered pussy. 

“prettiest fucking pussy in the world,” he groaned, watching as you circled your clit. “fucking perfect, y/n.” 

his words spurred you on. you dipped two fingers inside, mewling at the stretch. luke flicked the tip of his dick, moaning at how your fingers disappeared as you pumped them inside you. he can hear your wetness loud and clear and he wanted nothing more than to slurp it up with his tongue, but he can be patient. this can be enough for now. 

his hand moved faster on his dick, the muscles on his arm tensing with each stroke. he watched as you threw your head back in pleasure, admiring the marks he left on your skin. a feeling of possessiveness bloomed in his chest knowing that he marked you. 

“want a taste?” 

luke nodded, crawling over to your outstretched fingers while still pumping his cock. his lips hollowed to suck off your juices from your fingers, eyes closing at the sweet taste. his tongue danced between your fingers, licking them clean. you watched in awe as he hungrily sucked off your fingers. there were beads of sweat trickling down the edge of his face, his curls were sticky on his forehead, and there was a look of pure bliss on his features. 

“so sweet,” he whispered, letting your fingers go with a pop. “fuck, y/n.” 

“luke,” you panted, continuing to get yourself off. “i’m close.” 

“give it to me,” he said. his voice was nearly gone. “need it.” 

there was something about luke castellan begging you to cum for him that made your head spin. you came, hard, all over your fingers while he watched you come undone. the image of you cumming, the whisper of his name leaving your lips, was going to be burned into his memory forever. 

“i’m coming,” luke groaned, the veins in his neck popping out as he gritted his teeth. “open up.” 

you moved closer to him, leaning down with your tongue out for him. he pumped his cock until white spurts covered your pink, patient tongue. he wanted to take a picture of you right now for later. eyes closed, makeup on your face ruined, hickeys on your neck on full display while his cum coated your tongue. you were a wet dream come to life. 

luke gripped blades of grass with his other hand, trying to steady himself as he watched you swallow his load. when you opened your eyes, you opened your mouth to show him you didn’t waste a drop, and luke couldn’t do anything else but kiss you to show his appreciation. 

you had avoided luke after your training session. you didn’t know what got into you doing that with him, but one thing was for sure, the tension didn’t disappear after it. it just got worse. 

everywhere you went, you felt his eyes following your every move. he would stare at you, eyes narrowed, during classes or during meals. but he never did anything. 

until he lost at capture the flag. you skipped the celebration, opting to stay alone in the ares cabin to avoid running into luke. the whole situation left you with so many questions that you were afraid to get the answer to. you fucked yourself in front of luke. and you liked it. there hasn’t been a day since when you didn’t think about his cock and how it would feel inside of you. it was getting pitiful how often you got off thinking about him. his sounds, his face when he came, his taste. everything. 

you were getting ready for bed when you heard the door of the ares cabin slam open. you turned your head, eyes widening, when you saw luke walking towards you, kicking the door shut. he didn’t break eye contact with you as he reached the foot of your bed. 

he licked his lips, “you’re avoiding me.” 

“i’m not,” you lied, tugging your blanket up to cover yourself. “was just too tired to celebrate.” 

“bullshit,” he ripped the blanket away from your body, “you want mean, right? i can give you mean.” 

you pushed your thighs together, making him smirk.

luke got on your bed, his knees on either side of you. he pushed his head into the crook of your neck, leaving rough kisses on your skin. your hands flew up to his hair, pulling softly, “my pretty girl won’t betray me.” 

it took you a minute to realize that he wasn’t talking about you. his fingers rubbed on your clit over your pajama shorts, making you arch into him. you whimpered, “luke, please.” 

“nuh uh,” he pulled away from your neck, “you don’t get to say please, anymore. you’re gonna take my dick until i’m done.��� 

luke connected your lips. his lips were relentless against yours, tongue forcing its way into your mouth. he groaned at the feeling of your hand reaching down to palm him. he grinded his hips into your hand, lips sloppily crashing against yours. luke put all his weight on one arm, using the other one to lightly wrap his fingers around your throat. he did an experimental squeeze, growing harder when you moaned in pleasure at the pressure. 

clothes were flying off both of your bodies after that. your pants drowned out the faint hum of the campers away at the campfire. luke pulled away from your lips, marking your neck again. the hickeys he left you were already fading and he hated not seeing the remnants of his time with you on your skin. he trailed the hickeys down your body, spending extra time on your plush thighs. he pried your legs open, sighing in content when your pussy welcomed his thick fingers. 

he pressed his tongue against your folds, closing his eyes at the sounds of pleasure that left your lips. his lips wrapped around your bud, sucking, until you were lifting your hips up. he placed an arm across your stomach, pressing down on you to keep you still. from where you were lying, you could only see his eyes. his eyes were boring into yours, watching your reaction to learn what you liked. when his tongue darted inside of you, touching that spongy part, your face contorted in unparalleled pressure and luke knew that he needed to keep hitting that spot. 

you were a mess under him. you’ve never came before unless it was your own doing, but you were dangerously close to the edge with how luke was eating your pussy. he was determined to have your wetness coat his tongue. he’d been dreaming of tasting you since you last let him. he’d been craving it. 

when your thighs pressed against the side of his head, he knew it was coming. he used his thumb to draw figure eights on your clit. you came with a cry, his name repeating off your lips like a mantra, like a prayer. 

luke pulled away from your pussy, wiping the wetness on his chin away with his forearm. he pumped his cock in his hand a few times, hissing at the pain of it being forgotten. 

“luke,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. you clung onto him like a lifeline. “give me a second.” 

he took in your state. all fucked out just from his tongue. his jaw ticked, “been givin’ you space for days, don’t think you deserve any more.”

“fuck!” you cried as his dick entered you. luke had to shut his eyes to keep himself from cumming. your pussy was so tight and so wet and so greedy for his cock. he pushed all the way in, stopping for a moment to catch his breath. 

“perfect fucking pussy, like i said,” luke’s voice was hoarse as he thrusted into you. his hand grabbed one of your tits, flicking the hardened bud with his fingers. he continued to snap his hips into you as he leaned down to your ear, “been thinking about fucking you dumb with my cock.” 

“been-ah- thinking about it too,” you admitted, cheeks growing red at his words. you were clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks, “been touching myself thinking about you.” 

“looks like you’re the one who’s all talk, y/n,” he was going faster now, reveling in the sounds that your connected bodies were making with each push of his cock. reminders of your first orgasm were all over his base. “made me watch you fuck your perfect pussy, then-fuck- avoiding me.” 

“didn’t think you were serious with your words.” 

luke pulled out of you completely. you got a good look at him for the first time. his nostrils were flared, chest heaving as he pumped his cock in his hand. he made a noise, “seems like i’m not doing my job right.” 

you reached out for him, pussy tightening around nothing, “huh?” 

“you’re still being smart,” luke grabbed your hips then and turned you around. you arched your back for him, giving him a view of your ass. he rubbed his hands over the flesh, slapping it. he pushed your head down on your pillow, wrapping your messy hair around his fist. he leaned over to whisper in your ear, “told you, i wanted to fuck you dumb on my cock.” 

he thrusted into you with fervor, skin slapping as he took you from behind. luke watched as your ass bounced sinfully against him as he pushed his cock deeper into you. with this angle, he can can push into you more easily. he was on his knees, holding your hips flush against his body. the sounds you were making as his cock found your pussy were delicious. 

you were incoherent then, mumbling into your pillow, begging for him to keep going. luke wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. when your second orgasm of the night came crashing down, you screamed luke’s name loudly. 

he came inside you, ropes of milky cum coating your gummy walls. he collapsed on top of you, breathing heavily as he moved your hair away to place kisses on your back. 

when you both got dressed, luke left a lingering kiss on your raw lips. he left one last hickey on the side of your jaw, “training. tomorrow. don’t be late.” 

[autball]

Part 4 of a 5 part series about the ways harmful practices can be made to sound appealing and how to spot the differences between helpful and harmful approaches.

Sensory sensitivities are a huge part of being autistic (and sometimes ADHD, too). They can range from kind of annoying but manageable to debilitating and meltdown-inducing. They can fluctuate from day to day and situation to situation. They can seem to pop up one day out of nowhere and disappear just as quickly.

Sensory differences are dynamic, which can make them unpredictable and disruptive. Not many people want to live that way, so working on sensory desensitization with someone who has a lot of sensitivities sounds like a thing that could help. Fewer meltdowns and able to do more things? Yes please!

But as you might have guessed, there’s a giant problem with that: reducing sensitivity isn’t really a thing you can do TO someone. At least, not without inducing a trauma response or two. You can certainly get someone to learn to ignore their own body signals or pretend to be fine when they’re not, but that’s not a sensory thing. That’s a dissociation thing.

“Sensory desensitization” is usually code for exposure therapy. Exposure therapy has its uses, but addressing legitimate sensory issues isn’t one of them. And it should only be done WITH someone who can fully consent and actively participate. Coercing and/or forcing someone to interact with distressing sensory input until they stop reacting is not that.

“Sensory desensitization” also operates under the assumption that people just get used to, or habituate to, the noises and sensations around them, even ones that bother them. But studies have shown that autistic people actually don’t habituate to sensory stimuli the way non-autistic people do. It may take way longer to happen, or it may never happen at all.

You know what can and does happen? Sensory sensitivities can just kinda…change. All on their own. We grow up, our hormones change, our stress levels change, our environments change, and our sensory profiles are affected by all of those things (and more!). Sensitivities can just disappear, naturally, without any intervention. And that’s about the only thing I’d ever refer to as real sensory desensitization.

But sensory sensitivities can go any which way. Maybe new ones rear their ugly heads. Or maybe something bothers us at a level 7 one day and 2 the next, then goes all the way up to 11 next week. And then there are the ones that just stay pretty much the same, all the time, forever.

I could not handle pants for a long time as a kid, but then somewhere along the way, I could. I really couldn’t tell you when it happened. There are some foods that used to make me gag that no longer do, and there are some that I still just cannot handle. I have never been okay with things that stick to my hands, and that really hasn't changed since as far back as I can remember. 

You know what all these sensory sensitivities have in common? Someone made me “tolerate” them at some point, often repeatedly. And none of them changed (or didn’t) because of repeated exposure, but because of my natural development. All I got from forced exposure was this lousy tendency to disconnect from myself.

Sensory desensitization is just not a thing we should be trying to do to people. Sensory *integration* is a real thing that can help people, but that is a whole different animal that requires more than just exposing people to stuff that bothers them. You’ll need an OT (Occupational Therapist) with the specialized training for that. Just make sure they’re not sneaking behaviorism tactics or exposure therapy in there either (yep, the words “sensory integration” can be used to misrepresent what they’re doing, too).

It is a far better thing to help someone learn about their own sensory profile and how to manage their sensory needs than to make them ignore their own body signals. Alexithymia is not #goals.

[itshype]

How I Met Your Brother (DC x DP)

Dan joins the Justice League - not as part of his rehabilitation, but as a reward for doing so well.

Tucker makes the grave mistake of mentioning Dan in front of Jazz. And as an eldest sister myself I would not be happy about an alternate version of my sibling being left completely alone in the world, no support, no family to then be turned into a psychopath. And I would be furious for them to then be imprisoned - not for life but for all time?

However, unlike me, Jazz is the world's foremost authority on ghost psychology. She has Dan out of his Thermos and in a larger enclosure within the week.

Now, a lot of fics have Jazz as a magical therapist who can say a few sentences and make any bad guy cry. Sorry, not today though.

First, they resocialise Dan like a feral cat (solitary confinement does make people get loopy), sitting outside his enclosure and hanging out, doing homework etc. This sort of gets him to figure out emotionally that he's no longer in the timeline where everyone he ever cared about died.

Danny discusses with him how many nightmares he's had over just the idea of losing his entire support network the way Dan did and he can't imagine what he's been through. But no emotions are not, in fact superior to having negative emotions.

After a few months, he decides that he does in fact want to actively try and get better. He goes to a therapist (because family members can't do therapy!!!) who's just unhinged enough to get a kick out of counselling a ghost from an alternate timeline.

There's only one relapse. Clockwork fixed it and they don't talk about it.

A month or so later they let him out of the enclosure for good. They offer to symbolically destroy it but Dan thinks they should keep it just in case.

While Dan's humanity has returned, his actual human half is gone forever. But he's interested in doing something with himself. He can't get a GED, or a degree, or be an astronaut. Maybe something in entertainment?

Tucker makes the grave mistake of mentioning that the Justice League headquarters are in space. Dan isn't as powerful anymore now he's no longer a halfa, but he knows he's handy in a fight. He loves space and due to having them repeatedly and ineffectively implemented against himself - a deep knowledge of international war tactics.

NGL, this isn't where I thought this story was going. But Dan is now an international politics, war policy and foreign affairs expert, I guess.

He helps a fair bit on the team, but his key contributions are his encyclopaedic predictions of how different international communities will react to events. If an out of control meta in Paris takes down the Eiffel Tower, he predicts which countries will immediately 'crack down' on their superpowered citizens - that sort of thing. It's invaluable for their PR team and young meta safety.

He's a friendly guy, doesn't judge anyone for losing control of their powers or going 'too far' on a villain who hurt their friends and family. And he never shuts up about his kid brother who is apparently also his best friend. He briefly mentions a baby sister he's never met and that makes everyone pretty sad.

He doesn't consider this Jazz his sister. He's already had a sister named Jazz and isn't looking for a 1:1 replacement. This Jazz is more like a mum-friend. However, he never had a Danny or an Ellie in his last life.

"My little brother told me about the trick to this level in Doomed 17, want me to explain what you're missing?"

"Sorry, I really can't possess you, even for 'anti mind-control' training. That isn't how overshadowing works, you can't become immune without exposure to ectoplasm in dangerous doses. No, I can't get you some pure ecto, my baby brother would kick my ass to hell."

"Yeah, my baby bro and I both wanted to be astronauts, I died so it's not in the cards for me anymore, but he has a real shot still, we're all rooting for him!"

Most Justice League members think he's a dead eldest brother with living siblings he's still in close contact with.

It's all fun and games until he tries to take a bullet for Batman during an ambush and it's actually an amnesia ray designed to make Batman forget about a specific case until the bad guy can complete his plan.

"I killed you all before, and I will do it again."

[ihrthoney]

stupid

pairings: touya todoroki x f!reader (no actual relationship atm, it’s more of a reunion thing but with romantic intentions)

warnings: fluff, touya backstory

word count: 2.8k (JESUS😭)

an: touya is alive and well tyvm! most likely will make a part 2 :p

It had been about two years and Touya was finally out of the hospital. When your body is near death, time flies by. The first few months were times he didn’t ever want to relive, the mental and physical pain he had to endure when healing his body was intense. After every session, he would knock out until he had to start the next test. 

As promised, he talked to his father every single day. The rest of his family would visit separately or by themself. Since their first visit, Natuso has never been in the same room as their father, Touya understands and respects his decision of course.

Society on the other hand… let’s just say he gets everything delivered to him to avoid the public as much as he can. Given it’s been two years, the rise of heroes has already begun (again) and the crime rate has never been lower; but for his sanity, he does not want to be recognized. 

His nerves always spike when he’s forced to go out but his mom and sister think exposure therapy is good. Speaking of therapy, he’s been seeing a therapist since he could properly talk again. Since he was a villain he has to do community service for ten years, technically eight in present times. Every day for eight hours he helps different companies and programs with whatever they need. As exhausting as it is, he knows it’s the least he can do for being a big factor in hero society collapsing. 

Currently, he’s with his siblings shopping for clothes and it feels like community service. He loves his sister, he really does, but they’ve been shopping for hours and his ass hurts from sitting so much as she tries on different outfits. Thankfully Natsuo had joined (was dragged) them or else he would’ve fallen asleep three stores ago. Fuyumi said Natsuo always agrees so they can leave the store quicker and that a second opinion is always nice! She said Shoto was too busy with school and training to stay plus he was too sheltered to know about things that weren't hero-related (they’re so grateful for his friends).

Fuyumi is in a fitting room trying on a few dresses for an event their mom is a part of. The boys already had their outfits ready (a suit and tie) so there was no need for them to shop, they were seated right in front of the door Fuyumi was in, other seats next to them were either empty or also filled with someone waiting.

The door opened and Touya instinctively looked up, just as he did when someone walked past him and it made his blood, ironically, run cold. Quickly, he hides his face behind Natsuo which confuses the latter, “What are you doing??”

Acting dumb, “What do you mean?”, his eyes continue to look at the seat. “I mean why are you hiding?”, awkwardly he tries to hug Natsuo, “Hiding? I’m just trying to give my brother affection of course!”

Pushing the older’s arms off of him, Touya sits back and watches as his brother’s eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “Nice try, do you think I’m stupid?” “Yes.” “Shut up!”

Before they could continue with their teasing, Fuyumi walks out with a few items in hand, gesturing they go to the register and pay.

On their way there she asks, “What were you two arguing about?” Touya was reminded of why he froze to his seat and all the memories started to flood in. 

-

“What are you doing?” A small voice appeared next to him, rustling sounds as someone sat next to him.

Annoyingly, he turned to see who cared enough to bother him during lunch. Touya was frowning, wanting to go home and train but his frown vanished when he saw you. Your hair was split into pigtails with turquoise rubber bands and an all-might lunch box in your hands. 

“It’s none of your business.” He quipped, upset at such a person distracting him. He frowns again at your response, “That’s not very nice. My mom said if you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all.” 

He always hated that saying because it was something he needed to learn, “That’s stupid.” His arms are crossed, now angry at the scolding. Instantly you replied with, “You’re stupid!” 

Touya whipped his head around at your insult and he stood up, “You’re stupider!” He yelled, which caused you to yell even louder, “You’re the stupidest!” 

The little fight between you two somehow sparked into a competition to prove who wasn’t stupid by stating your test scores, to demonstrating your quirks, then arguing about pro-heroes. From that day forward you guys were glued to each other’s side, eating lunch and spending breaks together. Touya had even invited you to his house, to his mom’s delightful surprise.

Everyday was spent together,

until he died. 

The loss of Touya destroyed you, school had become lonely and you distanced yourself from people in fear of losing someone else. The other kids only knew you as the girl whose friend died, which made them avoid you and your grief.

After graduating middle school, you never continued in your path to become a hero, unable to stomach death and violence. Instead, you went to a normal high school and a little college that gave you enough knowledge to have a name to yourself that you were satisfied with. 

Despite the loss, the Todoroki’s never forgot about you; Anytime they saw you in public you guys would quickly catch up, you’ve even seen their mom once a few times. Rei was an angel to be around, she had a very caring aura even after everything she’s been through.

Honestly, you were incredibly nervous when visiting her, you shouldered a ton of guilt for not being able to save Touya from his desire to be a hero. She cried at the confession, Fuyumi did too, you all shared a lengthy and heartfelt conversation about your grief. 

After that conversation, you and Fuyumi grew very close! Whenever she wasn’t busy with teaching her students you guys would meet up and go to festivals, chat over drinks or freak out together over your guys’ shared interests. 

Fuyumi became one of your best friends so it was no surprise when you recognized her at the store. 

-

“Hey Yumi!!” You beam at his sister, your eyes bright as you walk around the counter to hug his sister. While Touya isn’t tall enough to tower over you, he still has to slightly look down to meet your eyes.

He watched as you both chatted, something about Fuyumi needing a last minute dress for their mom’s event, to you… also going.. to the event.

“What are you going to wear?” His sister asked, showing her outfit in her hands and questioning which one to buy. “I have the blue version of this dress! You should get this one so we can match!” Excitedly, you pointed at a simple white dress Fuyumi had in her hands, which made her grab the other dresses and reach them towards Natsuo.

“Could you put these dresses back please!” Natuso whined, “How am I supposed to know where they go?” Touya tries to keep his eyes remained on his brother in fear you’ll recognize him. Not that it would be shocking given that he announced his existence on national television.

Your arms come into view as you grab the clothes from his sister's hands, “It’s okay, I can put it away!” Feeling embarrassed, Fuyumi tries to exclaim that it’s okay and she can put it away but you insisted that it was your job.

So you work in this clothing store.

“Don’t worry about it, you’re always too kind to me Yumi. Come over to this register, I can ring you up!” The former villain doesn’t know whether or not to feel relieved or hurt that you haven’t noticed his presence. Maybe you did and you’re ignoring him? Or maybe you just think he’s one of Natsuo’s friends? There’s a million questions that run through his mind, so much so that by the time he snaps back to reality, you’re handing Fuyumi her receipt.

As they exit the store, he musters up some courage to look at you and to his shock you’re already looking at him. Instead of looking away, you give him a small smile and he matches it, before turning his attention to the door in front of him. 

The walk to the car is quiet, the sound of the wind rustling the trees and feet scratching against rocks on the road. He gets into the backseat, claiming the passenger seat makes him carsick.

Fuyumi was quick to address the elephant in the room, not even giving him time to put his seatbelt on, “Why didn’t you say anything?” She turned around and looked back at him.

Natsuo started the car but didn’t move to reverse, “Wasn’t she your first and only friend in school?” Touya pouted at the fact that his brother stated, you were his first crush too. 

“I doubt she recognized me or maybe she didn’t want to.” Being vulnerable was still a hard thing for him, so his sentence was merely whispered but curse Fuyumi for having good ears, “Don’t say that! Of course she recognized you, she was just shy. Plus, you didn’t even look at her!”

The elder scoffs at having not been slick, “Say something to her next time, she’s been wanting to talk to you.” Touya is confused at what his sister mentioned, “What do you mean she wants to talk to me??” 

Fuyumi’s expression makes it seem like she was caught doing something bad, but she was never good at secrets, “Yn is aware of your existence, she reached out to me when you were first admitted to the hospital after the fight all those years ago. She was very worried but didn’t feel like it was her place even though we insisted she visited. I really think you should talk to her.”

“Yeah talk to her! Don’t be a wuss big bro!”

“Shut up!”

That night, Touya couldn’t get any sleep, he was too busy thinking about all the times he would search for you when he was Dabi. There were too many times when he wanted to just go up to you, to watch you smile at him even if under the guise of customer service, but he couldn’t do that to you. Dabi didn’t want you to look at what he had become, what he’s done. So like his past, he erased you from his mind and focused on his goal.

-

Until his eyes could do nothing but focus on you standing right in front of him. 

Tonight he and his family (minus their dad of course, he wasn’t allowed near Natsuo) were in the ballroom of some hotel that his mom’s club was hosting. After getting out of the ward, his mom joined a community club that takes care of plants, it keeps her busy and happy.

This event was to celebrate the success of the plant business’ success in growth, there were mini games for the children of the members, food and a live band. It was quite nice, not as loud as he prepared himself for it to be.

Although, right now he couldn’t hear anything over the raging beat of his heart. There you were, greeting his mother. As always you were so beautiful, he couldn’t believe you were so close. The dress you were wearing did match Fuyumi’s, who just now bumped his shoulder, “Talk to her you idiot.” 

“How can I? I died, killed people, almost died, and now I’m-” His sister interrupts with that kind voice of hers, she was always so reassuring, “Alive, with a second chance. Trust me, she misses you.” 

Before Touya got a chance to think of a reply, you made eye contact with him. His mother followed her gaze and beamed at the sight of him, waving him down.

Touya could never say no to his mom, not anymore. So, against his will he walked towards you two. His eyes never once left yours even if he wanted to look away, hating the way you stared at him, it made him feel too conscious of his skin. While he doesn’t have staples of purple skin, it's still apparent where his scars were. 

“We’ll leave you two alone.” And just like that his mom and sister disappeared. The air was awkward, he didn’t know what to say. How does someone even start a conversation after everything he’s done?

Every doubt, any negative thought he’s ever had dissipates when he hears your angelic voice, “I like your hair.”

He can’t remember the last time he’s heard your voice that wasn’t through his jagged memories of you. It’s softer and smoother than when you were kids yet it carries a lightness that makes him straighten his back and hold out his hand towards you, 

“Would you like to dance?”

Heat crawls up his neck at the feeling of your soft hands grabbing his own, he feels like that naive little kid all over again.

With your hand in his, you both make your way to the dancefloor where the band starts to slow down their tune, a soft melody intertwining in the air, “I will be honest, I don’t actually know how to dance.” Touya admits embarrassingly, he didn’t have the time and even when he did he rejected any activity that wasn’t training. 

Slightly, you squeeze his hand in reassurance, “It’s okay, neither do I.” The most he knows about slow dancing is from the movies his siblings forced him to watch, who would’ve thought those dumb romance movies would have helped him.

“Is it okay if I?” His eyes gesture to his hands hovering above your waist, Shyly, you nod and he places his hands on your waist, gently moving your body closer to his. You take the close space as a sign to move your hands onto his shoulders.

Slowly, your bodies sway to the music, lights dim, colors of blue and a soft white flash over the dance floor, covering the red hue on Touya’s face. It was odd, two people who were friends for a few years in middle school met again a decade later at an event none of them were a part of. 

As always, you’re the one to break the silence, “How are you?” Your eyes are no longer looking into his, instead looking at the stupid tie he was forced to wear, “As good as a convicted criminal can be.” 

Nothing is said for a little bit, Touya starts to worry that he joked too soon, “How are you doing? I’m sorry for not saying anything when you were working.. I didn’t really know how to.”

Now you look up at him, “That’s stupid.”

He laughs at the memory that rises at your words, “A girl once told me that her mom told her, if you-” “Don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all, yeah yeah.” You roll your eyes as he mimics your words from your first encounter, that same smile you gave him when he saw you working but bigger, brighter too. 

“I’ve missed you yn.” 

Even with the dim lights, he can see the tears well up in your eyes, “I’ve missed you too, more than you could possibly ever know. I was so angry at you, learning how you died. I grieved for so long and when I was finally okay, the news of your existence flashed on my tv and I was angry all over again.” He hasn’t even realized that he was crying until your hands moved to wipe his tears, actual tears instead of thick lines of blood.

“I wanted to yell at you, to kick your ass, but seeing you in the hospital… I just wanted to talk to you again. I’m sorry I never visited.” Touya quickly assures you that there was no need for you to ever apologize and that it was him who needed to beg for your forgiveness for putting you through such pain.

“You’re free to do it all, I’m so sorry.” The tears wouldn’t stop flowing, years of guilt still streaming through him. 

“After all this time and you’re still a crybaby.” At the comment he turns his head away, a soft mutter denying such assumptions.

“‘m not a crybaby.” Your hand moves to turn his face towards yours, “That’s right, you’re a big crybaby.” He wants to be annoyed at the testing, but it’s you. Just like his family, his heart is weak for you. 

Years and years spent apart, the young flame his heart lit for you starts to warm again. The version of himself that met you still lives, still craving your presence. 

It’s too early to dive into those emotions, for now he’ll soak up the warmth your laugh radiates. He’s got all the time in the world.

© ihrthoney. reblogs & feedback are greatly appreciated𑁤

[horsesarecreatures]

Attendees of the 2023 USEA Annual Meeting & Convention were in for a real treat with this year’s keynote speaker, Dr. Temple Grandin. Dr. Grandin is an icon in the worlds of agriculture and autism and is most notably known for applying her own experiences as an autistic individual to her studies on how stress impacts both humans and animals. In this year’s keynote address, Dr. Grandin shared several different scenarios encountered in both her studies and the studies of her animal science students at Colorado State University that apply to the equestrian community. Take a look at some of our favorite takeaways from this year’s keynote address below:

1. Animals live in a sensory-based world. Get away from verbal language to understand animals and instead evaluate what is the animal hearing, smelling, and touching and use that to your advantage when exposing your horse to objects that often spook them.

“Sudden new things are scary for people with autism and for animals. If your horse is afraid of flags, don’t shove it in their face.," she said. "Decorate their pasture fence or arena fence with flags and let them walk up to it on their own.”

2. Exposure, conducted in the right manner, is the best training tool for your horse.

“A lot of animals lead sheltered lives," said Dr. Grandin. "I had a chance to go to the Keeneland Thoroughbred sale [Lexington, Kentucky], and the horses were terrified of the auctioneer because they hadn’t been trained for the sound of the auctioneer's voice. They also hadn’t been prepared for a strange groom or handler to hold them. What I realized was that when a horse was swapped from his regular groom to a new person, the horse became anxious and let out a giant shriek. I noticed that noise. I don’t think anybody wants to make that stressful mess, but they did. Now the horse was alone in this strange, creepy, scary new place, and his regular groom was gone. You have to expose your animals to enough different things.”

3. Horses think in pictures which can impact how and why they spook at certain objects.

“This is an interesting study that one of my students did that explains why a horse might suddenly spook. If you look at this playset, you will notice that it looks totally different when it's rotated. My students walked young fillies and colts past this playset 15 times at the walk, until the horses just walked by it without stopping, raising their heads up, or flaring their nostrils. When this thing was turned, it became a new thing. It became something different.”

4. Everything feels different to horses at different gaits.

“The saddle feels different at a walk, trot, and canter," she said. "I suggest to students to put a backpack on and then walk, trot, and canter so they can see how it feels different. Sometimes you have to go slow and think about how you are going to introduce things to your horse. Since they are sensory-based, it is much more specific.”

5. Animals are very fear specific. Keep that in mind when dealing with a horse who habitually exhibits fear as a response to certain stimuli or when trying to expose a horse to something new.

“This horse was terrified by black cowboy hats because he associated a really bad experience with a person wearing a black cowboy hat," she said. "So black cowboy hats were very frightening, but white cowboy hats were fine—it was very specific. Now, if I put the black cowboy hat on the ground, it was a lot less scary, but as I brought that hat toward my head, it got more and more scary. And the problem with fear memories is that they are very, very difficult to get rid of. So let's try to not have that.”

6. Animals have emotions and, just like in humans, each animal or each horse is going to be very different in the way they manage their individual emotions.

“Fear is a proper scientific word," said Dr. Grandin. "When I first started doing scientific research in the early '90s, I wasn’t allowed to use the word 'fear' as they said it wasn’t scientific to assign human emotions to animals. But now we know that animals have emotions; they definitely do. Fear is real, and some animals genetically are going to have higher fear responses than other animals. It turns out with me that my fear center is three times larger than normal. You can have animals that are higher fear or low fear. An animal that is high fear is an animal that gets scared more easily; their heart rate and cortisol levels go up more, and when you put that animal in a high-stress situation they are more likely to get sick.”

7. The best thing for your horse is to let them be a horse.

“We have to look at what animals need," she said. "Dogs in an animal shelter need 45 minutes every day of funsies with the volunteer, that is what they need because we have bred them to be social. A lot of horses need to get out and run around in the pasture just to have a chance to be a horse. I am concerned that some horses are so locked up in stalls. You’ve got stallions with abnormal behavior? It’s because they have never learned that give and take of social relationships with other animals. Does the animal have a life worth living? Does it have a positive, fun, experience? Does it get to do things it likes to do? For a horse, that is getting out and running around. You want to let the horse have positive, happy experiences.”

8. Horses can be life-changing for people of all backgrounds, but especially for kids with autism.

“When I was in a regular high school, I got bullied and teased for being autistic," Dr. Grandin shared. "So I went away to a special school where horses became my life. The only place I had friends was when I was riding horses or getting horses ready for shows. I learned how to work with horses and there are a lot more troubled teenagers today who cleaning horse stalls, taking care of horses, and getting involved could be the best thing that has ever happened to them.”

[hot-take-tournament]

HOT TAKE TOURNAMENT!

GREATEST HITS!

Submission 474

vocaloids (and all similar non-Yamaha-owned vocal synths) are bad. all of them.

It's a mockery of the human voice. Frye from Splatoon 3 of all things is the closest we will ever get to having any interesting vocal technique in a voice synth bank. Singing styles around the world are so interesting and take so much skill and you abandon them for a glorified MIDI file? I also blame them for the rise of AI-generated covers, because they first started the devaluing of the human voice and the usage of it as an instrument - a really boring one that will never know advanced or diverse technique. Congrats, Miku made Minecraft, now all of SpongeBob has sang Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. At least the SpongeBob characters have distinct and interesting voices.

[from follow up asks]

hello. vocaloid take submitter here.

i didn't expect my submission to gain as much traction as it did, i thought it was lukewarm at best. i thought there were more vocaloid haters out there. this is tumblr, though, so i guess not. still think vocaloid is ass though.

i will say, it might add context to my take that i myself am a singer and have natural perfect pitch. while i haven't sang in any professional capacity, i've still done some voice training and lots of lower level performances. i have very strong feelings about singing, and hold what the human voice can do in high regard.

i also have a better ear for picking up smaller things in the human voice (re: natural perfect pitch) and the difference between humans and vocaloid is extremely striking to me. no amount of tuning can make a vocaloid not sound lifeless to me, because i will never, ever hear a human voice, and instead of letting the lead of the song Not Be Vocals - which has never been a novel concept - they HAVE to put the voice bank in.

also, re: "frye isn't a voice bank dumbass", congrats! you took away something i felt was actually interesting! god i wish more people knew about more singing styles that they couldn't easily replicate!

while now i know that AI voices are not a continuation of vocaloid, sorry, still think it's bad, go to hell and learn to compose a song without lyrics.

also - still the vocaloid take submitter - to continue:

i will eventually send a link to a playlist of all of the Vocaloid songs i have ever listened to, because i am sure most of the people who think i submitted that think that i do not even know what Defoko is, or that i've heard exactly two Hatsune Miku songs. i know what Defoko is. i know she's entirely computer generated. i've listened to her voice. i still think it's bad. have any of you big shots heard of Big Al? i've listened to him. also bad. it's bad.

Submission 111

I think chicken breast is disgusting and I would rather blend it up into a shake than eat it with my teeth

It’s fast, it’s efficient, it’s nutritious if you add fruits and vegetables. It’s easy to prepare and you can drink it on the go. I need the protein but chicken breast tastes disgusting either way, and I’m tired of putting in so much effort to make the joyless rubbery meat taste good.

My friends and family are wrong, this is the future.

I see some of you not voting! That's cheating!

It's ok if you agree with neither take! Just choose the take you agree with slightly more!

Think of it like choosing the lesser of two evils!

Propaganda is always encouraged, and remember to reblog your favourite polls for exposure!

[echo-and-dust]

now that my brain has somewhat unscrambled itself i have gotten most of my thoughts in order about season 3.

and the first thing i will say is: i loved it.

while it was gutwrenching and polarizing in some ways and i feel that i am entitled to financial compensation for what its done to my mental health, i loved this season for pretty much almost everything it did.

i cannot fault people for having issues with much of the characterization and plot choices made—that’s been the trend during the entire run of the show after all, and imo it’s a testament to the phenomenal way it generates nuance—but i wanted to share my feelings on the recurring opinions i’ve seen about some of these things.

first, i do not blame simon at all for the things he said in the final scene. he’s a child who has been receiving endless verbal and physical harassment on top of all the trauma he is still trying to heal from. he just watched his boyfriend lash out in anger and hurt—while not at him, but it must’ve been a close resemblance of how he might’ve seen micke act. at least, that's what i thought, though i've seen others say otherwise.

and yes, wille is not micke, but just because wille’s source of outbursts is different from micke’s doesn’t mean simon is wrong in drawing similarities. at least he's finally getting a true glimpse into what wille has had to deal with. i've honestly grown to like that they didn't have simon immediately comfort him though; wille's mental illness is not his fault, but it is his responsibility, and instead of pushing a message of unhealthy co-dependence, the show has simon be honest: "but i see that everything hurts you and that hurts me too." and to me, that's so important.

plus, it doesn't make their love any less genuine. wille is a victim of the circumstances; he is not evil, and he is not undeserving of simon. he just has a lot of growing and healing to do, a lot of unlearning and exposure therapy because he's still blinded by privilege even when he tries not to be.

speaking of, i have so many thoughts about wille that i feel like i need to save for its own separate post, but to sum them up: i'll still defend him with my life, and he needs to get the fuck away from that institution.

also, the fact that the responsibility of controlling simon's media decisions was placed solely on wille confused me at first like—why wouldn't they get a professional to give him proper media training?

then i realized, this could be the royal court's way of sabotaging their relationship. they knew that making wille the one to tell simon what he can and cannot say or post would create distance and animosity between them. despite the ramifications of simon's behavior on social media, it seems they still thought it best to have his boyfriend be the one to try to mold him into the system. because they knew that's how they could get rid of him. in conclusion, fuck the royal court (we been knew but still).

one of the standouts this season was their transparency regarding the show's politics. it not only works well with the show's arc (wilmon is public, everything's out in the open now and there's nothing to hide), but also it felt necessary at a time where censorship has been rapidly gaining momentum. it felt so refreshing for these characters to talk so openly about racial discrimination and queerphobia and class disparities, forcing both character and viewer to acknowledge that they exist and you should feel uncomfortable about it.

i don't think i can add much more to what was already said about it—most of the fandom is more eloquent and observant than i am anyway—i just wanted to reinforce how important this season is to myself and the story even with how controversial it is to fans right now. a lot of people may disagree with me and that's fine.

[touyatodoroking]

I think abt the progression of dabi's burns a lot. he's already burned pretty badly when he joins the league, but even with mild use of his quirk, they stay the same up until the touya reveal.

his burns at the beginning match where he had his skin graphs after his coma, so I feel like that skin was just less heat resistant than his original skin he had there. Just being exposed to that kind of heat, even just from his hands and body was enough to burn the skin on his lower face and neck.

his arms don't show to have replaced skin on them, but that still makes sense to me since they get the most exposure to the flame. I assume that's the same for different burns on his body and legs. wherever the flames are coming from take the most damage.

in the pictures above, he has some mild burns under his eyes, but those are explained by him crying flames right before the incident.

in his first appearance, however, the burns under his eyes are a lot bigger and worse. I theorize that dabi had a really hard time coping (obviously omg poor bby has been through enough) and always found himself crying. with no one to talk to and being alone on the streets, he burned away his tears every time he would cry until he no longer could. in the times he went off to train alone in Sekoto Peak he would get upset at himself for crying, and I feel like he carried that into adulthood and he has the idea that it serves him no purpose (bc nobody ever cared that he was crying😢) and it makes him weak. so yeah, he intentionally burned under his eyes so he wouldn't cry anymore.

as the series progressed, dabi uses his quirk and doesn't get any more burns. I feel like this is bc he knows what his body is capable of handling and doesn't go all out with temperature or duration. he's careful not to damage himself more so he can be in as good shape as possible to face endeavor. he doesn't let loose until his reveal, using hotter flames and recklessly coating himself in fire. he wants to show off and doesn't feel the need to hold back for once, but he also explains that his emotions are directly tied to his firepower, so I don't think he could've held back if he wanted. after this fight, his body and face are burned past what they had been at for the duration of the series and it tells me that, yeah, his skin started burning past the skin graph areas bc he wasn't trying to be careful.

omg he looks so yummy

I feel like he must've had replaced skin around his torso where he would secretly practice his quirk, bc that's the only thing that would explain the clean lines from his burns.

there's more I could go on abt but I just wanted to get the general idea out there ehehehe!

[rebeccathenaturalist]

Wild vs. Feral, Domesticated vs. Tame, Native vs. Invasive, and Why Words Matter

Originally posted on my website at https://rebeccalexa.com/wild-vs-feral/

Recently a post crossed my dash on Facebook featuring a small group of llamas in the forests of the Olympic Peninsula. The caption described them as “wild” llamas (Lama glama). That may seem pretty innocuous to the average person, but to a naturalist it’s a gross mischaracterization. For one thing, llamas are completely domestic animals, no more wild than a cow or dog; they are descended from the guanaco (Lama guanacoe), which is a truly wild camelid. So this means that the llamas on the peninsula are feral, not wild. But why does the distinction of wild vs. feral matter so much?

The terms we use to describe various species help us to understand their origin and, perhaps more importantly, their current ecological status. These concepts aren’t just relevant to scientists, however. Everyday people are constantly making decisions that can affect the ecosystems around them, and often these decisions are made without having a full understanding of their impact.

For example, look at how many people release unwanted pets into the wild, whether domesticated rabbits, goldfish, snakes, or other, more exotic animals. Some of these unfortunate animals end up dying pretty awful deaths due to starvation, exposure, or predation. But others manage to survive and reproduce, becoming the latest population of non-native–and potentially invasive–species in their ecosystem. This wouldn’t happen if more people understood the impact of non-native species, and how releasing captive animals puts native species at risk.

But it all starts with knowing that there’s a difference, and understanding the terms that explain why that difference exists. So let’s explore some vocabulary that can be used to describe species, whether animal, plant, or otherwise.

Let’s start with domestication, because there often seems to be confusion as to what makes a species domesticated. Domestication is a process that takes many years, often measured in centuries. Humans breed chosen animals for particular traits over a number of generations. As time passes, each subsequent generation becomes more different from the wild species it originated from, and eventually a new, fully domesticated species emerges from this process of artificial selection by humans.

Dogs (Canis familiaris or Canis lupus familiaris) are the first animal humans domesticated in a process that started about 30,000 years ago. They evolved from the now-extinct Pleistocene wolf, a particular lineage of the gray wolf (Canis lupus), and it’s likely that the partnership began as some wolves showed less fear of humans while scavenging from our kills. By 14,000 years ago dogs were a distinct species (or subspecies) from wolves.

Dogs display very different characteristics from wolves. Their faces tend to be shorter with a more pronounced stop (the bump in the forehead where the muzzle meets the rest of the skull.) Floppy ears and curled tails are common, as are patchy-colored coats. Dogs tend to have weaker muscles than wolves of a similar size, shorter legs and smaller feet, smaller teeth, and a smaller size overall. This is a phenomenon known as neoteny, in which domesticated animals have a tendency to retain more juvenile physical traits of their parent wild species, and you can see it in domesticated animals across the board.

But it’s not just physical appearances that matter. Behaviorally dogs are generally more friendly toward humans; in fact, they’ve even developed some human-friendly body language that wolves don’t have, like “puppy dog eyes.” They can be easily trained and, unless poorly socialized, dogs generally enjoy the company of humans.

In many ways, physically and behaviorally, a dog is a wolf that never grew out of its puppy stage. While a young wolf pup may be able to live in someone’s house for a short time, as they grow older they become more destructive and less tolerant of human company. Your dog may love watching out the window during a car ride, but a wolf is going to be much more stressed out by the experience. Even wolf-dog hybrids have to be treated differently than your average domesticated dog because the wolf content has a significant effect on behavior.

This is just one example of how domestication isn’t just a matter of a few generations of selective breeding. You can also compare domesticated horses (Equus ferus caballus) with Przewalski’s horses (Equus ferus przewalskii or Equus przewalskii) or zebras (subgenus Hippotigris), domesticated cows (Bos taurus) with stories of fierce wild aurochs (Bos primigenius), and so forth. In every case the wild and domesticated counterparts are very different in both appearance and behavior.

Now, what about the term “tame”? Many wild animal species have been tamed over the years, either wild-caught individuals or those born in captivity. These tame animals may be more docile in comparison to their fully wild counterparts, but this generally takes a lot of handling and socialization from a young age. Moreover, tame animals retain a lot more wild behaviors than domesticated ones.

Take those supposed “domesticated” foxes that people want to have as pets. Most of the foxes available as pets have no relation to those in the famous Russian fox domestication experiment, but are from modern fur farm lines. And in fact the study foxes came from Russian fur farms, so the researchers were beginning with pre-tamed animals rather than truly wild ones. While some tame foxes may be more amenable to human handling than wild foxes, they are by no means domesticated. They are more prone to wild behaviors like urinating everywhere to mark territory, chewing on anything they can get their jaws on, nipping, and making a LOT of noise. Moreover, whereas dogs adapted to eating an omnivorous diet after millennia of eating alongside us, foxes need a more specialized diet than what you can get at a pet store.

Unfortunately there are unscrupulous people within the exotic pet trade who will advertise their tame (at best) stock as “domesticated.” This often leads consumers to thinking that they’re getting a much more tractable animal that will be as easy to care for as a cat or dog, and sets up everyone involved for disaster (except, of course, the seller with a fatter wallet.)

Next, let's compare wild vs. feral. A wild species is one that has never been domesticated, nor have its ancestors. Generally it will be a native species to its ecosystem, though non-native species can also be introduced to an ecosystem without ever having been domesticated. A feral animal, on the other hand, is a member of a domesticated species that has escaped or been released back into the wild and has survived to reproduce new generations that have never been handled by humans.

I’ve often heard people refer to the feral swine (Sus domesticus) that have ravaged ecosystems worldwide as “wild pigs”. They may behave in a wild manner, and they certainly look rougher and hairier than your average well-fed domesticated pig on a farm. It’s not uncommon for feral animals to regain some traits of their wild ancestors. However, that does not make them truly wild.

If you manage to wrest away a litter of newborn piglets from a feral sow and bottle-feed them, they are likely to be able to be socialized and kept in captivity, though they may still physically resemble feral pigs. They haven’t lost the deeply-ingrained genes that carry domesticated traits. However, if you try to raise a newborn Eurasian wild boar (Sus scrofa) or red river hog (Potamochoerus porcus), it will lack the domesticated traits of its farm cousins and show more wild traits as it ages, making it a rather unsuitable pet or farm animal. We also see this return to domestic traits in mustangs and other feral horses captured at a young age. While a mustang born in the wild may be tougher to work with at first than a foal born in captivity and handled from birth, the mustang will be much more calm and easier to train than, say, a zebra.

The problem with referring to feral animals as “wild” is that this suggests they are a natural part of the ecosystem they are in. Because a truly domesticated species (or subspecies) is not the same as the parent species, it has no place to which it is native as a wild animal.

A native species is one that has evolved in a given ecosystem for thousands or even millions of years. In the process it has developed numerous intricate interrelationships with many other species in that ecosystem, creating a careful system of checks and balances. A non-native species is any species that has been taken out of the ecosystem in which it evolved and placed in a different ecosystem where it is not normally found.

For example, here in North America the mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) is a wild native species. While it may resemble domesticated pigeons, it has never been domesticated even when kept in captivity. The Eurasian collared dove (Streptopelia decaocto), on the other hand, was introduced to the Americas after a few dozen individuals were released in the Bahamas in 1974. The feral pigeon (Columba livia domestica) is a domesticated species derived from the rock dove (Columba livia), which is native to Europe, west Asia, and northern Africa. Both the collared dove and pigeon are examples of non-native species. Most non-native species do not offer any benefits to the ecosystems they are introduced to because they do not have established relationships with native species. When they compete with native species for resources, they weaken the ecosystem overall.

Non-native species can be further categorized as naturalized or invasive, or even both. A naturalized species is a non-native one that has managed to establish reproducing populations, rather than going extinct without becoming established. Unfortunately, some people take this to mean that the species has become fully integrated into the new ecosystem. However, this is a process that again takes thousands to millions of years as other species adapt to the newcomer, which itself often also changes as it adapts to its new environment.

Ring-necked pheasants (Phasianus colchicus) are an example of a naturalized species in North America. Native to Asia and parts of Europe, they were introduced here as a game bird 250 years ago. While captive pheasants are regularly released into the wild to offer more hunting opportunities to humans, this species has likely been naturalized from its first introduction.

Again, “naturalized” doesn’t mean “natural”. Pheasants compete with native birds like northern bobwhite (Colinus virginianus) and prairie chickens (Tympanuchus spp.) Not only do they compete for food, nesting sites, and other resources, but they also spread diseases to native birds. Pheasants even engage in brood parasitism, laying their eggs in native birds’ nests and sometimes causing the native birds to abandon the nest and their own young entirely.

This means that the pheasants are also invasive as well as naturalized. Invasive species are non-natives that aggressively compete with, and sometimes displace or extirpate, native species. There are several hundred species that have become seriously invasive here, including both vertebrate and invertebrate animals, and numerous plants. But even the rest of the over 6000 non-native species that have become naturalized here still put pressure on native species, and have the potential to become invasive if their impact increases to a more damaging point.

Hopefully this gives you a clearer understanding of what these terms mean and why it’s important to know the difference. By knowing a little more about how your local ecosystem works and how different species may be contributing to or detracting from its overall health, you have more power to be able to make decisions that can preserve native species and help ecosystems be more resilient. Given that the removal of invasive species is one of the most important ways we can help ecosystems thrive in spite of climate change, it’s more important than ever that we increase nature literacy among the general populace. Consider this article just one small way to move that effort along.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

[clover-system]

The longest list of anti-endo sources I've ever seen

While trying to find something else using Tumblr's infamous search engine, I came across this absolute gem:

NINE SOURCES!!! That's a record!! This is incredible!

@radpocalypse, listen. I am about to tear these to shreds, but before I do, I want you to know that you have my respect for not only compiling the longest list of sources I have ever seen an anti-endo provide, and not only doing so seemingly not directly prompted, but typing out every single link by hand, on mobile, without making a single mistake. Incredible work.

And also, to be completely honest, if I had nine sources supporting a belief, I almost certainly wouldn't look into them this closely. But, hey, that's what strangers on the internet with opposing views are for.

One more thing before the debunk: Endogenic systems do not claim to have DID etc. without trauma. They just don't. Whether it could be possible is often debated as an edge case, usually just to win an argument against someone of the opposing side, but really, it's irrelevant for 99% of the community. A good chunk are questioning OSDD based on later trauma, but as far as I am aware, no one on this website is claiming a completely endogenic plural disorder.

However, I don't want to dismiss entire pages based on this alone without further commentary, and it's a fun intellectual exercise regardless. So, whenever I use green text, I'm just playing Devil's Advocate under the premise of "If I was claiming to have DID without trauma (which neither I nor anyone else afaik is), would this source actually debunk that claim?" My syster will also occasionally pop in with purple, since she was cocon while I was writing this.

My dad just walked into my room and literally said "hey how it's going". You know, like. Like that one post. Amazing.

Anyway, civility established. Now come along with me on this long long journey of ten minutes of reading. Maybe put some music on in the background, if that will help you get through it. I had Near's Theme on while writing.

Here we go.

Link 1: McLean Hospital

Ok, main thing that caught my eye was

According to a 2010 Psychiatric Times article, only 5% of people with DID exhibit obvious switching between identity “states.”

Very interesting! Even with all of the "idk who's fronting" memes, 5% is really not that high. Though maybe online spaces like these help train the ability to identify it? The reference trail leads back to a book by Kluft but I don't really feel like going through dozens of pages for this. Definitely making a note of this though; I wonder if there have been any follow-up studies on this.

Not much to say here other than that. No mention of plurality outside DID.

DID is associated with long-term exposure to trauma, often chronic traumatic experiences during early childhood.

Dissociation—or disconnection from one’s sense of self or environment—can be a response to trauma.

Dissociative identity disorder—a type of dissociative disorder—most often develops during early childhood in kids who are experiencing long-term trauma. This typically involves emotional, physical, and/or sexual abuse; neglect; and highly unpredictable interactions with caregivers.

Why "associated", not "is caused by"? Why "can", not "is"? Why "most often", etc.?

Why such weak language?

Not that it couldn't be weaker.

I vaguely remember McLean getting into some hot water regarding a video they posted about DID, but didn't find anything concrete. Half-remembered anecdote aside, the author seems well-qualified.

C-tier debunk of this position. It's not nothing but it could be a lot better.

Link 2: Psych Central

It occurs in women 9 times more often than in men.

Very interesting statistic, but no citation provided.

Alters can show striking differences. For instance, one alter may speak with a different accent or have a softer way of speaking. They might have different opinions or a different gender identity, and even physical differences — like left- or right-handedness, or the need for a glasses prescription.

That's quite a stark difference here compared to the McLean article. What happened to "alters aren't that noticeable"?

But whatever, these are just interesting tidbits. None of this has anything to do with endogenic plurality. Nothing like "this is the only way to be multiple", no comment whatsoever.

DID is usually associated with adverse experiences in someone’s past and traumatic memories.

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is a mental health condition with strong links to trauma, especially trauma in childhood.

Bruh. This again?

In fact, the American Psychiatric Association reports that 90% of people with DID have a history of childhood abuse and neglect, based on research from the United States, Canada, and Europe.

Bruh. Seriously? 90%? You know what that leaves, right?

According to your own source, 10% of DID systems are endogenic.

But let's break this down. There's a big difference between the system being endogenic, and the DID being endogenic. This statistic is specifically referring to childhood trauma.

The wording's plenty vague though. This can absolutely be read as completely endogenic DID.

One review article from 2017 about the causes of DID noted that there was relatively little research on the condition to date.

The authors said researchers hadn’t yet investigated potential genetic and epigenetic factors. With epigenetic factors, the experiences and behaviors of your parents and ancestors can influence the function of the genes they pass down to you.

The authors of the review said scientists needed to do more research to investigate whether a person with DID might carry genes that can influence if they develop the condition or not.

This is particularly promising because studies have already shown that genes can influence dissociative disorders in general.

So you're telling me DID might be able to be passed down one or two generations? Wow. Again, this still has nothing to do with endogenic plurality, but I'm really glad I decided to play with this second angle, because it's so much more fun. We're certainly not at intentional self-inflicted DID here, but we are at this point a long way from certainly needing childhood trauma in all cases.

And also the reviewer is a military psychiatrist who specializes in ADHD. So uh. Not bringing our best here.

Link 3: Mayo Clinic

Gotta love an article that's nice and short. This is just a brief summary of a bunch of dissociative disorders. Again, nothing about endogenic plurality.

Starting to run out of things to say about this. This whole post could probably be a fifth the length if I didn't feel like playing on hard mode.

Formerly known as multiple personality disorder, this disorder involves "switching" to other identities. You may feel as if you have two or more people talking or living inside your head. You may feel like you're possessed by other identities.

Each identity may have a unique name, personal history and features. These identities sometimes include differences in voice, gender, mannerisms and even such physical qualities as the need for eyeglasses.

Hey, that reminds me of someone.

There also are differences in how familiar each identity is with the others. Dissociative identity disorder usually also includes bouts of amnesia and often includes times of confused wandering.

Again, McLean looking really odd with its declaration of DID's covertness against great detail like this. However, its author is so far the best qualified. This one just says "Mayo Clinic Staff". Can't even know which of them worked on this. Some of them are psychs, but if any of them specialize in dissociative disorders, it doesn't say so.

Dissociative disorders usually arise as a reaction to shocking, distressing or painful events and help push away difficult memories.

I won't bother quoting even more wishy-washy language because this post is already at an ungodly length (about 1300 words so far) and we're barely a third done. But yeah, suffice to say, no nail-in-the-coffin 100% link to trauma.

Link 4: Rethink

We are a trusted information creator and accredited by the Patient Information Forum (PIF).

Their bold, for once. That's an alarm-ringing corporate phrase if I've ever seen one. Also, first thing on the PIF's website is "balancing the risks and benefits of AI in the production of health information". So this article might've been written by GPT. Awesome. And yeah, a lot of this whole website looks to me like a bunch of interconnected pages with stupidly long articles written by stitching together LLM generations. Does pass GPT0's test though.

This one is so long. I'll take the ten minutes to read through every word, which I don't think @radpocalypse did, just to make sure there's nothing here, but one thing that does catch my eye scrolling down to near the bottom is that they misspelled their first citation.

A quick look at this Carolyn Spring shows a lot being sold and credentials nowhere in sight. Awesome.

So already I don't need to read this. The information here is not at a high level of trustworthiness. It's maybe better than nothing, but seriously, one can and should do better. But I'll read it anyway, just for bonus points. Thanks to AccelaReader for making this bearable.

Many people will experience dissociation at some point in their lives. Lots of different things can cause you to dissociate. For example, you might dissociate when you are very stressed, or after something traumatic has happened to you.

Some of the symptoms of dissociation include the following:

You may have clear multiple identities.

It‘s important to remember that you could have the symptoms of dissociation without a dissociative disorder.

So according to this, multiple identities can be caused by intense but non-traumatic stress, and might not necessarily be a disorder. So, while I admit this is a little bit of a stretch, we're four links in and this is the first mention of plurality in general, so I'll take it. One point for endogenic plurality. (And again, none of this really matters anyway because this is the worst source so far.)

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is sometimes called ‘Multiple Personality Disorder.

If you have DID you might seem to have 2 or more different identities, called ‘alternate identities.

Two missing closing quotes. Really not a good sign.

They suggest that DID is caused by experiencing severe trauma over a long time in childhood.

Aha! Finally, something concrete against endogenic DID! Too bad it's buried in the worst source yet. If we believed we had DID, we would absolutely not reconsider that based on a sketchy webpage with suboptimal syntax and no credentials.

Ugh, finally done with that one. What a slog.

Link 5: DID Research

Aha! The infamous psych student's blog! That's what Sophie said, anyway. Not taking her word for it though. Let's see what we can find here, independently.

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is the result of repeated or long-term childhood trauma

Why wasn't this first? First sentence, so crystal clear. No two ways about this, transDID destroyed right out of the gate.

DID cannot form after ages 6-9 because individuals older than these ages have an integrated self identity and history.

Why wasn't this first? It's so plain, so refreshing after four pages of strategic ambiguity. Nothing left here for green. But still no mention of non-disordered plurality.

The author is impressively credentialed but doesn't seem to specialize quite near this area. She's certainly better than most, high above any random Tumblr user talking out of their ass, but the good stuff would be to get a DID specialist to explicitly spell out that endogenic systems are not possible.

Also should make note of this big fat legal disclaimer:

While the author strives to make information on this website as complete, reliable, and accurate as possible, the author makes no claims, promises, guarantees, or warranties about the accuracy, completeness, or adequacy of the contents of this site and expressly disclaims liability for errors and omissions in the contents of this site.

If we did claim to have DID, this would rattle us a little but could ultimately be brushed aside.

Link 6: SANE

As usual, literally nothing about endogenic plurality. I'll just greenmode this.

The majority of people with DID have been through severe trauma in early childhood

And now back to our regularly scheduled nondefinitive language.

Fun fact: highlighting text on this website turns it invisible. Awesome.

A person needs to meet the following criteria to be diagnosed with DID:

- Two or more distinct identities or personality states, each with its own way of thinking and relating. - Amnesia and gaps in the recall of everyday events, personal information or traumatic events. - The experiences are not part of normal cultural or religious practice, or part of childhood imaginary play. For example, a child having an imaginary friend does not mean they have DID. - The symptoms are not because of substance abuse or other medical conditions.

Ah finally, a direct quote from the good ol' DSM. Notice the lack of a trauma requirement.

Funny enough, using only these criteria in isolation, we actually would count as having DID due to our grayout memory gaps when switching. DID is also listed in the dissociative disorders section of the DSM, not the trauma disorders section, so there is no implied criterion there either. However, there still remains the universal criterion of distress, which we do not fulfill. We are quite happy with ourselves.

DID is caused by severe childhood trauma, such as physical, verbal or sexual abuse.

Well, which is it?? Is it a majority association or a direct cause? Why the contradiction? Or is the emphasis on early childhood trauma?

Eh, whatever. Point is, green is once again shut down. But there is still no mention of endogenic plurality anywhere here!!

And no indication of who wrote this article, though the citation for direct cause is a dissociative disorder specialist. Does he actually say that in the cited paper, though?

Dissociative identity disorder (DID) is multifactorial in its etiology. Whereas psychosocial etiologies of DID include developmental traumatization and sociocognitive sequelae, biological factors include trauma-generated neurobiological responses. Biologically derived traits and epigenetic mechanisms are also likely to be at play. At this point, no direct examination of genetics has occurred in DID. However, it is likely to exist, given the genetic link to dissociation in general and in relation to childhood adversity in particular.

I hope you have a dictionary on hand. That sure is a lot of big words that aren't in Firefox's built-in spellchecker. Still, after making sure I got everything, it's clearly not so cut and dry here. And we're back on the "it could be genetic" point.

Tangentially related: I do like the dismissal of the iatrogenic model on the basis of the brain scans.

Neurobiological differences have been demonstrated between dissociative identities within patients with DID and between patients with DID and controls. Given the current evidence, DID as a diagnostic entity cannot be explained as a phenomenon created by iatrogenic influences, suggestibility, malingering, or social role-taking. On the contrary, DID is an empirically robust chronic psychiatric disorder based on neurobiological, cognitive, and interpersonal non-integration as a response to unbearable stress.

Anyway, we're not even on the original page anymore, so I'll call it here. No mention of endogenic plurality, and the citation that claims to dismiss endogenic DID doesn't.

Link 7: NAMI Michigan

While the causes [of DID] are unknown

I'm tired. Aren't you tired?

Treatment for DID consists primarily of psychotherapy with hypnosis.

Yeah I'm calling BS on this one

And no citations on this entire page, nor even the author's name.

Statistics show that DID occurs in 0.01 to 1 percent of the general population.

Research has shown that the average age for the initial development of alters is 5.9 years old.

No sources listed. This is definitely the worst link. Literally on the same level as a rambling Tumblr user in terms of credibility.

Doesn't matter that it says

This disorder is believed to be triggered by physical or sexual abuse in childhood

Couldn't even get this dogshit source to be firm.

This one gets an F.

Link 8: The Psychology Practice

Got scared for a moment there that it said ai. No, that's AL, a name. Also this was written in 2022, so we're definitely safe. Can't actually find any other info on this AL character, but at least we can look up the co-author.

Hm, can't find anything on her, either. Well, at least this is a step up from the previous link. Let's see what it has to say.

According to the Dissociative Identity Research Organisation (2018), DID is formed in childhood due to repeated trauma in early childhood (before age 10) before the personality is fully integrated.

I do like that these later links are direct with this. They don't seem to have a citation for that DIRO, though. Unless...

No. Oh no.

Ok, so this one was written by a couple of clowns who definitely didn't do their homework. Cool. I'm getting tired of humoring awful sources like this, so moving on to the grand finale.

Link 9: NAMI

Wait, this is the same group behind the zero-citation article from Michigan! But that was just Michigan. Maybe the main site can do better.

Ugh, it's just another list of dissociative disorders instead of DID specifically.

The symptoms of a dissociative disorder usually first develop as a response to a traumatic event,

Aren't you tired? Aren't you tired? Aren't you tired?

Often these identities may have unique names, characteristics, mannerisms and voices.

Often? Wow. Sure is a far cry from 5%.

Dissociative disorders are managed through various therapies including: - Psychotherapies such as cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT) - Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) - Medications such as antidepressants can treat symptoms of related conditions

No mention of hypnosis, allegedly the primary method of treatment?? (/sarc)

and there was no mention of plurality being exclusive to dissociative disorders

Oh, and no listed authors either.

So, after three thousand words of analysis, all we've come up with are nothing burgers, dogshit, and dogshit nothing burgers. Out of nine links, only one briefly and indirectly touched on endogenic plurality, and it was in favor. Even the argument against the traumaless DID strawman is weak at best. These sources are bad, to put it lightly.

@radpocalypse, if you're reading this, firstly, thank you for powering through your ADHD and dyslexia to read thousands of words dunking on your masterpiece. Secondly, if you have any more sources that you think are backing you, feel free to send them my way. Just uh, maybe read them more closely next time?

And that goes for everyone here. If you think you have a better source, or if I made a mistake or missed something here, I am open to correction. I am open to the idea that I'm wrong and I have some unknown trauma to work through, but I certainly won't go digging unless I have good reason to believe it's there, and I haven't seen any good reason. And if you haven't either, maybe it's time to reconsider your position.

One last thing before I go.

Have you ever actually seen a pro-endo carrd, let alone one cited in standalone? I haven't.

Here's a much longer list of much better sources than yours supporting endogenic plurality compiled by the traumagenic Guardians System. I don't expect you to read anywhere near the whole thing; just pick a few links at random. And yes, while many of them are peer-reviewed papers, some of them are Tumblr posts, but those Tumblr posts cite peer-reviewed papers, so it's all good.

Thanks for reading.