#what a difference exposure training can make

[aidenwaites]

Worst part of 35mm is idk if any of this looks like anything until I send this off to get developed

[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.

[aestherin]

I CAN SEE YOU

track 05: late

NOTE: update bc lenten break started ^^ how are y'alll 👀

It was not a hidden truth to you that your good friend Venti, more known by his penname 'Barbatos', had his way with words. If he didn't, how else would he have had the long list of critically acclaimed works penned under his name? However, there was a first for everything.

You now jokingly doubted whether he actually wrote those poems. You mean — how could someone so articulate and flowery fail to do Inazuma justice?!

Yes, Venti did hype the place up. Yes, he did describe it in positive light. Yes, he was convincing enough to make you extend your stay (for a considerable amount of time at that). But you never imagined Inazuma would be this majestic.

After just a step onto Inazuman ground, freshly fallen petals of varying purples graced your feet. Cold, fragrant breeze embraced you immediately, a stark difference from the warm and gentle winds of your homeland.

Wow. You really left home.

Did you ask permission and tell your parents that there won't be anyone home in your apartment for a long while? No.

Did you care?

Well, actually, yes. It was your first time to go out of town after all. And it is a secret trip, no less. You could not help thinking about the repercussions of your actions, but you forced yourself to, for once, live in the moment and cast those worries aside for later.

Was this how your classmates felt when they used to sneak out past their curfews during high school?

"Your room number is 0616. Here is your key card. Enjoy your stay!" The hotel receptionist flashed a smile, to which you were trained to only respond with a small nod and a slight curve of lips.

A small yet clean room welcomed you. The furnishings, though evidently luxurious, was not to your liking, however. It reminded you of home your family house, where everything was excessively lavish all due to your family's vanity and pretentiousness. No matter. Who expects a hotel room to make you feel at home anyway?

Besides, you were planning to search for a temporary rental space after your very very important meeting tomorrow. If luck permits, you may not even be staying for so long in this stuck-up room.

The only thing you have to do for today is rest well and early in order to be in your best state during tomorrow's meeting.

What the heck is happening?!

Trying to keep yourself seem sane and professional as you converse with a few select officers and staff of Narukami Entertainment when, in fact, you were internally freaking out was not how you envisioned this meeting to be.

You really thought you'd do fairly well.

Constant exposure to pretentious men in suits, masked ladies of high society, and those pretenders claiming to be 'art connoisseurs' your whole life has provided you with ample confidence that you can handle today's affairs flawlessly.

Or at the very least, decently.

Well that was before you saw your favorite singer-songwriter's manager in the same meeting room.

"Here, we prepared a contract." Scaramouche's manager slid a folder across the table. "Go through it first. Feel free to tell us if you wish to change anything, or if you find anything disagreeable."

"Thank you."

You started to go through the contract, meticulously going through each and every clause, assessing each and every word — until one stopped you in your tracks.

'Scaramouche.'

Oh fuck.

Your jests were really just that. Just jests. Not even you believed that it would actually turn real. The state of your mind right now was the exact opposite of what you are projecting, seemingly composed as you were signing the papers.

'Archons, what country did I save in my past life that I get to work with my favorite artist in this life?'

'Will Scaramouche be here?'

'Holy, if I work with him, does that mean I get a spoiler about his next album because I get to make a cover? Can I hear sample songs? Can I know the tracklist? Can I get a signed alb—'

"Okay, so are we all good for today then?" His manager asked as he retrieved the documents.

Oh. So I won't be seeing him.

Maybe they don't really allow their artists to just meet anyone. Understandable, especially since Scaramouche is insanely famous. Maybe you'd never even get to interact with him for the whole duration of the project.

Nevertheless, your heart still leaped at the thought of contributing to his upcoming album.

"Yeah." You flashed a smile. "I think I'm good —"

"Sorry I'm late."

I CAN SEE YOU — scara x reader smau

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[asahisbunny]

THESPESIA'S IN THE AIR

── .✦ Gaoshun x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; Who knew one could fear and yearn ones wife all at the same time..for almost 20 years?!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; suggestive, threats of castration!, semi public exposure? idk, language, mentions of sex, nothing explicit.

I'm not responsible for the content you consume MDNI

“Keep drinking that and it'll make you impotent one day”

Jinshi glared at Gaoshun as if he hadn't spit out the mouthful of that horrid drink he has been having to digest for months now. “Same goes for you” he replied, wiping his chin

“I already have been blessed with three children, and my oldest son has given me a grandkid..safe to say i don't have to worry as much as you”

Jinshi blinked slowly “Your poor wife, if i was her I'd turn you into a eunuch for real just for saying that” Gaoshun only sighed “We are far from young, master Jinshi”

“Hard to believe such a statement, when just two days ago I had to get rid of two issued noise complaints” Suiren walked through the door, smile as ominous as ever. “Is that so?” the young master inquired with amusement “Suiren I believe what i do with my wife is of no interest to the young master” the poor man looked so embarrassed

“What would the people think when they hear such– exhilarating sounds from a palace who should only harbor eunuchs, such as yourself.” She spoke softly as she departed from the room, only to pave the way to another predator.

“Master Jinshi, may I come in?” you spoke in such a sugary voice, but they both knew different, someone had to master the craft before teaching it to the young master afterall

“Do come in”

“If it's of no trouble, I would like to request a two day leave, my oldest has been blessed with a beautiful baby boy and i would love to meet the little creature” Your heavenly smile, known to lift even the saddest court ladies spirits, only worried the two who stood in front of you.

“Dear i thought we agreed on going in a wee-” Gaoshun was cut off by a glare from your eyes. Least to say he shut up.

“I don't see why not, you have worked diligently, i'll see if i can schedule an extra day, with the Apothecary here, the workload is less heavy on Suiren.” Jinshi wrote down on a wooden plank the letter of permission and handed it to you with a gentle smile

“I'm forever in your debt, thank you so much”  You bowed, and moved to the door, not before looking back at your husband, who stood worried at the side of the young master. “It's a permission for three dear, get packing.” The tone dropped a few points in sweetness, he swore your eyes have not been as dark as now, and he’s seen you training with Basen.

“I hope you have a great rest back home Gaoshun, you deserve it” Jinshi spoke, suppressing his laughter “It was nice knowing you Master Jinshi”

Back at his personal office, Gaoshun sat on his desk that flooded with paperwork, head facing the fine wood said desk was made from, mind flooding with a million thoughts. All dissipating as soon as he heard the hinges on his door creak, the signature smell of thespesia that your body radiated quickly flooded his senses, calming him.

“Good evening my dear” He spoke tiredly, barely looking up from his workload, but when he did, oh did he stare- hard. There you stood in all your glory, the sheath western nightgown you had bought the day the caravan came in, leaving little to the imagination. And you were only getting closer to his desk’

“Did anyone see you come in like this?” he said in a tone akin to a whisper, eyes soaking the curves which he had fallen for many years ago. “I've been coming here at ungodly hours of the night for years now my love, im careful” Your reassurance only made him smile. At this point you sat prettily at the edge of the desk closest to him “So considerate my wife” he stood, quickly cradling your face with his calloused hands and diving in to kiss your soft lips, “My beautiful wife” his lips now trailing down your neck, the potent smell of the thespesia making him much more eager to be near you

Yeah, near. Let's go with near!

“After all that tea, will you be able to keep up?” you teased, batting your eyelashes his way “I've been switching the herbs the past years my love, I assure you i can keep up” he spoke in between soft nibbles at your supple flesh. “That's good to hear” you stood up from your place, confusing your aching husband. You sauntered your way to where the candles that illuminated the office from the darkness outside sat, from the closest to the door, up to the final one at his side. When you finally talked “I spoke to a friend doctor of mine, he said i'm healthy enough to have a fourth, just so you're aware”

Safe to say Suiren had to deal with the noise complaints.

a/n: I have a whole backstory for them in my docs, i swear ill have it all out soon and maybe,, just maybe some actual smut, no promises on when tho, HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!

TAGLIST!! @strawpuffries @gaoshun @yassified00 @lak3-1s-h3r3

©𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘, 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍...𝐁𝐄 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐅𝐒

[3liza]

i know ive done hundreds of hours of either actual protesting or doing equipment and training prep for protesting and then another hundred hours of research about riot weapon mitigation and maybe someone remembers and was expecting me to Post about it again but i just cant do a big posting marathon about it this time im sorry.

so heres the short version of what i have learned through personally being chemically attacked multiple times in multiple protests, and doing hundreds of hours of research in medical literature.. take it or leave it.

probably the single most important thing i can tell you is wear some kind of head protection (a head injury is the #1 way people get seriously hurt and killed at protests. i dont care if it looks dumb, wear a helmet).

one thing about chemical weapons is they are all different and sometimes you can make shit worse for one chemical by treating another. at the riot you wont know for sure what youve been exposed to because police use mixed products specifically to make treatment harder.

the best riot weapon treatment is to avoid being sprayed, gassed or shot in the first place. wear a helmet. wear protective clothing and if you have it, armor. buy a respirator or gas mask with an unused nato nbc filter, and do not use milk for tear gas or chemical treatment in your eyes. water is not really effective for a lot of exposures either but wont injure you, it will however often cause additional pain because riot weapons are often in oil based carriers and wont wash off with water and are designed to activate when they come into contact with it. ie, the water will make it hurt more until it wear off/evaporates.

^^^^ this thing should b e standard issue protest equipment for all street medics and i dont know why they arent except that people just dont know they exist. i want these to be the new meta. fill them with clean water or preferably saline (contact solution) before going in. the cup goes over your eyeball and then you squeeze and your eyeball gets sprayed off, which is the procedure that is hardest to accomplish in the middle of a protest because tear gas makes you clench your eyes closed involuntarily. a good street medic will basically restraint you like a dog at the vet and pry your eyelids open to rinse your eyes. this is a lot easier to accompkish with the proper equipment

you should be carrying sterile saline or lactated ringer for chemical weapon flushing, and you should get an eyewash bottle from a medical or industrial supply. or amazon. if you cant buy lactated ringer then those big bottles of contact solution with the little spray tips are also good because you can use the water pressure to spray chemical particulate off the affected surface while rinsing. sudecon and other chemical weapon ntreatment wipes also work somewhat but last time i looked into it years ago, it was very hard to source and purchase, expensive, and had limited efficacy

i did all the research on this and this was the conclusion of many papers and many military and police tests that i read.

additionally, rinsing your eyes with the lactated ringer BEFORE being contacted by riot weapons worked better in one trial than trying to treat exposure afterwards. no one tested this but i suspect that generously applying Visine to your eyes, mouth, and nostrils before getting gassed or sprayed would have a very similar mitigating effect

for skin surface treatment in the field, a 50/50 mixture of water and liquid antacid (referred to as LAW) is effective for some agents and wont hurt for the others. unfortunately the majority of chemical agents have to evaporate off you to stop hurting. all the serious, EMT-trained and experienced street medics i know carry and use LAW. i have used it on patients and on myself and i think it's more effective than water.

this web page concentrates a lot of the information and challenges about this stuff into a short amount of reading. i dont know anything about the site or the owners but the information on just this page agrees with what i found in my own research.

people will argue with me about this because theres a shitload of "folk wisdom" about protesting like the onion thing etc and most of it is straight bullshit that has been reinforced through superstition. since riot weapons wear off after a period of time, a lot of people will put stupid shit on their burns and then claim it "works" when the pain inevitably stops after X minutes. stick to saline and water if you dont know what youre doing, then wash your skin with dish soap when you get home and isolate your poisoned clothes immediately. using a clean oil and then soaping it off in a shower can help too but ONLY if you are removing the oil completely (dish soap again). oil is not a good field treatment and will make things worse if you apply it without soaping it off.

also for reasons probably related to nicotinic receptors, smoking a cigarette after tear gas inhalation helps with acute recovery. i dont know why, and it probably is obnly going to work for people who have smoking experience. there's no research about this, its purely personal observation

dehydration will make you sick and crazy and stupid faster than you think it will, so will low blood sugar. bring candy bars and water and salt to eat during the protest. bring extra to give to people.

as always, if someone is exhibiting asthma or anaphylaxis symptoms they need actual medical attention asap

reblogs off because i dont want to deal with the inevitable panic-based arguments this information always triggers

[sluttyhenley]

so i've seen some coloring tips going around that talk about levels on dark scenes and i've giffed a lot of dark scenes (tom hanks i am looking directly At You) and i consistently use levels, so i wanted to offer some tips. (assuming you already know the basics of turning clips from your video files into gifs in photoshop)

we'll use this gif (from my most going through it guy of all time set) as an example:

here's the gif with no coloring on it whatsoever:

it's very dark, (@ tom hanks why do you hate me personally)

so first thing's first, we make it so we can actually see his face. i started with a boatload of exposure:

3.5 to even get this image to a point where i could see what i was working with, but this is just the foundation. i want to get this lighter but i don't want to blow it out so i'll add some more light with a brightness/contrast layer:

as you can see i upped the brightness to 35, and i've got the whole scene lighter without losing picture quality. however, because i can see the way i'm going to want to mess with/correct the colors i want to bring some more light into the picture.

this time i use curves:

sometimes i'll do an auto curves layer to lighten things up, but auto curves was doing strange and unwelcome things with the colors and contrast so i did a lighter curves layer instead. I did this a grand total of three times. you can see the effect of the next two lighter curves layers below:

now that i've got enough light in the gif that i feel comfortable messing with depth and colors i'm going to add a selective color layer, which you can see below:

so i'll do all of my selective color in one layer. this is mostly just a personal preference. you can do one color per layer if you want to track the differences. below are my selective color settings for this gif:

+1 in black and +2 in neutral serve to put some depth back into the image.

but wait, we're not done in curves! this is a gray point curves layer to tone down all that blue in this scene. (middle eye dropper is gray point) i set the magnification to 2000% in order to find a gray pixel to use as my base gray. so now we bring some of that ruddiness back into his face but you still have the blue light in the train

so for me this still lacks depth and i'm not really happy with the colors yet so we're going to go into levels now to bring some more depth into the gif. i started with a simple increase contrast levels that softens some of the pink that the gray point layer brought out and gave us some more depth.

next i added a black point levels layer, which you do pretty much the same as a the gray point curves layer, except this time you'll want to look for a pixel to be your baseline black (top eye dropper is black point)

with this layer i've finally gotten his clothing and the background about where i want it but his face looks kind of green. with this gif i was able to resolve that with a saturation/vibrance layer:

this adjustment is more subtle, but it reduces that green in his face and makes the background and his clothes look richer. here's the final product

as you can see, just because a scene is dark, it doesn't mean you should avoid levels layers. if you can bring enough light into your scene without losing quality, you can use levels to really enrich your colors while still ensuring that your subject is visible in the gif.

[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

[junesirius]

just my babblings from watching JIB15 panel videos

Misha solo panel

Fan: (yelling something) Misha: I'm sorry, talk to Jensen about that.

Curiosity is killing me to know what exactly is that yelling about that makes him lower his eyes, lick his lips, and smile so sheepishly.

About That "Full Penetration" talk

Misha: I, I, I, I love the idea of me -- of somebody resurrecting Supernatural, and you know, and, and of course, of course Eric Kripke would have to be at the helm of that but then I'm afraid like, I'm afraid that, you know, he would make Castiel's penis explode or something like that. Misha: Now that he's not you know restricted by standards and practices at the CW, what is he going to do. Is it like -- (chuckle) He's like "So you're going to love this, guys. We're actually going to have -- We're going to show, Cas and Dean with full penetration. What do you think?" (fake panic) And Jensen be like "Yeah!" And I'm like "Nah." (touch ear) Oops.

(Transcribing down the stumbles as well as the fully constructed sentence because the stumbles and pauses and hesitations and sentence reconstruction sometimes can also be quite telltaling. And the fillings like "you know"s and "of course"s.)

The context and train of thoughts of that talk is also worth noting, that quite apparently the very first question in the panel leads to a heavy aftertaste of "The Boys" vibe the whole panel. So my theory is, it's more like a secret hint of his character in "The Boys" than an imagination of destiel.

Been thinking, if this is really coming out of nowhere, just him making up a pretend conversation, the tense in the sentences isn't quite right. He said "EK would have to be..." and "he would make Cas's..." The subjunctive sentences, for made-up things. So the second part should be "He would be like... Jensen would be like... I'd be like..."

But no, the second part is in simple present tense, "He's like... Jensen be like... I'm like..." For sure can't use the past tense if that's a real conversation, but making it simple present tense, that's vague enough and easy enough to pretend. AND, when saying that, Misha looked at the floor, eyeball moving toward the right bottom direction, the expression of recalling instead of making up new things.

So my headcanon is, this is a real hidden implication of "The Boys", and it quite likely has been a real or close-to-real conversation. Not between Cas and Dean though, more likely be his and Jensen's characters. And, by correcting "we're actually going to have" to "we're going to show", where the word "show" could mean any different visual way of displaying something on screen, would guess there might be a sneaky image of their characters with some highly sexually involved entangled posture included in "The Boys". Hopefully.

Fan: On a scale from Jensen's bare butt to Rob's bare everything, how internet-breaking do you expect your role on "The Boys" to be? Misha: (laugh, turn to his back) I have to admit that going into "The Boys" I did have a bit of trepidation cuz we talked about me being on "The Boys" before I saw what it was that Eric wanted me to do. And I was kind of imagining like you know, Eric would give me a character who, uh, choked to death on his own penis, or something like that. I was thinking like "Oh my god, can anything be as bad as what happened to Rob?" Misha: But I'm not gonna spoil things for you but em, Rob might still take the cake. I mean, it was pretty impressive. I laughed when I -- I told this to Eric but I was like "You know, Eric, it's funny like you really helped boost Rob's career, you wrote him into Supernatural, you made him into God on Supernatural, and you gave him a ton of work there but also you know a lot of exposure in a really cool role, and then you're like, 'And now I'm going to destroy you, and I'm going to make you eat your own ass on national television -- international television.'" Misha: I wish there had been video footage of Rob when he's like... (the epic performance of Rob's script-reading experience)

Laughed so hard on "the scale from Jensen's bare butt to Rob's bare everything", honestly, that is indeed a very well scale for "The Boys". And now we have the measurement: more to the Jensen's bare butt than Rob's bare everything.

The script-reading experience is so hilarious and amazing. Kinda reminds me of the improv performance experience. Very improv, very vivid, the expressions and dialogues and pretending the items and Ruth (!) being there, it's such a good comedy performance. Very confidently speaking, he'd definitely be an amazing improv actor if he chooses to be.

Misha (in Cas's voice): I really don't sound like Castiel.

speaking in Cas's voice at 12min 15s, low and gravelly. indeed miss Cas so much now

Fan: If all main actors of Supernatural were on the plane that was about to crush and you had a parachute to save one of the actors, who would it be?

The question at 14min 39s.

There would be so many witty ways to defuse the question, the first thing I think he could say is "That must be a damn big plane" and then goes on talking about how many actors there are and distract the question into praising the fellow actors.

The second thing is to chew the keyword "main actors", like, "Why, there are so many brilliant minor characters that are also super talented and impressive, they deserve to be on the plane too", then goes on talking about and praising the impressive guest stars.

And, the very easiest answer would be, "I'll save the captain."

But that real-life terrifying jet almost-crash story is also a good one.

Fan: (recommend three masterpiece movies) Misha: (Matrix 1, The Man Who Knew Too Little) For some reason this movie that I haven't seen in a long time by Jim Jarmusch, Down by Law. Does anyone know that movie? It's great little like weird-- Roberto Benigni is the star of it and it's a fucking great movie from like 25 years ago. Misha: But picking three movies is totally unfair, there are so many-- I mean, I just watched Beverly Hills Cops, I was like, this is a masterpiece, this is an amazing film. It was-- Yeah I almost revealed a big spoiler from "The Boys" just now. You almost got me.

For the record, Down by Law is 1986, that's 40 years ago, so if it feels like 25 years ago, now we know the mental current time is around 2010, about the time to newly join the Supernatural. Back from future, baby, pretty sure had read a ton of time travel stories like that.

Also, pretty sure the "just watched" movie is very likely watched on set around the time of shooting "The Boys", even for character study. If that can reveal the big spoiler for "The Boys", looks like it's time to watch it to get a feeling.

Misha: Have you seen-- Here's another good one that I think was a-- that had a pretty big impact on me as a young person: Debbie Does Dallas?

It is not my fault that my cockles detector kicks in immediately at the mention of "Debbie Does Dallas". After all, I was reading cockles breakup theory just several nights ago, and there was all these awfully sad gifs of him mentioning "Debbie Does Dallas" 14 years ago. Considering Jensen is from Dallas, the porno has cowboys and cheerleaders, and Jensen was a cheerleader in high school and a fetish of cowboys. It is too difficult to ignore the purposeful mention.

It is my headcanon now that this has become an inside joke between Misha and Jensen, say, like a bet: if Misha can manage to squeeze it into interview or panel or whatever during the day, he can get rewarded at the night when they get together (something intimate, you know, wink).

(Now there is no brake on my cockles shipping head)

link

End of the solo panel, when Jensen comes, Misha's eyes hardly leave him the moment they land on him. There there is the tight, sweet hug, chin on the shoulder, eyes closed, breathing him in. Aw, too sweet.

And when it's the turn to hug Jared, as always, Jensen's eyes, god, man, you can be less possessive over your boyfriend for a second, maybe? Or you can eat Jared alive, that's an option too. Careful, don't swallow the gum when you stare.

And Jensen's shout out for Misha when he leaves the stage is so sweet too, just can't let him go without huge applause.

Jenmish panel

Seriously, this is meme level gesture from Misha lol.

"When someone says nothing is perfect", Misha is here to present: Jensen is

20 seconds in, and they're already eye-fucking. Awesome.

The lady courtesy gestures are soooo adorable from both of them. And when it's Misha doing that, Jensen's eyes sweep him up and down, follow his fingers, brush on the hip, tongue licking the lips. Jensen, you really aren't very subtle, you know.

From 1:01 to 1:07, it takes exactly 6 seconds, for Misha to automatically move from a social distance to be right by Jensen's side, inside personal space.

What's personal space? No, never heard of it, between the two of them.

They're just like two big human-shaped magnets, regardless of whether there are other people in between (like in the opening), or the positions of the seats are fixed, they just can't move toward each other, can they?

By each tiniest unconscious swing, they just stand closer and closer.

Pretty sure that's what the chairs are for, pin them to the fixed-distance place, or else they'd probably start touching.

And look at the hands, Misha keeps his hand tucked in the elbow, Jensen's in the pocket. Why? Afraid if they're not confined, the hands would have their own minds and start putting on each other's shoulder or arm or thigh?

For two times, before sitting down, the automatic adjustment to the seats that Misha has to do, is to pull it closer to Jensen. But it still feels too far away, doesn't it? Maybe thigh-to-thigh would feel even better?

Jensen is saying "he was in a really really uncomfortable position and it was entertaining", that is when Misha starts licking and biting his bottom lips. Is it nervous, or flirtatious? don't think had seen them has so many lip-biting and licking so frequently when they're in their own panel or other panels, so pretty sure that's something they do when they're around each other. So yeah, flirting it is.

Flirting when the other is talking about "uncomfortable position", and down the line there is "had to relax, open up, slide in", "it's hard, and hard for a long time", "just ride it", then yeah no way it's not sexual.

Love how they are just too familiar with each other that many times full sentence isn't needed.

Jensen just needs to go "Where's the..." and wave the arms and Misha knows he's talking about the button and the spin.

And when pouring the drinks, that quiet conversation, Misha: "Apple juice?" Jensen: "Yeah."

Too easy and comfortable, always know what the other is thinking, what they want for a drink. Always so much understanding.

3 second long hip dancing and self spanking, god that is hot. need their version of Magic Mike, need it yesterday.

Jensen: I still get nervous. It's probably more the pressure I put on myself about certain moments or certain scenes or certain actors that I might be working with or something where I'm like okay, this is a high pressure situation.

When he says "certain actors", eyes locked with Misha, hands and body turn to him, yeah yeah we all get it, not just any certain actor, it's Misha you're thinking.

So that is saying, growing up shooting commercials and soap operas and shows and TVs, he's used to the cameras and lights and not getting nervous most times. Except when acting with your boyfriend. That's when you get all shaky and astonished and stunned, aren't you? That's why the "front-row seat watching my best friend pulling an Emmy award performance" and stay stoic. wondering just how many more ways can you think of to praise your boyfriend's fascinating performance? Countless?

When it's Misha's turn to answer something, all that Jensen can do is stare at his lips, thinking nothing (but to kiss that talkative lips?). The same stoic expression when watching him act, falling to the default. doubt he's even really processing the words properly, because we know, as proof from the video timing, that the reaction time is about or above ten seconds.

Misha is talking about his very first performing experience on a real set, hitting on Winona Ryder. And it takes exactly ten seconds from 11:01 to 11:11, from Misha first mentions the film is "Girl, Interrupted", to Jensen grabs the microphone asking "You were in 'Girl, Interrupted'?" while Misha is already starting telling the story.

Ten seconds, to register some information that is not even bombing, just a little surprise.

Guess that totally explains why when Cas says "I love you", Dean can't react. Darkness arrives within one second. He needs at least ten to process.

And, now that we know Misha is in "Girl, Interrupted", and with all the big name actresses and ladies and girls in that film, think it's a must to watch now.

How did he get such a job with so many beautiful ladies? Because he's just as beautiful.

When Misha is telling the story with the experience in "Girl, Interrupted", the story with Angelina Jolie, what is Jensen doing?

Unsurprisingly, biting the bottom lips (read, flirting), already start laughing like a fool when the story hasn't started getting to the funny part yet. He's literally laughing to tears already, cracking in the joke, having to wipe the eyes and all that. Yeah, totally normal for lovers.

Misha: (talk in Crowley's accent, pretend as a navigation system AI, talking shit) Jensen: (frantically lick the lips, bit the bottom lip)

Yeah, yeah, the whole world knows you have a Misha accent kink now, calm down.

Jensen: Dean was stoic because Jensen was -- (...) so Jensen turned into an audience member in that scene and forgot to act. And so I defaulted to just stoicism. (...)

have a feeling this is not the first time Jensen refers to himself as a third person view when answering questions regarding the confession scene. Even if the hand gesture is pointing to his own chest when saying that sentence, and in between the sentences that are first person view reference ("I think... I was watching him... I defaulted to...") But it is still interesting to see the two times of using the third person reference.

Almost like he tries to put into some distance between himself with the person who acted Dean at that time, as if he's answering questions for a different guy, so that he can be emotionally remote, and bypass many questions, because, if he's not that guy, he wouldn't know what that guy was thinking. In other words, put in distance between himself and Dean.

So easily, audience and fans would forget actors are not characters, but he, especially when answering for the most important scene's interpretation question, he is trying to not overstep for the character. He brings Dean to life, then he gives Dean freedom to let Dean be Dean without him. It is noble.

(In that sense, maybe it would be a good thing too if Misha can do something similar, put in some distance with Cas? Not overtake Cas's mouth and voice?)

Jensen: (...) that was all part of the bond that we all shared, and it was part of love we all shared. (...)

All the bonds, all the love. Their bonds are their love. Dean and Cas have profound bonds, and they are in love. The casts and crew have bonds, Jensen and Misha have bonds, there are also so much love they shared.

(First, long paragraphs of Jensen praising Misha's performance in the confession scene, then they steer to Dean's farewell barn scene) Misha: You did a fucking great job on that scene. You really just made that so beautifully. Jensen: That was cuz I witnessed your performance.

Jensen gives his all in on his farewell and "I love you", because of Misha's confession and farewell.

That gives me a new perspective that I didn't think of before. In that exact same sense, Dean would say "I love you" at the last breath, would be exactly because of Cas. He wouldn't if Cas didn't. Now he does, because... is it because he has played it too many times in his head to say it back to Cas in the last five years, thinking that's what he'd finally be able to say out loud if only Cas comes back again, only to running into his own death, and for the very last chance to use these words, that's why he chooses to say them now.

Still makes me so sad and can still see so much love.

The Opening Ceremony

The cake in the opening ceremoney, barely anyone touches it. But Misha tastes a fingerful, so does Rob.

Guess that explains the father-son of Cas and Chuck lol, they're truly similar enough or something.

[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.

[bruthaewwwww]

sharp shooter 4

A/N : Guys im getting kind of bored of this story please give me some inspo anything ill write it fast i swear.

-----

Azzi leaned against the railing of the park’s gazebo, her eyes trained on the horizon as the last rays of the setting sun cast a golden hue over everything. The evening was peaceful, and she could hear the distant laughter of children playing on the swings. It was a quiet moment, one she shared with Paige, who stood next to her, a little too close, but Azzi didn’t mind.

The two of them had been walking for a while, the world around them moving in its own rhythm, but they remained in their own little bubble, the connection between them growing stronger with each passing day. But, for all the comfort and ease they felt together, there was still one thing Azzi couldn’t shake.

Paige had suggested they “make it official”—out in the open, for everyone to see. But when Azzi thought about telling the world about their relationship, she felt a knot tighten in her stomach.

“What do you think?” Paige asked, her voice softer than usual. She turned toward Azzi, her eyes meeting hers with that familiar vulnerability.

Azzi glanced at Paige, a slight hesitation creeping into her chest. “You really want to tell people?”

Paige frowned, taking a step closer. “Well, yeah. I’m proud of what we have. I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

Azzi chewed on her bottom lip, uncertainty swirling in her mind. The idea of telling people made her nervous—what if things changed? What if the whole world suddenly had an opinion on their relationship? The thought of dealing with the outside world’s judgment felt overwhelming.

“I don’t know,” Azzi admitted, her voice quiet. “It feels... risky. We’ve been so comfortable just being us, you know? And I don’t want to mess that up.”

Paige’s eyes softened, and she reached out, her hand brushing against Azzi’s. “I get it. But it’s not about making it public for the sake of it. It’s just... I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulder, wondering if someone’s going to figure it out. I just want to be able to hold your hand without worrying that people are going to ask questions.”

Azzi squeezed Paige’s hand, her heart fluttering in her chest. She loved Paige’s honesty. Paige never hesitated to say what was on her mind, even if it was something difficult. But Azzi wasn’t sure she was ready for that kind of exposure yet. The thought of facing the judgment, the whispers, and the expectations of others felt like a lot.

“I know,” Azzi said slowly. “But what if we don’t need to tell anyone just yet? What if we keep this between us a little longer?”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like... continue being a secret?”

Azzi winced at the word. “I don’t want to keep it a secret. I just don’t know if I’m ready for all the... questions. You know how people are. They’ll want to know everything. They’ll make assumptions.”

Paige sighed and leaned back against the railing next to Azzi, her gaze distant. “Yeah, I get that. But don’t you think it’s a little unfair? To both of us?”

Azzi looked at her, a twinge of guilt hitting her chest. “I’m not trying to hide from you, Paige. I promise. I just... I need more time. I’m not sure how to handle all the attention that might come with it.”

Paige turned to her, her expression soft but firm. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. We don’t have to tell the whole world right now, but I just want us to be honest with the people close to us. We can ease into it, take it slow.”

Azzi met Paige’s gaze, searching her face for any sign of frustration. But there was only understanding there, a quiet patience that made Azzi’s chest tighten. Paige wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable; she just wanted to stop hiding.

“I just... I don’t want things to change, Paige,” Azzi confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want people to see us differently. To look at us and think we’re... different.”

Paige smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair out of Azzi’s face. “Azzi, we already are different. But in the best possible way. I don’t care about what other people think. I care about you. I care about us.”

Azzi’s heart beat faster as she looked at Paige, her hand still resting in hers. The sincerity in Paige’s voice made her want to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could navigate this on their own terms.

“I know,” Azzi said, her voice quiet but steady. “And I care about you too. I just need some time to get used to the idea. It’s not that I’m scared of being with you. I’m scared of what people will think of us.”

Paige leaned in, her forehead gently resting against Azzi’s. “I get that. We don’t have to rush it. We can take it slow, figure things out as we go.”

Azzi closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of Paige’s touch wash over her. When she opened them again, she was met with the same calm, unwavering support that had made her fall for Paige in the first place. Paige wasn’t pushing her to make a decision right now—she was just there, accepting Azzi’s hesitation and giving her space.

“Okay,” Azzi said, a small smile forming on her lips. “But just... let’s not hide forever, alright? I’m not saying we need to tell the whole world. But I don’t want to keep it to ourselves for too long.”

Paige’s eyes lit up with relief, and she nodded, her smile wide and warm. “Deal. We’ll take it slow. One step at a time. Just... as long as we’re together, that’s all that matters.”

Azzi squeezed Paige’s hand again, feeling a new sense of calm settle over her. “Together.”

The rest of the walk home was quiet but comfortable, as if the weight of their conversation had lifted a little. Azzi still wasn’t sure when—or if—they would tell people about their relationship. But she knew one thing for sure: Paige was right. They didn’t have to rush it.

And for now, just being together, navigating this new chapter at their own pace, was enough.

As they reached Azzi’s apartment, they stood by the door, the air cool against their skin. Paige looked at her with a softness that made Azzi’s heart flutter again.

“So,” Paige said, her voice playful but a little nervous. “What do we do now? Do you want to keep this between us a little longer, or...?”

Azzi smiled, reaching for Paige’s hand. “Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

Paige leaned in, brushing her lips against Azzi’s cheek in a gentle, fleeting kiss. “One day at a time sounds perfect.”

***

Azzi’s heart was still racing as she stepped onto the field for practice, the familiar scent of grass and the hum of the team buzzing around her. Despite the thrill of being back out there, her mind was still occupied by her conversation with Paige last night. They hadn’t exactly made any huge decisions, but there was something unspoken between them now, a quiet understanding that felt like a promise.

She was trying her best to focus, to block out everything else, but it wasn’t easy. Every time she caught Paige’s gaze from across the field, her stomach fluttered. It felt like there was a secret between them—one they weren’t ready to share with the world. It wasn’t just about the physical connection, but the emotional one that felt so much stronger when they were alone. And for now, that’s how Azzi wanted to keep it.

As the team gathered for warm-ups, Azzi took her usual place at the edge of the group, trying to blend in. But as she looked around, she saw KK and Ice exchanging curious glances from the other side of the field.

"What's going on with you two?" KK asked, her tone casual, but Azzi could see the knowing glint in her eyes.

Azzi froze for a moment, her heart skipping a beat. Ice, who had been more observant than Azzi gave her credit for, tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on something. “You two have been a little... off lately,” Ice remarked, folding her arms as she took a few steps closer.

Paige, who had been tying her shoelaces, looked up and shot Azzi a quick, almost imperceptible look. Azzi’s stomach did a little flip at the unspoken communication between them. It was like they were trying to keep everything under wraps, but her friends were way too perceptive for that.

Azzi laughed nervously, shrugging it off. “What do you mean? We’re fine.”

KK raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You guys are always glued to each other now, and don’t think we didn’t notice how you were both acting at the bar last night. You were practically attached at the hip.” She gave Azzi a teasing smile, but there was a subtle hint of suspicion in her tone.

Ice leaned in, her eyes narrowing as if trying to catch Azzi in a lie. “Seriously, you both act like there’s some... tension between you. Like, more than just being friends. Don’t tell me—”

Azzi quickly cut her off, her voice a little too defensive. “There’s nothing going on, okay? We’re just... close. That’s all.”

But KK wasn’t buying it. She crossed her arms and glanced over at Paige, who was now standing beside Azzi, her face an unreadable mask. KK’s eyes shifted back and forth between them. “You know, we’ve been around you two long enough to know when something’s going on behind the scenes. You can’t hide everything from us.”

Paige shifted uncomfortably, clearly not enjoying the scrutiny. She shot Azzi a quick glance, trying to gauge how much she was willing to reveal. Azzi felt a wave of panic rise in her chest. This was exactly what she had been trying to avoid—the suspicion, the questions, the attention.

“We’re not hiding anything,” Azzi said quickly, but the words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

Ice’s lips curled into a sly smile. “You sure about that? ‘Cause, you know, it’s pretty obvious when you start finishing each other’s sentences and look at each other like that.”

Azzi’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away. “We’re just friends, okay? Can we drop it?”

KK and Ice exchanged another glance, one that was equal parts amused and skeptical. KK raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. But don’t think we haven’t noticed. We’ll leave you two to your ‘friendship.’” She gave them a wink before turning back to the rest of the team.

But Azzi could feel their eyes on her and Paige, a lingering weight in the air as the practice continued.

Later, as the team ran drills, Azzi couldn’t shake the feeling that KK and Ice weren’t buying it. Every glance they shared, every whispered conversation seemed to involve her and Paige. And Azzi hated that they could see through her so easily.

She glanced over at Paige, who was in the middle of a drill, her ponytail bouncing as she sprinted across the field. Azzi’s stomach did that familiar flip again, and she couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of protectiveness.

Paige caught Azzi’s eye and gave her a small, reassuring smile. The subtle curve of Paige’s lips made Azzi’s heart skip a beat. It was the same smile she’d given her last night when they’d talked about taking things slow, and it made Azzi feel like she wasn’t alone in this—whatever “this” was.

But when KK and Ice came into view again, their eyes sharp with curiosity, Azzi couldn’t help but feel like everything was about to unravel. How long could they keep pretending like nothing was happening? How long could they hide something so big, something that felt so real?

She was lost in thought when Paige jogged over to her, her hands on her hips as she caught her breath.

Azzi glanced at her, trying to shake off the nerves that had settled in her chest. “What is it with them?” she asked quietly, gesturing toward KK and Ice, who were standing on the sidelines, clearly watching the two of them.

Paige rolled her eyes. “They’re like hawks. It’s like they’ve got a radar for when something’s... off.” She gave Azzi a small, teasing grin. “But they’re not wrong, you know. We’ve been pretty obvious lately.”

Azzi looked over at the two of them, her stomach knotting. “I don’t want them to know, Paige. Not yet. It’s too soon.”

Paige sighed, stepping closer to Azzi. “I get it. But how much longer can we keep pretending like nothing’s going on? I think they’re already figuring it out.”

Azzi bit her lip, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. “I don’t know... I just... I don’t want everything to change. What if it makes everything weird?”

Paige nodded thoughtfully. “I get that. But we can’t hide forever. Eventually, people are going to start asking questions.”

Azzi exhaled slowly, frustration and nerves swirling inside her. “I just need a little more time. Okay?”

Paige smiled softly, a quiet understanding in her gaze. “Okay. We’ll take it slow. Together.”

[angxl-k9]

I have a sincere and genuine question (one which you are free to ignore)

But I wanted to ask about why you’re pro endogenic/willogenic/nontraumagenic etc.?

I dont ask to stir controversy, but rather because i think I want to understand more about it all and am reaching out to see others experiences in why they believe/see the world how they do

In my early exposure to/learning about systemhood I was taught a lot by those who don’t really like/believe the nontraumagenic claims. As I see more and more of the community and its variations- I find myself more unsure about what is or isn’t true. I ask here instead of consulting the internet because finding clear research on the topic has been increasingly difficult for me and I find I’m not sure exactly where or how to look

Obviously you are probably not the information god of this subject, but i guess I’m looking mostly for your outlook/view on things to just really hear from others in the community on a subject I’m struggling with

hey anon. the biggest reason i’m pro-endo is because i’m part of a mixed origins system. but, i see that that probably isn’t a satisfactory answer to most people wanting to learn more hahaha

the second biggest reason is, well, i am not anyone else nor am i in their brain, so i cannot tell if someone is telling the truth about their experiences or not. therefore, i have to take what people say at face value. if they say they’re a system, i have no right to tell them no, they’re not. that right only belongs to them, and to some extent their psychiatrist/psychologist/therapist.

another reason: the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. just because there is little research into endogenic systems doesnt mean they’re not real. there’s not much undeniable evidence of aliens yet people still believe that they exist. why? because like the human brain, the universe is infinitely complex and we just don’t have the time, money or equipment to study every single aspect of it, especially if those aspects don’t pose an immediate threat on us as humans. endogenic systems themselves aren’t being hurt by their plurality, unlike with did/osdd systems who face severe symptoms with their disorder. in a medical perspective, there’s not much point researching something that isn’t harmful. did and osdd need research so that the systems with those disorders can actually function. endogenic systems with disorders, if they have them, usually have disorders that are already being researched all the time, such as autism, adhd, ocd, bpd, (c)ptsd, etc. so there are already people trained in dealing with those disorders that can help endogenic systems with them, as they would help anyone with them.

however, in saying all that, there actually IS research on endogenic systems, just not as much perhaps as disordered systems. i’ve found some research papers that i like and think are unbiased and fair, so i’m going to make a google doc with links to them, or to where you can download them, and that will be at the bottom of this post. i do think these papers do a lot of help for the endogenic community, especially against sysmedicalists and anti-endos who rely solely on medical evidence and research in order to believe in something (which i absolutely disagree with, i believe we should take what people say about their identity and just believe it without needing ten medical papers to back it up).

i hope this brings a little clarity to my stance on endogenic plurality, and obviously this is just my stance. there are many other systems out there who have different and perhaps better reasons for believing in endogenic plurality. if you’re on reddit at all, i highly highly encourage you to go to r/plural and have a look around there. the people there are so lovely and many of them would love to give you even more resources.

anyway, i hope you have a great day anon, and i hope you find the answers you want about endogenic plurality!

here is the document

and another link to a spreadsheet of more resources

[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.” 

[tennessoui]

going vaguely off the mermay concept i think there is major comedy potential in like. the idea that Anakin (growing up on a desert planet) never really gets over his fear of water and avoids it at all costs but then sees Obi-Wan transform and becomes like insanely obsessed with (turned on by) his tail and different form. like he wants to have sex while Obi-Wan’s in merman form SOOO bad but then there’s fucking WATER in the way. the idea of Anakin telling Obi-Wan he wants to do exposure therapy and needs his help (so he can be pressed up against his tail <3. bc of course Obi-Wan needs to be holding him at all times) and eventually getting over his fear of water because he’s distracted by being horny is so funny. imagine he accidentally pavlovs himself and starts getting hard every time he swims and creates a totally new reason to avoid water.

ooo this is amazing but I can’t help but think like what if like…anakin isn’t actually afraid of water but is in fact incredibly desperate to see obi-wan’s tail again and can’t figure out how to make this happen short of just shoving obi-wan into the nearest lake

so he devises schemes where one of them has to be in or around water in the hopes that his master the apparent merman will transform again by sheer proximity and the power of gay obsession or something

one such scheme leads to anakin actually almost drowning which was NOT part of the plan because all things aside he is a very strong swimmer - my thought is that he’d make himself work through his self perceived weakness because he doesn’t want to be seen as lesser or anything by the younglings that learned years and years ago — but there was a sudden storm or something and anakin almost drowns

this gives anakin a bit of a complex but it gives obi-wan an arguably bigger complex because he pressures anakin (orders via misuse of chain of command powers) into remedial swimming lessons

Anakin is prepared to throw a fuss until he’s like

Wait. Yes. I have a crippling fear of water now. The only cure is these remedial swimming lessons where you are in the water with me. Tail and everything

and obi-wan is feeling protective enough of his hatchling who obviously did not learn how t swim well enough when obi-wan gave him to someone else to train that he’s like of course. chop chop get in the water now.

[kedreeva]

This is for a story so it's not a huge deal (and there's already a bit of fantasy elements so I'm willing to handwave some stuff if necessary) but what would be the closest a peacock could get to hot pink? I saw purple morphs, but unfortunately my attempts at further research were inundated with AI slop and clickbait :(

Sooo, the closest that peafowl have CURRENTLY gotten to "pink" would probably be peach or European Violet.

Here is a good, light peach.

They are a very delicate, powder orange color. Genetically, they are cameo + purple, and the purple gene means they come in a paler version (light peach like above) and a darker version (dark peach or 'northern' peach as it's sometimes called, as it's often seen more in the northern US than the southern.... this could mean the variance is also more heavily affected by sun exposure, as sun exposure is less in the north). Here's what I mean by dark peach:

Your other "best bet" for current peafowl would be taupe, but taupe tends to be "cooler" than peach (ie, cold-color undertones, giving it a more "powder blue" feel than "powder orange" feel)

Here are a few Taupe birds in warm light

vs a taupe in cool light

Genetically, taupe is opal + purple, so you get a more grey look on them than the brighter cameo orange look.

Peach, being genetically a cameo, has no iridescence (it's "matte" in color), whereas taupe does still have some iridescence at least on the head.

Your other option is the european violet. While purples tend to look like strange blues in overcast weather, violets maintain their purple look even in dimmer lighting, and they tend to have a very "warm" purple compared to American purple's "cold" purple.

EV on an overcast day

vs american purple in shade

and EV in sun:

You can see a lot redder tones in the chest and wings than on purples.

So, those are what you'd be able to work with, for CURRENT birds. If there were a case of chromosomal crossover that could repeat to make "peach" but with cameo and EV, then maybe that bird would be pinker than peach.

But, what you ACTUALLY probably want, is a peafowl who has, like, erythrism and maybe pale leucism. Erythristic animals have high red phenotypes, and in some animals, like katydids, erythrism results in pink. Like HOT pink.

So a high-red animal would get you into the realm of at least having reds, if not just having pinks from the get-go, and then pale leucism does what it says on the tin and lightens colors over the whole body of the bird. In peafowl, you miiiiight get away with this effect using the silver white eye gene (the white eye allele that causes body "silvering" ie pale leucism effect.

For example, here's a cardinal with pale leucism:

So that's kinda where I would start with it. Erythrism + pale leucism.

But for peafowl, you would need to consider that RED as pigment is a really uncommon pigment for birds to produce all on their own. Cardinals and flamingos largely get their color from their diets (which are high in carotenoids), not necessarily by self-produced red pigments. There are some parrots who produce unique red pigments, but most of peafowl color comes from structural iridescence, not plain pigment.

So, any mutation that causes a difference in the structure of the barbules on the feathers could mean a fairly drastic change in the color we see on them (which is another important factor.... peafowl color includes ultraviolet spectrum that we don't see, but they do, so do your characters see into that spectrum? peafowl might already be pink to them). So rather than a gene that alters pigments, you could have a gene that alters feather structure. Stuff like satin in mice causes hollow fur and causes a mouse that looks shiny like it's made of satin. When peafowl get wet, their trains can look red or even fire orange.

[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.