#you cannot possibly tell me this does not have

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Actually, I think this does link in with a wider conversation that I have been thinking for a while Tumblr maybe needs to hear.

There's a common meme on this site now that no one here has any reading comprehension skills. The best one is, of course, the original "No offense but reading comprehension on this site is piss poor/How dare you say we piss on the poor" post, which gave rise to the nickname "pissing-on-the-poor website". There's also the "I like pancakes/How dare you say waffles are terrible" one. Both of these are great, because they're silly jokey ways to show two closely related phenomena that are probably the commonest ways to fail a reading comprehension check.

The first is someone reading certain catchphrases or buzzwords in the post, and based on their own biases or prior experiences or whatever else, their brain simply fills in what it reckons the poster is saying on the topic. Instead of reading the rest of the sentence and digesting it, the reader then just uses their assumption as the interpretation, and reacts to that.

The second is closely related, because it also uses biases and prior experiences to to interpret the post, but rather than ignoring what the OP is actually saying, it instead performs a series of gymnastic leaps to construct a whole new assertion on the OP's behalf that simply isn't there.

There's also a third, of course; that one is people being so eager to feel smug and superior over someone they perceive as Bad that they wilfully assume the OP is stupid or being serious when they're actually joking. And if the reader hadn't been so blinded by their desire to get to look down on someone, they'd have seen the very obvious tells, sometimes even including sentences like "Obviously this is a joke." (I think we have all seen examples of these. Also, in a bid to avoid as many reading comprehension fails here as possible, this does not include misunderstandings borne entirely of neurodiverse struggles to parse intentions; but, neurodiverse people are just as likely as neurotypicals to have ego play a part in their misinterpretation of others, and that is what this point is about.)

And the thing is... actually, we are all capable of any of these. I imagine a sizable chunk of people reading until this point were probably thinking "Lol, yeah, people are so stupid," but na, nage, I'm not having that. Literally everyone does these sometimes. And it becomes a particular risk when the topic under discussion is something that might brush against an issue that is a pressure point for you, like a social justice talking point that you are forever having to argue with internet strangers about, for example. Your brain holds schemas! And sometimes it likes to pattern match things before it deigns to tell you about its findings! And that can hit you right in the emotions, which if they are strong enough, really can shut down all rational thought.

But. This brings me to the real point of the post.

Because the thing is, we have all saddled up and gone to war under these conditions, or at the very least been strongly tempted to. And a vital skill that literally everyone has to learn, sooner or later, is:

Before you hit 'reply', double check the post to make sure you fucking understood it.

And that does not mean "simply re-read, confirm your bias, carry on." It means, "Is it possible to read this post from the point of view of someone who doesn't intend it the way I've taken it? If I put myself in the shoes of an innocent, could they still have written these words? Is there another interpretation for these phrases?"

And you do have to do this step. You simply do have to. Because if your desire is to 'clap back' and call someone a gargling knobskin made of garbage, fuck me sideways but you must see that it is imperative that you check if they actually deserve that kind of treatment first. You cannot spend your time claiming that we must all choose to be kind and then not bother doing your due diligence before screaming a person's various and assorted bigotries at them. If you misread it, and they were innocent - you are the raging aggressive cunt in this situation.

It does not matter that you reacted from an emotional place of normally having to defend yourself either, by the way. Sure, that makes the quality of your human soul better than that of the average Redditor who just enjoys anonymously hurting people, I guess? But it's also irrelevant. If you messaged someone and called them a misogynist because you performed several mental somersaults and landed on your own sore spot when they meant no such thing, you are the attacker. You owe them an apology. And yeah, sure, you can explain your over-reaction as the product of your normal experiences if you like, but that is only an explanation, not an excuse. You are still the asshole here. You still need to apologise and mean it.

And you could have avoided it if you'd done that due diligence, as you should have. If you're going to take a swing, make sure it's the right target. This was once described to me as donkey people - they don't think, they just kick. This is admittedly a little unkind to donkeys, who always do their due diligence, but I feel it's an apt metaphor.

TL;DR: If you feel moved to angrily reply to something, first make sure you've interpreted it right. Don't be a donkey person. And if you ask for clarification, people are innocent until proven guilty. Ask nicely. If they are a bigot, you can then smelt them for parts.

[mintharabaenrelore]

Minthara's Parents

"I'm sure my mother has missed me- she likes competition."-Minthara

I've been working on this post awhile and I'm so excited to share it with you. I referenced @lunastrophe's excellent post on the topic for several details, and R.A. Salvatore's "Homeland" played a crucial role.

*I will make an individual post on Minthara's relationship to her mother later on, particularly the psychology of it, as it is fascinating and utterly tragic.

Minthara is- or was- unusually close to her mother, who taught her how to 'survive the perils of society', but she says there was 'no love to be found.' Minthara's mother saved her daughter's life by shielding her with her own body when Minthara was an infant, and yet she later tried to kill her. Minthara intends to kill her- "[...] I only regret that I left before enjoying a matricide. That would be a memory to cherish."- but says it is 'returning the favor.'

What do we know?

House Devir fell from Lolth's favor in 1297 DR, when they were destroyed by House Do'Urden, due to Viconia's actions. Minthara describes herself as having been young and impressionable at this time, so she must have been in the early decades of her life. Therefore, she was likely born around 1270-1290 DR, leaving her approximately 222 years old in 1492 DR, the year Baldur's Gate III is set in.

Minthara is a Baenre. Her mother is confirmed to be Baenre, as in the epilogue, if you romance Minthara (I highly recommend it) she says her name is her mother's.

When Minthara is asked if her mother is still alive, she replies, "I expect so. If the world were to end, I think my mother would survive to rule over the ruins." At the epilogue party, she tells Origin Karlach, "I have a war of my own to fight, against my mother and her people [...]" which both confirms that her mother is alive and suggests that she is in a position of great power.

Minthara's mother is competitive (Minthara says this herself), resilient, and ambitious (Minthara says her mother likes Neverwinter because it is "ripe for conquering"), much like her daughter.

Minthara and her mother were unusually close- she held her as a child, taught her to "talk, walk, and then kill" and how to "survive the perils of society", gave her a torture rack for her 13th birthday, and they appear to have conversed frequently.

The fact that Minthara has committed avunculicide (the killing of one's uncle) confirms one of her parents had a brother. She also 'picked off' her 'siblings one by one', and Orin claims Minthara murdered her sister in the cradle to secure her inheritance.The first part of her name, "Min", means lesser/second, suggesting she is a 2nd child.

I believe Minthara's father is alive for the following reasons:

1. During the dryad love test, she lists her "-icides", (androcide, senicide and avunculicide). She does not mention patricide. She tells Wyll that patricide is the first step to greatness but she does not say she has done so herself.

2. When Minthara is describing how she and Orin are similar in some ways, she says that they both have "parents" who protect them with one hand and torment them with the other, rather than "mothers".

3. Minthara says (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-vYBaYJgz_c, at 43:50) "I'll spot my father too, with any luck" at some point; @mogruith's research suggests that this line was mistakenly given to Minthara when it should have gone to Wyll, so it is not solid evidence.

But Minthara never mentions him- not even once.

So, who is Minthara's mother? *I don't think it's possible to figure out who her father is with the information I have

It cannot be Yvonnel or Triel Baenre, who are dead. Liriel Baenre is out of the question. Noori Baenre, I believe, is too young.

Yovnnel Baenre had 15 daughters, each a high priestess, acording to R.A. Salvatore's "Homeland".  The majority were alive, it seemed, around 1297 DR. The only two remaining in 1480 DR and thus during Baldur's Gate III were Quenthel and Sos'Umtpu. So could it be one of them?

Quenthel: No.

The firstborn of Quenthel Baenre is Myrineyl Baenre. In 1480 DR, 12 years prior to the events of Baldur's Gate III, she is in her last year at Arach-Tinilith. Baldur's Gate takes place in 1492 DR. It is obvious that Minthara is older than her, so she can't be Quenthel's daughter.

Sos'Umptu: Probably not, unfortunately. (I adore Sos'Umptu.)

Sos'Umptu, the keeper of the Baenre chapel, has been described as 'one of the least ambitious drow females her mother had ever known.' Minthara has also mentioned her mother having visited surface cities before, while Sos'Umptu hardly leaves the chapel if she can help it. These facts contrast with Minthara's portrayal of her mother as power-hungry and world-wise. Plus, I have never seen a mention of Sos'Umptu having had children.

@lunastrophe says in her post, "It seems that daughters of House Baenre – at least the eldest and the most important ones – were not allowed to have their own children while the matron mother of their house was still alive (from Siege of Darkness). Triel was free to have children only after she ascended to the position of matron mother, and the same went for Quenthel."

This all heavily suggests it is not Sos'Umptu- but it's not out of the question.

Could it perhaps be Merith Baenre, the second-most-powerful priestess of her House as of 1361 DR, considered for the role of the next Mistress of Arach-Tinilith? Perhaps- but Minthara has never implied that her mother is adopted rather than a genetic Baenre, and Merith used to be the daughter of a street sweeper before her clerical powers caught Yvonnel Baenre's eye and caused her to adopt her as a daughter.

So, who could it be?

I am inclined to think...

Zal'Therra Baenre: Zal'Therra Baenre- a cousin of Triel, and commander of the rearguard of the Army of the Black Spider in 1372 DR. The most promising of Triel's cousins, she seems to fit Minthara's implications that her mother is ambitious, brutal, and powerful, as the highest ranking House Baenre member of the army.

Not only is the description right, she is similar to Minthara as a warrior the leader of an army. Even the second half of her name, 'Therra', is similar to Minthara's 'Thara'. Plus, everything about her is so vague that it's plausible she had children aside from Minthara- the 'siblings' she mentioned.

I have yet to read "Condemnation", though, so correct me if I'm wrong about anything.

Final notes: if Zal'Therra Baenre is a cousin of Triel, that would make Sos'Umptu, Quenthel, Jarlaxle and others Minthara's aunts and uncles.

[stellamancer]

notes: time is a construct that bten!reader no longer understands. anyway, yes hellow, late gojo birthday fic that i am pretending that i'm not posting on megumi's birthday LMAO.

takes place in the same universe as beyond the unending night, however reading that fic is not necessary, all you need to know is that reader has a CT that can rewind time. slight and implied reader x gojo if you're squinting. also. reader is very unreliable narrator (there are some things in the narration that gojo responds to because reader is unaware they said it aloud oops.) not proofread.

wc: 944

“Your birthday was a couple days ago?” 

Gojo tilts his head toward you, expression passive for a split second before a broad grin spreads across his face. “It was! How did you know! Wait, let me guess, you—”

“The students,” you supply flatly before he can make any outlandish suggestions regarding how you happened across the information. “Yuta-kun mentioned it.” 

There’s a slight pucker to Gojo’s lips, but it’s gone almost instantly as he remarks. “Oh Yuta… He’s always been an exemplary student! Even going so far as to remember his dear old teacher’s birthday…” 

You stare at Gojo. There’s a trap here. Bait. It’s not well hidden either, if his exaggerated tone is any indication. You consider telling him straight up: it’s not possible to remember something you never knew in the first place. But instead, you decide to indulge him. “Do people usually not remember?” 

Now that you say that, you find the words hard to believe. You can barely call yourself a part of jujutsu society, but there’s no denying that Gojo is something of a big deal. There’s no way that these illustrious ‘higher ups’ would forget the birthday of someone as important as Satoru Gojo.

“It’s not that they don’t remember,” Gojo says, “it’s that they just don’t care.” 

The nonchalance in his voice stuns you, more so than the fact that you cannot detect even a hint of bitterness in it. They… don’t care? You want to be in denial, to think that that simply cannot be true. And yet…

You cannot deny it. 

Not when you know what you do of the top brass.

“Well, not the students,” Gojo adds, fondness seeping into his tone as the tiniest smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Threw me a party and everything. As expected of students of the Great Teacher Gojo!”

He puffs his chest out a little, clearly pleased, no doubt proud. 

“...did you do anything else?” you ask. Knowing someone as whimsical as Gojo, you can imagine him spending the day as he pleased, going from sweet shop to sweet shop spending exorbitant amounts of money on any and every sugary item he could possibly get his hands on. 

“Nope.” 

You blink at him. “What.”

“I was waaaaaay too busy to do anything else,” Gojo says with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, I’m lucky that the students love me so much that they took on a couple extra missions just so we could party for a half hour.”

Gojo’s words have you gawking at him, slack jawed and in awe. You’re well aware that he’s a busy guy, but to only have had a half hour of free time on his birthday to celebrate is just…

“Don’t make that face.” His voice is quiet. Gentle. “It’s fine; I’m used to it. Just a part of being an adult, you know?”

He’s not wrong, but… 

Somehow, it doesn’t sit well with you. 

“....you’re done with everything you have to do today, right?” you ask, reaching into your pocket to check the time; it’s nearly midnight.

“Yeah?” Gojo answers, and while he sounds mostly amused, you think you can hear the smallest hint of confusion. “You thinking of having a late night snack together to make up for missing my birthday? How romantic of you!” 

“Not exactly,” you shoot back without missing a beat, but Gojo doesn’t seem to be disappointed by you rebuffing him. You outstretch your palm toward him and he inclines his head down slightly to show that he’s looking down at it. 

Gojo hums. He knows what you’re thinking. Of course he does. “You know that’s technically against the rules.” 

“And?” you ask as you stare back at him.

“You could get in biiiiiiig trouble, you know.”

Your gaze doesn’t waver.

“Could even be sentenced to death for it!” 

Your hand doesn’t move.

Gojo tilts his head to the side before heaving a sigh and shaking his head. He raises his hand, but rather than take yours, he reaches up higher and moves to flick your forehead. That would work just as well, and for a split second you gather your cursed energy, ready to use your technique, but—

You merely wince and Gojo tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow as your energy quickly dissipates.

“Change your mind?” he asks.

“Wasn’t sure if you were actually going to do it,” you answer honestly. Did he actually flick you or did he just ‘pretend’ to? There wouldn't have been any point if he pretended. 

“What do you think?”

You frown as a playful, yet menacing grin spreads across Gojo's face. He knows full well that you can't tell, especially if you can't even see the point of contact. 

“Well wishes aside, the only other thing I can really offer you is time,” you deadpan. It wasn't like you were going to be stupid and give him a week or even a month, but…

Gojo wags his finger at you, tutting. “No, not true! There's something else!”

You give him a pointed look. What else could you possibly give? 

“Well, it's really more like an IOU,” he explains airily, before his tone shifts, growing quieter and more serious. “Just get stronger. Strong enough to take on missions just like me and maybe next year we can have a longer party.” 

You sigh. His suggestion is more practical, more useful in the long run, and while you can agree with what he's proposed… It's his birthday. He could afford to be a little more selfish. 

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, his smile ever wide and absolutely ominous. “I'll keep that in mind next time.” 

[peppermintquartz]

When he hears that Tommy has to work on Christmas Eve, Buck tries not to pout about it at first, and then decides, heck it, if I can't sulk about my boyfriend not being able to spend Christmas Eve with me, when can I sulk? So he weaponizes his big blue eyes and unleashes the full force of his pout, sticking out the lower lip and - by dint of some emotional effort - brings some tears to his eyes.

"Oh no, you don't do that to me now," Tommy says, raising a finger and tilting his head in that special way he does to ward off Buck at his most manipulative. He's about 40-60 when it comes to the win-loss ratio on that technique.

Buck sighs and wrinkles his nose. "I was planning on a nice dinner here at home. Tree. Nog. Roast beast."

Reaching out, Tommy ruffles Buck's curls and smiles. "At least we can decorate the tree together before then."

"They better be paying you extra for taking the shift for Christmas Eve night."

"Yeah, they do. It'll be a nice contribution to our honeymoon fund." Tommy smiles at Buck, whose stomach does a happy little flip. Technically, neither of them have popped the question, but they already know the answer is yes, and so they have already set up a whole system to allocate their money. They'll be ring shopping next week, to take advantage of Christmas sales, and just the thought of it makes Buck warm all over.

Even so, he can be melodramatic for his own entertainment. Flopping back in his chair, he cups his right cheek, adopts a pensive stare out the window, and sighs extravagantly. "I do wonder what could possibly be so important as to warrant my handsome, charming, incredible and sexy firefighter pilot boyfriend to abandon me on the most festive night of the year?"

"You know. The usual."

Wait. Tommy sounds shifty. He's usually very honest, so him trying to hide something is... off. Buck sits up straight. "Tommy...?"

"I'm serious. The usual." Tommy's ears are flushed dark pink. He's a horrendous liar.

Buck narrows his eyes, and then raises an eyebrow.

"Look, I can't tell you. I genuinely cannot. But, uh, it's a cool thing, an international thing, and it's really one of the best things I've ever done and love doing as a pilot."

"Wow," Buck murmurs. "You don't usually talk like that about your job."

"It's just a job. Most of the time. Sometimes I have to fly into hurricanes."

"No hurricanes this year," says Buck with a resolute nod. "Santa would not like flying through one. You'd have to provide Santa with air support."

"He's done it before though. The reindeer know what to do better than us," Tommy mutters absently, and then he freezes.

Buck freezes also. He stares at his boyfriend. "Tommy?"

"Hmm?" Tommy pretends he isn't terrified.

"Are you flying with... Santa... on Christmas Eve?"

"What? Hahahah of course not, ahahaha. No." But the rictus on Tommy's face tells a different story, as do the few beads of sweat that have just materialized.

Buck's jaw drops. He whispers, "You are flying with Santa!" His eyes go wide with delighted revelation. "Santa's real?"

"Shhh! No one outside of the escort party is supposed to know. And, not flying with, just providing air support to cover for him so he doesn't show on the scanners. And don't tell anyone!"

Buck mimes zipping his mouth and locking it and throwing away the key. Then he 'unzips' his lips. "I can't bear it," he declares. "You are way too cool and I need to have sex with you right now."

"What?" Tommy snorts, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "Evan, you're not being serious."

"Like a lightning strike." Buck stands, fluttering his lashes and pouting again.

Tommy doesn't fight it this time.

[biancadoes1]

I feel like some in the fandom might benefit from my shipping philosophy.

Are you feeling stressed out over any little bits we get from the mains or secondary characters that you can't neatly fit into your desired shipping outcome?

If so, I invite you to have a seat, so to speak, and read what I have to write.

Have you heard of schrodinger's cat? In layperson's terms: if something is unknown and cannot be analyzed, then all possibilities exist at the same time, until it is observed. Feel free to look it up if you want to go deeper, it's just a metaphor here though.

Stick with me, I know we already got weird.

The way I apply this to shipping is simply: we don't actually know anything in regard to the question of current romance between Nicola & Luke. That is the prime thing I always cling to.

Any picture, any quote, any rumor, any think piece (yup, including mine)... is not actually an observation of what we are shipping. It's just us knocking on the box that the answer (are N & L together or not?) is in.

And in this case, it's like we are mapping out the shape, size, color, weight, smell, even taste of the box. We are essentially kids trying to figure out our mystery gift under an xmas tree.

But... we will not know for certain unless Nicola & Luke open the box. Until that moment, everything is supposition and theory.

It does no one any good to be upset over unproven theories. Why make yourself ill over one photo that shows one second out of a whole year or more? Why are you letting someone else tell you what you "must accept" when it's still just a theory? Why let uncertain things affect you negatively?

If you allow yourself to accept that we don't actually know anything, that nothing we see is actual proof of what is in that box, then you will see that each new tidbit is just another way to figure out what the box is like.

That doesn't mean you have to say every single idea is equally likely though. You can still think some things are more likely than others. You can use logic and research to decide how likely or unlikely you feel something is. When you start to do this, and limit the direct influences of other people's opinions before formulating your own, you will feel less like a yoyo being yanked around.

It's a very even keeled experience, tbh. Join me?

This is advice some of you should really take.

[funhouse-mirror-barbie]

I genuinely can’t even fucking tell if they’re serious, making fun of themselves, or are trying to be satirical.

(Maybe they’re referencing Brandon’s “Move, I’m Gay” line from one of his sketches? But given that the show’s writers and many people in the fandom seem to actually believe in this sentiment I literally have no fucking idea how to take it)

(Also before anyone tries me, I’m not saying you shouldn’t be nice to gay people. Im gay. You should be nice to all people. I’m saying that given the mentality some of the fandom (and possibly the show’s writers) have around Stolas’ character literally being “he’s gay so that excuses anything he does wrong” I cannot tell if this is a joke or not)

[miss-allsundays]

i was kind of expecting it (because of the danny motta pandemic), but the amount of people that just. write off octavia as some sort of ungrateful brat is really pissing me off.

we, as the viewers, have a much broader understanding of stolas, his life, and his relationship with stella. we are also made to look at it in a positive light for stolas, because we are shown instances of stella and her brother being the terrible antagonists they were written to be.

and most importantly, we do not have an attachment to stolas and stella’s relationship.

octavia instead, has had her life recently upended, has seen her father do a 180 change and (in her eyes) ruin his whole relationship.

her parents are divorcing, and they’re going about it in the worst way possible. they keep badmouthing each other, and they are, quite frankly, very dismissive of octavia— stolas as well, even if he doesn’t mean it.

and then, her father risks his life for the guy he destroyed his family for. and she is left with her mother and uncle, who clearly don’t have her best interests in mind.

of course stolas deserves to be happy, and of course he can love both blitzø and octavia at the same time, but what a lot of people don’t get is that she is a hurt child, who is very lonely at the moment, and who has not had the time to process everything.

instead she has to watch her dad fawn over his affair partner, talk shit about her mother even after the divorce, and then he suddenly leaves and oh! he will be banned from their house for a hundred years.

of course she holds resentment over her father!! he hurt her, just as much as her mother hurt her!!

because yes, stolas’ hatred towards his ex-wife is justified, but he has subconsciously let that feeling cloud over his love for octavia.

for a child, seeing your parents go through a divorce is really fucking tough. even if their relationship wasn’t the best, even if the love wasn’t there anymore, your parents splitting up still feels like a point of no return. as someone who went through that, i cannot tell you how many nights i spent as a teen wishing my family would go back to normal, even if the rational part of me knew that their separation was a much better outcome, and that the normal i hoped for hadn’t been that in years.

their divorce is only a couple of months old, it isn’t nearly enough time to begin getting over it, especially if you don’t have a good outlet for your emotions— which octavia doesn’t have.

and as i’ve mentioned earlier, the fact that her parents hate each other so openly is also another big fucking problem!! it does nothing but make the child in between feel bad, because they feel guilty for still caring about both of them, like their love for their parents is wrong and tainted.

(again, stella is terrible, and we can all agree on that— but octavia doesn’t know the full extent of it!! sue just wants her family back!!)

i feel for stolas, and it’s so, so obvious that he loves his daughter more than anything in this world, but i also understand why octavia wants some distance from him.

even though he didn’t mean to, he failed to think of how his daughter was holding up, until it was too late.

(and to everyone that says octavia hates her dad, go fuck yourself and pick up a pair of glasses. there is a difference between being hurt by someone’s actions and hating them. she went to IMP to give him his meds. she saved stolitz + IMP from andrealphus. learn some media literacy before you speak thanksssssssss<3 )

[that-hippie-user]

Ok wait

You’re an ACTUAL hypnotist? That’s so cool! You probably get this a lot, but how does it work? I’m a huge psychology nerd so don’t be afraid to get nitty-gritty (unless it’s a trade secret type deal which I totally understand)

XD believe me, i'm no scholar. just a fetishist who's hyperfixated on making people act dumb with spirals. but i'll share what i know.

essentially, we live day by day with a filter that restrains how we behave. this is mostly to act according to societal standards, or sometimes out of shame for aspects of ourselves that we found werent liked.

imagine if that filter were, mostly, gone.

see, hypnosis is a means of opening up your way of thinking, allowing yourself to live fantasies or take actions we otherwise might have trouble doing.

through guided meditation, a subject is made to focus deeply on something. maybe its the text written by their hypnotist guide, or a spiral on their screen with an audio track to follow along, or a candle in a dark room to focus on while centering their thinking.

when successful, a subject enters trance. trance isnt sleep, its more like immersion. imagine reading a book so engrossing that your surroundings seem to almost fade away, as all you percieve are the words on the page.

in this state, you are more open. the filter is down, brought down by the subject's own willingness and dedication. and now they are open to listening more deeply.

no subject can be made to do anything out of character. self harm, hurting others, doing things they find gross or unsettling, no amount of trance will make any of this appealing.

but imagine for a moment, a stage hypnosis show.

whats the most commonly shown display? the classic "cluck like a chicken" command.

this works so well because, if the hypnotist knows what they're doing, they ask for a volunteer.

and anyone who's willing to, of their own accord, go on stage for an audience for the chance of humiliating themselves with silly acts, THAT person craves attention. so obviously they can be made to act silly!

how deeply a subject can enter trance varies. some subjects can go so deep a hypnotist can tell them to see and feel things that arent there, like a relaxing day at the beach in the comfort of their own home, and in the moment it feels real to them. other subjects can only go deep enough to follow simple commands. and 1 in 10 people simply cannot be hypnotized at all, so i hear.

but if a subject is deep enough, even though you're only really giving them permission to do what they want to, in their experience it will be as if they had no control at all.

:P i'm ab/dl, so naturally i have subjects with that proclivity. and one time i got a subject to... use their diapers for their intended purpose. as they put it:

"my body just kinda moved on its own, its like you sh*t my pamps for me!"

XD now that may not be YOUR thing, and thats fine. like i said, hypnosis gives you permission, it isnt full control.

:3 if you are curious wether trance is possible for you, i have a simple description. if you are:

adventurous, open to trying new things, trusting of others, able to focus deeply on what interests you, and like the idea of someone else taking the reigns and guiding you for a bit-

X3 then you're absolutely capable of being tranced.

:3 did that answer your questions?

[rita-repulsa-ke]

Agatha and Rio in a dark romance novel

Rio is a mob boss or a CEO or something, someone with too much money and too much power. Agatha is the innocent ingenue, completely unlike all other girls because she reads books (magic tomes) and doesn't wear makeup (can't be bothered).

Rio is both fascinated and repelled by how Agatha makes her feel things she's never felt before, ie, emotions. She shoves her against a convenient wall, attempting to loom over her. "You're mine, babe," she declares.

"What?" Agatha sneers. "Ew, no." But then she sees Rio's watch. It's very expensive. So are her clothes. There are possibilities here. "...Well, maybe. What exactly does that entail?"

In response, a courier delivers a beautiful dress to her shabby apartment later that night, accompanied by a note that says 'be my date'.

She doesn't respond to the note, but she does keep the dress. It looks great on her.

Fine, Rio will simply have to escalate! She shows up in her amazing car to take Agatha for a ride in her private helicopter.

"Boring," Agatha says, staring at a bunch of buildings from far too high above the ground, vaguely nauseous. "Buy me a car or something."

"You're not supposed to say that," Rio complains. "You're supposed to pretend you don't want all the amazing, expensive things I'm going to end up buying you."

"Well, I'm sure not with you for your company, all you do is brood and declare that I 'belong to you'." Agatha pats Rio's knee, completely distracting her for a moment. "Oh, sometimes you try to tell me what I can or cannot do or get jealous when I talk to other people."

"...That last part does sound right," Rio agrees, still staring at the hand on her knee. "Fine, I'll buy you whatever you want. "

She buys Agatha a car and some expensive jewelry and a number of good stocks, all of which Agatha sells for profit, then moves to a Caribbean island with a history of interesting magical anomalies.

It doesn't take Rio long to track her down, of course, where she's sipping a Mai Tai on a beach, reading a magical tome. "Oh," she sighs when Rio looms in front of her, blocking the sun. "It's you. Go away, I'm reading."

"No. I love you. You belong to me." She does sit down, though, next to her on the sand. "I miss you. I think about you constantly. You're the only one whose ever made me feel like this." All true.

Agatha rolls her eyes and turns a page. "Don't care, not interested, go find some other girl to harass."

Rio chews on her lip for a little while. "...Do you want to maybe have angry BDSM sex about it?"

Agatha perks at once and tosses aside her tome. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?" she asks, coming to her feet and dragging Rio up behind her, their hands absently and comfortably interlocking.

"I think you're supposed to be shy and overwhelmed," Rio points out. "You know, appropriately ashamed of your desires?"

Agatha cackles at the idea. "Why would I be? Come on, I've got handcuffs in my room."

"...Wait," Rio says, even as she's happily being dragged down a beach. "I'm supposed to be the experienced one. I'm supposed to top!"

"Maybe after I'm done," Agatha says. "If I feel like it."

Rio considers, then looks down at their interlinked hands and can't suppress a smile. "Okay, beloved," she decides. "Whatever you say. ...You really are mine, though, you know."

"Gross," Agatha says. "...So do you want to buy me dinner afterwards and hear about my latest spell?"

"Of course," Rio answers, unable to imagine anything she could want more.

masterpost or click this link to go to a random post on this blog, which will probably be a fic of some kind

[kiyo-cant-write]

ciel & sebastian w/ servant!reader around ciel's age ✧･ﾟ

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Hello! My writing blog was always meant to be multifandom, but recently I have had many twst requests. To keep up with my personal interests, here is a Kuroshitsuji/Black Butler post about my childhood bias/crush (when I was 11-12): Ciel Phantomhive.

While this post is tagged Sebastian x Reader, their relationship is platonic in this particular work because of the reader's design.

Please note that while requests are open, they will not be posted until after the 27th of December or more accurately into the new year (January 2025). Feel free to request anything within the parameters of my rules, but keep this scheduling fact in mind! Thank you!

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Summary: [Name] is a recent addition to the Phantomhive Staff, gathered by Sebastian and Ciel. They are around Ciel's age and this leads to some... shenanigans.

TW/CW: canon-typical darkness, manga compliant

Notes: pre-relationship (Ciel), explicitly platonic (Sebastian), the reader is human, the reader is 12-13 years old, they/them pronouns for the reader, take place explicitly pre-Campania

Guest Stars: Phantomhive Staff, Elizabeth Midford (mentioned)

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Ciel Phantomhive

Ciel is initially indifferent to [Name] similar to his feelings toward his other servants about half of the time (even Sebastian).

He doesn't see himself as a child so does it matter?

He honestly tries to avoid [Name] at first because he wants to be seen as an equal to the adults. Baldo commenting to "play" with his "friend" really doesn't help the early stages of the relationship.

Being persistent but not forceful will work well.

[Name] needs to prove their worth and use in the household.

[Name] will quickly prove themselves with "clean-up."

They will kill in the name of Earl Phantomhive.

Ciel notices their willingness to serve.

He admires their dedication to protecting him/the estate.

He is impressed if they do not hesitate to strike.

The more he realizes their use and loyalty, the more likely he is to speak to them or even allow [Name] to speak freely with him.

He doesn't like when Sebastian teases him for it, though.

Sebastian might be the biggest obstacle.

If Ciel feels that [Name] is being overbearing, they get sent to spend time with Finny (16) who is also relatively close in age to them. Though Finny is similar to a child brother at times.

Once they are closer, Ciel may become a bit irritable if [Name] gives Finny too much attention or coddling.

"He needs to act his own age."

Ciel cannot do anything about any possible feelings.

[Name] hesitates to do anything either.

They both understand the betrothal between Elizabeth and Ciel.

Finny had given them a suggestion that they weren't sure what to do with. Was it a good idea? No. Was it a curious one? Yes, indeed. They wanted to know what the master's response would be, but they feared it would only be anger for their disrespect. Still... tempting.

[Name] considered their options as they helped Finny in the garden.

"Do you really think that would be a good idea?" they asked him.

Finny nodded as he attempted to gently weed the garden. The last time Finny did this he ripped out some important plants and Sebastian had been ready to skin him. Since that happened, and after the events of last night's clean-up, maintenance was needed and Sebastian chose [Name] as "Finny Watch."

[Name] accepted it as it was.

"I think it would do the young master some good to have a friend his age who calls him by name! He doesn't have any friends..."

Finny seemed sad about it. [Name] wondered why Finny did not try to be a "friend" to their master, but Finny seemed to sense their curiosity. He shook his head.

"It can't be me, I'm older than the young master for one," he explained, "And the young master doesn't think of me like that."

"And he thinks of me as a friend?" [Name] chose to ask.

Finny nodded.

"I can tell he thinks differently of you!"

The gardener beamed at them and they didn't want to crush whatever whimsy and joy this was giving him. They sighed and gave in, knowing they wouldn't hear the end of it otherwise, especially after Finny told Baldo and Mey-Rin about it.

"I'll try and see," they agreed.

[SEVERAL HOURS LATER]

At the end of the day, Sebastian asked [Name] to report to the young master directly about their supervision of Finny and the state of the estate's gardens. [Name] walked into the room and bowed to their lord, nodding to Sebastian a moment after.

"Good evening," they spoke, not making eye contact with either.

"Good evening, [Name]," Ciel greeted, taking a sip of his tea as he watched them, "I trust you kept Finny under control?"

[Name] nodded.

"Yes, he took care of replanting and weeding. There were no, ah, plant deaths," they explained in as succinct a way as they could, "We talked as we worked and completed everything Sebastian told us to."

They had to ignore the soft stifled laugh that came from Sebastian when they fumbled for a phrase and chose "plant deaths."

"I see, very good then."

He seemed pleased. The master was in a good mood? Hm. This might be their chance so they took it without hesitation.

"Master, if I may speak freely for a moment?" they asked him

Ciel raised an eyebrow but he nodded slowly after a moment of contemplation.

"You may but whatever about?"

[Name] felt bad for confusing him but it was somewhat refreshing to hear the master speak without that underlying darkness in his tone.

"Finny suggested something to me. I would like to try something," [Name] explained, hoping this wouldn't ruin whatever relationship they did have with the master.

"Something. Very specific," was Ciel's comment, "Go ahead."

Ciel seemed certain [Name] wouldn't hurt him and even if they tried, Sebastian would handle them swiftly like he always did.

"Ah, thank you for your permission... Ciel."

There was a silence that fell over the room as neither child spoke. Ciel was frozen in place, Sebastian seemed to be holding back another laugh, and [Name] was unsure if Finny's theory was true.

A faint hue of pink dusted Ciel's cheeks as he averted his gaze.

"Was," he began, "Was that all you wanted?"

"Yes," [Name] admitted, "I'm sorry, sir."

Ciel was silent once again and [Name] worried they really had crossed a line, but then he spoke again, softer this time.

"It isn't as though I care what you call me when there aren't guests around," he said, waving the hand that wore his family's crest, "Do as you like with the estate's image in mind... I suppose."

[Name] couldn't disguise the smile that took over their features.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Sebastian Michaelis

To be quite frank, Sebastian thinks children are brats.

He didn't want another child around but it cannot be helped because [Name] is useful for the estate's security.

Despite not liking them at first, Sebastian is always "nice."

He is never without a polite smile, it's a bit unnerving.

As [Name]'s work proves proficient, he eases up.

They make fewer mistakes than the others.

Because of this, they are not so annoying to him.

"Child, you would do best not to hinder my work. But if you would like to lend me your help, you may."

He refers to [Name] more often as "child" or "littlest one."

He means they are the youngest of the servants.

He often lets [Name] off easy with punishment, similar to how he never scolds Tanaka the way he does with Baldo, Mey-Rin, Snake, and Finny.

Sebastian likes to make fun of [Name] and Ciel's similar ages.

He allows [Name] to sit in for Ciel's lessons at times.

In the end, Sebastian might be fond of the human.

Still, he won't say that kind of thing. What use would kind words be from someone like him? He doesn't much care for anyone.

He is bound to his master until the end of their contract.

That is all. Right?

"What in the world are you doing?" Sebastian asked as he came up to them, essentially appearing from thin air.

The young servant jumped at the sudden voice in the silence of the cellar and whipped around to face him, dropping their cleaning rag on the floor in the motion. Noting it was Sebastian, they let out a relieved sigh and bent down to pick up the rag.

"Sebastian! You startled me!" they told him, brows furrowed, "Why do you like to sneak up on me like that?"

Sebastian chuckled softly, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"I don't mean to. Perhaps you are just easily scared, child?"

"I don't think so," they said softly before they moved to continue their task, "And, I'm not done with this task yet. Did you have something else for me to do?"

They couldn't believe they had more work to do now. That was always why Sebastian came to see them, to give them a task someone else had botched or enlist their help with something else entirely.

"I did," the butler told them, "I seem to require your help with a lesson for the young master."

[Name] paused.

"A lesson?" they asked him, giving a skeptical look though they tried their best to mask it, "Would I be expected to come with you now?"

They were unsure if he was telling the truth. Sebastian enjoyed messing with them, just a little. But it was enough to make [Name] wonder every time the butler told them much of anything. They wanted to go to the lesson, though. Learning was... fun.

Sebastian noticed the look, being a demon and all, but said nothing about it. Instead, he simply nodded and smiled at them as he always did to the guests the manor received.

"Indeed. I would need you to accompany me to the study."

They weighed their options. Sebastian was probably not lying.

"Alright," they agreed a moment later, "Do I need to finish this task first? You did give me a list of things to make certain of here."

Sebastian shook his head.

"No, that won't be necessary. I will take care of it."

They almost bowed to him but caught themself. It was hard to treat Sebastian as a butler when he held himself with as much pride as any man would. Still, the one time they had spoken too highly of him, the young master had gotten upset with them (and Sebastian too).

It had been an... ordeal.

"I see. Thank you, then," they told him curtly though they couldn't help but smile.

A lesson! How fun! They wanted to cheer but didn't.

Even if they were only cleaning the room to spectate, it was a chance to learn things. They would learn something and earl was learning! It seemed like a fairly good deal in [Name]'s opinion.

Too focused on rushing to put away their supplies and head toward Ciel's study, they did not see a softer expression adorn the butler's face as he watched them move past him.

Perhaps they would never know his true affection for his littlest one.

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Imagine the rest yourself~

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Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a kuro-only blog! ^^

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 32: Adrift

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

Astarion’s tremulous body finally falls still as he slips into the semblance of his trance. His breathing begins to slow, though it remains uneven. Your fingers brush the edge of the bed absently while you linger there for minutes longer than necessary. The squall of voices is quieter, but they still persist, chanting an aria of fear and unrest amongst the residual confusion.

The faint creak of the door closing behind you feels deafening in the perturbing silence. You wish to be alone to allow your thoughts to settle, but the clink and clank of metal gears remind you that hope has no place in your existence anymore.

Karlach sits in a chair by an unlit hearth with her head bowed. She doesn’t turn to look at you, and you consider retreating, melting back into the dark like a coward. She will demand answers, which she deserves, but you’re unsure you have satisfactory ones to offer.

Her voice stampedes over the quiet before you can make your mind up. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna face me like the Illyria I know?”

Your fingers curl into the hem of the oversized shirt she gave you to change into and nervously tug before you coerce your body to appear calm. You take the chair next to her and wait for the inevitable barrage.

The voices that haunt Astarion’s mind have found their way into yours, no longer distant echoes but fully present and suffocating. Every time you blink, the world blurs, but the cacophony never stops. They chant in a language that does not sound familiar, but somehow, you can comprehend some of the fragments of words.

It is beautiful, angelic even, a lullaby of corruption. Dissonant harmonies bleed into your mind like toxins that infect everything they touch. It insinuates itself into the corners of your thoughts until you cannot tell what’s yours and what isn’t.

You catch some of the whispers—let him fall, let them all fall, and then fall with them.

Whether foolish or noble, you push yourself into the kinship and draw the voices away from Astarion. The effort leaves you trembling, every part of you stretched thin, but you grit your teeth and hold the line. 

Astarion needs rest, and if the price of his rest is your unrest, so be it.

“Alright, soldier,” Karlach shatters what little focus you had left. “I think it’s high time you tell me what in the fuck is going on here.”

“Astarion is sick,” you begin, trying to find the right words. “The Rite had consequences we weren’t apprised of.”

Her brows furrow, and her tail lashes. “What kind of consequences?”

Your lips press into a firm line while you ponder exactly how much to tell her. “Mephistopheles,” you say, the name tasting like poison on your tongue. “He tainted the Rite, and when it was completed, his madness bled into Astarion.”

Karlach leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Mephistopheles was always a paranoid lunatic. Heard enough stories about him in the Hells to know he didn’t trust his shadow half the time. Why would he infect Astarion? What’s the point?”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Freedom.”

“He used the Rite to dump all the rot he couldn’t stand into Astarion.” Karlach murmurs, the realization dawning on her like a hammer striking steel.

You nod, your throat tight. “The Rite made Astarion the vessel for everything Mephistopheles wanted to leave behind. All the instability, the anger, everything that was too much for even him to hold.”

“Bloody Hells,” Karlach breathes with fury braided into her intonation.

“Astarion’s soul is fractured. One side of him is trying to hold on to who he was and who he is. The other side…” You trail off, your throat constricting.

“The other side is what Mephistopheles left behind,” Karlach finishes grimly.

You nod. “It’s spreading. If we can’t stop it—if Astarion can’t hold on—then…”

Karlach’s gaze hardens, her fiery eyes locking onto yours. “Then what?”

“Then the Astarion we know will be gone.” Karlach leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. “So what happened today…” “Wasn’t Astarion’s fault,” you cut in, sharper than you intended. An unusual rage prickles over your skin, like millions of needle points. You grind your teeth together so hard you’re positive you’ll crack them in an effort not to shout at Karlach.

If she had just left well enough alone, if she and Wyll had listened to you, if she could have taken a fucking hint…

You shake your head to redirect the stream of rage. You remind yourself that she was just trying to help, but it does little to quell the roiling inferno.

She doesn’t understand. None of them do. They wouldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Karlach leans forward, brows furrowed with a mixture of worry and confusion. “Hey, I’m just trying to—”

“What? Help?” you snap, the word laced with venom before you can stop yourself.

You immediately regret it but cannot find it in yourself to apologize, not with how your blood feels like it’s boiling beneath your skin. Her expression softens despite your outburst, which only makes the fire in your chest burn hotter.

The voices press in, their whispers like a deafening roar in your mind. They think you’re weak. Pathetic. They do not trust you.

You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you try to quiet them, but the rage refuses to subside. Every attempt to reason with yourself falls apart as the voices twist and churn.

Karlach doesn’t back down. “Look, all I’m saying is—”

“I know what you’re saying,” you interrupt, standing so abruptly that your chair screeches against the floor.

Your voice rises before you can stop it, cracking under the weight of your frustration. “I do not need your concern or pity or whatever this is! What happened today is none of your business.”

“It’s not pity,” Karlach says firmly, standing now, too, her broad shoulders squaring as she looks you in the eye. She’s calm, even steady, which only makes your rage feel all the more erratic and untamed. “It’s care.”

Care. The word feels like ash in your mouth. You want to scream, lash out, and tell her that care doesn’t fix anything.

But instead, your chest tightens painfully, and your teeth grind together again as the voices take on a mocking edge. She is lying. She does not care. None of them do. They will turn on you the moment you show weakness.

You shake your head, trying to drown them out, but they only grow louder, more insistent. The heat beneath your skin threatens to boil over, and your voice comes out low and trembling with restrained fury. “Just… drop it, Karlach. Please. It’s been a long day.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, and her voice is gentler when she does. “What are you going to do?”

“Astarion and I need to go to Cania,” you say, keeping your voice steady as if the words don’t carry the weight of an impossible task.

“Cania? The frozen layer of the Hells? Why in the bloody abyss would you go there?”

You hesitate, running your fingers through your hair as you search for a way to say this without giving too much away. “There’s… something there that might help Astarion,” you say finally.

Karlach’s fiery eyebrows rise. “You’re being awfully vague for something that sounds insane.”

You shrug, trying to appear casual. “It’s complicated.”

Karlach’s voice rises slightly, and she shakes her head. “Do you know what you’re walking into? Cania isn’t just snowstorms and ice—it’s crawling with devils who would sooner rip your head off than let you breathe there.”

“I know,” you reply softly. “There is no other way, and I don’t think he has much more time.”

You don’t think either of you do.

The door presses into your back, and you rake your nails over the skin of your arm as if you could claw this peculiar anger out. It’s not your anger, but it also is, intensified like someone is looking at it under a magnifying glass. The voices speak in truths and half-truths, making them hard to ignore, but when your eyes land on Astarion, the seething hisses subside.

You watch him with guarded tenderness, stopping a few steps away. The memory of earlier is still fresh—how his eyes had burned with panic, how he’d flinched away from you like you were the thing he needed to protect himself from.

The confusion, his fear, and the way he looked at you as though you were a stranger. The sting of it is sharp, and your jaw tightens. It wasn’t his fault, but it doesn’t make it easier to stomach.

You hover near the edge of the bed, and the urge to crawl into it with him flares briefly in your mind. Typically, you would do so without hesitation, but not now. He needs space more than he needs you crowding him, and maybe, though you hate to admit it, you need the distance, too.

For now.

Folding your legs under yourself, you curl up in the chair at his side. The room is still, save for the faint sound of Astarion’s breathing and steady heartbeat. You focus on it, letting its rhythm lull you into a degree of calm.

Your eyes flutter shut, but rest does not come easily. The silence of the room only amplifies the thoughts and voices. You shift slightly in the chair, curling up as tight as possible as if it might hold your crumbling pieces together.

Astarion does not stir even as the chair creaks. He looks peaceful, his face free of the torment that inhabits him, and you cling to that like a lifeline. You tell yourself it’s enough, that he is here, resting, and that he’ll wake and things will be better, but it’s a transparent lie.

You close your eyes and let your mind drift. It isn’t sleep, but it’s a half-trance, where your thoughts blur and bend, bleeding into each other until they’re shapeless. You focus on the sound of his breathing again, on the faint pull of the bond, and let yourself be carried by it.

You aren’t sure how long you stay in that liminal state between rest and wakefulness, but your eyes flutter open when you hear the soft sound of hesitant footsteps. When things come into focus, Astarion stands near the bedroom window, his shirt discarded on the floor, trousers hanging loosely at his hips.

Beads of sweat glide down his body, tracing the contours of his muscles like droplets of liquid glass catching the light filtering through the curtains. Your mind shifts into the link, and you realize the disorientation has not abated.

His thoughts start and stop, his memories incoherent and unsettlingly incongruent, like the timeline of his life had been torn apart, and he’s trying to reassemble it, but he can’t find where the pieces fit together.

You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you need to say something. His presence is off in a way you can’t fully describe, so you say his name softly, careful not to startle him.

“Astarion?”

He whirls with wide eyes, locking onto yours with an edge of surprise and panic, as if he’s just now realized that he isn’t alone. He stands there, frozen, as though he’s trying to place you in his reality, but you’re not something he’s quite sure belongs.

You swallow thickly and try again. “Astarion?”

His lips part, but words don’t seem to come easily. His eyes dart between you, the window, and the surrounding space with such chaotic jerks that you have a hard time tracking what he’s looking at from one moment to the next.

“I… I did not mean to wake you,” he mutters, hoarse and apologetic, like he’s trying to smooth over a misunderstanding that isn’t there.

Pushing yourself upright, you do your best to keep your movements predictable and controlled, but the way he watches you sets your nerves on edge.

“Illyria,” he says, eyes surveying you but still distant.

Your name sounds like a question more than a statement, and it strikes you like ice forming over the nerves of your spine. Does he not remember me? The thought flashes through your mind, and with it, dread.

“Yes,” you nod, keeping your voice steady despite the wrenching fear settling in your gut.

“My…” he trails off, splaying his fingers in front of him and looking at the ring like he needs confirmation before he concludes the rest of his sentence. “Wife, yes?”

You try to keep your panic hidden, burying it deep where he cannot see, but it churns. Astarion should know you. But the man standing before you seems lost, piecing fragments of memories together as though he’s trying to form a picture of his life, but the edges won’t align.

How much of him is still here? How much of the Astarion you loved has survived, buried beneath the weight of his own mind?

“Yes, I’m your wife,” you confirm while rising from the chair.

His body seems to relax slightly at your confirmation, though there’s still a fog in his eyes, a distant confusion that makes him seem far away.

You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “What do you remember?”

Astarion stares at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to find something within the recesses of his mind. Finally, he speaks, though his words are slow. “I remember you, but... you look different. Thin. Sickly.”

His eyes are wide with concern, though there’s a hesitation there, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to care. The words sickly hang in the air between you two, like an accusation you can’t escape.

You can’t quite make heads or tails of this. Yesterday, his confusion had been evident—his panic a raw, trembling thing that had threatened to consume him. But at least then, it felt like he still knew you, still saw you in some way. Today, his panic has been mitigated, but what lingers is something different—an unsettling calmness.

Does he even see me? Does he even remember us?

You take a step forward, hesitating before you speak again. “You remember me, don’t you?”

His shoulders stiffen, just slightly, and then he turns to look at you. “I remember... fragments,” he says, his voice low as if testing the words before letting them escape. “But it’s all... hazy. I remember... us, somehow, but the details slip through my fingers whenever I try to grasp them.”

The pain in his voice is subtle, but it cuts through you anyway. There’s no anger, no bitterness. Just... loss. A loss you cannot fully understand, and yet it echoes in your chest.

“I do not know what’s real,” he adds quietly, his eyes locking with yours for just a moment before he turns away again. “But you’re real. That’s something.”

You don’t know what to say. Part of you wants to reach out and touch him, but another part of you is frozen, unsure of where to begin when nothing feels the same.

Astarion’s gaze is fixed on the window, his eyes scanning the view outside with a distant, disinterested look. “Definitely not in Baldur’s Gate, are we?”

“No, we’re in the Hells. Abriymoch, to be precise.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but you hear him slick his damp hair back with a quick swipe of his hand. The motion is instinctive like it’s something he’s done a thousand times, though there’s something so vulnerable about the way he does it now as if he’s still trying to find some semblance of control in a place that offers none.

“I suppose that explains the heat,” he comments dryly, his voice dripping with frustration.

“Control your body temperature.”

Astarion freezes, his hand stilling midair as he looks at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Can I do that?” he asks, the question genuine but laced with an edge of disbelief.

His tone cracks slightly, revealing just how much he doesn’t know, how much he’s lost. Your heart sinks a little more, your chest tightening at the realization.

You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “You can.”

But the silence that follows only serves to remind you how far he’s fallen from that version of himself. Astarion looks at you like he’s waiting for a deeper explanation, his mind still trying to piece together what’s real and possible.

“Why am I here? Why are we here?” He asks with an edge of helplessness.

You want to ease that confusion, but instead, you find yourself paralyzed by it. This isn’t the Astarion you know—the one who had answers to everything, the one who was always so certain.

This Astarion is... adrift.

He steps closer to you, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some answer he can’t quite find.

"Why can't I remember?" he asks hesitantly as though he’s afraid of the answer. "What happened to me? The memories are all... broken. I should know this. I should know you, but it's like... like I’m seeing you for the first time. Or am I? Is it real? Hells, am I real?”

His words trail off, and you can see how much it’s tearing at him, the uncertainty, the ache in his chest that mirrors the one in yours. He knows something is wrong, but he can’t quite figure out what it is, who he is—who you are.

You need to gauge the extent of his memory loss—his safety, and your own, depend on it.

“Astarion,” you venture, gentle but probing, “you do remember that you’re a vampire, right?”

He freezes momentarily, his brow furrowing before his lips curl into a smirk. “Am I?” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest with mock horror. “A vampire, you say? How utterly shocking! What gave me away—the fangs, the complexion, or my irresistible charm?”

The exaggerated theatrics coax a quiet laugh from you, a sound that feels foreign amidst the tension. It’s a slight relief—a glimpse of your husband peeking through the cracks of his confusion. For a moment, the man you love is right there, clever and insufferable in equal measure.

But the smile fades as quickly as it came, and his expression sobers. “Yes,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands as though seeing them for the first time. “I know what I am. That much is... hard to forget. Some things never change, it seems.”

You nod slowly, watching him carefully. “Do you remember how it happened? How you... got here?”

He hesitates, his brow creasing as he struggles to reach into the tangled mess of his mind. “I remember Cazador. The chains. The slavery. The... cruelty.” He shudders, his hand absently brushing over the faint scars on his neck that remain etched into his skin. “I remember killing him.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “You were there. Weren’t you?” His gaze searches yours, uncertain but hopeful. “I think you were. You helped me... I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You nod again, though your chest tightens. “I was there. We killed him together.”

His lips part slightly, relief wavering across his features. “Good. Good. That feels... right. You were with me. You’ve always been with me.” His expression clouds, and he rubs his temples, frustration creeping into his tone. “After that, though... it’s all so hazy. I remember the Rite, the ascension, but it’s like I’m trying to grasp shadows. I remember power—so much power—and then...” His hand falls to his side, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. Everything after is... fragments.”

Your heart sinks further. The gaps in his memory are significant, yet he’s pieced together enough to know that something is very, very wrong.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, gripping his hair. “Why is everything so tangled? Why can’t I remember?”

You reach out instinctively but stop yourself short, unsure if touching him would ground him or overwhelm him further. “It’s alright. Whatever’s happened, whatever’s missing—we’ll piece it back together.”

He glances at you, his crimson eyes softening as they meet yours. “You sound so sure,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, won’t I? You seem to know me better than I know myself.”

“You can trust me,” you conclude with conviction, though the weight of his words makes your throat tighten.

He tilts his head, studying you for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh. “Well, it’s not as though I have many other options, do I? If you’re lying to me, darling, you’re doing a very convincing job of it.”

He shakes his head, his amusement fading as he glances back at the window. “Still, it’s troubling. If I can remember killing Cazador, if I can remember the ascension... why does everything else feel so... scattered? What happened to me, Illyria?”

He says your name so tentatively that, for some reason, it makes your static heart clench. You can’t bear to tell him. Could he handle the truth in his state? What do you say to someone who is clinging to scraps?

“We will figure it out,” you repeat.

Scarlet eyes swish from side to side as if he’s reading an invisible book before him. The kinship in your head flares as he plucks its chords.

His brows furrow, and he tilts his head when he looks at you. “I can feel you in my head. It feels so… intimate. I do not understand it. Why are you in there?”

The question makes your knees shake with the urge to sink to the floor and weep, but you force the feeling aside. “We share a… mental connection that was formed when you turned me. It lets us feel each other's thoughts and emotions, among other things.”

He nods slowly as if the explanation makes sense but doesn’t quite settle. “What if I do not want this… connection, as you say?” He asks with a slight cant to his head; eyes cast upwards as if he’s mulling it over. “Could it be severed? Can I sever it? If I did, would you… go away?”

You falter, physically taking a step back like the words themselves pushed you. The last thing you want is for him to break that connection, to lose the fragile thread that continues to be together, no matter how precarious.

“If it’s too much, I can close it,” you offer, swallowing hard. “I can shut it off for a while.”

The raw panic in his reaction is immediate. He jerks forward without thinking in a burst of desperation, his hands outstretched. A sharp trill of adrenaline circulates through you, and your body locks into a defensive stance. It’s not precisely fear you feel but a shadow of mistrust rooted into your mind as a reminder that his affection usually turns to cruelty.

Astarion stops short, freezing in place. His fingers tremble in the air as he second-guesses himself. His face falls when he notices your reaction, hands still hovering helplessly.

“Apologies,” he stammers. “I did not want to frighten you. That was not my intention.”

With a deep breath, you force your muscles to relax. “I know,” you sigh but do not venture to provide any further explanation.

You reach your hand out to him, palm up, in the same way he did to you all that time ago. He glances at it curiously but seems to recognize the gesture as his hand finds yours with the same uncertain smile you remember from that night. He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s so close you can feel his breath ghosting over your face.

His voice is a whisper when he finally asks, “May I?”

There’s no need for an explanation of his intentions, and you nod. The moment his arms wrap around you, the chasm that's grown between you seems to crack open and close all at once. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—needed this. His embrace is firm but carefully hesitant, as though he’s still testing the waters, but there is genuine affection in the way he holds you.

Burying your face in his shoulder, you melt into him and swallow the balled sob that builds in your throat. The tension you’ve been carrying for what feels like an eternity begins to ease, bit by bit.

“Please,” he murmurs against your hair, voice thickly suffused with emotion. “Do not close the bond. I… I could not bear it. It is the only thing keeping me grounded.” He pulls you closer, his fingers flexing into you firmly but not painfully, as if he’s afraid you might slip away like the rest of his memories do when he tries to clutch them. “I believe it might be the only thing keeping me present.”

“I won’t,” you promise. “I’m here, and I’ve always been here.”

Astarion exhales in a shaky burst of relief and rests his chin against your head. “Thank you.”

You don’t respond, afraid your voice might crack if you try. Instead, you hold him as he holds you, letting your bond hum with reassurance and love. For now, it’s enough to simply be in his arms, to feel that even in the haze of broken memories, some part of him still knows how to love you.

Astarion steps out of the room and into the main area with Illyria close by his side. The moment they cross the threshold, he can feel eyes on him before he sees them. His eyes flick upward, catching Karlach’s fiery glare and Wyll’s stern, furrowed expression. Karlach angles her body so that it’s between him and the chair Wyll is sitting on, like a sentry on duty. They fall silent, their conversation clearly interrupted by his presence.

He remembers them. Karlach, with her broad shoulders and the faint orange glow that radiates over her skin, who used to laugh too loudly and slap him on the back with far too much enthusiasm. Wyll, poised as always, a man of principle and loyalty.

They do not look at him with familiarity now. There is no laughter in Karlach’s eyes nor quiet camaraderie in Wyll’s posture. Their gazes drip with hatred so intense it’s a tangible scent in the air. He does not understand why, and it twists in his chest sourly.

What could he have done to earn such loathing? He cannot recall, and that absence of knowledge gnaws at him. He shifts on his feet awkwardly, one hand brushing against the seam of his trousers in a nervous fidget.

He forces a small, tentative smile and clears his throat. “It is such a pleasure to see you both again. Though, judging by the looks on your faces, I might as well have crawled out of the Nine Hells itself. Truly, what a warm welcome.”

Karlach’s expression hardens while her tail flicks behind her in barely restrained agitation. Wyll folds his arms across his chest with a scoff, his jaw tightening. The tension in the room grows thicker, and Astarion’s smile falters.

“Well,” he tries again, his voice wavering slightly. “Perhaps not a warm welcome, then. Tepid, at best? Lukewarm? Oh, do not all speak at once—I might be overwhelmed by the sheer enthusiasm.”

Karlach’s voice finally breaks through, low and simmering with anger. “You’ve got some nerve.”

Astarion blinks, taken aback by the venom in her tone. “I beg your pardon?” he replies, his attempt at charm faltering under her glare.

Wyll shakes his head, eyes darting to Illyria. “He doesn’t remember?”

Astarion frowns, his gaze darting between them. “Remember what, exactly? Is there some grand offence I have committed that has left you both so utterly... displeased with me?”

Karlach steps forward, her movements deliberate and controlled. “Offence?” she echoes, her voice dripping with incredulity. “You don’t even know—”

“Stop,” Illyria cuts in, her tone firm as she steps in front of him like a shield. “This isn’t helping.”

The incessant song in his head grows a little louder, warring with his ability to think and comprehend the situation at hand. The link with Illyria also hums, though at least he finds it oddly comforting, even when it’s trembling under her annoyance. Is it annoyance with him? Annoyance with them? He cannot tell.

He looks down at her with mounting confusion. “Illyria, what—?”

“Later,” she says sharply, her eyes flicking back to Karlach and Wyll. “Now isn’t the time for this.”

The tension remains, but Karlach steps back, her fists clenched at her sides. Wyll lets out a slow breath, though his gaze doesn’t soften. Astarion swallows hard, his smile now fully gone.

Whatever this is—whatever he has done—it is worse than he imagined.

Astarion watches Illyria as she swings a bag over her shoulder and approaches Karlach with an air of casual familiarity.

“Could you lend me some coin?” Illyria asks as though this is a perfectly normal request to make of someone glaring daggers at them moments earlier.

Astarion’s brows pinch. Borrow coin? From Karlach? He is almost certain they do not need to borrow coin from anyone. He is wealthy, is he not? Gold enough to burn, treasures beyond counting, that sort of thing. Why would they need to stoop to such a thing?

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it just as quickly. No, better not. The thought of asking why is too humiliating. He bites his tongue and decides to let it pass, pretending the whole exchange isn’t happening.

Karlach hesitates for a moment as though reluctant to fulfill Illyria’s request. Finally, she sighs and tosses a coin pouch to Illyria. “Fine.”

Wyll’s muffled groan pulls his attention away from that horror show. Wyll shifts weakly in his chair, rubbing his forehead with his eyes closed. Karlach gives him a concerned look and gently rubs his back.

“You alright?” She murmurs, retrieving a glass of water from a small table and offering it to him.

“Fine,” Wyll reassures with a small smile as he takes the glass, his fingers brushing Karlach’s in what appears to Astarion to be too intimate a touch for them. “This damnable headache won’t let up. Illyria, how did you stand it?”

A sharp spike of shame transits into his mind from Illyria, and her fluid movement becomes stiff. She glances at Wyll, though it appears forced. “It will pass,” she remarks.

Astarion’s eyes drift from the exchange to Wyll’s neck, catching the sight of two red puncture marks. A jolt of ice radiates through Astarion’s skipping heart, and he swallows hard, unable to look away from the evidence of a bite.

Did I do that?

His stomach churns as the thought takes root. Is this why they are so furious with him? Did he lose control, forget himself, and feed on Wyll? No. Surely not. He learned to manage his hunger centuries ago when he was a young spawn. Cazador saw to that—years of rotting in the kennels until he learned the discipline required to be around the living.

He wouldn’t have done something so reckless, would he? There is a sudden urge to defend himself, explain, even though no one has accused him of anything, but he bites it back. Even if he wanted to explain, he doesn’t know what he would say because he cannot remember doing it or why.

Illyria speaks again before he can settle on what exactly to do about this, tucking the borrowed coin away. “We’ll return later, and thank you. I’ll pay you back.”

“The absolute least of my worries right now is coin,” Karlach grunts in response while she stares at him with contempt, perhaps disappointment, maybe both.

The strident symphony that is always strumming in the background of his thoughts spikes again, but something siphons it away as quickly as it rises. Illyria winces almost imperceptibly, but he notices how her withered muscles flex.

She beckons him with a nod, and the tension eases as he follows her out of that suffocating room. They descend a set of stairs and into an inn crowded with infernal beings, a kaleidoscope of grotesque and elegant forms. Demons lounge at polished tables, devils haggle over contracts, and imps dart about carrying trays of drinks.

Illyria weaves through the crowd, appearing unbothered as if this infernal realm is merely another market in Baldur’s Gate. She approaches the bar, where the innkeeper—a hulking, grotesque thing with leathery skin—leans lazily against the counter.

“Excuse me,” Illyria begins, her voice steady and polite.

The creature does not so much as glance at her, earning only a scoff and a dismissive wave of his clawed hand.

She repeats herself louder, and the innkeeper finally deigns to speak. His guttural tongue grinds against Astarion’s ears like stones dragged across metal. Whatever he says is sharp and sneering, followed by a cruel laugh that ripples through the beings nearby.

Astarion’s lips press into a thin line. The audacity of this wretch to scoff at her so brazenly ignites a sudden strike of anger.

He steps forward before he even realizes he has done so. “That,” he begins coldly, “is no way to speak to a lady.”

The innkeeper snorts, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing as he towers over Astarion. “And who are you, pale thing?” he growls, his Common thick with his infernal accent. “Another mortal begging for scraps?”

Astarion’s smile is slow and dangerous as he tilts his head and lets his fangs flash in the dim light. “Hardly,” he replies, his tone light, almost playful. “But I do wonder if you speak to all your patrons with such disregard or if you have saved this particular brand of rudeness just for us.”

The creature straightens, head tilting slightly as though reconsidering. Illyria places a hand on his arm, a subtle pressure meant to calm him, but he does not budge. His red eyes remain fixed on the innkeeper, glinting with cold fury.

“Now,” Astarion continues, his voice soft but laced with warning. “My wife asked you a question. Perhaps you would like to try answering it this time.”

The innkeeper bristles, but something in Astarion’s gaze—or perhaps the underlying threat in his tone—makes him falter. He mutters something under his breath before finally responding, this time with strained civility.

Astarion’s smirk widens. “That is much better,” he says smoothly, stepping back to let Illyria resume her questioning. He glances down at her, his annoyance tempered by satisfaction. “Do let me know if he steps out of line again, my dear,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. “I would be happy to deal with him properly.”

Whatever questions Illyria asks are lost on him as he glances around the bar, trying to elucidate hints of just how in the Hells he got here. He remembers being in Baldur’s Gate and remembers bits and pieces of their wedding, but everything else disintegrates before he can glimpse it. Even the timeline of events is a tangled web that sticks to his fingers like spider silk whenever he tries to unknot it.

Illyria taps his hand, and he follows her out into the oppressive atmosphere. The air is an acrid blend of sulphur and scorched stone, loud with raspy caterwauling, and far, far too hot. She glances up at him with an expression he cannot quite decipher.

She is quiet when she speaks, her intonation measured and smooth, calculating her words before they even leave her lips. “Did the voices in your head make you do that?”

He halts midstep and turns to look at her fully. What an odd question. The prattle in his mind—the endless, maddening whispers he has tried and failed to block out since waking—stands in the forefront of his awareness. They are an ever-present, disjointed hum that creeps along the edges of his sanity, but they had no bearing on what happened.

“I—no,” he confirms, shaking his head. “The voices did not make me do anything. I simply... did not like the way he was speaking to you.”

His gaze flicks to her, waiting for some kind of reaction, but she only nods with a wash of relief that confounds him further.

“That was kind of you,” she says gently, too gently. It’s equal parts warm and unsettling. “But you must watch your temper carefully.”

The words are spoken delicately, as though she is treading on fragile ground. Her tone makes him feel fragile, too, and he despises it. She knows something, and she is keeping the information clutched close and guarded.

His jaw tightens, the warmth evaporating as unease takes its place. “Is that what happened to Wyll?” he blurts out. He searches her face for answers, for some clue that might fill the gaps in his fractured memory. “Did I lose my temper and... bite him?”

The thought makes him recoil, and he grips his arms tightly as if to hold himself together. That does not seem like him, not the him he knows—or thinks he knows.

“That does not sound like me,” he presses, the words firmer this time. “I would not have—” He stops, unsure if he should finish the thought.

Illyria reaches up and tenderly swipes aside pieces of hair that stick to his sweat-veiled forehead. Her fingers are cool, and they linger idly, brushing back and forth as if she might be able to smooth away the swirling chaos. It stirs an ache he cannot place, though he finds the gesture impossibly soothing.

The coolness of her palm cups his cheek, drawing his scattered thoughts into sharp focus. He blinks, eyes locking onto the cracked crimson of hers. Exhaustion is etched across her face; dark bags extend under her eyes with gaunt, hollow cheeks.

How in the Hells did she get like this? How could he let her get like this? Did he? Why?

She shakes her head slowly, firmly. “No,” she sighs as her hand drops back to her side. “You did not bite Wyll.”

The reassurance brings a brief, fleeting sense of relief, but it wanes as quickly as it came. Illyria turns and strides towards wherever their destination is.

“If not me, then who bit Wyll?”

She stops but keeps her back toward him, and her shoulders stiffen slightly. Illyria does not turn to face him, refusing to meet his eyes. Her head dips, the strands of her hair falling forward as though she could use them as a curtain to hide behind.

“I did,” she whispers, almost too quiet for even his sharp hearing to catch.

Astarion’s mind reels with a thousand questions clashing for dominance, but none are coherent. She stands with her head bowed in shame, and he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out at first.

“Why?” He finally manages to force his voice into compliance, but his confusion leaks into the word.

Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Because he let me.”

The answer doesn’t help. It only raises more questions, doubts, and pieces of a puzzle that do not seem to fit together.

“No, no,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “That does not seem right. You feed on me, yes? I cannot recall everything, but I recall that much.”

Her shoulders tense, and her head snaps up to meet his gaze, her eyes glittering with a storm of emotions he cannot parse. Anger? Shame? Defiance? Perhaps all of them at once. The idea of someone else’s blood on her lips—someone else’s pulse beneath her fangs—ignites a strange and unfamiliar sting.

Jealousy? Hurt? He does not want to examine it too closely.

Her shoulders rise and fall in a shallow breath, and her expression is inscrutable. “You were gone,” she says simply, as though that explains everything and nothing at once.

Gone.

The word settles like a stone, and for the first time, he feels the enormity of it—the gaps in his memory, the pieces of his life that seem to have slipped through his fingers.

He was gone, but where? For how long?

And what did he do?

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes: - Poor Pookie 😔

[weird-dere-writes]

Violently shitting myself on the first date is DIABOLICAL WORK MIMI jskdjdkdhkdndjdd

Okay situation setup first, mutual friends set me and Ichigo up on a blind date. We are both a little slow to warm up to one another and get comfortable, but once we do, everything is lovely <3.

This is actually my second time eating out today. The first time was with one of the friends that set us up for the date as a little debrief about the guy I’m meeting. Went to a new restaurant for the first time then, and hours later on the date it is clearly affecting me.

Ichigo has heard my stomach grumbling too throughout our date which has me a little bashful, but he’s been so nice about it fr. I told him it might have been something I ate, so he’s understanding. But at some point the urge to go just hits me and I rush a “I’llberightback” before making a b-line for the bathroom.

Unfortunately for me the terlet does not feel the wrath of my guts. I don’t make it in time and now I am trapped in this conundrum.

I spend the next few moments standing in shock, mortified. Thank GOD no one else has walked into the bathroom. I am freaking out. WHAT IN THE WORLD DO I DO IN THIS SITUATION???

My first thought was to call either of the friends that set us up. Unfortunately neither answer.

So I am forced to face THEE most embarrassing ordeal ever bc I cannot stay shitty pantsed lest I get a rash.

1. Do you tell your fave and do you go back to the table?

Yes, and yes AUGH. But I am telling the staff before I do either so I can 1) escape the moment for a little longer and 2) warn them so they can clean any remnants of my biohazard nskdjxkd. Shortly after I am making my walk of shame back to the table, not sitting down on the chair as I meet him again.

2. What do you say if you do tell them? How does that conversation go?

I’ll start with an awkward ‘hey’. He’ll greet me back, and then i tell him I’ve really been enjoying his company but I have to cut the date short. I hope we can meet again, but I understand if he doesn’t want to after this. (screaming internally because HOW COULD I FUMBLE THE BAG WITH A GUY SO HOT AND NICE 😭😭😭). And then I tell him “I just shit my pants. Like really bad… I need to go home and shower. I’m so sorry.”

He looks at me genuinely shocked and his eyes flick down to my pants before quickly going back up to my face, his own turning a little red. I don’t know if it’s out of disgust or if he’s trying to be respectful, but a girl can hope for the ladder 😔😔😔. Nothing comes out of him but a breathless “Oh…”

Seconds of us blinking at each other later, he shakes his head a little and stands up, before asking me if I’m okay. I tell him I’m fine, just majorly embarrassed. He quickly arranged to pay for all of our food, probably on account of feeling bad for me HELP. And we end up outside.

I feel my eyes watering, but I’m trying to hold the tears at bay.

3. Does your fave help you if you do tell them? If you ghost, do they ask why?

When we’re outside, he offers me his jacket to sit on so I don’t get shit in my car. And while that is so nice I am again SO MORTIFIED bc I can’t POSSIBLY accept that HELP. He won’t take no for an answer though. Insists the jacket is old anyway. Says he doesn’t want me suffering more than I have to. It’s kind he’s considering me so but I still feel horrible. I don’t even know whether to ask if he wants it back bc honestly I know my ass would just burn it if it were mine.

I ask any way though, and make sure he knows I will be cleaning the FUCK outta that thang but in nicer words of course. He takes a minute to think about it, seeming quite hesitant, but ultimately says yes. Again, I believe out of pity for me so I don’t feel more embarrassed. Gives me his number so we can arrange for that return sometime, walks me to my car bc it’s late and safety mmmm. then we go our separate ways.

4. Do you get a second date?

Some power or other must have smiled upon me for my honesty and bravery bc YES! 😭

Surprisingly I do! 🧎🏾‍♀️

I found out bc one of the mutual friends who found out about the fiasco gave me a sticker about 2 weeks later. It was a funny/cutesy drawing of a bunny sitting on a toilet with the words “IBS = I be shittin” on it.

Once it’s in my hand my soul leaves my body bc ik what she’s referring to and I want to DIE thinking about it. And she’s like, “I hear he’s been thinking about you.”

Of course for obvious reasons I assume she means he’s been thinking about that experience and probably not so positively of me.

But then she says he’s been wanting to arrange another date, but has been shy. She elbows me and tells me I need to return that jacket of his sometime~.

💀 <- *me after she said that with bell tolling sound*

As a matter of fact Mimi, “she” could honestly be u fr NDKDJDKDJDKC

cw gross but here’s the scenario:

you’re on a first date with your fave, it’s perfect, but suddenly your tummy starts to rumble. you barely make it to the bathroom. you shit yourself.

questions:

1. do you tell your fave and do you go back to the table?

2. what do you say if you do tell them? how does that conversation go?

3. does your fave help you if you do tell them? if you ghost, do they ask why?

4. do you get a second date?

[coldtortelloni]

doomed yuri.....

[silusvesuius]

nnnnnnnnnnnnno maa'am

[novantinuum]

continually annoyed by how every single post i've seen supporting the notion that "the journal pages in BoB were fakes" just feels like thinly veiled anti material

[sokovianfortune]

elsa yelling at jack that she doesn’t care about his systems is so funny to me. like ohhhh girl you will though. you’re going to care so much.