#you’re just SHAPES in the narrative

[jellyskink]

New York Isn't Weird Enough (PG3)

Ford DESPERATELY needs to be re-socialized. Even before canon divergence, he was around, at most, one other human for years. It’s only gotten worse since

[malusokay]

What's the point of a diary if you're not lying in it?

On Anaïs Nin, literary self-mythologizing, and why personal writing should always be slightly dishonest. (from my substack)

If you’re not lying in your diary, you’re just journaling, and journaling is for people who don’t know how to edit.

A diary is not a record of events; it is an act of creation. The best diarists know this instinctively. Anaïs Nin knew it better than anyone. Her diaries were not mere confessions but performances, half-lit mirrors where the truth shimmered, distorted but no less real.

Nin understood that life is not lived in a single register. Her diaries are a study in contradiction—one moment, she is in love; the next, repulsed. She is independent yet wholly consumed by those around her. But contradiction isn’t falsehood; it’s literature. She rewrote and edited her diaries, sculpting herself into the character she wanted to be. And is that really so dishonest?

People love to be outraged by the idea of a diary that is not entirely factual. But fact is not the same as truth. Diaries, at their best, are emotional truths, shaped by mood, by desire, by the need to impose a narrative on the chaos of daily life. Nin was not interested in being objective—she was interested in being immortal. She once wrote, “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.” But why stop at tasting? Why not rewrite, reshape, embellish? If we can curate the lives we present to others, why should we not do the same for the versions of ourselves we leave behind?

Nin herself was a master of this. She edited her diaries before publication, removing, refining, turning herself into a protagonist. She blurred lines, shifted timelines, made herself more alluring. She called it shaping reality. Others call it lying. The truth, of course, is that all personal writing is selective. Even in confession, there is curation.

The danger, of course, is that history will take the performance at face value. That the diary, once private, will harden into biography. But this, too, is a kind of truth. A diary is not a static object. It lives, it breathes, it deceives, but always in service of something larger than the mundane details of existence.

[astrologydray]

Astrology Observations 4: Dark & Unspoken Astrology Takes

• Venus conjunct MC people don’t just attract admiration—they attract obsession. People don’t just notice them; they study them📚.

• Lilith on the IC feels like growing up in a house where you were punished for simply existing as yourself. The “villain” of the family narrative🖤.

• Mars in Pisces isn’t weak—it’s just invisible. These people don’t fight in the open, but when they move, they’re already 10 steps ahead.

• Neptune in the 1st house gives “people see what they want to see” energy. They project their fantasies onto you, then resent you when you don’t match them😑.

• Uranus aspecting the MC = the kind of person who could reinvent themselves overnight, disappear, and come back as someone unrecognizable😭😭

• If you have Pluto transiting the IC, you’re not just going through a “family transformation.” It’s ancestral. You’re the first to break a generational curse💪🏾.

• Saturn in the 1st house (or transit) makes you earn your identity. It strips away every false version of yourself until only the real you remains.

• Chiron in the 10th house or MC can make success feel like it comes with a wound—publicly respected but personally unfulfilled😞.

• People say Neptune 1st house people are “mystical” but don’t realize how isolating it is when no one actually sees you clearly. I’m abt to go cry now.😖😖🖤

• Venus on the MC doesn’t just make you beautiful—it makes people project their idea of beauty onto you, whether you like it or not🫠.

• Pluto-IC aspects feel like being born into a home where you had to survive rather than exist🥺.

• Lilith on the IC: The “problem child” of the family. You weren’t difficult—you just refused to submit to the unspoken rules of dysfunction😤.

• Neptune in the 1st house: People love the idea of you, not the reality. The moment they see the real you, they act like you betrayed them.

• Mars in Pisces: You don’t attack—you dissolve your enemies. No one ever sees you coming until they’re drowning.

• Pluto aspecting the IC: You were raised in a home with secrets. Whether you knew them or not, they shaped you🤫.

• Chiron conjunct the MC: Your pain is public property. People don’t just notice you—they dissect your wounds like an open book.

• Pluto-IC people don’t have childhoods. They have survival stories.

• Venus conjunct the MC isn’t just “pretty privilege.” It’s a curse when people assume you have it easy and resent you for it.

[theambitiouswoman]

Why you don’t feel pretty (It’s not about your looks)

Have you ever looked in the mirror and felt like something was just off—like no matter what you do, you still don’t feel beautiful? The truth is, it’s not really about your looks.

So many of us tie our beauty to external validation, seeking approval from others without even realizing it. If your confidence depends on how others see you, you’ll always feel like you’re chasing something unattainable. The people who seem the most beautiful aren’t the ones with perfect features but the ones who move through life with effortless self assurance, embracing their own unique features.

It’s easy to look at certain girls and think, She has it so much easier because she’s beautiful. And in many ways, it’s true—pretty privilege exists. Attractive people often get treated better, receive more opportunities and have an easier time socially.

The women who benefit the most from pretty privilege aren’t just attractive—they own their beauty. They expect good treatment, they carry themselves with confidence, and they present themselves in a way that makes people take notice.

Ever notice how some women who aren’t conventionally “perfect” still get a ton of attention? It’s because beauty is an energy. If you constantly shrink yourself, avoid eye contact, or assume people won’t be drawn to you, the world picks up on that.

And then of course, there’s comparison. Social media makes it impossible not to feel like you’re falling short. Perfectly lit, edited, and curated images trick us into thinking that beauty should be effortless. But even the most stunning women have insecurities. The difference is, they don’t let those insecurities define them.

Sometimes, feeling unattractive isn’t about your reflection at all—it’s about how you experience yourself.

Do you take care of yourself? If you’re running on empty, constantly stressed, or neglecting your needs, it doesn’t matter how flawless your makeup is—you won’t feel beautiful.

Do you feel valued by the people around you? When you feel overlooked, disrespected, or under appreciated, it wears on you, making you feel smaller and less significant—even if nothing about your appearance has changed.

Are you holding onto past hurt? Painful experiences can shape how we see ourselves. If you’ve ever been rejected, ignored, or made to feel "less than," it’s easy to carry that hurt into the present. But your beauty isn’t something that can be taken away. The moment you decide to release those old narratives, you start seeing yourself differently.

Feeling beautiful is a full body experience. It’s not just about looking in the mirror—it’s about how you show up in your own life.

Instead of rushing through your morning routine, turn it into a ritual. Light a candle, play music and actually enjoy the process of getting ready.

Wear clothes that make you feel good—not because they’re trendy, but because they feel like you.

Take slow, confident steps. Speak clearly. Look people in the eye. These small things change how you perceive yourself.

When you start treating yourself with love, your mind follows.

So many people put life on hold, thinking, I’ll start doing things when I feel prettier. But confidence doesn’t come from waiting—it comes from living.

Go out. Travel. Meet people. Try new things. Stop waiting to look a certain way before you let yourself experience life. The more you engage with the world, the more you realize that beauty isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being present.

Treat yourself like someone worth taking care of. Move your body, nourish your skin and invest in your self—not because you have to but because you deserve to.

Stop waiting for permission to be confident. Walk, talk and carry yourself like you already are.

Focus less on how you look and more on how you feel. When you feel good, you look good.

The moment you stop chasing beauty and start owning it, you’ll realize—you already are.

[grandwitchbird]

Dragon Age has been doing a really clever thing with its protagonists and the heroic power fantasy that only fully comes together when you look at the series as a whole, so let’s do another ramble. Under a cut to save your dash.

Origins is a traditional RPG power fantasy. It likes to tell you that it’s not by gesturing at Loghain and alluding to unreliable narratives, but what it shows is the power fantasy. No matter what your warden does, they’re the hero. Are you a casual genocide enthusiast? No problem you can still ride off into the sunset looking for a cure. Also hey you have a critical weakness/flaw (the calling) that kind of dooms you or gives you cause to vaguely ride of into the sunset. Very heroic indeed. There’s a layer of textual interest added by the presence of unreliable narratives, but ultimately it’s the hero’s choices that shape and determine the world and story, right down to very gamified relationships. The origins system itself, the fact that your warden could have been anyone, is the actual textual proof that this isn’t all that’s going on. It just only really gets paid off by later games, and that’s pretty important given where this franchise ended up.

—

Enter DA2. Hawke is a champion, not a hero. Hawke fights for those who can’t fight themselves. Hawke can’t save the world. They can’t even save their family or city. It’s a battle of attrition that sees them somehow worse off no matter what. The still-gamified but now more nuanced and challenging relationships become the focus because they’re really all Hawke has. Now the power fantasy is still lurking around the edges. It’s just challenged at every turn. You can free Kirkwall, but Anders is always going to blow up a church.

—

Which brings us to Inquisition. Somehow, you’re both as much of a nobody as Hawke and you’re responsible for more than the Warden. And it’s miserable. The power fantasy is constantly undermined. No matter who your inquisitor was, by the end of the game they’ve been completely subsumed by their role: turns out power has teeth.

In a move that delivers on the unreliable narrative throughline that Origins established and DA2 strengthened, the Inquisitor must play the hero and save the world. It doesn’t matter if your Inquisitor is a kind person doing their best or a racist power-hungry asshole, and that is now a systemic issue within the world itself. The erosion of your character’s personhood is explicit within the text as characters struggle to see you as more than your role and you’re asked to shape the faith of an entire world even if you don’t share that faith. The cost of this erosion is made incredibly literal with Ameridan’s story and then in Trespasser, where the anchor, both cause and symbol of the Inquisitor’s role and power, is killing them. Relationships become somewhat less gamified but more importantly, you’re given an explicit textual mirror in Solas. He’s there to reflect your behavior but also your loss of personhood to a role. It’s essential that he’s the one to save your life at the end of Trespasser. Even if you’ve never shown him a moment’s grace, here is your mirror to see you as a person one last time.

—

And then there’s Rook. Now we play a mirror to Solas, a character who has been the hero, Mythal’s champion, and a man subsumed by his role/s. He’s really the narrative gift that keeps giving.

We walk the dreadwolf’s path this time, and the dreadwolf is a classic tragic hero. He’s stuck in a story where he must save the world and where a critical flaw will always be his downfall. We’re Varric’s second who must step up to champion his cause after the events of the introduction. And we’re barely keeping ourselves together under the burden of leadership. And here is where Veilguard finally delivers everything this franchise ever promised. Because under all that we’re truly just some guy. Just like Solas is just a guy who got stuck in situations he never wanted. His response was to become the hero or play the villain (depending on the story) because that’s easier. But if Rook can truly choose the ‘hard truth’ that the world is never going to “stay fixed” (oh hi Inquisitor… and Hawke… and Warden) and that other people can have better ideas and make hard calls and their own choices? If we don’t have to ‘win’? Rook can reconcile the inevitable tragedies of this kind of story with their very human needs and escape the story altogether. The cost, of course, is the power fantasy.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to Write a Character

For creative writing to have as deep an impact as possible, you need to give the reader strong characters they can relate to on a personal level.

By borrowing from tried-and-true character archetypes and giving them your personal spin, you can create heroes, villains, and sidekicks that will affect your readers as if they were real people they knew.

Come up with a backstory

Crafting a backstory can help you flesh out an interesting character profile.

“When I’m dealing with characters,” says legal thriller author David Baldacci, “and I’m trying to explain somebody's situation and motivations, you have to look into their past, because [the] past always drives motivations.”

Ask what experiences your character had in elementary school or high school that shaped who they are today. Your character’s backstory can greatly inform your plot.

Develop a character arc

A character must evolve throughout a story.

“The character has to change,” insists crime fiction writer Walter Mosley. “The character doesn’t have to become better. The character doesn’t have to become good. It could be the opposite. He could start good and become bad. He could start off hopeful and end up a pessimist. But he has to be impacted by this world that we’re reading about.”

Plan out your storyline based on your character's goals and how achieving or not achieving them will change them as people. This sort of template can help anchor your narrative.

Do research

If you plan to set your story in a specific locale or period, do enough research to make your characters seem true to life and believable.

“What does it mean, for instance, in the Tudor era to be a male person?” asks Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaid’s Tale. “What does it mean to be a female person? What do those things mean when they’re at different social levels?”

Empathize with your characters

No matter what the type of character you’re developing, try to find some reason you and your reader can relate to their internal conflict.

“You’re living with these people every single day for months at a time—in some cases, years at a time,” says acclaimed children’s author Judy Blume. “You had better feel for them. So, for me, yes, I have great empathy for them.”

When people can empathize with characters, they’re more likely to find them compelling.

Experiment with different approaches

If you usually write characters from a particular point of view (or POV), change things up to challenge yourself.

“Write about someone entirely through the eyes of their friends and family,” suggests journalist Malcolm Gladwell. “So do a profile of someone where you deliberately never talk to the person that you’re profiling.”

There are plenty of ways to craft compelling character descriptions—free yourself up to try new alternatives.

Give your characters flaws

To craft believable characters, you need to give them flaws.

“One, it makes the characters human, just by default, because everybody recognizes that we all have flaws and mistakes,” David says. “But two, it gives you plot elements and plot opportunities because somebody makes a mistake. Why? Because they’re flawed.”

Learn from real people

Pay attention to real people’s mannerisms, personality traits, body language, and physical appearances.

Do research, and be respectful, when you want to write characters with backgrounds that you are not familiar with. Become familiar with different people's cultures, sexual orientations etc.

Talking to people about their experiences will help form your character’s personality.

Let your characters surprise you

Character development can proceed down a host of different avenues.

“Spend a lot of time with your characters and getting to know them,” Judy suggests. “And the way that you get to know them can be different from the way I get to know them. But my way is: They don’t come alive until I write about them, until I put them down on paper.”

As you write, your character’s motivation or perspective might change from what you originally planned.

Play characters off each other

Ask yourself how a secondary character’s personality might thwart the main character’s motivation.

“One of the best ways, as I said, to develop a character is to put that character in relationship to another person,” Walter says. “So as they talk, as they fight, as they work together, we find out more about who they are and what they are.”

The character’s close friends, adversaries, and acquaintances might all have different effects on their behavior.

Take an organic approach

Over the course of the story, be ready for your characters to surprise you as much as the people you know in real life might, too.

Your characters may take on a life of their own.

Avoid static characters by letting yours have their own lives and personalities. Let their stories take you where they lead.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[chososcamgirl]

(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER SIXTEEN: maybe a phase?

masterlist

“Didn’t expect this many people to show up,” Megumi mumbled to the pink-haired boy beside him.

“I like it! It’s like our very own cult!” Yuji exclaimed; his eyes sparkling as he licked his lips in anticipation.

The raven rolled his eyes at the remark. He wasn’t wrong though. With the turnout of the event, you could start a small religion. 

Fans gathered in eager clusters; their faces lit with anticipation as they waited for their moment with the band. Laughter echoed around him, a stark contrast to the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. Megumi felt like a marionette, expertly performing his role while his heart remained tethered to unspoken thoughts.

“Megumi, can you finish the heart?” 

He suppresses a mental groan at yet another familiar request, but he obliges, nonetheless. 

That definitely must have been the hundredth one. With a practised smile, he lifts his hand, expertly completing the heart shape as the girl beams through the screen. The phone obscures her face, leaving him with only a sense of her enthusiasm.

Around him, the atmosphere of the fan meet-and-greet buzzes with energy. His bandmates are in their element, laughing and joking with fans, their easy conviviality filling the air with warmth. They engage with their admirers, sharing stories and creating moments that spark joy, their carefree spirits a stark contrast to his mood - enjoying themselves. 

Having fun.

As he stands there, a twinge of envy bubbles beneath the surface. Here he is, moping over a girl who seems not to want anything to do with him. Well, anything but his dick. While everyone else is immersed in genuine interaction, he can’t shake the feeling of being sidelined and lost in his thoughts while the world around him pulses with life and laughter.

why would i care?

His heart panging as he replayed the text message he had received days ago, each word lingering like a haunting refrain. Was it wrong to feel this way? To sense that everything he had shared was merely a facade, a carefully crafted performance for someone who never truly saw him. 

He couldn’t shake the unsettling realization that he felt like nothing more than a fleeting moment in her life—a one-night stand disguised as something deeper. The weight of this realization pressed down on him, an oppressive reminder that his emotions felt tossed aside as if he were just an afterthought in a narrative that didn’t include him. 

The feeling of being used gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Every time he revisited that moment, a tight knot formed in his stomach, an ache that echoed his longing for something genuine. He craved a connection that resonated beyond the surface and spoke to his heart and soul rather than just his body. As the days passed, that yearning only deepened, leaving him in a cycle of doubt and self-reflection, questioning what it truly meant to be seen and valued.

Whatever. Fuck Yn. She can go fuck herself. I don’t fucking need her. Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck-

“Oh my god! I’m such a huge fan!” The enthusiastic voice sliced through his thoughts, yanking him back to the chaotic reality of the event.

He quickly summoned his best faux smile, a mask he had perfected through countless encounters.

“Hey! Thank you so much, I really appreciate it,” he replied, glancing down at the array of items sliding his way to autograph—each one a reminder of the crushing expectations he felt.

The fan leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I just have one question for you.”

“Shoot,” he said, keeping his voice steady, though a flicker of tension danced beneath the surface.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He chuckled at the unexpected question, shaking his head. “I do not.”

“Then who’s that girl you’re always with?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

“Dunno who you’re talking about,” he said, trying to keep his composure as he continues signing.

“Yes, you do!” she insisted, her voice rising with excitement as she grips the edge of the table.

As she continued to speculate about this so-called girlfriend, Megumi felt something inside him unravel. Maybe it was the sting of her silence in their last conversation, the way she had left him on read, leaving him feeling a little shattered. Or perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion of the endless meet-and-greet, where each interaction felt like a rehearsed line in a play he no longer wished to perform. The walls felt as if they were closing in, the air thick with unspoken feelings and unresolved questions.

Something snapped.

“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s just some random bitch who sluts herself out and calls it fun.”

The words escaped him before he could rein them in.

A heavy silence settles between them; the fan was stunned into stillness by his choice of words — and profanity. His eyes dropped to the phone in her hands, and dread washed over him as he realises she was recording.

Fuck.

backstage!

• hey siri play she’s just a phase by puma blue

• cue the megumi fumble arc

• megumi crash out video: 2 minutes long

• poor gojo had a heart attack when he got that pop bae notification (he hates dealing with the press)

• he put on notifs ever since they posted a pic of him and suguru walking out of a hotel together hand in hand LMFAO

• yn was standing in one spot just furiously tapping at her phone and panda asked if she was playing fruit ninja

• he got sent to his room after that

• nobara saw the video first (mainly bc she was on twitter at the time. who’s surprised?)

• told yn to brace herself and showed her it

• yn made 7 hate accounts during the uber to sukuna’s

• that girl mad as hell😂😂🤣🤦‍♀️

• i hope they don’t hook up!!

• side eye dog meme

taglist: @shokosbunny @luvvmae @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @lalalasillybilly3000 @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @aozui @noodles-icetea @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @ichcocat @laughingfcx @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @starantulas @1l-ynn @sluttkuna @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow @evry1luvssm

*if i can't tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

[elodieunderglass]

Submission by @Zorilleerrant How to Write a Novel

When I make bullet point lists, each bullet point tends to be a couple hundred words, so that’s what I optimize for. But! I find writers usually have a consistent average for that, so everyone should tailor their bullet points to their own experiences. Modify all the numbers as necessary. (And be prepared to revamp them as you go. The outline never survives contact with the writing.) Now how do we turn bullet point ideas into a full novel outline?

Alright. Let’s get down to it.

Step 1: A novel is 50k words.

Let’s break this into smaller sections. 50k is a nice even number, so I like to make 5 parts. A 10k section sounds much more manageable; that’s a normal (long) short story! If you have 5 (or ten) short stories that naturally link up into a novel, this is the final part of the outline. Usually I think that doesn’t happen, though. Anyway, write the 5 high level Events, Inciting Incidents, or Arc Developments. (It could be themes or structural points, if that’s what drives your writing forward, it just has to be The Important Things.)

Step 2: What’s the shape of this section?

So we’ve got our major plot point or what have you. Now it’s important to figure out how to set it up and how to knock it down. I generally block this into a timeline of 10 points (because that’s 1k) to begin with, and then add or collapse bullet points as necessary. The first bullet point should be the opening scene or setup, and the last should be the end of the section or the transition to the next part, but in between is just how to get from A to B. The what is important, but I tend to find why is more helpful to answer so I can figure out how to get characters to do things. If you tend to bang out 1k at a time this is the end of the outline!

Step 3: The Devil in the Details

This is where the bullet point granularity really varies. You can break it up into 10 again (100 words each: a drabble!) or even more if you need to. This can be really helpful because at a certain point you just end up translating the Ideas List into Writer Voice, and once you get the narrative tone down it becomes more consistent. But in general you only need a couple bullet points here: the ones absolutely integral to the scene. Maybe there’s part of the setting you need to describe, or an internal monologue, or a reveal. Put them in order.

Step 4: To write it you have to write it, unfortunately.

Each bullet point should be a fairly short writing section, now. Which means getting all the way through one should be doable in a single writing session. If you know how you want to say it, great! If you don’t, imagine describing it to friends, whether that’s in the silliest way possible, or to try to make it intriguing, or anything else. The beauty of the bullet point lists is you can switch between styles, and you’ll remember during editing why there’s inconsistency every few paragraphs. You can sand that off later; just get the words down.

Step 5: Editing

Throw out the outline. I mean, don’t actually throw it out, in case you need to figure out what you were talking about here or there. But try not to the various sections/segments/bullets as hard and fast rules; some of them will need to be broken up, and others smushed together more. Here’s where you look for the natural chapter breaks. You should also look for any missing scenes, or maybe places where a scene needs to be moved earlier or later. You’ll also, unfortunately, find things that just don’t need to be in the final draft. Save them in a different document, in case people want to see the outtakes later.

Congrats! If you get your novel all the way to this point, it’s ready to be sent to other people to look it over and help you polish it up!

Anyway, for people who like outlining, put all your planning in this part. For people who like figuring it out as they go along, only do the top level breakdown for any section you’re not currently writing; leave most of it blank until you get there.

I hope this helps you or someone write a novel!

-- submission by @zorilleerrant

Thank you so much for writing this!

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

AAAAAAAAAH could you please write more for the yandere shapeshifter?? I absolutely love that concept! maybe if I could request something about how he would try his best to turn himself into whatever he thinks his darling wants? or maybe write the reveal moment where he's exposed and has to actually talk about himself for once?

thank you!!!

Yandere Shapeshifter x Reader (Part Three)

He tries. God, he tries.

In the days that follow, he stops changing. Or he tries to. He pulls back on the mimicry, the constant shifting of eyes, of smiles, of skin tones and bone structures. He doesn’t show up at your work in different forms, doesn’t seed praise into the mouths of strangers. He stops being your best friend’s new boyfriend, or the girl who always compliments your shoes in the elevator. He stops controlling the narrative.

And it’s excruciating.

Every instinct he has—every twisting, writhing piece of him—is built to become. To respond. To correct. If you frown, he wants to shed his face and put on another, one with dimples you like better or eyes the color of a summer storm. If you sigh, he wants to shift his voice, his laugh, his body, anything to make it better. Anything to make you stay.

But you asked for real.

And real is messy. Real is a body that doesn’t fit neatly into any one mold. It’s too many eyes in the wrong places. A mouth that splits his throat and coils downward, filled with teeth meant to consume. Real is a skin that doesn’t know how to be still, how to stop moving, how to be just one thing at a time. Real is him, kneeling on the bathroom floor, body half-shifted and trembling, just trying to hold it all in.

You find him there one night.

He’s not wearing any face at all. Not a single one. No disguise, no borrowed beauty. Just himself. Or what’s left of it. A shape that doesn’t make sense. A silhouette that doesn’t obey the laws of light. Limbs that exist in places they shouldn’t. A heart that beats behind his eyes. A hum, low and constant, not in the air but in the bones of the room.

You don’t scream.

You just sit beside him, slowly. Careful not to touch. Careful like someone approaching a wounded animal.

“I told you,” he says, his voice jagged and overlapping, like radio static through broken teeth. “I don’t remember who I am.”

You take a shaky breath. “Then maybe we start over. Together.”

It’s such a simple thing to say. Such a human thing. And it feels more impossible than anything he’s ever done. He has lived a hundred lives. A thousand identities. He has been gods, ghosts, men, women, beasts. He has worn joy like a suit, worn sorrow like a script.

But he’s never been just… himself.

“What if I don’t like me?” he asks, almost childlike.

Your voice is quiet. “Then I’ll help you learn how.”

He doesn’t get it right.

Sometimes he still slips. Still becomes the man you complimented once on the street, just for a second. Sometimes he reaches for a face you used to love, the boy with the guitar or the barista with the soft voice. He always catches himself now. Always pulls back. But it’s hard.

Change is easier than truth. Change is safe.

One night, weeks after he last wore someone else’s skin, you ask him again.

“Tell me your name.”

You’re sitting on the floor together, backs against the wall, the TV playing some movie you’re not watching. His shape is half-settled tonight—still strange around the edges, but less flickering. Less unmade.

He stares at the wall for a long time.

“I don’t think it was meant to be said in your language,” he says.

You smile. “Try me.”

He makes a sound. A low hum, deep in his chest. It sounds like a name if you’re generous—like a name if you were falling asleep and only half-heard it, half-dreamed it.

“What does it mean?” you ask.

He pauses. Then: “It meant ‘Remnant.’ The thing that’s left behind.”

You turn to him, frowning. “That’s not all you are.”

He looks at you, with all of his eyes, even the ones you can’t see. “It was all I was. Until you.”

You touch his hand. He has hands now. Mostly. Enough.

“Do you want a new one?”

“A new name?”

You nod.

He considers. For the first time in forever, the thought doesn’t terrify him. The idea of anchoring himself to a name, to a self, doesn’t feel like drowning. Not anymore.

“What would you call me?” he asks, voice quiet.

You think. Really think. Then you say, “Whatever name you’d want someone to say when they loved you.”

He is silent for a long time.

Then, softly, like he’s testing the shape of it: “Call me Lior.”

You blink. “That’s... beautiful. What does it mean?”

He smiles. This one is real. It takes effort. It tears his mouth in the wrong direction before it gets there. But it’s his.

“It means light,” he says.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

"Lior...That's nice."

Masterlist

[vixeneptune]

ACTING CHALLENGE

Embodying your desired self 🧸🩷

Ok this is a fun lil challenge from now on ure gonna be an actress!! YOU'RE HIRED

Now... I want you to play this character who matches ur desired version of urself perfectly, u are the main character of this movie (ur life), ure the one who decides what happens, how to act, how to be, ur script, ur style, the characters in ur movie. It's all in ur control ure literally the director of ur life

First I need u to understand that Identity is not fixed, it’s a collection of experiences, memories, beliefs, and external influences that we’ve internalized over time. From childhood, we absorb ideas about who we are based on what we are told by our family, teachers, friends, and society. These messages shape our self-concept, but they are not absolute truths. They are simply narratives that we have chosen, consciously or unconsciously, to accept as our own.

For example, if someone repeatedly hears “You’re shy” growing up, they might internalize that label and behave accordingly, reinforcing the belief that they are naturally shy. But shyness isn’t an inherent trait—it’s just a pattern of behavior that became part of their identity through repetition. If they decide to shed that label and start acting confidently, their identity shifts.

The key realization is that identity is just a story we tell ourselves, based on past experiences and external conditioning. But because the past does not define the future, we have the power to rewrite our story at any moment. The brain is neuroplastic—it adapts to new patterns, and the more you act in alignment with a new self-concept, the more it becomes your reality.

This is why people can reinvent themselves entirely. Someone who once felt unworthy can decide they are deserving of love and success, and by consistently affirming and acting in alignment with this belief, their entire life transforms. Identity is a choice—who you are is who you decide to be, over and over again.

Just like actors step into different roles, you can step into a new version of yourself. An actor doesn't just recite lines; they embody the character, adopting their posture, speech patterns, emotions, and even thought processes. Over time, if they play a role long enough, it starts to feel natural, almost like a second skin.

The same principle applies to identity. If you want to be confident, successful, or magnetic, start embodying that energy. Walk like it, talk like it, think like it. At first, it may feel like an act, but the more you do it, the more it becomes your default state. The brain adapts, new neural pathways form, and before you know it, you're not "acting" anymore—you are that person.

This is why people who immerse themselves in a certain lifestyle or belief system eventually become fully aligned with it. Identity is performance in a way, but the secret is that every version of you is a performance—you just get to choose which one you want to play.

Let's be more specific about the character ure "playing" or more so embodying , if u want u can create an alter ego or give her a name similar to ur real name or like a nickname , become her as if ure acting in a movie and ure NAILING this character

What does she look like ? How does she talk/walk/think/feel ? What's her mindset and self concept ? How does she approach things? What kind of relationships she has? What does her life look like? U can even create a whole new birth chart for her (ur desired one) lmaoo HAVE FUN with it. It's supposed to be fun not like a chore or a job

You can also take inspiration from your favorite actors or a certain character 👀 likeee for me I like monica belluci , Katherine pierce, Elaine from the love witch

I made a lil subliminal that can help embody this new version better by reprogramming ur subconscious mind

https://youtube.com/watch?v=2RAUo-exTwM&si=IhCTbRfDhjBsimXU

LETS DO THIS AND COMMENT RESULTS 🧸🩷

[waiting-foratrain]

> do you ever think about how scary remembering being alecto must have been for nona? because i think about that a lot.

(NONA THE NINTH SPOILERS) (this is mostly a post inspired by my personal experience and feelings so feel free to disagree. but also i Am correct)

dissociative amnesia is terrifying. just. full stop, point blank- as a concept, to experience, however- its terrifying. the idea that there’s something missing and half the time you don’t even know it’s gone? and then to remember? to slowly start remembering every horrible thing that happened to you? to be nona, remembering, and suddenly realise that you’re doing what everyone around you seems to have wanted you to do since you first opened your eyes, you’re remembering- only it isn’t helping, and instead, you’re realising that everything you thought you were was built on a fault line that only seems to keep growing with everything more you remember?

and then it’s nona, the girl who’s anger has only ever been treated gently and peacefully by the people who love her, who is determined to be good, to be helpful, suddenly having to remember so much unrestrained anger, so much pain? and the more she remembers, the more she becomes sure that all of that is what she is going to be left as when her time, and her life is up. of course that scared her. how could it not scare her?

i don’t think it was just the realisation of who she had been that was terrifying - it was the understanding that she was a makeshift person walking around in a world where (nearly) everyone else got to be wholly themselves for as long as their bodies lived- but she’d been on borrowed time her whole life, and suddenly she has a rapidly running out countdown.

further - dissociative amnesia isn’t just about the loss, it’s about the shape of the loss. it’s about the gaps in the narrative of your own life, gaps you can’t see because your mind has plastered over them, smoothed them out so seamlessly that you don’t even think to ask what’s missing. It’s about waking up one day and realising the foundation you’ve been standing on isn’t real, and worse, that the truth waiting underneath it might be so much worse than the not-knowing… and when those memories do start to surface, you don’t quite know what it is, but it feels like a betrayal- and you aren’t quite the same as you were before anymore (which happens on such a bigger scale with nona!!!! it’s so important to me, that in ntn, nona’s remembering is not celebrated. so often in media, i see people remembering memories lost to trauma related amnesia portrayed as a good thing, and every time i’m just sat there thinking ‘is it worth it? really?’)

like. just imagine you’re nona, for me. your mind kept those lost memories from you for a reason- it buried them because it thought you wouldn’t survive them, and maybe you won’t, but now, whether you’re ready or not, they’re coming back. they’re clawing their way up from a grave you didn’t even know was there, and you have to look them in the eye and reconcile the person they tell you you were with the person you fought to be.

for nona, remembering meant losing herself. she didn’t just gain alecto’s memories, she became alecto again. the life she had built, the life she had clung to, the love she had felt, all of it just unraveled beneath the weight of who she had been before. how could it not be terrifying?

to remember. to finally give in and remember what she’d been so determined to not, to finally know what you were missing - and have to realise that your fears weren’t unfounded. it is scary - because remembering doesn’t make you whole. sometimes, remembering just erases you instead.

[xi4oyan]

Hello, good morning or goodnight?

I have a request for you if it is okay?

Lmk/JTTW (you choose whatever feel better to write) X Isekai'd! Reader. Reader is from our world and whom watched/read multiple times lmk/JTTW, and so when they got Isekai'd, they decided to stay far away from the main cast, as to not disturb the story..., but they get to the shenanigans of the show/book and they become a little 'suspicious' to other, Reader act like a mysterious 'Oracle' seemingly knowing what would happen, they do stay in the back and now this is the story of how things happen??? Maybe have something about 'coming' back to their world? Oh! Could they be a mythology fan? Idk, I let you decide!

Hope you like ♡

You were never supposed to be here.

Not in the middle of lands that only existed in yellowed pages and glowing screens, nor among names that were merely words woven into ancient stories. But when the light shattered and the ground beneath your feet ceased to be solid, you knew that the impossible had torn itself open before your eyes.

And now you were here, in the world you had read and watched countless times. The universe of Journey to the West unfolded before you, along with the unsettling certainty that you should not interfere.

That’s why you stayed away.

The journey of the monk Tang Sanzang and his disciples was not yours to shape. Sun Wukong, Bajie, and Sha Wujing had their paths set, and any interference from you could be a disaster.

But the world is not kind to those who know too much.

Rumors began to spread. A traveler who belonged to no known kingdom, who whispered prophecies into the wind, predicting disasters and twists with impossible accuracy. People called you "Oracle" a name you did not choose, but one that was given to you like a crown of thorns.

You never introduced yourself to the protagonists, yet circumstances seemed to pull you into the threads of the narrative, as if destiny itself refused to be avoided. Small interactions became inevitable—a veiled warning to a merchant about an impending storm, a subtle piece of advice to a soldier about to make a fatal decision. Small deviations, yet enough to draw suspicious eyes.

And then, a pair of golden eyes finally met yours.

Sun Wukong was not one to accept unresolved mysteries. A king wise in his cunning, a warrior impossible to deceive. He watched you from a distance, like a predator studying its prey, trying to decipher what you were.

"Who are you?" he asked when he finally closed the distance between you.

And that was the question you feared the most. You were an echo of a world that did not belong here. A foreigner among legends.

But Sun Wukong was not someone who accepted evasive answers. He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly, his golden eyes glinting with challenge and curiosity.

"Why do you keep running from me?" he asked, his tone a mix of amusement and suspicion. "Always at the margins, always watching. You knew this village would be attacked before the bandits even arrived. How?"

You opened your mouth, but no answer seemed right. How could you explain that you knew this story better than the very land beneath your feet? That every detail, every movement of his, was already familiar to you from another life?

"Maybe I'm just good at noticing patterns" you tried, averting your gaze.

Sun Wukong laughed, a sharp, wild sound. "Patterns, huh? Then tell me... what will my next move be?"

The challenge was set. You knew him too well not to predict his natural impulse to test limits. And despite all the caution you had taken, you couldn't stop the quiet laugh that escaped your lips.

"You’re going to try to catch me off guard," you said, crossing your arms. "You'll move fast, trying to throw me off balance. But I already know that."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, in a blur of movement, Sun Wukong lunged. You felt the wind split around you, but already expecting the attack, you dodged by a hair’s breadth. He stopped just a few steps away, his expression flickering between surprise and satisfaction.

"Interesting," he murmured, a smile forming. "I think I like you, Oracle. Let’s see just how far your 'wisdom' can take you."

You let out a sigh, trying to ignore the sharp gaze studying you with renewed intensity. "It’s not wisdom, it’s observation."

"Ah, but observation is also power." Sun Wukong leaned in closer, his tail lazily swaying behind him. "And you seem to have plenty of that power. Maybe even too much."

The tone was playful, but there was a thread of seriousness behind his words. You weren’t sure if he was provoking you or probing your mind like a swordsman testing his blade against an unknown opponent.

"And what if I don’t want to play your game?" you asked, crossing your arms.

His smile widened, sharp and challenging. "Then you’ve already lost."

Before you could respond, he turned on his heels and started walking, glancing over his shoulder. "Come, Oracle. I have many questions, and you have some answers. Who knows? We might even have some fun in the process."

You hesitated. The wind tugged at your cloak as if urging you forward, whispering that you had already crossed the threshold—that there was no turning back now.

Sun Wukong didn’t wait. His steps were light but deliberate, each one echoing a thousand years of rebellion and triumph. You followed, not because he asked, but because something deeper—older—pulled you in his direction.

He led you through a winding path that skirted the village’s edge, where the trees grew denser and the world seemed to hush. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the leaves, casting him in warm, shifting patterns of sun and shadow.

"Do you always walk like you carry the weight of fate on your shoulders?" he asked suddenly, glancing sideways without stopping.

You gave him a dry look. "Do you always talk like you're trying to get under someone's skin?"

He grinned. "Only when the skin is worth getting under."

You rolled your eyes, but your lips betrayed you with a faint smile.

As the trees parted, you saw a small clearing ahead, where the grass grew tall and wildflowers leaned lazily toward the sun. Wukong dropped to the ground with all the grace of a falling leaf and gestured for you to sit.

"So," he said, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. "You know things you shouldn't. You speak like a scholar, fight like a shadow, and dodge questions better than demons dodge heaven’s wrath."

You sat opposite him, legs crossed, fingers absently brushing the ground. "And yet here I am, being interrogated by a monkey king in a field of flowers."

His laughter was low and amused. "You’re not what I expected. Most people either revere me or fear me. You look like you’re trying very hard to do neither."

"Respect doesn’t require worship," you replied. "And fear only works when I don’t already know how the story ends."

That silenced him for a moment. His golden eyes narrowed, the playfulness flickering into something more thoughtful.

"You really *do* know how this all ends, don’t you?"

You looked away, letting your gaze rest on a single bloom swaying in the breeze. "I know the shape of it. But stories are like rivers. They follow a path—until something changes the current."

"And you," he said, voice softer now, "are the current."

You met his eyes again. "So are you."

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you stretched taut with something unspoken—recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

Then Wukong leaned back on his elbows, smiling like the sun itself had whispered a secret in his ear. "Alright, Oracle. Let’s play this game of yours. Tell me what happens next."

You raised an eyebrow. "You won’t like it."

"Since when have I ever cared about that?" he replied.

You tilted your head, pretending to ponder his request with the weight of a thousand stars.

"Alright," you said slowly. "Next, you try to impress me with some exaggerated tale of your past heroics."

Wukong blinked. "Exaggerated? *Me*? I am the pinnacle of truth and modesty."

You snorted. "Sure. And I’m a silent monk."

"Then this is clearly a miracle," he said, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "A monk who talks back? Truly, the heavens must be shifting."

You shook your head, but laughter escaped you before you could stop it. He beamed at the sound.

"There it is," he said. "That laugh. I was beginning to think the Oracle was carved from stone."

"Just trying to maintain the mystery," you replied, smirking.

"You’re doing terribly at it."

The breeze danced around you, the sunlight weaving gold into his hair. For a moment, he looked less like the fabled Monkey King and more like a boy caught mid-mischief, glowing with the satisfaction of making you smile.

"Tell me something, Oracle," he said, voice dipping a little lower. "Do you always hide behind riddles and half-truths? Or is that just for me?"

You hesitated, surprised by the shift in tone.

"Maybe I just like keeping you guessing," you murmured, suddenly aware of how close he’d leaned.

Wukong’s grin turned lopsided, his eyes gleaming. "You’re lucky I like puzzles. Especially the ones that talk back and smell like stardust."

You stared. "...Did you just flirt with me using the phrase smell like stardust?"

"I did," he said proudly. "Was it effective?"

You covered your face with both hands. "This is the exact chaos I was trying to avoid."

"And yet, here we are."

He plucked a flower from the grass and offered it to you with a dramatic bow.

"For you, my mysterious stardust-scented puzzle. May your prophecies remain vague, and your smiles frequent."

You took the flower with a reluctant smile. "You’re impossible."

"I am legend," he corrected with a wink.

You laughed again—louder this time—and in that moment, the world felt lighter. Maybe fate wasn’t something to fear. Maybe it was something you could laugh with. Or at.

Especially if it came wearing a golden crown and a grin too sharp to be trusted.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ��་༘࿐

"Ah, there you are!"

Bajie’s voice echoed across the field, loud and impatient, like someone who had just lost a bet. The pig-warrior was trudging up the hill with the expression of someone thoroughly unimpressed by the scenery—or the company.

"Sun Wukong, you disappeared again! The master’s getting restless."

"He survived five hundred years without me. He can wait five more minutes," Wukong replied without even turning around. "Besides, I found something interesting."

Bajie’s gaze landed on you. He frowned. Then raised an eyebrow.

"Oh. *This* is the mysterious figure everyone’s whispering about? The one that speaks prophecies to the wind and appears from the shadows?"

You opened your mouth to deny it—but Wukong beat you to it.

"Yes. And she also knows when you’re about to steal Master’s buns again. Spoiler: he’s going to catch you this time."

Bajie paled. "How does she know that?!"

You crossed your arms. "I have ways."

"That’s witchcraft" Bajie declared, taking a half step back and making a protective gesture with his fingers.

"It’s observation," Wukong corrected with a smirk. "Or maybe enchantment. I don’t know anymore. I am enchanted, for sure."

"Here we go…" Sha Wujing muttered, appearing beside Bajie like a calm shadow.

Tang Sanzang followed closely behind, riding Yulong, the white dragon horse who stared with an expression of quiet judgment. When the monk’s gaze settled on you, there was a pause. He dismounted with serene posture and hands folded, as though he had long been pondering this inevitable meeting.

"So you are the Oracle," he said gently. "The one the villages speak of. The one who knows too much."

You felt the weight of the entire group on your shoulders—the inquisitive gaze of Wujing, Bajie’s suspicion, Yulong’s silent curiosity… and Wukong, beside you, watching with the gleam of someone who had already taken your side.

"I’m not a threat," you said firmly. "I just… observe."

Tang Sanzang nodded slowly. "Then observe by our side. But know this: the road we walk does not accept bystanders. All who travel with us are tested."

"Test number one" Wukong said, spinning on his heels, "survive Bajie snoring."

"Hey!"

"Test number two" Sha Wujing added calmly, "accept that nine out of ten stops will not have hot tea."

"Test number three," Yulong said, speaking for the first time and briefly shifting into his dragon form with a cruel smile, "learn to cope with the constant feeling that we’re all about to die."

You blinked. "...This sounds less like a spiritual journey and more like a cursed adventuring party."

"That’s exactly what it is" Bajie grumbled.

Wukong stepped closer again, leaning toward you with a gleam of pure amusement in his eyes.

"And yet, you seem like you want to stay."

You looked up at the sky for a moment, as if you could still see the world you came from hidden behind the clouds. Then your gaze returned to the group… and to him.

"Maybe I really am where I’m meant to be."

"Finally" Wukong said with a victorious smile. "Someone sensible in this group of lunatics."

"You are the worst of us all!" Bajie yelled, but by then you were already walking again—toward whatever chaos fate (or you) had in store next.

[moetartart]

:*Trigger Warning for Abuse:** An analysis of the nuanced depiction of abuse dynamics in *Baldur's Gate 3*. Please skip if you’re uncomfortable with this topic or you hate long rants <3

**Cazador at the Head of the Table, and His Forced Family, with Astarion as the Scapegoat**

Cazador is one of the best-written abusers in fiction, and Astarion is one of the best depictions of a non perfect survivor. Showcasing how abusers systematically break down their victims in a way that is thoughtful and non-voyeuristic, and how this may effect the victim after.

Astarion often receives criticism for his behavior. Much if it valid. I don’t seek to excuse his actions or speak about him as if he were a real person, But to break down this amazingly written narrative and how his experiences shape his character and a depiction of a non perfect victim. It's great to see actions having consequences in the story and being the driving force in chatecter development and I think it was handled very respectfully

One of the most compelling aspects of Astarion's story is the depiction of the "scapegoat" abuse tactic. Where a caregiver selects one child as the primary target of ridicule and abuse. Astarion says, "He took a special pleasure in my pain. He said my screams sounded sweetest." Often, the scapegoat is the child who most reminds the abuser of themselves when they were most vulnerable, or has similarities to the abuser of the parent or even someone they witnessed being abused when they were a child. The abuser uses this child to demonstrate the consequences of disobedience, and as a way of bonding the other children against the scapegoat, often by forcing the other children to engage in abuse themselves. The parent will inflict the trauma they were exposed to when they were most vulnerable on their child in a twisted way to re-gain their own power and autonomy buy projecting it onto someone elses. Acting out scenarios where they felt weak but now they are the one with all the power.

Cazador's tactics of infantilization are particularly gut-wrenching. He calls Astarion a "stupid little boy" and forces him to call him "father," undermining his belief in his ability to make adult decisions on his own while simultaneously also forcing him into adult work and physical abuse. A way to break down his self esteem and take away his autonomy. This adds another level to Cazador's twisted, intimate abuse.

It's evident when you ask if Astarion called Cazador "master" in the bedroom, and he reacts negatively. It is also implied in the dialogue, "One final thrust... and I'll be rid of you..." as Astarion stands over Cazador, ready to stab him with a phalic symbol and Cazador in a submissive position.

In a Shadowheart playthrough, we see how Astarion seeks someone to follow because he doesn’t know how to think for himself. Auntie Ethel remarks that he misses his chains, and he admits he doesn't know how to make his own decisions. In Astarion's dream, you learn one of Cazador's rules is that Astarion must stay by his side unless told otherwise. We also see that Cazador regularly dined with Astarion, serving him putrid rats. He says "I have spent two centuries with You, and that should be punishment enough," which is quite an intimate insult. In non of these are the other spawn mentioned. He also mentions his sarcasm and jokes, something you wouldn't really think Cazador would permit. This suggesting an intense, twisted co-dependency. A lot of time spent alone together. As what? His child? His slave? His lover? It's sickening. Cazador seemed to want to fill every potential key roll in Astarions life. This is actually pretty common in adults relationships.

The extent of physical abuse is further revealed when Astarion sees the mad doctor in the House of Healing and remarks, "he's just like Cazador." The narrator says, "If you're late, he will flay you... again," and Astarion states, "Sometimes he would have us submit to torture. Other times he would have us torture ourselves."

So, why does Cazador do all this? Beyond sadistic pleasure and rituals off higher power, I believe it's driven by a fear of abandonment. His goal is to strip Astarion of any autonomy so he would return even if freed. When speaking to Cazador alone, he's convinced Astarion will come back because he cannot think for himself. Cazador wants to be the center of Astarion's life, and truly believes he is. A narcissist needing to see himself reflected in others, he required Astarion by his side to validate his awful existence. If Astarion leaves, Cazador feels he's losing an extension of himself. That Astarion is his and his alone to kill.

I also believe he genuinely wants to play house. That he wants a picture perfect family. We don't know much about Cazador before the game, only that he was from a vampire family. That his niece refused to partake. It's quite clear he felt like he was missing something in his family. We know his master committed acts of cruelty far beyond what he did to his own spawn, impaling him for ten years and draining his friend Infront of him. Surly a year of solitude is like being sent to your bedroom without supper compared to that? By Cazadors logic, he's far kinder than he was ever treated. He's been kinder and more loving than his own family. His children should be grateful that he protected them from what he went through. He believes his children are spoiled and if anything he has been to soft. After all, he gave thim his families birth right far above their station, eternal life. He gave them a family that will never abandon them. What more could they want?

And if course, we as plays see this cycle continues with AA, who says he will be a far kinder master he'd never make his dear lover eat rats. They wouldn't be his child, more a pampered pet. Compared to how Astarion was treated, what more could they want?

And how very true to live that an abuser will preach about how much worse they had things and how lucky their victims are. How soft they must be to complain.

This gives us a clear picture of Astarion at the start: someone with a fragile sense of self, preferring to see others tortured rather than be the one in the chair, and looking for someone to follow. He'll fake a smile to keep them around. While this doesn't excuse his cruelty, it explains it; Astarion is free for less than a day when you meet him. There are no perfect victims, and unlearning brainwashing takes time. Reducing Astarion to "evil" or "good" overlooks the complexity of a character who could become either an abuser or a liberator.

What I appreciate most is that Astarion's past doesn't vanish when Cazador dies; he still carries the scars, but in a positive playthrough, there is hope. Astarion has the chance to do better, starts making his own choices, and sometimes gets it wrong.

Crucially, the abuse is never voyeuristic. It is always shown from the survivor's perspective, focusing on its effects on their lives. It's always clear when a player choice disrespects his growth and autonomy. Cazador and Astarion are never framed to titillate or as a mind of grousome special to the viewer, unlike in shows like *13 Reasons Why* or Ramsey Bolton in *Game of Thrones*. The game handles the topic with a lot of care. Infact the only time we see Cazador in person is when we have the chance to stop him. We never see Astarion subjected to something we can alter in some way.

Also, we do hear of Astarions bravery in trying to defy his master and save people. Unfortunately as in the game and real life, people don't always have a choice. Still, in a good ending Astarion can choose to try and help others who have been hurt and use what he has learned to make real change.

The reasons why Cazador is the way he is are another rant entirely. But while I hate him as a person, I adore him as an antagonist. How can a character be written to be pathetic and terrifying at once?

**TL;DR:** *Baldur's Gate 3* presents a complex, nuanced abuse narrative, executed beautifully. Many people overlook or disregard Astarion as an excellent depiction of survival in my opinion.

[wandaslovey]

okay so the sunday scaries just kicked in (it’s literally 10pm - so almost monday lol) but when i was spiraling and then trying to make myself feel better, an idea for a new wandanat series popped into my head..

you going in for an interview to be wandanat’s new executive assistant at their law firm cause you’re in desperate need for a job… but as natasha is interviewing you she realizes she’s much too attracted to you. i mean she’s like full on lusting after you. wanda’s also at work (but doing her own thing elsewhere in the office) so in the middle of the interview, natasha pauses the interview, calls wanda in and has her sit in on the interview. natasha gets you talking again and is side eyeing wanda periodically to see if she’s feeling the same way (basically just trying to see if she’s eye fucking you as much as she was) and when she realizes she is, all of a sudden both wanda and nat shift the narrative and start asking you more personal questions not pertaining to the job position at all. i mean…they need a new submissive after all. you’re exactly their type. long story short… they end the interview saying they’ll give you a call later about the position, except when they do, you’re surprised that when you do receive a call—just the next day—it’s to take you out for a coffee…not to offer you the job.

little do they know how utterly innocent you are. i mean sure, you’ve had small sexual encounters before, but you’ve never dabbled much in kinks.

both wanda and natasha become impossibly more eager, hoping you agree to be their submissive so they can mold and shape you into their perfect little plaything. they would be most honored to help you explore the world of bdsm and to figure out your interests, deepest desires and limits.

thoughts??? i might just go ahead and start a small sketch for the series

[lune-moon-nuit]

The influence of conformity & gender stereotypes on the characters of Stranger Things but also on US (the general audience)

The moment I stumbled upon the arguments of "anti-Byler," the most commonly cited one was their outright denial of heteronormative pressures and societal expectations that are instilled in us from a young age. These same dynamics influenced Mike and the other characters in Stranger Things. This realization brought to mind a personal childhood anecdote that illustrates this phenomenon perfectly.

I must have been around ten years old because I remember this happening on the bus ride home from a school trip to watch Ratatouille. At the time, I had recently befriended a boy in my class—we had been seated next to each other, which gave us more opportunities to talk than when I’d usually stick with my girlfriends during recess while he played soccer with the boys. (Just describing this setup already paints a clear picture of gender stereotypes and heteronormativity, even though this was in 2007—25 years after 1982, to put things into perspective.)

When I say we had grown closer, I mean that two kids had developed a friendship: we laughed together, enjoyed each other’s company, and simply got along well. But I vividly remember sitting face-to-face with Maximilien—yes, I suddenly recalled his name as I was writing this! Maximilien, with his freckles and ginger hair—and we were laughing and talking about the movie. At one point, I playfully held two strands of his hair between my fingers, pretending to guide him like Rémy from Ratatouille.

It was then that I noticed, just behind Maximilien's smiling face, my classmates observing us from the next row. They were whispering and giggling, their glances unmistakably filled with mischief. I immediately understood what they were thinking. Later that day, they confronted me, insisting, “You’re in love with Maximilien!”

I felt embarrassed and awkward. But the truth is, before their remarks, the idea hadn’t even crossed my mind. To me, Maximilien was simply a friend, someone I enjoyed spending time with. It wasn’t until my friends planted that seed of doubt that I began to question my feelings. For the rest of the school year, I convinced myself I had a crush on him.

Looking back, this memory perfectly encapsulates how deeply societal conditioning affects us, even as children. At ten years old, we were already internalizing heteronormative narratives from our peers, advertisements, media, movies, and TV shows. Everything around us reinforced the notion that if a boy and a girl were close, they had to be more than friends.

This anecdote resurfaced in my mind recently, and it struck me how pervasive this conditioning was—even in 2007, when societal attitudes had already progressed somewhat compared to the 1980s. Now imagine how amplified this must have been in the '80s, which sheds light on the behaviors of Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy (and others by the way) in Stranger Things.

These three characters—Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy—each insinuated that Mike had romantic feelings for El based solely on his acts of kindness and care for her. It becomes much easier to understand their reactions when you realize they were operating under the same heteronormative assumptions that shaped our childhoods. After all, didn’t we all have our own versions of Lucas and Dustin who convinced us we were in love with our Maximilien or El?

Before Lucas’s heteronormative remark, Mike had done nothing more than show empathy for El—protecting her and taking care of her after she told him she was being hunted by “bad men” and that her life was in danger. Mike’s actions stemmed from compassion and the fact that she had information about Will’s disappearance, not romantic interest. Their interactions were simply those of two kind-hearted kids getting to know each other, with Mike admiring her powers (like any kid fascinated by superheroes) and El being drawn to Mike’s stable family life—a concept foreign to her.

But then Lucas planted that tiny seed: “If you’re this nice to her, you must be in love with her.” From that point on, Mike started behaving more timidly around El, his perception of their interactions skewed by Lucas’s words. Dustin reinforced this by accusing Mike of neglecting their friendship because of El, which was a childish and reductive observation considering the circumstances. Nancy, too, perpetuated this when she directly asked Mike, “You like El?” after he inquired about her feelings for Jonathan.

All these comments were rooted in internalized heteronormativity—small seeds planted in Mike by his friends, just as their families, communities, and society had once planted similar seeds in them.

The result? Mike simply conformed to what he thought he was supposed to feel. If everyone said he loved El, then he must love her, right? So he invited her to the Snow Ball and kissed her—because that’s what he believed he was “meant” to do. After all, she had superpowers like the heroes he admired, and as a bullied, insecure boy who often felt powerless, her attention gave him a sense of validation. She needed him, depended on him, and he felt useful and in control by taking care of her.

At the same time, he barely knew her—they’d only spent a week together, and beyond the immediate crisis and her love of Eggo waffles, there wasn’t much else he understood about her. Still, this fleeting connection gave him emotional and psychological comfort during Will’s disappearance and presumed death—a situation where he felt utterly helpless.

All of this resulted in Mike simply doing what he thought he was supposed to feel and do: "If everyone says I love her, then I must love her, right? So let's invite her to the dance and kiss her! Besides, she has powers like my favorite superheroes—that's pretty cool for a bullied boy who looks like a frog, isn't it? If she's interested in me, wouldn’t that prove I'm normal after all? Plus, she depends on me, she needs me, she's lost without me, and I have to take her under my wing. I feel useful taking care of her! It's only been seven days since I met her, so honestly, apart from the urgent situation we're in, I know almost nothing about her except that she likes waffles. But at least, during this week, we needed each other, and emotionally and psychologically, it helped me cope with the disappearance and presumed death of my best friend—a friend who vanished after leaving my house, where I feel 100% powerless to protect or save him. Having some sense of control by taking care of El, who clearly needs me, might just be my way of projecting? Also, she looks like a boy with her short hair, and she was mistaken for Will three times throughout the season—what a coincidence!"

I also noticed that in Season 4, the Duffer Brothers repeatedly wrote into the script how Robin and Steve are often mistaken for a couple by others. This happens because people don’t know Robin is a lesbian, but more importantly, because they can’t comprehend how Robin and Steve can be so close, so in sync, and have such incredible chemistry without being romantically involved. And yes, it’s absolutely possible—some people can be your soulmate without being in a romantic relationship with you. In fact, there are relationships that are healthier and more balanced as friendships rather than as romantic partnerships, and the people involved often realize this themselves. This doesn’t diminish the genuine love they have for each other. They love each other, they don’t want to lose one another, it’s just not romantic. It doesn’t take away from the strength or depth of the bond they share—it’s simply a different kind of love for a different kind of relationship.

This dynamic becomes even more compelling when you consider how heteronormativity shaped not only Mike’s understanding of his feelings but also everyone else’s perceptions of their relationship. Like Lucas, Dustin, and Nancy, we’ve all been influenced by these societal norms, projecting them onto others and perpetuating them, often without even realizing it.

[nebulablakemurphy]

The Star-Crossed Lovers Of District 12 (Part 2)

Prologue | Part 1

Haymitch Abernathy x Wife!Reader

Summary: Now settled in district 13 with the rebel who claims to be her husband, Y/N’s memories of days gone by begin haunting the narrative. Disturbing imagery, potential SOTR spoilers.

Y/N jerks against her restraints, the metal clanking with her movements.

“Shut up and don’t move,” a voice hisses through the vent, near the baseboard.

“Johanna?”

“If they know you’re awake, they’ll come to your room.” Johanna warns, “you don’t want them to come.”

“We’ve gotta get out of here.” Y/N begins surveying the room. Pristine white walls, barren, save for a table in the corner, prepped with surgical equipment. Her nightlock pill is gone with her suit, leaving only a flimsy hospital gown. Shit.

“I said shut up. They’re coming.”

“How do you know?” Y/N asks, now panicking in earnest. The deafening wail that pierces her ears is all the confirmation she needs. Peeta. Despite Johanna’s warning, she calls out to him. Telling him it will be alright and that she’s there. She’s right here and there’s not a damn thing she can do to help him.

“Hey.” There is a hand resting at the base of her skull.

Out of a compulsion she doesn’t understand, Y/N lifts her head, slamming it back into the pillow again.

“Don’t do that.” The man at her bedside is not Haymitch.

“Finnick?”

“You remember little old me?” He cracks a grin, “I’m honored.”

“We used to see each other all the time in the Capitol, of course I remember.”

“That’s half true.” Finnick tells her.

“Where’s Haymitch?” She asks, pathetically.

“He’s a few floors up, with the kids. Just take a deep breath.”

“I need him.”

“Listen,” Finnick sighs, “I know you. Probably better than you know yourself right now, so believe me when I say, Haymitch is exactly where you need him to be. Taking care of your kids, they mean more to you than anything.”

“Fine,” Y/N crosses both arms over her chest. “Shouldn’t they be in school?”

“Middle of the night, mama bear.” He motions to the clock. “Go back to sleep.”

“Why are you up?” Y/N wonders.

“You’re not exactly a sound sleeper and I’m right next door. Luckily Peeta and Katniss were undisturbed.”

“Are they ok?”

Finnick cocks his head to the side, you remember more than you think you do. “Peeta attacked her, now they’re both out cold.”

“They tortured him.”

“Yeah.”

————————————————————————

Y/N goes to them the next morning, the boy and the girl, in turn.

Peeta.

She puts a face to the voice which haunts her dreams. He looks small here, curled in on himself in his hospital bed. Y/N doesn’t fight the urge to take his hand in hers.

‘Good to meet you, Katniss Everdeen, Peeta Mellark.’

Y/N wills her mind to focus, on that tiny shard of recollection which shapes a larger picture. Peeta meant something, Katniss meant something. She squeezes her eyes closed against the ache in her head.

You did this to yourself. Y/N has no one else to blame, not the rebels, nor President Snow. This suffering is a monster of her own making, to protect these people from whatever the Capitol wanted to turn her into.

I live in the Capitol designing clothing. I am very happy here.

Y/N hisses, pressing the heels of her palms against her eye sockets. Lies.

The rebels destroy everything that is good.

Lies, lies, lies!

“Get out of my head!”

“Y/N?” The boy startles awake.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, “I’m sorry.”

“Where is she?” Peeta demands, “where’s the mutt? Did she hurt you?”

“Who?” Y/N’s nervous eyes scan the corners of the room. Prepared to protect the boy against any threat.

“Katniss.”

“You used to scream for her, when we were…in the tribute center.” Y/N tells him. “I don’t think the people here want to hurt us. Sometimes I think we were reprogrammed to hurt them.”

Peeta is silent after that, mulling it over. “The star-crossed lovers of district twelve.”

The title feels significant, like it had meant something to her once. Now nothing more than an ugly reminder of all they’ve lost. “Get some rest. I’ll be back to see you soon.”

Katniss’ room is not far from his. She lies staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Katniss.” Y/N says, softly, “it’s me.”

The girl blinks in acknowledgment, her neck brace prevents her from doing much else.

“Do you want some water?” Y/N asks.

Katniss rolls her eyes, reaching for the pen and pad of paper in her lap. ‘My arms work fine.’

Y/N chuckles at the words, scrawled down. “Clearly.”

‘What do you want?’

“I assume we were close.”

‘We were.’

“Look, I don’t know what I’m doing,” Y/N admits. “I don’t know what I want. But I am trying to figure it out, and you’re a big part of that. You and Peeta.”

‘I want to see him.’

Y/N nods, “I’m sure we can figure that out too.”

‘Thanks.’

“You’re welcome.” Absently, she reaches down, passing a hand over Katniss’ hair.

The mockingjay eyes her warily.

“Sorry,” Y/N pulls away.

Katniss huffs, taking up her writing utensil once more. ‘Muscle memory. It’s a good sign.’

“I’ll see you later, ok?”

‘Don’t forget.’

“Katniss, I’m here now.” She murmurs, “I won’t forget.” Y/N returns to her room, opting for a nap. Whether it’s the nightmares or the head injury itself, her little outing was exhausting.

Tick tock. The sand is falling.

‘I don’t want to look at you!’

Tick tock. The arena flips.

‘Just a little pinch.’

Tick tock. The sand is falling.

‘We’re raising a lamb for the slaughter.’

Tick tock. The arena flips.

‘You’ll get where you’re going a lot faster if you learn to play the game.’

Tick tock.

‘I’ll do whatever it takes to stay right here with you.’

Tick tock.

‘This year’s tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors.’

Tick tock.

‘I want to break the board.’

Tick tock.

‘You never get off this train.’

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

“It’s a clock!” Y/N springs upright, fighting to catch her breath. Just a dream.

“Actually, it’s an hourglass.” A familiar voice tells her.

She turns to see her district partner in all his mangled glory. The bones of his shin sticking through broken flesh, the blood sucking worm mutt attached to the opposite thigh. “Tyson.”

“Go back to sleep. I’ll take first watch.”

“You’re not real.” Tears cascade over her cheeks. I wish you were.

“You know that’s not a very nice thing to say, Y/N. He did throw his axe to give you your best chance.” Maysilee, blonde hair stained crimson. Her vocal chords visible through the gaping holes in her throat, made by the birds in the arena.

“Please, leave me alone.” Y/N closes her eyes.

“You’re afraid of being alone, remember?” Tyson coos, “climbed to the top of that stupid hill to die holding your hand, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

“I should’ve died.”

“You can’t die, remember?” Maysilee cocks her head to the side, producing a fresh trail of blood from her wounds. “It’s time for the parade.”

“What parade?” Y/N stumbles from her bed.

“Everyone will be there, chanting your name.”

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

The chorus of voices crescendo as she opens the door.

They line the halls, all twenty-six tributes she couldn’t save. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

Chaff and Seeder. Cecelia, Mags and Gloss. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

President Snow is standing at the opposite end of the corridor, rocking a black, wooden horse.

“Oh, Horn of Plenty. One Horn of Plenty for us all. And when you raise the cry, the brave shall heed the call, and we should never falther. One Horn of Plenty for us all.”

The little boy on the horse squeals in delight as he moves slowly out of reach.

“Wait!” Y/N chases after him. “Wait!”

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!”

She runs faster and the fallen watch, with broken bodies and missing limbs, as she collides with something. Another ghost. “Ahhhhhh!”

“Shh,” the apparition hushes her, “it’s me. It’s just me.”

“Madge,” Y/N sobs.

Madge buries her face in Y/N’s shoulder.

“They took my baby.”

“Daisy’s safe.” Madge promises, “Haymitch has her.”

“No, they took him.”

Him. “Everest?” Madge shakes her head, “he’s at school.”

“I need to see him.”

“Ok,” Madge takes her hand, leading Y/N from the hospital wing to the elevator. Neither of them notice the nervous stares from thirteen’s general population. Hospital patients are rarely paraded around in their gowns.

When they reach Everest’s classroom. Y/N jabs at the access panel, until the automatic doors open. There are only three children inside, and one is hers. “Where are all the kids?”

Madge cups a hand over her mouth, directing the sound to Y/N’s ear. “District thirteen had a nasty epidemic a few years back, this is all that’s left of the children Everest’s age. I think Arista has seven kids in her class.”

The teacher watches the sisters, dumbfounded. “Mrs. Abernathy, what is the meaning of this?”

“I wanted to see my son.”

“Mom?” Everest frowns. “Are you ok?”

Y/N blinks at him, arranging her hair behind her ears and straightening out her hospital gown. “I just needed to see you.” You’re scaring him.

Everest squares his little shoulders, pushing away from the desk.

“You should get back to your lesson,” Y/N smiles.

The boy keeps moving toward her, his eyes equally parts hopeful and uncertain.

And when he hugs her, she holds him back just as tightly. Y/N is sure the life she knew in the Capitol did not exist. No longer will two worlds be at war in her mind, only this is real. If that is all she ever remembers, it will be enough.

“You are my real mom.”

“How do you know?” Y/N wonders.

“This is the way my mom hugs me.” Everest lets out a watery laugh.

Y/N pulls him closer, cradling the back of his sweet head. My baby.

“I knew you would come back.”

“I love you so much.” She doesn’t know how or why. Doesn’t remember his first words or steps, or what he likes for breakfast in the morning. But she does know that he is hers, her blood, sweat and tears. Her pride and joy. I will be your mom. In this life and every one after, please let me be your mom.

“I love you too.”

————————————————————————

The head doctor, Aurelius, holds Y/N in the hospital for psychiatric evaluation over the next two days.

“After a thorough examination, it is my finding that you are not a danger to yourself or others.” The man tells her, “we will continue monitoring the swelling in your brain-”

“What about my…episode?” What about all the dead people?

The doctor sighs, “you suffer from complex post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Shouldn’t I stay here then, until it goes away?”

“It did not come with the injury, we can’t expect it to go with it either, I’m afraid.”

“So that’s it? I’m messed up forever?” Y/N scoffs.

Dr. Aurelius stares down at her file. “I know you don’t remember this, but you were my patient before your injury. I do not think you are ‘messed up.’ I think you found good in a world that was incredibly unfair to you. You created joy and harmony in places and people where they did not exist. You are a remarkable human being, and that is my expert opinion.”

Y/N nods, against her better judgment. “Ok.”

“These are your standard issue uniforms.” Aurelius holds out seven of the dingy jumpsuits. “We’ve washed and repaired them for you.”

“Uh, thanks.” I hate them.

“Welcome back.”

————————————————————————

Y/N paces in front of the quarters labeled ‘Abernathy.’ She raises her fist to knock, noticing the print reader as she does. Curiosity gets the best of her and she presses her index finger against it. Will you open for me?

The door slides open to reveal Haymitch, cooing at the infant in his lap. Wiggling her little toes as she giggles happily.

“Someone’s ticklish.”

Haymitch jumps at the sound of her voice, startling the child who begins to wail, immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N keeps her distance, “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Haymitch sucks in a breath to steady himself, “you aren’t. This is your place as much as it is mine. You’re allowed to be here, welcome even.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

“I didn’t know you were getting released today.” Haymitch grumbles, “I would’ve been there.”

“I know, it’s ok.” Y/N clutches her chest, suddenly damp. She thought the milk would’ve dried up by now. The baby, Daisy, continues to cry.

“Hand me a bottle.”

“Aren’t I the bottle?” She motions to her leaking breasts.

“You want to nurse her?” Haymitch’s brows furrow.

“I’ll try,” I don’t want her to cry.

“Ok,” he works the top of her jumpsuit open.

Y/N’s eyes widen at his brazenness.

“Sorry, angel.” He shrinks farther into the mattress.

“I’m not used to you undressing me yet.” Y/N waves her free hand, dismissively. Taking a seat beside him to stroke Daisy’s cheek as she nurses.

“You used to do that.”

“I know. I don’t know how I know, but I do.”

“Should’ve told me,” he motions to her chest. “I’m sure it’s been bothering you.”

“Somehow telling a rebel soldier, who may or may not have been trying to kill me that my boobs hurt wasn’t at the top of my list.” Y/N admits, “but now that we’re past that, I guess I’m allowed to tell my husband that my boobs hurt.” She lifts a shoulder, “just slipped my mind.”

“There’s a lot going on. I don’t want you to feel any pressure to-”

“There were holes in it.”

“Hmm?” The springs of the mattress creak beneath Haymitch as he repositions himself.

“My life in the Capitol,” she says, “even before you came. I tried to talk to the doctor about it once, but she told me that I hit my head when the rebels bombed the arena during the Quarter Quell. She said that trying to fill in the gaps was making the headaches worse. I think you fill the holes.”

“Me and the clones?” Haymitch raises his brows.

Y/N nods, “this one’s different. She doesn’t look like me or you. She looks like me and you. Almost like we had a baby or something.”

“Funny how that works.”

“When Madge and I were growing up, my mom wasn’t always…”

“I know.”

“So if these kids think I’m their mom, I’m gonna be there for them.” Memories or not.

Haymitch rests his hand over hers.

“And if you still think I’m your wife, then I’ll be here for you too.”

“You are my wife.” Haymitch murmurs. “You are brave, and you are selfless, and you are kind. Nothing has changed.”

“What if I did?” Y/N stares at him for a long while, willing memories to return. A joke between them, a simple conversation, even a fight would be better than this nothingness. The only part of her that appears to have any recollection of him is her stupid heart, an endless aching. Yearning for this stranger. “I do want to remember.” I want you to fill the holes.

He cups her face in his hands, mindful of their daughter between them. “For now, just be here. Stay right here with me and we will figure it out.”

Y/N swallows against the lump in her throat. “Ok.”

Part 3