#both in the fiction and academic sense.

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Muzan Kibutsuji General Yandere Profile

Yandere! Muzan Kibutsuji x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, stalking, mentions of non-con, violence, graphic gore, mentions of cannibalism, verbal and physical abuse, murder, one brief mention of throwing up, brief mention of Muzan slutshaming you, mild sexism, verbal abuse, mentions of Stockholm Syndrome, mentions of low self esteem, fem reader, MNDI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

WC: 10K

DARLING PROFILE:

Human

Muzan is not one to easily develop feelings for others in any positive context.

He’s a selfish, cruel being, utterly bent on his own self-preservation with no regard for the lives of others.

He’s self-centered to the extreme, and as such, if he develops feelings for someone (especially romantically), it takes a very, very long time and can only be achieved under specific circumstances.

His darling has to be someone intelligent, quick-thinking, perceptive, ambitious, charming, and a whole list of other things that are almost impossible to achieve.

And yet, the biggest, most glaring trait they must possess is their humanity.

It’s strange and a juxtaposition to Muzan’s own inhumanity, but there’s just something that draws him in about the idea that his darling is so very flawed by the very nature of their being and yet so alluring and tempting and intoxicating.

It enrages him, quite frankly, but his darling must be a human in order for these feelings to form. He initially only feels a mild curiosity towards them – mixed with irritation and contempt, of course, but there’s this nagging feeling urging him to learn more about them, to interact with them, to understand why his pulse picks up ever so slightly when they’re around.

He likes the fact that his darling is so weak; he’ll never tell them, of course, but it only reaffirms his own superiority complex, convincing him that he’s the strongest, and his darling is the weakest.

They’re a pet, in a lot of ways, but Muzan finds himself oddly intrigued – his human is so complex, the emotions they feel and their motivations something he’ll never fully understand, but as time passes he finds himself hating their presence less and less, sometimes even desiring to touch them – a notion that makes his skin crawl in both disgust and a strange, potent sense of desire.

It’s frustrating and confusing, but Muzan’s darling will be a human – though not for long.

Intelligent

It’s no surprise, really, that Muzan is absolutely incapable of handling a darling that doesn’t possess above average intelligence.

They don’t need to be a genius, but his darling must have a strong grasp of both academic and social intelligence.

Where these intelligences lie is flexible; he’s equally impressed by a darling that can recite complex physics formulas and one that can analyze some of the most classical literature ever written.

It doesn’t really matter where the smarts lay, but his darling must be able to showcase at least some level of critical thinking in their daily life; Muzan is enticed by someone who can come as close as possible to being his equal, and as a creature that views himself as smarter and superior to all others, his darling must be something special, too.

(Of course, his darling will never truly be an equal – he’s still the most magnificent, perfect creature, tireless in his search to become immune to human constraints like sickness and aging, but there’s something endearing about a darling that can entertain some of his conversation, who can at least follow some of his logic when he’s feeling generous enough to include them in his plans. Besides, and he’ll never admit to it, he’s fond of hearing his darling’s opinion – he’ll continue with what he thinks best, of course, but if his darling present sound reasoning, Muzan will often entertain the notion for a bit, distantly surprised if his darling has considered an idea he hasn’t yet, or if they present a line of argument that manages to stump him.)

And so, in order for Muzan’s interest to be piqued, his darling must be intelligent and must be unafraid to showcase this – but as his attention is initially fickle (it does not remain this way, however), they musn’t be too proud of their intelligence.

Pride is a sin only he can indulge in, not some lowly human.

Perceptive

Muzan is, unsurprisingly, easy to upset.

Being in his presence is akin to walking on eggshells, with the repercussions of a single step out of line costing a life. And while he won’t ever kill his darling, but it’s still very much in their best interest to learn his triggers and what makes him particularly angry or calm.

His darling must be able to analyze others and understand them quickly – a certain level of empathy is needed, and while he’ll never admit that his darling can read him like an open book, in order to survive they must be able to.

He’s attracted to the idea that his darling understands when to speak and when to stay silent, when to approach him and when to give him space, even when to refer to him as my Lord rather than his actual name.

(He always prefers his actual name, as the way the syllables sound rolling off his darling’s tongue is heaven and sends shivers down his spine, but he must maintain a certain level of control over them and forcing such a title is a good way to highlight the difference in power between them.)

And so, a darling that’s able to pick up on these silent cues and patterns is immensely attractive to him – he has very little patience for idiotic people, and he already harbors enough resentment towards his darling for catching his attention that they must be able to navigate the treacherous waters he places them in.

Besides, there’s something indescribably pleasing when his darling knows exactly what he wants, able to predict his desires often before he can express them or realize them himself.

It makes him feel good, his ego getting stroked and relaxation spreading throughout his entire body, and of course, it only makes his feelings for his darling grow, taking root in his gut and twisting and turning these roots until they’re wrapped so tightly around his heart it may strangle it.

And while Muzan likes to think he’d never let someone hold such a grip on him, he’s simply in denial of how truly dependent he is on his darling’s presence – he’s in much, much too deep.

Quiet

Muzan himself is not a particularly talkative man – even during his human years, his voice was reserved mostly for complaints, yells, with a scowl sprawled across those pale pink lips of his.

He’s not one for idle conversation, and while he can force a pleasant smile and white lies and it suits his purposes, he generally doesn’t desire being in the company of those who talk incessantly.

It’s annoying, frankly, and Muzan isn’t exactly understanding or patient once he’s deemed someone irritating.

And so, a darling who is naturally less talkative is incredibly attractive to him – he likes that they’re quiet, that they only really speak when they need to, if only because he enjoys silence.

A more selfish part of him also enjoys the knowledge that a less talkative darling means a significantly lower chance of them interacting with other men – they aren’t likely to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the street, barring them from potential danger and potential suitors.

His darling’s quietness is pleasing, yes, but there are times when Muzan becomes annoyed by this particular trait, however; his darling should be quiet but still talk to him, when he desires it. They should be silent around others, sure, but they should still respond eagerly and enthusiastically when he initiates a conversation with them.

He wants to see them smile at him and treat his every word as if it were gospel, as if it were something precious and important and cherished.

And so, while his darling should watch their tongue around others (and around him too, really), they should be actively engaged when speaking with him.

But not too much – Muzan can tell when they’re forcing themselves to be eager, and it bruises his ego a bit to know that his darling isn’t being totally honest when they compliment his latest strategy in finding the blue spider lily or the Ubuyashiki manor.

It makes a wave of insecurity settle in his gut, a feeling he resents possibly more than feeling weak – it infuriates him, so it’s best to avoid laying it on too thick.

Really, being his darling is just one big balancing act – they’ve got to keep him pleased and happy, a task that could quite literally result in life or death.

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

Possessive

In general, your existence absolutely infuriates Muzan.

It takes an incredibly long time for his feelings to form, and even then, he’s entirely unsure of why he even likes you – you’re plain, weak, boring, worthless compared to him. Why is he wasting his time with you? You’re simply one human in a sea of them, all doomed to slowly wither away and die some miserable death, inevitably suffering and growing weaker with every day. Why would he ever find himself even remotely interested in a creature with such a glaring flaw?

How could he allow himself to ever hold even a flicker of intrigue towards a being with such obvious limitations?

Centuries and growing power have left Muzan with such an extreme level of arrogance that he’s equal parts enraged and in denial of his interest in you – early on, he tries his best to simply pretend that you don’t exist. Perhaps he’s having to live in human society for whatever reason, and you’re a neighbor or a woman he occasionally sees near his home.

Regardless, he’s making a point to not speak to you, to not even look at you, fully not acknowledging your presence all in the hopes that the weird, scratching feeling in his heart will go away and he’ll no longer be plagued by this weird, horrible awareness of you.

Except, while he likes to think that it works, the moment he sees another man look at you or converse with you, his nails sharpen and veins sprout along his temples, a new kind of irritation coursing through him. He doesn’t like the way you make him feel, but he likes this even less – this man, this human, who’s standing so very close to you and has absolutely no reason to.

The feeling is strange – it’s envy, he thinks, something he’d felt often back in his human days, but this is different. There’s something else, something sharper, something that’s twisting and burning, something that makes him grit his teeth, that gets his feet moving before he can really even think about it. He’s quick to separate you and the stranger, physically separating you with his body between yours, his breathing a bit uneven and strained, those blinding red eyes of his trained directly at the stranger.

He has enough self-control to not immediately slaughter the man (you’re in far too public a setting – killing every human in the crowded plaza square wouldn’t be hard by any means, but it’d certainly be a hassle), but he’s only brought back to reality out of the angry trance he’d been placed into when he hears your small, irritating, alluring voice saying the human name he’d flippantly told you.

Immediately he’s scoffing, glaring at the man for a final moment before turning on his heel, quickly sauntering away from you while trying to figure out why the fuck he’d just unconsciously rushed to your location. He’s unsettled, quite honestly, and angry, of course, but more than that he’s worried – he'd done that without his control, his body not waiting for his permission to approach you, to interrupt whatever that human had been trying to do.

(He personally raids a small village that night, slaughtering every human he can find in ways that leave blood pooling across every floorboard, his pretty, pressed clothing stained red and feeling wet and heavy against his skin.)

And even once Muzan eventually realizes that what he’s feeling for you is attraction – and, dare he say it, fondness – this possessiveness doesn’t subside. If anything, it grows worse. Because now, rather than simply being uncomfortable and angry with other men (and women) approaching you, he’s angry because they’re approaching something that’s his – you’re his human, his woman, his plaything.

And why do these stupid, irrelevant humans think they have any right to look at you, to steal your time and attention, or god forbit touch you? He’s overwhelmingly possessive, and while there is some part of him that feels something loosely resembling love for you, his feelings akin you much more to a beloved object rather than his partner. You are not an equal with him – he is in charge, and he’s the one who decides your fate.

And even once he’s stolen you away this feeling persists – he’s not loving, and he doesn’t really make any attempts to hide how he views you. He’s not particularly expressive, so there’s a very good chance you won’t be aware of his romantic intentions towards you until later into your captivity, but you’ll know that you’re below him from day one. H

e’s constantly verbally reminding you that he’s superior, that any efforts you take to escape, disobey him, rebel, or call for help can and will be dealt with accordingly – often with a few lives lost. He’s possessive and selfish, genuinely believing that you have no reason to interact with another living thing on Earth besides himself – you’re his partner, his woman, and although you’ll never be an equal, he should be absolutely everything to you.

So, you’d better get good at acting.

Obsessive

While Muzan never fully comes to terms with the level of his obsession with you, his actions speak much, much louder than his words. He may speak to you like you mean nothing to him, but if you knew the extent to which he’d stalked you, watched you, and collected information about you prior to kidnapping you, you’d become even more terrified of the demon.

He’s not particularly subtle about his emotions, but he keeps a very strict barrier between the two of you. He holds every ounce of control in the relationship – he knows everything about you, but you know very little about him.

You only know his name (and only Muzan, not Kibutsuji), that he prefers the small home he keeps you in to be extremely clean, that he doesn’t enjoy physical touch (at least, you don’t think he does – if you knew the extent to which he imagines touching you or the things he’s imagined doing to you, you’d never enter the same room as him).

You don’t know a lot of basic information about him that you really, really wish you did – why did he kidnap you? What is he? Does he want to kill you? Questions swirl in your head constantly, but the same can’t be said of Muzan – at least, not in the sense that you’re a complete enigma to him.

On the contrary, he understands you almost scarily well – courtesy of the extent to which he watched you before kidnapping you. Because he was so angered at himself for developing an interest in a human woman, he found himself desperately hoping that by finding out more about you, all of his interest would fade and vanish, allowing him to simply kill you and continue on with his life.

And so, he took to watching you – you’re remarkably weak, he finds out. You live in a home that’s very, very easy to break into, the locks on your doors hardly putting up a fight before budging under his strength. He scoffs at this information, though it does make a small sense of envy eat away at him – has any other man done this before? How often do you get visitors in the night? Are you secretly whoring yourself out to other men?

He finds himself digging through every corner of your small, modest home – every drawer is opened and searched, every cabinet thoroughly analyzed, every closet and shelf picked over in extreme detail. He’s noting each and every thing he finds, his eyes narrowing or his eyebrow cocking up because wow, there is nothing even remotely remarkable about you.

You don’t have any particular wealth, nor do you have any supply of medicine, nor do you even have any particularly enjoyable artwork or cooking materials. He’s disappointed, but as he moves towards your bedroom and slowly slides open the door, his breath catches. You’re laying on your back, the small gap in the window letting in moonlight that shines across your face, your eyes dancing rapidly behind your eyelids.

He frowns, his nails digging into the wood of the door, irritation settling deep in his gut. You aren’t supposed to have this affect on him. He isn’t supposed to lose himself momentarily just from the sight of you – you, who has absolutely nothing to offer in the face of his power, wisdom, and resourcefulness.

 And yet, here he is – staring at you like some sort of lovesick fool, his eyes unable to stop detailing the curve of your nose, or looking at the very vague outline of your chest from underneath the blanket. He leaves, that first night, finding an innocent to slaughter and only feeling marginally better. He’d hoped that one visit would be enough, trying to focus his mind on the fact that you’re so painfully average, that there’s nothing remarkable about you – but for every negative thought he has, a glimpse of your voice or the sound of your voice overpowers it.

And eventually, he convinces himself to return to your humble home, this time going directly to the bedroom. You’re asleep again, this time on your side, with strands of hair framing your face. Your soft breaths make his brows crinkle, and a sudden, fleeting thought runs through his mind – you’re so vulnerable in this moment, he could kill you with very, very little effort.

And soon his nails have grown sharp, and his elbow is cocked, adrenaline surging through his veins because if he could just kill you, perhaps this whole stupid infatuation could be done with. But the elbow stays cocked, doesn’t move, even as his eyes stay staring at you, not blinking, every nerve in his body screaming at him to end your life.

He can’t.

And that realization is the most upsetting of all – he can’t bring himself to kill you. Him - Muzan Kibutsuji, the Demon King, can’t bring himself to murder a sweet little thing like you. It’s comical, really, and although it infuriates Muzan, it represents a turning point in his feelings for you.

After that night, he no longer tries to force himself into forgetting about you or ignoring you – instead, he pushes himself to learn more about you, becoming fascinated with understanding why you of all people have caught his attention.

And really, this is where his more obsessive traits come into play. Suddenly he’s making a point to watch you sleep every night, always staring and watching your chest rise and fall, marveling at what power something as weak as you has over him. He’ll thumb through your closet, pulling each article of clothing out and appraising it, deciding if he likes it or not.

(Those that he doesn’t like are taken away with him, thrown into the trash and discarded so that only what he chooses actually adorns your figure, just as it should be. Later on into your ‘relationship’ this will still be true – he’s choosing what clothing you wear around the cabin, even what undergarments you wear. He’s particularly fond of silk and satin, liking the luxury feeling of the texture on you and the way it feels against him when he’s pressed up against you.)

He’s following you every night, walking around as your shadow and keeping a watchful eye on you, noting with disdain when you stumble or when you spend too much money on a snack or when you aren’t aware of your surroundings.

He’s especially stuck as your shadow when your period comes about – he’s on you like fucking glue, even going so far as to carefully pull back the sheets and spread your legs as you sleep, kneeling between your knees and pressing his face a few inches away from your clothed cunt, letting his eyes flutter closed as he inhales, smelling you you you.

(Masturbating feels beneath him, but the first time he smelled you while you’re menstruating, he’d decided his pride was worth sullying if it meant getting the release his body was desperate for – desperate enough to have soaked a visible portion of his slacks with precum.)

So really, while he’s an arrogant, narcissistic creature, your presence is his one weakness, his one guilty pleasure that allows himself to indulge in – if only just understand how the hell someone like you managed to snag the attention of someone as powerful and important as him.

Controlling

Muzan doesn’t see you as an equal. You’re a possession of his, something that he has full control over and can dictate every part of their life. He’s so much stronger than you, literally able to kill you with just his pinky alone, and this power dynamic is certainly not a secret to you. You’ll be very, very aware of just how liable you are to what he wants.

Even before he kidnaps you, you’ll be aware of the presence of something in your life – to you, Muzan is simply a loose acquaintance. You don’t know each other well, but he always seems to show up at the strangest of times – with excuses of just passing by, wanting to catch up, or some other innocent, plausible explanation.

And so, when he’s telling you at the fruit stand that pears really aren’t the best for your health, consider apples instead, you simply nod and thank him for his insight. (Of course you don’t know that he wants you to eat the apples instead because he can’t stand the smell of pears, and to have you reeking of the fruit would be a serious deterrent his experience of watching you for the rest of the day.)

When you decide to be bold one day and wear the pretty, colorful kimono you own, Muzan happens to run into you and comments on it, telling you that you look so lovely in more neutral colors, don’t you think? (You don’t need to know that he wants you to be wearing less flashy things so that others won’t notice you as much, so that you won’t draw too many eyes, so that you won’t be lusted after and pined after by so many men – you wouldn’t their blood on your hands, now would you?)

He’s subtle about it, never making you believe that you’re being swayed one way or another, but that changes after he’s stolen you away. Once you’re in his clutches, you’ll become very, very aware of just how much Muzan inserts himself into your daily life.

He’s obviously chosen where you’re to live, forcing you stay with him and keep you isolated from everyone else on Earth, just so that your dependence on him will grow, just so that no one else can see you, just so that he becomes your entire fucking world, just as he should be. But he chooses more subtle things, too – things that border on uncomfortable, things that really should be solely your choice.

 He instructs you on which clothing to wear each day – giving you a specific outfit, telling you to style your hair in a particular way.

He’ll tell you whether to bathe that day, and the order with which you should clean yourself – always hair first, then arms, breasts (this is part that he’s most fervent about watching, claiming that you don’t do a good enough job and he must be present to ensure that you’re truly clean), stomach, back, legs, and between your thighs.

(He’ll allow you to privately clean yourself there at first, but as time passes he stops allowing you to turn your back to him, instead standing over the washing tub and scrutinizing your technique with his eyes, insisting that you haven’t thoroughly spread yourself, that you haven’t pressed inside yourself deeply enough. And, once you’ve begun having sexual relations, he’ll insist that you aren’t capable of being fully clean unless something else helps clean out inside of you, too – something clean and meticulous and cared for like what’s between his legs, of course. So let him settle into the bathing tub and seat yourself on him, allowing him to maneuver you to really, thoroughly clean you.)

He’s even instructing you on what order to eat your meals – vegetables first, then protein, then carbs, those watchful eyes of his like a hawk’s making sure that you follow his commands to a tee. It gives him a sense of control, like a palpable sense of superiority over you – sure, you make him feel emotions that he has no control over, making his body respond in ways he despises, but at least he controls you. It’s a weak ploy at maintaining his ego, but it’s effective – because as time passes, slowly you’ll forget what it was like to live a life where your every decision wasn’t made for you, and the thought will honestly scare you – how did you survive? How were you able to stomach the thought of so many small decisions, so many unknowns, so many things that could’ve gone wrong?

And Muzan will feed these delusions – commanding you with a firm, almost bored voice and following it up with an weak women like you shouldn’t be making too many choices, you’ll always choose incorrectly. You wouldn’t have survived without me, don’t you agree?

Which connects to another key aspect of his controlling tendencies – Muzan is extremely manipulative. He’s a selfish creature motivated by his own personal gain, and he is gifted at deceiving others in order to get what he wants. He’ll never explicitly lie to you, but Muzan has no qualms with warping your world perspective a bit, feeding you delusions, forcing you into believing that you truly are nothing without him, that you truly need him in the way he claims that you do.

And it’ll work – all those comments about you being beneath him and unable to take care of yourself will eventually become a mantra for you, and while you’ll still be terrified of the demon, you’ll start slowly depending on him.

You’ll start needing him in a way that makes Muzan smug – because now, he’s not the weak one, right? You need him much more than he needs you. (This isn’t true, but Muzan convinces himself of it – it has to be true.)

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

Quite honestly, it’s rare that you find yourself in a situation where another physical person is around you aside from Muzan. He’s very, very possessive over you, treating you more akin to a pet or prized possession rather than a partner. And because of this, he’s able to easily control the people who interact with you – who they are, when they see you, how long they’re permitted to be in your presence, even what words they say to you.

Generally speaking, if he’s feeling kind, you’ll be permitted to see the Upper Moons, but even then it’s in extremely sparing quantities.

He doesn’t like the way Douma touches you, clinging onto you like some sort of leech and getting his filthy hands all over you.

He doesn’t like the way Akaza bends to you as if you have some sort of power over him, as if you were equal to Muzan himself – it makes some part of him smug to think that his underlings recognize that you’re his, but it still bristles his ego to think that you’re even remotely close to his status, even if you’re objectively higher than other demons.

He doesn’t like the way Hantengu sneaks glances at you that Muzan very much notices, just the mere act alone making him scowl and slice off the demon’s neck, sending him squealing and scampering away.

He doesn’t like the way Gyokko is always complimenting your beauty – you’re gorgeous, true, but only Muzan is allowed to admire you. Only he is allowed to take in the curves of your face and body, the softness of your skin, your alluring smell, the gentle lull of your voice. Besides, only Muzan is allowed to compliment you – even that alone is a huge, huge struggle for him, if only because positive affirmations of anyone aside from himself is a foreign concept, and he simply cannot have Gyokko undoing all the hard work Muzan has undergone to break down your confidence and build it back up himself.

He doesn’t like the way Daki insults you, because although Muzan doesn’t want anyone to compliment you, it’s almost more offensive to have an underling openly mock and ignore you – can’t she tell that you’re so, so much more important than she’ll ever be?

He doesn’t like the way Gyuutaro openly stares and leers at you, licking his lips like some sort of animal – as if he’d ever let such scum touch you. Your body is his to touch and fuck, and for the other demon to even briefly entertain the notion of being intimate with you makes bile rise up the back of his throat and his nails to sharpen without his permission.

The only demon Muzan is somewhat likely (emphasis on the somewhat, because he still rarely ever lets you interact with anyone besides himself) is Kokushibo, simply because Muzan knows that the Upper Rank 1 will keep both himself and you in line. He trusts that Kokushibo, ever loyal to his leader, will not entertain any inappropriate thoughts or actions towards you. He also trusts that Kokushibo won’t allow you to step out of line, his punishing hand swift as he ties you up and forces you to await Muzan, the one who will give you your real punishment for nervously playing with your fingers.

(That’s unwomanly of you, Kokushibo will tell you, all six of his eyes glaring down at you. A woman capable of standing beside Muzan should be regal and confident, you are not worthy of him.)

And so, you effectively will have no interaction with another soul aside from Muzan – but before his obsession pushes him to the extreme of stealing you away, he was certainly no stranger to envy or jealousy.

It's an innocent thing, really – the man in the gray kimono was just trying to keep you from falling. The lantern chain you were trying to hang on the ledge of your roof wasn’t too complex, but the stepstool you were precariously balancing on was another story. Reaching high over your head to attach the chain to the wooden beam was extending your limbs to their furthest ability, leaving you wobbly and liable to fall at all any moment.

And, of course, you did – suddenly you were falling backwards, the lanterns slipping out of your hands and a yelp slipping past your lips. Squeezing your eyes shut, you brace yourself for impact on the hard ground below you, but the air is knocked out of your lungs by a pair of arms slipping underneath your legs and below your back rather than the cold Earth below. The man carefully helps you stand up, laughing sheepishly as you profusely thanked him, rubbing at the back of his neck.

You’re smiling, Muzan can see from his spot at the end of the street, his gaze fixed on you even over the buzz of life at the nighttime market.

Your shop is easily one hundred feet away, but he can still smell you clear as day, your scent alluring and musky and rich, only now tinged with the slightest bit of embarrassment, appreciation, and attraction.

Muzan scowls, his dark brows drawing inward so tightly that wrinkles were sure to form. His fist curls in on itself, sharp nails already slicing into his palms and letting blood drip onto the ground below him. Every muscle in his body clenches, taut with anger, anticipation and the uncontrollable urge to do something, veins standing out against the paleness of his neck and forehead.

That man was touching you.

Helping you.

You, who was stupid enough to get on a ladder and hang up those incessant lanterns – you, who was careless enough with your own miserable, misfortunate human life as to potentially throw it away for some measly lights. Anger clouds his every thought, but he forces himself to stay still, to not immediately jump onto the man and tear him to pieces bite by bite until he was screaming and sobbing and begging –

Soon the man is on his way, leaving you behind as you disappear into the depths of your shop, the man tucking his hands into his pockets with a smile curling on his lips that makes Muzan’s self-control snap, his legs finally pushing him into action.

It’s not hard to snatch the man by the throat, his claws digging against the soft, thin skin and dragging him away to a deserted back-alley.

It’s not hard to hold him in the air, his feet not touching the ground as desperate fingers clumsily grope at Muzan’s, unable to break the inhuman grip the demon has on his neck.

It’s not hard to watch the man’s face slowly turning purple, his actions getting weaker and weaker, and it’s only once the man is right on the verge of losing consciousness that Muzan lets go, throwing him to ground and hearing a sickening crunch noise as the man wheezes. Muzan’s lips curl, his eyebrows still furrowed, his expression looking halfway between pained and exhilarated.

You worthless human. His voice is full of disdain, hatred seeping into every word as he kicks the man in the stomach, the action causing him to cough up blood, more wheezes and desperate heaves filling the back-alley.

Who gave you permission to breath? Who gave you permission to touch her? Who gave you permission to touch what’s mine? He kicks him again, the curl of his lip deepening.

The man is curled up into a fetal position, blood flowing onto the dirt below him. Muzan scoffs. Pathetic. You must think you’ve done a very heroic deed, saving her from falling.

Muzan’s smile drops. You did nothing. You are just a weak, useless human. What could you offer her?

He waits for a moment, just to see if the writhing mess of a man before him wasn’t as pitiful as he appeared, and his brows cock up ever so slightly when his wheezing, strained voice asks, then why didn’t you save her?

And with that, Muzan slices his head clean off, only the smallest of whimpers ringing in his ears, followed by the dull thud of the now decapitated head falling to the ground. Muzan’s chest is heaving, his red eyes wide, a few curls knocked out of place at the exertion, and for a moment he’s frozen.

There’s genuine rage swimming through his veins, and the sheer amount of that man’s blood staining his clothing makes him pause. Why had his words effected him so? He’d quite literally lost control of his body once he heard the question – why didn’t he bother to save you? Why had he only watched, allowing this other man to step in and keep you from cracking your head open on the ground?

Muzan’s scowl deepens, and soon he’s turning back to the body, sharp nails ripping and slicing at the man until all that remains are scraps of clothing and a face so disfigured that identifying him would be impossible.

And even then, Muzan doesn’t feel the sense of satisfaction that killing someone who insulted him would normally bring – instead, the rage is calmed ever so slightly by a strange feeling that makes his fingers tremble, his throat feel swollen, and his heart race in his chest.

And when he returns to the busy streets of the night market, inhaling over and over and over, he’s quick to catch your scent, trailing behind you with those red eyes trained on your form.

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

Because Muzan is in denial about his feelings for you for most of the beginning of his obsession with you, kidnapping you isn’t the first thing that comes to his mind. He tries to ignore you for as long as he can, holding out and believing that whatever it is that you’re making him feel will eventually go away if he doesn’t pay attention to it.

Except that it doesn’t, and as time passes he becomes more desperate to see you, to hear your voice and speak with you and be in your presence and – god forbid – touch you. And so, while not seriously considering stealing you away in the beginning, once Muzan comes to terms with the fact that his infatuation isn’t going to simply go away on its own he decides that keeping you by his side permanently is the only acceptable solution. It’s the only solution where he won’t lose his mind, honestly.

He grows so dependent on the idea of you that it starts affecting his daily tasks and life – he’s distracted, every moment he has to himself filled with idle thoughts of you and what you could be doing in that particular moment.

Are you eating enough? He knows humans have to eat more often than demons, and you have to be careful about balancing your nutrition and portion control – he’s sure he could a much better job at managing your dietary health than you can.

Are you sleeping enough? Demons don’t have to sleep, and as a result it’s been centuries since he’s had a full night’s rest, but he knows that you spend over a third of your day asleep – a massive waste of time, as far as he’s concerned.

(This doesn’t stop him from stopping by the measly apartment you call home, however, standing at the end of your bed with an unreadable expression on his face as he watches you sleep. Sometimes he’ll even get closer, kneeling beside you so that he can see your face better, perhaps even ghosting a few fingers over the curve of your cheek, your bedroom so silent he can hear his own breathing falling in time with yours.)

Are you with other people? Are you speaking with others? Are you wasting your time and energy on all of those ridiculous ‘hobbies’ of yours? Muzan wants to know – needs to know, and as time passes he simply can’t stand not knowing every single thing that you’re doing at all times.

And it’s not like kidnapping you would be hard – you’re practically defenseless, your reaction time not nearly fast enough to even pose the smallest fight against him. And so, it’s easy to scoop you up into his arms one night, picking you up out of your bed and taking a moment to lean down closer to your neck, his curls brushing against your jaw as he slowly, deeply inhales, the moment of vulnerability passing just as quickly as it occurred as he gulps and stares for a moment, only to immediately take off running towards the cabin he’s prepared to keep you in.

The cabin itself is in the middle of nowhere – in the countryside, at the base of a mountain, with tall trees and no trails leading anywhere. The cabin is wooden, with a fireplace and a meager dining area (only you’ll be using that dining space, of course, but Muzan grows fond of watching you eat – if only to comment on how pathetic it is that you need to sustain yourself with food so much more often than he does). A futon has been placed in the corner of the cabin – it’s big enough to fit two people, but thankfully he hasn’t tried to share it with you yet, not that you’re confident he will.

(You’ve woken to see him sitting beside you on it, however. He was still fully clothed, with an expression on his face that you’re not sure how to describe, but he’s never actually joined you in bed. Thank god.) t’s not horrible, per say, but your life within the cabin will far from idyllic.

Muzan is not a kind man. He’s not even a man – and this becomes apparent to you very quickly. It’s not unusual for him to return home from long periods of time away with blood staining his clothing, that familiar sour look on his face as he stares knowingly at you, expecting you to grovel at his feet and thank him for finally returning to you.

You’ve never seen him eat – he doesn’t touch the food he brings to you (and it’s good food, too – nutritious and surprisingly delicious, making you wonder exactly how he obtained it), and almost seems disgusted when he has to touch it.

You know there’s something wrong, but multiple things bar you from ever asking why his nails grow so long in such short intervals, or why he’s so inhumanely strong, or how he can be so silent when he moves – those things being the many silent, unspoken rules he has laid out for how you should act. He’s controlling in every sense, and although he doesn’t communicate exactly what he expects of you, you’ll quickly learn that he's picky, and he won’t settle for any behavior less than perfect.

Most of these rules revolve around the fact that you aren’t allowed to escape or disrespect him. Attempting escape is a rebellion against being his woman, and just as an owner does a dog, he will punish your ill behavior and pulling your metaphorical leash much, much further than you should.

Plus, your attempts to escape are a form of rejection in his eyes – he never makes it explicitly clear that he’s romantically interested in you, but he feels that you should just know this, and thus your insistence on getting away from him feels like a personal slight against him, like a slap in the face designed to hurt him in the most acute, intimate way possible.

Of course you don’t know this, but after each escape attempt, he’ll punish you, then promptly return to his office (a small, adjoining room in the cabin that you’re strictly forbidden from entering), sitting on his leather couch and letting his head sit in his hands, taking deep breaths and willing himself to stop letting such stupid, weak, human emotions affect him so.

The only thing that works, though, to calm his heart is to once again watch you as you sleep, allowing himself to get close to you, closing his eyes and inhaling your scent, perhaps even holding a shirt in his hands and imagining the way your skin would feel against the fabric. It’s a reminder that although you were disobedient and tried to leave him, you weren’t successful – you’re still here, with him, as you should be.

Disrespecting him is also, of course, a severe infringement of the unwritten code he expects you to follow. He has to maintain some sense of superiority over you, and the moment you disrespect him either with words or actions, this fragile hierarchy is threatened, and you come dangerously close to the uncomfortable truth – that despite all his grandiose talk about you being beneath him, he would be absolutely nothing now without you.

He would be a mess, unable to function, unable to find purpose in avoiding death and sickness, unsure of how to move forward with a life that now no longer seems worth continuing. And so, as long as you avoid those two major triggers, most of your time spent in the cabin will be passed with Muzan simply sitting in your presence, those red eyes watching you like a hawk and making you beyond nervous. He scares you – he’s a monster and you know it, he’s stolen you away from your life and forced you into some strange, pseudo-relationship of roommates, though his intentions are much more sinister than you can imagine.

The one silver lining of being stuck with Muzan is that his crippling fear of rejection bars him from making any sort of sexual advance on you. Of course, he very, very much wants to fuck you (thought the thought shames him, because you’re a human woman, and the idea of touching a human and being touched by a human makes his skin crawl), but the idea of you not being as passionately and needily engaged and eager as him is enough to stop him from attempting anything.

This has an unfortunate side effect though, which is that he channels this anger and fear of being rejected by you into meanness directly at you – comments of how you’re clumsy or loud or irritating slip past his lips. And although he doesn’t often mean them, the venom in his voice will get you shutting up, fearfully and self-consciously staring down at the floor.

He feels the smallest pang of guilt when this happens, because although he’s a sadistic creature, seeing you upset isn’t nearly as pleasing as he’d expected. But it’s a necessary evil in the larger scheme of things – he has to keep you in line, and by stealing you away so that he can keep constant surveillance on you and control your meal times (he decides when you eat, even if you’re not hungry or don’t want the meal he’s brought), how often you bathe yourself (often he’ll watch the process, those red eyes raking up and down your figure, making sure to wear loose bottoms so that you don’t see how the sight of you wet, soapy, and embarrassed effects him), and make sure you interact with no one, he’s ultimately fulfilling a self-serving goal: preserving you, and keeping you all locked up and safe for him to enjoy.

And only him.

PUNISHMENTS:

Despite Muzan’s strange fondness for you (or, more accurately, his dependence on your presence), he’s by no means a gentle lover. He’s cruel, demeaning, incredibly strict and harsh with you, with expectations that he never clearly communicates with you. It’ll leave you guessing in the dark, hoping and praying that your every action, word, and even thought won’t trigger some sort of negative response from him. He’s fickle, his mood changing quicker than you keep up with, and because of this, Muzan finds himself angry with you much more often than he’d care to admit.

He was resistant to developing feelings for you at first, embarrassed, disappointed and frustrated with himself for stooping so low as to develop an attraction with a weak human like you, but as time passes he finds himself growing less resentful and more desperate. He’s still angry with himself, ashamed that he’s allowed himself to let you become his one weakness, and because of this he’s a bit trigger-happy with punishing you.

He’s always looking for reasons to belittle you, to put you down in order to make himself feel better. He’s an egotistical, narcissistic creature, and just because you’ve managed to worm your way into his heart doesn’t mean that you are exempt from this aspect of his personality.

He’ll find ways to twist your words and actions into somehow being displeasing to him, whether by being disrespectful to him, or an attempt to escape.

You’re quiet and avoid speaking with him or looking at him? Sure, you’re scared, as you say, but this could also be an attempt lulling him into lowering his guard around you, like you’re waiting for the right opportunity to try and run or hurt him. (Just the thought along is laughable – as if you could ever do serious damage to him.)

So, he’ll force you into speaking simply by threatening any remaining family you have. That’ll get you spluttering and talking, he’s sure – your weak sensibilities and this absurd devotion to your family that you seem to possess is perfect to exploit. (Plus, it’ll get you to stop ignoring him, something that makes his heart feel like a knife is twisting inside him, making every part of him ache and bile rise in the back of his throat. But you don’t need to know that – he’ll never admit it.)

You’re refusing to eat the food he’s brought for you? You ungrateful thing – he’d gone so far as to get the best quality, fanciest food he could find for you – things that he could imagine himself stomaching back when he was a human. Things that – despite you being below him – you deserve as his pet. He’ll merely scoff, throwing the food off to the side, before returning a few hours later with something warm and wet and fresh – blood is dripping off the pretty white plate he’s dished the human heart on, his face carefully neutral aside from the smallest of smirks while he tells you to eat up, you wouldn’t want an ended life to be in vain, would you?

It’s cruel and it’s evil and it’s horrible, but pinning your compassion and disgust at him murdering innocent people because of your rebellions against you is the most successful and effective tool he could use to keep you in line. It works – every single time.

And Muzan has no qualms with using every possible resource at his disposal – sure, you may be angry at him, perhaps even hate him, but he’s confident that with time, you’ll realize that he’s all you have left. You’re weak and incapable and you’ll never, ever be rid of him, so why won’t you just obey him like you, as the inferior life form, should?

Your fingers are trembling as he nears you, that same unearthly silence to his steps that makes every muscle in your body stand at attention, your fight or flight instincts begging you to run as fast as you can away from the monster in front of you.

There’s nothing in his hands, but that doesn’t make you feel better – you know what he can do with those hands, and you curl up tighter against the corner you’ve sat yourself in.

Muzan’s got a half-smile on his face – it’s the closest he can get to a genuine smile, you think, but it still makes your skin crawl, unease and dread eating away at your gut. He stops in front of you, crouching down so that he’s at eye level with you. His curls sit around his face, the casual white dress-shirt he sports perfectly pressed and rolled up at the elbows.

Hello, how are you faring? He asks, and immediately you grow suspicious – this is unusual. He never directly asks you about yourself – he normally talks about himself, only occasionally dropping a comment or two about you that lets you know he recognizes your presence in the room.

What is he playing at? How do you respond?

I’m okay… you start, nervous that he’s looking for an answer that you don’t know. At your response, he makes no noticeable change, but instead stands once more. He’s still staring down at you, those red eyes feeling heavy and piercing.

Come with me.

And then he’s walking, and you’re scrambling behind him to keep up with his long strides. He settles down onto a leather couch in his study, and for the briefest moments you hesitate at the threshold, having never been allowed in this room.

He notices your resistance, and rolls his eyes slightly. Come here.

You do as you’re told, and carefully, tentatively sit down on the other end of the leather couch. It’s silent for a few moments, before Muzan breaks it, his voice a bit deeper than before. Come here.

Confusion settles over your features, but you slowly scoot over a bit, so that you’re an inch or so closer to him. Muzan’s still staring at you, you can see it out of the corner of your eye, and a frown sits on his lips.

You scoot over a bit more, continuing when he doesn’t say anything until there’s just the smallest sliver of space between your bodies. You can hear his breathing, having never been so close to him before. He’s still looking at you, but you focus your gaze on your hands in your lap, trying desperately to not visibly show your nerves.

Are you afraid of me?

His question startles you, and you stiffen up, peeking at him for just a moment. Unsure of how to respond, you merely nod, your voice small as you murmur yes. Muzan hums, and suddenly there’s a hand sitting on your thigh, his skin cold and dry, the weight feeling heavy. And although you try to stop yourself, knowing the consequences will be anything but pleasant, the unforeseen physical contact makes you jump, scooting away from him ever so slightly.

The room is still for a moment, before you hear his sharp inhale, literally seeing his face morph into one of rage. He’s breathing hard as he gets to his feet and practically storms out of the room, his steps still nearly silent. You’re still frozen, trying to process what you’ve just done – you rejected him.

Obviously you don’t want him, but this surely must be one of the unspoken rules you’re supposed to follow – surely such an arrogant man wouldn’t appreciate being you being so blatantly repulsed.

Unsure of what to do – does he want you to leave his study? Stay? – you stay in place, every part of your body shaking in fear and horrible anticipation at your punishment for such a grave offense.

You don’t have to wait for long – ten minutes later he’s barging through the door, dragging a woman by her hair into the space. She’s already stained with bits of blood, her hair matted with it and her pretty clothes darker than they should be.

Muzan’s staring at you, a wild look in his eye, his hair a bit messy and a few more buttons of the dress shirt undone. He throws the woman to the ground, and you notice how shallow her breathing is – she must be on the verge of death.

Muzan’s voice is deep, husky in a way that stills you to your very core as he growls out you will never, ever reject me. Do you understand? You have no place or authority to reject me. You are nothing. I am the only worthwhile thing in your life. Do you understand?

You nod, over and over, eyes flashing between his piercing gaze and the woman who’s slowly trying to get to her feet. Every time she gets close, Muzan pushes her back to the ground, the tears clouding your lashes just barely letting you make out the way her face twists up in pain.

You are nothing. You are nothing.

Muzan is repeating it to himself over and over again as he picks up the woman, forcing her to face you. Briefly, you’re shocked – you’ve never seen this woman in your life, but something about her seems oddly familiar, like you’re looking in a mirror.

Her hair is remarkably similar to yours – the same texture, the same color, just a different length.

Her nose is similar to yours, her skin color, even her eye color.

Her body is similar, too – a similar build, proportions, and suddenly you’re sick.

This woman is you.

Muzan’s still breathing hard, his face contorted into that ugly scowl, and without a word, his hands are tangled in the woman’s hair again, pulling and yanking upwards until a wet squelching noise fills the room, and suddenly her body falls backwards, limp, with her head still held in the air, his forearm flexing.

You can’t stop yourself from vomiting, the sight and sound too much for you to bear. Muzan watches with pursed lips, his eyes still wide and barely blinking. You look pitiful like this – shaking like some sort of scared mouse, staring at him like he's a monster, like he’s the Devil himself.

And as he stares down at you, something pleasant settles in his gut, because while he’d prefer your adoration, the way you’re looking at him now is good, too. Because you’re looking at him, giving him the attention he was craving earlier.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have tried to be kind in his approach at initiating physical contact with you. After all, it’s not as if you really have a choice – it’s such a strange, human desire to want to touch another, and really, isn’t it your fault that he’s feeling this urge?

(Isn’t it your influence and doing that he wants to touch you, to feel you, to be inside of you?)

He bares his teeth, an eyebrow cocking up. Do not reject my advances. Your death will not be as merciful as hers.

And to that, you simply nod.

OVERALL DANGER:

10/10

Muzan is, undoubtedly, a nightmare to have infatuated with you. He’s so deeply in denial in the beginning that he forces himself to stay away from you, only for that to make him crave you more, to realize that his feelings for you aren’t simply going to go away.

He’s possessive and controlling, seeing you as his in every sense of the word and feeling completely justified in taking over every aspect of your life.

He’s paranoid, always keeping an eye on you because being this emotionally tied to another living thing is incredibly nerve-wracking, your weak human body and disposition making him nervous that even the wind will send you knocking on death’s door.

And even then, he doesn’t express this worry in any healthy way – he’s not afraid to verbally degrade you, using harsh words as a shield so that you don’t see just how pathetically deep his obsession and attraction to you is.

It’s demoralizing, embarrassing to a degree that forces him to treat you like a pet of sorts – punishing you with threats, stealing you away to be stuck in some remote cabin in the woods where not a soul will dare near the home, smelling both him and the scent of death strongly in the air.

He’s so emotionally out of touch, and as a result your life with him will be a constant series of walking on eggshells around rules and expectations you don’t even know about. It’s difficult, and frankly you’re viable to find yourself quickly losing your sanity.

But don’t worry too much – Muzan may not act like it, but he does care about your health and safety, and you’ll be in capable hands to help reshape and remold you into the perfect little human partner.

Perhaps you’ll even become a demon – a very, very likely event, considering the fact that as a demon, you have to obey his every command.

(Just the thought of you completely obedient and submissive makes him smile, his eyes narrowing a bit and his nails tapping on the nearest surface, those slacks of his feeling a bit too tight.)

He wants you to be his, and a man as selfish as him knows no bounds. So really, get ready – you will be his, and will never escape him. Lucky you.

#yandere kny #yandere demon slayer #yandere muzan #_lee's profiles #_kny #_muzan kibutsuji

[grendelsmilf]

thinking about how many times i’ve wanted to bring in “low brow” sources in my academic writing, and how such a mode of critique is so fundamentally foreign to the institutions in which i’ve been embedded that i never even considered it a possibility. i once wrote about how beowulf echoes in tolkien’s fiction (primarily using the hobbit to argue that both narratives employ rings) back in high school, but that was an exception because my history teacher was a massive nerd, and tolkien was a well-respected medievalist so the topic didn’t seem far-fetched regardless. but that has very much been an exception for me. i know that film and media studies exploring television, genre fiction, even memes and fandom culture, that there are spheres dedicated to analyzing these “low brow” works of art and social phenomena. but as a comparatist and shakespearean, my area has always been relegated to quote-unquote “high brow,” despite my abiding interest in many “low brow” mediums and artworks.

ANYWAY. this preamble was all to say: how would you guys feel about participating in a zine where we would compile a bunch of essays each exploring a topic through comparing a piece of “high brow” art to “low brow” art? for example, if i expanded on my post using satan and sin in paradise lost to discuss akio and anthy’s roles in utena, or using 19/20th c. existentialist philosophy as a framework through which to discuss adventure time. you could also take a theoretical approach to an internet phenomenon, such as exploring character criticism from a fandom perspective. (these are all ideas for essays i would write if i had the time, so obviously these examples are just templates, not workable suggestions.) this would obviously take a long time to compile and there would be no fixed deadline (i have way too much on my plate at the moment for that anyway), this idea literally just came to me because i was thinking about how fun it could be to work on an online collaborative zine, and how the broader topic could best reflect the discourse of the internet as a collaborative and (ideally) egalitarian realm (for media as well as people). mutuals (or nonmutuals) who are interested, dm me with a description of what you want to write about, and i’ll get back to you with the logistics once i have more of a sense of whether or not this is actually going to happen, and if so, how.

#this is so spur of the moment lmfao i was just reading bao3bei4’s post about zines and was like hey. why not #I think some of you would be really amazing at this #and it wouldn’t have to be long it could be as long or as short as you needed #even just replying to this post to express initial interest #even if you don’t have an idea yet #and there’s no time pressure either #could be fun I think!!!! #o #100 #high low zine

[incomingalbatross]

Chesterton and Tolkien both approach God as an Author—an Artist but particularly an Author—and see Creation on both a large and a small scale as art, narrative, poetry, story, not because our human intelligences project those forms onto it but because God is the Creator of those forms.

Chesterton sees this from the angle of...saying "a fan" seems silly, but "a critic" only works in the academic/scholarly sense. A scholar? An enthusiast? What I'm trying to say is, so much of his writing is about unfolding and analyzing and illuminating and enthusing about the manifold beauties of God's Creation. He is a fan, writing appreciative meta or loving fictional expansions on the details of the story he sees humanity living in.

Tolkien, on the other hand, came at this through trying to study and understand human creativity, and how it best relates us to God. The bulk of his writing reflects his love of story, and of the act of "sub-creation" itself—but his understanding of God as Author is the foundation underlying all of that work. Tolkien understood human creativity as one of the ways in which we are made in the image of God, and so considered it a gift and faculty we were made to use, but are all the more obligated to use well. I don't believe he ever says it in these words, but he approaches storytelling like a vocation.

Chesterton thought of God's Creation as story, and Tolkien thought of story as God's creation. Different emphases, shared territory. That's what makes them both so important for me.

#writing #catholic #g. k. chesterton #tolkien

[itgirlblogger]

Blair Waldorf Mindset 👑

Ambition: Blair is highly ambitious and driven. She often sets her sights on achieving specific goals, whether they are related to her social status, her academic performance, or her personal relationships. She strives to be at the top of her social circle and is determined to maintain her status as the "Queen Bee."

Competitiveness: Blair is competitive by nature and always wants to be the best. This competitive drive can lead to both positive outcomes and conflicts with others, as she often tries to outdo her rivals and prove herself superior.

Social Status: Blair places a significant emphasis on social status and the perception others have of her. She is deeply involved in the social scene of the Upper East Side and works hard to maintain her position as one of the most influential figures in that world.

Fashion and Style: Blair is known for her impeccable fashion sense and attention to detail when it comes to her appearance. Her mindset includes a focus on maintaining her image and using her style to express herself.

Friendships: While Blair can be manipulative and self-serving, she also values her friendships deeply. Her mindset can be conflicted when it comes to loyalty and protecting those she cares about.

Growth and Maturity: Over the course of the series, Blair goes through significant personal growth and development. Her mindset evolves as she learns from her mistakes, navigates challenges, and reevaluates her priorities.

Strong Opinions: Blair isn't hesitant to express her opinions, even if they're contrary to popular sentiment. Her willingness to voice her thoughts and stand up for what she believes in reflects her self-confidence.

Strategic Thinking: Blair's knack for planning and executing intricate schemes demonstrates her confidence in her strategic abilities. She's often several steps ahead of others, and her calculated decisions reflect her belief in her intelligence and foresight.

Academic Achievement: Blair's dedication to her education underscores her pursuit of excellence. She consistently aims for top grades and positions of academic distinction, aligning with her desire to be recognized as the best in all areas of her life.

Perfectionism: Blair's pursuit of the best can sometimes manifest as perfectionism, causing her to set high standards for herself and those around her. This can drive her to excel but also lead to inner conflict when things don't go according to plan.

It's important to remember that Blair Waldorf is a fictional character, and her mindset is shaped by the creative choices of the show's creators and writers. While these points capture some aspects of her mindset, they don't cover every nuance or development her character undergoes throughout the series.

#girlblogging #it girl #lucky girl syndrome #lucky girl #pink pilates princess #healthy girl #wonyoungism #girlblogger #healthylifestyle #blair waldorf #gossip girl #old money #audrey hepburn

[acorpsecalledcorva]

I've tried to write about this a couple times now academically, then in a funny jokey way, but the problem is I'm trying to rationalise a personal topic to justify it and make it more general but honestly it keeps ending up being fakeclaimy, perhaps in a way that deflects from me so fuck it, here goes.

My trauma memories are wrong. And that's okay.

With all the talk about the false memory syndrome and the sociocognitive model I find myself in an interesting position where I wholeheartedly disagree with the False Memory Syndrome proponents attempts to discredit DID as a diagnosis whilst having false memories very much be a part of my diagnosis, with sociocognitive elements influencing both my false trauma memories and my presentation of DID (not it's cause, just how it manifested at times).

And the key issue is metacognition and world beliefs, a growing area of research in the trauma and dissociation field. It basically goes that humans are incredibly narrative in nature. Our memories aren't factual, they're stories we tell ourselves filled with meaning and metaphor and allegory. It's why we love stories so much, whether it's fiction or juicy gossip, interacting with others interpretation of events and finding meaning in them helps us to interpret and assign meaning to our own lives and create rich, nuanced world beliefs. When something happens that is incompatible with our world beliefs and we are unable to assign meaning to to integrate it onto our subjective narrative, that's trauma.

Emotional support can help us to develop our metacognitive abilities and integrate traumatic events but things like disorganised attachment environments really fuck up this ability from a very young age and the creation of alters in CDDs can be viewed as attempts by the brain to protect those very early world beliefs (I rely on my caregivers for survival), by creating new characters in the story who can hold simultaneous contradictory world beliefs.

The problem is when traumatic shit happens young enough, memory just doesn't record properly. The emotional feelings of helplessness and threat to life or exposure and violation might be preserved, but the "factual" record can be lost forever. And once you start chronically dissociating it fucks with your regular every day ability to record and store non traumatic memories, even if by this point a traumatic memory can be "factually" and emotionally preserved whilst also being buried.

So when I look back on my childhood, and I have all these emotional flashbacks from very early childhood and these core beliefs that point to a really shitty life as a baby that I don't have actually memory of, and entire oceans of no memory, and also traumas that happened to me later in life that I do remember even if I've only recently admitted to myself are traumatic, AND a brain that likes to make up alternative subjective narratives through alter formation, AND a desperation to make sense of my life during a very confusing period (system discovery), yeah...my brain made up traumas that didn't happen to me.

When I was reading The Body Keeps the Score because I was dealing with a bunch of somatoform symptoms the early chapters talk a LOT about the prevalence of CSA by family members, and it was honestly kinda invalidating, because as far as I was aware that didn't happen to me so why was I so fucked up? It led to me imagining scenarios of trauma that might have happened to me until something latched on to an unprocessed emotional flashback. It became entangled with that flashback and, in a way, integrated itself into my subjective narrative. It gave meaning to my story, a distressing story, but a story that made sense. The only problem with that is, it doesn't actually make sense. It just isn't compatible with the other versions of my narrative that are contained throughout the rest of the system. I haven't processed and integrated the real trauma, I've just attempted to create a narrative that could serve me in that moment, it was reassuring, it provided a security in the meaning it gave me, but it's only a temporary substitute for real integration of the stuff that's still buried or inaccessible to me.

Maybe I was a victim of CSA, it's definitely possible, but that memory I've "had" just.. Isn't it. And despite community sentiments to believe trauma I would be harming myself to cling onto those memories instead of confronting the true traumatic events through therapy when I'm actually ready to face them. I would be deflecting because believing something I know deep down isn't true is safer than acknowledging what really happened, even if the fake memory is worse than what really happened.

I understand why papers on fictitious DID are concerned with patients freely offering up their trauma when previously DID patients would take years to open up enough to share it. When you get those confession stories of people faking DID there are these repeated elements that come up time and time again. They made up trauma that they freely shared to appear more valid, and despite no longer faking they still sometimes hear their alters. And I think what's happening in these cases isn't actually necessarily that they're faking DID, although obviously you can misdiagnose yourself, but quite possibly community exposure is reinforcing a sociocognitive presentation of DID. One where trauma is this thing that you MUST know about, where alters have deep backstories and a rich biography. This outward protection may very well be a reflection of a deeper but hidden inner experience that seeks to deflect the outside world with a decoy narrative.

This sucks, because from a clinician's perspective whether they affirm it or scrutinise it, if the patient refuses to let go of the decoy to reveal what's underneath therapy work is largely fruitless. Sar and Ozturk seem to be the only practitioner's to have correctly highlighted this in Functional Dissociation of the Self. They recognise the uncanny ability of the Dissociative system to deflect and divert therapy work through substitute beliefs and multiple realities and highlight the value of cutting through all that to get to the hidden psychological self that's able to create the cohesive integrated narrative that allows the system to truly recover.

So I have to ask myself, is the "version" of DID I believe I have and present to others an accurate depiction of what's going on? Or is it a convenient substitution of self that I use to deflect from what's really going on? How is the community influencing this presentation and my need to cling onto it to fit in? And is my participation in the online system community harming me in the long run because it helps reinforce my substitute beliefs about myself to fit in with them without putting in the real work to really understand myself?

I'm mostly making this as a self call out post for accountability, because I think I need to step away. If I keep posting them I've failed because honestly I feel kinda lost without it and that's scary. Hopefully, this will be the last y'all hear from me in a while so I wish y'all well. Or I'll see you tomorrow

#syscourse

[petermorwood]

This Reply by @neil-gaiman reminded me of two things:

(1) How much I despised doing, and avoiding, compulsory Games / Sports / Gym / PE / PT / Whatever.

(2) That I never, ever have to do, or avoid, compulsory Whatever again in my life.

*****

I spent my whole school career avoiding them, and forged sick notes which helped that avoidance were the first really successful fiction-writing of my life.

I also learned that when acting the part of someone with a sprained ankle, a tiny stone in the appropriate shoe was a good reminder of which ankle to limp on, while an air of suffering bravely borne was always more convincing if that air was scented with a faint hint of the embrocation rubbed into one sock.

*****

Neil didn't mention the effects of time of year or weather, but both were frequent entries in My List Of Unpleasing Things About Games.

Leaving out PT / Gym / PE or whatever, which was indoors and - thanks to the solidity of the equipment - a weekly source of sprains, strains, bruises, mild concussion and deep loathing, my old school used to observe Ye Olde Academic terms and their associated sporting pleasures.

This says something about which I'm not quite sure, and I see it's replaced them with plain old Autumn-Spring-Summer Term, which says something else about which I'm even less sure.

*****

So there was Michaelmas Term (August to Christmas), and rugby.

A soggy school rugby pitch in Northern Ireland in November, halfway through the game with the pitch well churned up, the daylight fading, the rain turning to sleet and every other member of both teams still (a) Too Large and (b) Too Keen, was a reluctant 12-year-old's equivalent of Flanders Fields on the Western Front ca. 1916.

(No artillery or machine-guns, but (a) and (b) were quite enough.)

I was also a skinny reluctant 12-year-old - those who know me now can believe that or not as you please - and the icy breezes which whistled unimpeded up, across and down the legs of my too-baggy-now-but-he'll-grow-into-them shorts were at least one cause of a lifelong fondness for saunas, hot tubs and steam baths.

*****

Then there was Hilary Term (January to Easter) and field hockey.

That was when the School Armoury issued hockey sticks and sent us forth onto the Artificial Pitch, which wasn't as muddy as the grass-covered rugby one but could produce amazing scabby knees and elbows after a tumble at speed, either after the ball or more often away from the opposition's bloody-minded front row.

Being artificial, rainwater didn't soak in but just sat there in puddles, and sometimes in early term they froze hard enough that field hockey could become ice hockey in the space of a couple of strides, cue another tumble and more scabs. Oh yes, and my shorts were still too baggy, so icy breezes in unwanted places continued to be an ongoing delight.

*****

And then there was Trinity Term (post-Easter to July) and field athletics then cricket, AKA liveliness meets somnolence.

That was when the sky became increasingly blue, the birdies sang tweet-tweet, the sun shone more often, the air became noticeably warmer and anyone with sense enjoyed as much of the soon-to-be-summer days as worries about impending End-Of-Term exams allowed.

It was also a time for field athletics until Half-Term, featuring long-jumps, high-jumps and runs of various speed and duration.

We re-learned every year that it was possible to get a nasty sunburn even in a Northern Ireland May, that unless the groundskeeper raked the sand in the long-jump pit properly there would be at least one souvenir from a local cat, that sweat could break out with the least exertion because sunny and humid were frequently simultaneous, and that horseflies were always ready to sample new blood and the way they got that blood was a painful process.

It still is.

Bastards.

*****

After Half-Term it was cricket, which combined disinterested boredom and pointless intermittent activity at a nearly Zen level with me being very, very bad at it.

I was no good as a bowler, I could throw straight or I could throw hard, but throwing hard and straight at the same time was something I never seemed to master.

Oh dear.

I was no good as a batsman, I tended to step out and slosh so the ball went in all directions, including on a couple of occasions straight up and straight down again, though not high enough or for long enough to get any runs.

What a shame.

I was no good as a wicketkeeper because I was more butterfingered than a clumsy dairymaid, and what I didn't drop I would handle wrongly, like that time I made what would have been a perfect catch except I fumbled it and knocked the stumps down before, not after.

Oops.

My incompetence at everything up close was Really Quite Remarkable, so I was invariably sent out to one of the deep field positions where, unless something Silly happened, I could be safely ignored and - if the grass was long enough - I would be ignored whatever happened.

I read a lot of good books that way.

Not a single one was about sport.

#school sports #the delights of organised games #mud blood and Form II-B #rugby up the wrong way #he's dead gym #cricket done right is mostly chirping

[ghelgheli]

17! but also using the opportunity of the ask game to get to know more about the effortless worldbuilding in sff :)

from the end-of-year book ask

17: Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

I think Three Body Problem is the only one meeting this condition this year so I'll have no trouble staying on topic :> but I'm gonna specifically talk about "hard" SF as I conceive of it—I haven't read any analysis so this may just be a jumble of improvised thoughts.

SF, being "speculative" fiction, of course has to take on the problem of speculating and of presenting things that don't (and perhaps cannot) happen. On average this is accomplished thru a healthy combination of scientific grounding and good-natured handwaving: I drop a few sentences about "quantum entanglement" and you go along with my ansible, or you tell me about "positronic circuits" and I agree that you can make a brain with them. This is the compact that makes SF work because you fundamentally cannot expect speculation without, well, ceding ground on reality.

But at least a subset of SF readers are of the kind to really want to grok how it is that this or that scientific feature of the world works or may come about. Every contraption and novel technology is like a puzzle to be riddled out. This is the place where speculation becomes sincere mechanical prediction, and it's why I love hard SF.

This subset of readers can be matched to a subgenre of writers who commit fully to filling in as many blanks in their technological, biological, etc. speculation as possible. The rows of astronomical data can't be left vague—tell me what frequency of light we're dealing with here—xenobiology isn't taken for granted—what is the neurology of your aliens??—and so on. The dots are connected, the rest of the owl is drawn for real, the image is made crisp. Like fireworks for the reader's brain.

When this kind of worldbuilding is executed well imo it looks effortless. Looks, not is, because behind every explanation of near-c travel is hours of research into at least special relativity and time dilation, along with calculations by-hand. Behind every account of an exoplanet's atmosphere is probably a few papers perused on the subject and several articles on scientific american. Peter Watts, in the note at the end of Blindsight, includes a fucking bibliography of a hundred or so references as well as thank-yous to many an academic he split handles of liquor with. And this is only the visible fragment of what has to be a library of knowledge accumulated both passively and actively to make a speculated world feel as concretely plausible as possible.

None of this is necessary for good SF. The aforementioned compact means any author can opt out of this commitment at any time. But it's what it takes to make tightly-written hard SF, where your conceptual hands are kept diligently at your side, waving an idea through maybe once every five chapters when you have no other choice.

So anyway, Three Body Problem is a tour de force in doing this and doing it cleanly. It uses a storytelling device a lot of hard SF employs to make it work: rather than stuffing dense exposition into narration (at which point, just read the source papers) it deploys a cast of characters who more than anything else, really know their shit. We get exposition trickle-fed through experts who are trying, along with us, to make sense of their novel environments and unfamiliar technologies using their knowledge of the present limits of human understanding. This is what Watts does in Blindsight too, by the way: a claustrophobic ship crewed by technical specialists makes first contact, so everyone has something encyclopedic to say about everything and it's only natural.

What astounded me about Cixin Liu's writing is that he made it work just when I least thought he would be able to. I was sure I was being shown things completely inexplicable and necessarily supernatural until he went and explained them in plain terms; better yet, he explained them in ways that made so much sense in retrospect that I was kicking myself for not seeing the answer. This has exactly the flavour of a good puzzle.

The trade-off hard SF makes is that you are often limited in the metaphorical/thematic work you can do through your speculation. I think the contrast between "calendrical science" in Yoon Ha Lee's Machineries of Empire series and Asimov's "psychohistory" illustrates this well.

Yoon Ha Lee has mathematical training, and calendrical science is a speculative field consisting of theorems, conjectures, proofs, etc. in the language of mathematics that stand in for cultural hegemony and power projection. This makes for a great operationalization of soft power: space is filled and distorted by the quantifiable effects of whatever regime is dominant there (the "calendar" here being synecdoche for culture writ large). But obviously he can't fill in the blanks of how a calendar causes spacetime distortions that specifically make one side's weapons more effective, or provide certain formations with shielding effects. This is, I guess, semi-hard (lol) SF—you can see how it's supposed to work, but it's clear that it just won't. What you get in return is pretty politically interesting storytelling.

Psychohistory is the converse: a deterministic-enough lovechild of economics and sociology explained in the Foundation series as using all the familiar methods of linear algebra and differential equations together with unfamiliar innovations of just how to quantify human behaviour in order to make reliable predictions. There are entire chapters dedicated to explaining the conceptual nuance that went into developing psychohistory ("the hand on thigh principle" from prelude to foundation is just about how the theory resolves divergence by reducing insignificant terms to zero) and an entire book to exploring one of its limitations. It's fascinating to read. But you also get little narrative depth out of it, because hard SF, even when done well, is not guaranteed to make a story thematically interesting or politically compelling. This is the Three Body Problem problem too: its political commitments are threadbare and unserious because that's just not what it's about. I couldn't recommend it on those terms, but that's not what I like so much about it. I will say the conceptualization goes a little off the rails in the final chapters, but I think most SF authors were in some kind of string theory inspired fugue state at the time.

What I would love to see (and I'm sure exists) is hard SF that also has interesting politics. Unfortunately that's an intersection of two already-narrow intersections.

ty for ask✨🐐

#ask answer #idk if that's what u were asking about but. well. #got some sleepy thoughts out #also this is not to say that there isn't tons of research in “soft” SF #it's just that it would be a different kind of research and a different library of knowledge

[mononijikayu]

phase one — FICTION.

Within this sacred cocoon, Geto Suguru found himself basking in the radiant warmth of her presence, a warmth that surpassed the boundaries of mere physical proximity. Mundane worries and the relentless rhythm of routine, which often dictated the tempo of his thoughts, now receded into the background. Instead, the genuine connection that had withstood the relentless march of years took center stage, its brilliance eclipsing the mundane and casting a soft glow upon their shared space.

Genre: No Curses AU, University Professors AU!

Warning/s: Fluff, Romance, Pinning, Co-Workers, One Sided Romance, Childhood Friends, Secret is Revealed;

note: this was an old idea from when I rewatched wotakoi love is hard for otaku. this is a spin on that!!!

masterlist

logic ≠ love masterlist

HE DIDN’T EXPECT TODAY TO BE ANY DIFFERENT. Suguru Geto's life unfolded with the rhythmic precision of a well-rehearsed composition—an unbroken cycle that comprised waking up, immersing himself in the world of history, and returning home to find solace in sleep.

His days were marked by a meticulous routine, leaving little room for extracurricular activities, let alone the intricate dance of romance. Within the confines of this disciplined existence, Suguru found both anchor and escape, his relentless pursuit of becoming a history professor shaping the very contours of his identity and offering a sanctuary from the tumultuous waves of life.

The mornings heralded a new day for Geto Suguru, and with a sense of purpose, he embraced the unfolding narrative of hours ahead. As a dedicated history enthusiast, his waking hours were consumed by the passionate exploration of the past.

Whether delving into dusty tomes, deciphering ancient manuscripts, or engaging in scholarly debates, Suguru's world revolved around the rich tapestry of historical narratives. This scholarly pursuit was not merely a profession but a calling, a lifeline that tethered him to a realm where the echoes of bygone eras whispered secrets and lessons.

The evenings saw Suguru returning to the comfort of his abode, where the quietude of his dwelling provided a backdrop for reflection and reprieve. Amidst the shelves lined with volumes chronicling the annals of history, he found sanctuary. His home became a haven, a space where the weight of the world outside momentarily lifted, allowing him to recharge and prepare for the cadence of the next day.

This structured routine, though seemingly monotonous to an outsider, held profound significance for Suguru. It was a deliberate orchestration of his life, a conscious decision to prioritize the pursuit of knowledge and scholarly endeavors over the chaotic whims of a world beyond his books. The role of a future history professor beckoned to him as a beacon of purpose, providing direction to his existence.

In the symphony of his routine, Geto Suguru discovered a unique harmony—one that resonated with the pursuit of intellectual fulfillment and the escape from the unpredictable currents of life. The relentless rhythm of his days not only fortified his scholarly pursuits but also created a fortress against the uncertainties that lurked beyond the confines of his carefully curated world.

As Geto Suguru navigated the chapters of his life with the precision of a historian crafting a narrative, his unwavering dedication became a testament to the transformative power of a life immersed in the pursuit of knowledge.

Within the academic confines of Jujutsu High, Suguru Geto stood as a figure known for his unparalleled passion and unwavering dedication to his craft. His reputation as a history enthusiast echoed through the hallowed halls of the institution, garnering both admiration and concern from his colleagues. Notable figures such as Ieiri Shoko from the Science department, Gojo Satoru specializing in Physics, and Nanami Kento, an expert in Home Economics, often found themselves perplexed by Suguru's seemingly one-dimensional focus.

Colleagues would observe Suguru, immersed in the annals of history, his dedication so fervent that it bordered on obsession. Besides the time he spares for reading and drinking with all his friends, he seems to have no time to leave himself to rest. 

Shoko, with her scientific pursuits, wondered about the balance between the rigidity of historical study and the dynamic nature of scientific exploration. Gojo, a physicist with a penchant for the mysteries of the universe, pondered whether Suguru was missing out on the thrill of unraveling the secrets of the cosmos. Nanami, skilled in the close inclination  of domestic studies, questioned whether Suguru's singular devotion to academia left little room for the richness of life's experiences beyond the pages of history books.

There lingered a collective concern among his colleagues that Suguru needed to break free from the self-imposed shackles of routine and embrace a more well-rounded life. Their worry was rooted in a desire to see Suguru not just as a historian but as a person who could explore the diverse facets of existence. They believed that a broader perspective could enrich his understanding of history and, in turn, make him a more insightful and empathetic educator.

Amidst the academic symphony of Jujutsu High, where each faculty member brought their unique expertise to the table, Suguru stood as an enigma, a scholar consumed by the echoes of the past. The concern expressed by his colleagues was not a critique of his dedication but a heartfelt plea for him to discover the harmonious blend of academia and life's myriad experiences, realizing that the canvas of knowledge stretched far beyond the boundaries of history textbooks.

Whether Suguru would heed this collective advice and embark on a journey beyond the well-trodden paths of routine remained an open question within the academic corridors of Jujutsu High.

Yet on one fateful day, as Suguru Geto was engrossed in the intricate tapestry of historical research within the sanctuary of his office at Jujutsu High, the familiar creaking of the door interrupted the quiet symphony of his thoughts. The door swung open, revealing a face from the past that he hadn't encountered in years—his childhood friend standing right before him. There, in the hallowed academic halls, stood the embodiment of a connection that transcended the pages of history.

Suguru blinked, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected intrusion into his scholarly solitude. As his gaze focused, he recognized the features of a person he hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity. It was her—the companion of his youth, a friend entwined with the memories he had meticulously stored in the recesses of his brain. The echo of shared laughter and the hues of their shared adventures flooded his mind.

Time seemed to pause as he stared, absorbing the sight of her youthfulness, juxtaposed against the backdrop of their shared history. The years melted away, revealing the familiarity that lingered beneath the veneer of time. He felt his heart skip a beat, an unexpected rhythm in the well-orchestrated symphony of his routine, as she smiled, her expression a blend of warmth and nostalgia. With a casual wave, she greeted him, the gesture a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had weathered the years.

"Hey, Suguru! Long time no see," she exclaimed, her voice carrying the resonance of shared memories.

Suguru, still processing the surreal nature of the moment, managed a hesitant smile. "I... I can't believe it's you. It's been years."

She chuckled, the sound reminiscent of the carefree days they had spent together. "I know, right? Life takes us on unexpected journeys,  indeed."

The air in the room seemed to hum with unspoken sentiments, the weight of shared history palpable. Suguru, usually composed in the face of historical mysteries, found himself navigating the unfamiliar terrain of emotions stirred by the reappearance of a significant figure from his past.

With a soft smile, she continued, "I just started here about a month ago. Can you believe it's my first day in the office? Crazy, right?"

Suguru nodded, a mixture of surprise and delight coloring his features. "It's incredible to see you here. How has life treated you?"

She took a step closer, her eyes filled with a shared understanding of the passage of time. "Life's been an adventure, Suguru. But same old same old! How about you? Oh wait, I’m sorry I was being rude wasn’t I? I should ask first. You’re my senpai here now, after all.”

“And what is that, kouhai–chan?”

“Can I invite you to talk?”

He was sure his heart fluttered again.

It was as though he was a child again.

It was cute that she still rambled the same.

The offer lingered in the air, a suspended invitation promising to reignite a connection that had withstood the test of time. Suguru, a historian navigating the structured corridors of his meticulously planned routine, found himself at an unexpected crossroads—a convergence of the rigidity of historical records and the fluidity of the present moment. There, in the confines of his office at Jujutsu High, the familiar contours of academia seemed to morph into a realm where past and present intertwined.

As she stood before him, a warm specter from his youth materialized, and the room underwent a transformation. The once-familiar space expanded, the sun streaming through the glass seemed brighter, and the air he breathed felt charged with the freshness of anticipation. Suguru, usually grounded in the permanence of historical narratives, found himself caught in the ephemeral magic of the present.

"Sure," he whispered back to her, a nod accompanying his words.

In that simple acknowledgment, he granted passage to the possibility of rediscovery—the chance to revisit shared histories and weave new narratives within the fabric of their connection. Suguru gestured toward the office worker lounge, and as they walked, the echo of their footsteps seemed to resonate with the unspoken promise of uncharted territories.

At the vending machine, Suguru pressed buttons with a deliberation that betrayed his inner turmoil. He sighed, attempting to calm the surge of emotions within him. It had been too long, and the familiarity of their past interactions felt like a distant memory. Amidst the hum of the vending machine, he wondered if she remained the same, if her preferences had evolved, if the matcha drink he selected still held a place in her heart. His palms grew damp, his nerves encapsulated in a smile that sought to conceal the whirlwind of emotions within.

Suguru raised the green canned matcha drink, the words escaping his lips with a hint of anticipation, "Do you still like this matcha brand?"

Her smile blossomed in response, a radiant affirmation that carried a sense of delight. "Ah! I do~ It still tastes like heaven to me!"

"I'm glad," Suguru replied, settling into the chair across from her. His gaze lingered on her as she opened the can, a silent observer of the joy painted across her features. The subtle crinkle of the aluminum lid, the effervescent aroma of matcha—these small details seemed to carry the weight of shared memories.

As she took a sip, Suguru couldn't help but watch her, captivated by the genuine pleasure etched across her face. Her smile, a testament to the timeless connection that linked them, unfolded against the canvas of taste.

"It’s been such a long time since I’ve just sat down with you and enjoyed life," she remarked, her eyes reflecting a mixture of nostalgia and genuine warmth. Clapping her hands in a rhythm of remembrance, she set her drink down. "How long has it been since I’ve seen you?"

Suguru's eyes softened with a quiet acknowledgment of the years that had slipped through the hourglass of time. "Too long," he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken sentiments. "Life really took us on such wild journeys.”

Her gaze lingered on his face, a silent understanding passing between them. "True, but I'm grateful we found our way back to each other. This," she gestured to the matcha drink, "feels like a delicious reunion."

Suguru nodded, the resonance of her words echoing within him, creating a quiet symphony that reverberated through the air. As they sat in the office worker lounge, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and the familiarity of each other's company, Suguru contemplated the journey that had led them to this moment.

"It's incredible how life brings us back to these connections," he mused, his gaze momentarily fixed on the matcha drink cradled in his hands. "The taste of this matcha seems to carry the essence of the past, doesn't it?"

She nodded in agreement, her eyes tracing the contours of the room as if searching for traces of the years that had passed. "It's like a sip of nostalgia. And in these moments, it feels like time folds in on itself."

Suguru smiled, appreciating the poetic sentiment woven into her words. "Nostalgia has a way of turning ordinary moments into cherished memories."

The atmosphere in the office worker lounge seemed to shift as Suguru indulged in the comforting embrace of his matcha tea from a canned drink. He glanced over at her, a spark of curiosity in his eyes.

"So, I heard you're the new literature professor for the first-year college students?" Suguru inquired, his tone carrying a blend of surprise and amusement.

She nodded, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Guilty as charged. Never thought you'd see the day, huh?"

Suguru chuckled, shaking his head. "I never expected you to turn to teaching. I thought you were already knee-deep in your writing career."

Her laughter echoed in the room as she corrected him, "I was doing editorial work, Suguru. You forgot that already?"

"I didn't forget," he retorted, grinning down at her. "You wanted to be a writer, that's why you decided to dip your toes into the editorial industry, right?"

She pouted, a playful defiance in her expression as she took a sip of her matcha. "That didn't work out as planned."

"Ah," Suguru replied, catching the fleeting glimpse of dejection in her gaze. Deciding to shift the topic, he continued, "Still, you as a teacher."

Her eyebrows arched in question. "Still me, what?"

"You as a teacher," Suguru reiterated, taking another sip of his matcha coffee. "It's not really suitable, don't you think?"

A mischievous glint danced in her eyes as she responded, "Do I really seem like someone who wouldn't enjoy being around youngsters?"

He couldn't help but smile. "No."

"Ah, I didn't miss your honesty!" she groaned in mock exasperation, shaking her head. "It's really so rude, you know."

"Nothing is bad about being truthful," Suguru replied with a playful smirk.

"Bringing me down once again...."

Suguru laughed, the rich sound filling the room. "It's just a surprise. But well, it's a wonderful surprise. Since I get to see you again."

Her eyes softened, a warmth settling in. "Hm, me too.”

For a moment, Geto Suguru felt his cheeks turn red.

He lifts the canned drink once more.

He should ask the cleaning staff about the air conditioner.

"So, Suguru, what's new with you?" she asked, her eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity. The playfulness in her tone hinted at the words she expressed. "Any new intrigue? A new girlfriend? If it's a boyfriend, that's fine too! I'll support you!"

Suguru let out a sigh, a subtle acknowledgment of the routine that had come to define his life. The notion of introducing a romantic element into the equation felt both foreign and improbable. Not when he’s staring at her right now the way he is. He wonders if she would ever notice the way his eyes warmed when he stares at her.

"Not much, just buried in my work as usual. Living this dream of becoming a history professor."

She chuckled, the sound echoing with familiarity. "Always the dedicated one, huh? But you need to loosen up a bit, Suguru. Life's too short to be all work and no play."

His lips curved into a wry smile, appreciating the sentiment behind her words. "Loosening up has never been my strong suit. But who knows, maybe I'll find a way to add a bit of play to the equation."

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "I'll believe it when I see it. But until then, you’re stuck with me and my chaos!”

“I guess I am.” He smiles wider at the warmth of her words. 

As Suguru wove through the tapestry of animated banter and shared laughter, he sensed a delicate warmth blossoming within him, akin to the gently unfurling of petals in the first light of dawn. This warmth transcended the physical embrace of the room and the soothing cradle of his matcha tea; it was a profound resonance emanating from the presence of someone intimately familiar, the beautiful soul with whom he shared a history that gracefully danced beyond the confines of time.

The cadence of her voice painted ethereal strokes in the air, each syllable a melody that resonated with the depths of shared experiences. The sparkle in her eyes mirrored the constellations of laughter that illuminated the otherwise mundane surroundings, transforming the office worker lounge into a sanctuary cocooned in the hues of nostalgia and companionship.

Within this sacred cocoon, Geto Suguru found himself basking in the radiant warmth of her presence, a warmth that surpassed the boundaries of mere physical proximity. Mundane worries and the relentless rhythm of routine, which often dictated the tempo of his thoughts, now receded into the background. Instead, the genuine connection that had withstood the relentless march of years took center stage, its brilliance eclipsing the mundane and casting a soft glow upon their shared space.

Her proximity created a sacred geometry of familiarity within him, a resonance that echoed through the chambers of his soul. In this haven, the outside world lost its audacity to intrude; time itself became a gentle breeze, allowing Suguru to linger in the fragrant bloom of the moment.

With each sip of his matcha tea, Suguru found himself immersed in the intangible warmth that enveloped him—a warmth woven from the threads of shared memories, the playful cadence of their banter, and the sheer joy of having her near. The ordinary metamorphosed into the extraordinary in her company, and the relentless march of time seemed to acquiesce, granting them the luxury to savor the richness of the moment.

In this quiet sanctuary of connection, Suguru's heart resonated with a profound gratitude for the unexpected reunion. The genuine warmth that radiated within him became a poetic ode to the beauty of shared history, a symphony of emotions kindled by the serendipity of their encounter.

He should have cherished this moment when he had the chance.

He could feel that something was about to happen.

It wasn’t going to feel good.

“Yo, Suguru!” Gojo Satoru's voice echoed with characteristic exuberance, cutting through the ambient hum of the surroundings. He waved his hand in animated greeting as he came rushing toward them, his presence injecting an immediate burst of energy into the atmosphere.

Suguru couldn't help but let a small frown grace his lips; it was a familiar irritation, the kind that accompanied Gojo's interruptions, which always seemed to occur at the most inconvenient times. However, at this particular moment, there was an added layer of frustration that Suguru couldn't quite pinpoint.

"I've been looking for you!"

Suguru pursed his lips, a subtle tension forming in the furrow of his brow. "What do you want, Professor Gojo?" 

The formality in Suguru's address carried a hint of restrained annoyance, a testament to the ongoing exasperation he felt regarding Gojo's timing and seemingly perpetual intrusion into his affairs. The air crackled with unspoken tension, setting the stage for the impending exchange between the two distinctly different personalities.

Gojo Satoru's grin widened, seemingly undeterred by Suguru's restrained irritation. "No need to be so formal, Suguru. We're colleagues, after all. Friends too!”

Suguru's gaze remained fixed on Gojo, the frown deepening as he fought to maintain composure. "Colleagues, perhaps, but we have our own spheres of work. Yours usually involves causing disruptions. Even as friends.”

Gojo chuckled, unapologetic. "Disruptions? I'd call it adding a bit of spice to the routine. Anyway, I've got something interesting to discuss with you."

Suguru sighed inwardly, a sense of resignation settling over him. He lets out a small smile. "Fine, what is it that Gojo Satoru needs?”

Before Gojo could respond, his attention shifted to the woman beside Suguru. "And who do we have here?" His eyes twinkled with curiosity as he gave her an exaggerated once-over. "A mysterious addition to our little meeting, Suguru?"

Suguru's irritation deepened, but he introduced them nonetheless. "This is—"

But Gojo cut him off, extending a hand toward her with a charismatic grin. "No need for formalities for the ladies, please. I'm Gojo Satoru, the most handsome, bestest, smartest professor here. And you are?"

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips. "Your introduction seems like a lie."

Gojo's grin widened, unapologetic. "Hm, not really. I have the accolades to prove it."

“You are so shameless, you are.”

“But isn’t that what makes me so attractive?”

“Not really.”

Suguru sighed, his breath carrying a mix of exasperation and fond familiarity as Gojo unabashedly praised himself. The eye roll was a well-practiced response, a silent acknowledgment of Gojo's flair for theatrics. Yet, beneath the surface of irritation, Suguru recognized the enduring charm woven into the tapestry of their friendship. The playful banter, marked by Gojo's larger-than-life persona, had become a hallmark of their interactions. 

As the verbal jousting continued, the atmosphere in the room became charged with the shared history and unspoken understanding that had accumulated over the years. The camaraderie between Suguru and Satoru wasn't just a product of their professional proximity;

it was a testament to the genuine connection forged through countless shared moments, both mundane and extraordinary. The air crackled with an energy that only true friends could generate, an energy born out of familiarity, shared jokes, and the comfort of being completely oneself in the presence of the other.

Despite Suguru's initial irritation, he couldn't deny the magnetic pull of Gojo's antics. There was a magnetic quality to Gojo's over-the-top personality that drew people in, and Suguru was no exception. The undeniable charm in Gojo's playful exaggerations and theatrical self-praise became a binding force that kept their friendship vibrant and dynamic throughout the years.

It was a charm that transcended the surface-level annoyances, becoming an integral part of the unique bond they shared—a bond that had weathered the tests of time and emerged stronger, laced with the enduring warmth of a friendship that only deepened with each passing year.

“Oh, where were we, darling?”

She hesitated for a moment, then shook his hand. "I'm—"

Gojo Satoru’s eyes widened as he leaned closer to her.

She gulped, surprised at the invasion of her space.

Gojo claps his hands, finally remembering.

“Satoru, you’re making her uncomfortable—”

"Miss ******! Is that you?” Gojo says out loud, seemingly unperturbed by others looking at them. "Is it really you? I haven’t seen you since the last Comiket! I was worried when you said you would be taking a break! I've been a fan of your works for years. I used to buy your work at those stands too! Ah, memories!”

Geto Suguru felt his eyes widen.

Gojo Satoru kept showering her praises.

‘Wait.......The BL mangaka?’

She choked as her hands hid her face. “I abandoned that name so long ago!”

The weight of Gojo's revelation hung in the air, and the room seemed to echo with the collision of two worlds—the fantastical realm of Comiket, where creativity thrived under the guise of pseudonyms, and the reality of their current setting, where identities were laid bare. The unexpected unmasking of the renowned artist behind the pen name left an indelible mark on the atmosphere.

As her hands concealed her face, a mixture of embarrassment and nostalgia played across her features. The name she had left behind resurfaced, propelled into the spotlight by Gojo's exuberant recognition. The pleasant surprise she had anticipated turned into an unforeseen encounter with a past she had consciously distanced herself from.

Suguru, caught in the crossfire of this unanticipated revelation, felt a surge of protectiveness for their guest. The air crackled with a potent blend of emotions—Gojo's unbridled enthusiasm, her visible discomfort, the people around them staring and Suguru's silent plea for moderation. The moment hung suspended, a delicate interplay of past and present, as they navigated the intricacies of unveiling the hidden layers that connected them in unexpected ways.

The woman could only feel horror in her body.

She thought she was safe from the shadows.

She probably would have to quit this job too.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fic #jjk fluff #jjk #jjk drabbles #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #jjk x you #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #getou suguru x reader #getou suguru x you #suguru geto x reader #suguru geto x you #suguru geto #getou suguru #kayu writes ! ! !

[hey-hamlet]

Since you mentioned that we can at least ask about MHA legend of zelda crossovers, how about this idea? The Triforce is passed down once a generation. And Pchako, Bakugo and Izuku are all candidates to receive a piece. And thanks to the last holder of Power having been AFO, Power has a bad rep. Duo to his attitude, Bakugo has been called that he'll get Power for sure. He's even bought into that idea. Then when the day comes, Bakugo Courage, Ochako Wisdom and Izuku gets Power.

OOOOOO ok ok ok I adore any content that addresses just how feral and unhinged Izuku is so Yes. I'm actually going to switch Ochako and Bakugo, I think. Bakugo's not actually as brave as her, in my opinion - he's just not scared. He's also wise in both battle sense and academically, so I think it'd suit him. He'd also be kind of mad about it, which is funny.

Ochako's parents were rich merchants with noble blood before she was born but they fell out of favor with the wealthy and have been just scraping by. When she was born with a softly glowing golden birthmark behind her ear her parents should have been excited. It was their path back into nobility - a child marked with the triforce was a blessing! One that solidified their place in nobility. But, a child of the triforce is Hyrule's child, not theirs. Not their baby girl, their only child - but a god's newest form. They keep quiet until she's 12, as long as they can wait, only a week after the second boy is found. They play up their ignorance, pretend they didn't know what the mark meant. All they can hope is that shes not marked for power

The Bakugo's were powerful nobles, ecstatic to see their son born with the golden mark on the palm of his hand. Due to their social clout their son wasn't taken from them, but he was given a prince's education. Due to his future power, he was paired with the young son of a kitchen maid, only a few days his junior, to act as a playmate and attendant. He grew up proud and brash and angry - his confidence and skill with a blade meant people assumed he must be Power, and his loud anger at the whispers meant he must be cruel. He was never nice to his playmate - the stupid boy wanted to fight along side him (but without the triforce, without the power of a god the rising tide of monsters would kill him - kill the only person really loyal to him and not the idea of what he could be) so Katsuki had to show him who the powerful one really was.

Izuku was born the night his father died, the night the great evil All for One was slain, the night his mother ran from their richly appointed manor to a stable at the foot of Hyrule castle. The golden triangle over his heart was a death knoll that all but ripped Inko's heart out of her chest the second she saw it. Just like his father's - the triforce ran in the royal family, only those with noble blood, those who had the blood of god in them, could be blessed like that. Bless, she thought spitefully, like the demon king? Or like Hisashi, a man she had loved, a man she'd seen grow greedier and greedier with his attentions, with his need for power, until he couldn't hide that Hisashi was a polite fiction told by the kingdom's doom. Izuku was raised alongside another boy with the triforce, Katsuki. Inko hoped that the brash boy's goodness would rub off on her son, so she turned a blind eye to the bruises and scrapes he left.

The day Ochako, the oldest by a few days, turned 16, their aspect of the triforce claimed them. Ochako, her broad shoulders and bright smile showing her courage. Bakugo, for all he was a brash bully, he couldn't hide his wisdom. And little Izuku, smallest, youngest and thinnest of the lot, with his big doe eyes and watery smile, for his power.

#asks #bnha au #triforce of power au #questionable parent inko here #shes got trauma but like. hm. yikes. izuku 100% knew she loved him but never trusted him #also bakugo baby man this is not how u keep someone safe! ur supposed to be the smart one here! #ochako ur doing great no notes.

[bimboficationblues]

what would you put on a political theory syllabus if you could

like an intro/survey course? so the conventional theory class in Anglo-American poli-phil goes roughly like this: Plato/Aristotle -> Machiavelli (if you fuck nasty) -> Hobbes/Locke/Rousseau -> J.S. Mill -> Marx (sometimes, and only with the disclaimer that this guy needs to lighten up!) -> omission of like 120 years of global thought, including the shifts wrought by two World Wars, postcolonialism, and 1968 -> Rawls. there's usually, but not consistently, some idiosyncratic liberal picks from the various omitted periods/regions based on whatever the academic in question is preoccupied with, or attempts (sometimes sincere, sometimes half-hearted) to add some diversity to the lineup, most typically some form of liberal-leaning writings on feminism or racism or occasionally postcolonialism.

I think this abridged history is like, okay but not great (Charles Mills' Decolonizing Political Philosophy is a great piece on why). it’s produced by a combination of both the discipline's narrow post-Rawls liberal paradigm, and the constraints of intro/survey courses, which aim for breadth rather than depth (which I think is generally reasonable at least on its face), so the trick I would want to pull off is making something that works within the latter constraint while not succumbing to the paradigm.

the question sort of demands interrogating what a theory class is for in the ideal sense, what it uniquely can offer (so, going beyond specific skills that can be developed in other ways, like learning to write, understand, critique, and respond to long-form argument, or the more cynical pipeline-to-labor stuff like credentialing).

I think some main goals would be 1) contextualizing your existence in the world as a political subject, 2) be able to pass an ideological Turing test, i.e. accurately represent the substance of different perspectives and worldviews such that you could "pass" for the authentic thing [so I would include writers/writings that I detest for KYE reasons], 3) increase your autonomy as a political agent and ability to recognize how these various concepts and systems underlie the fabric of our political language and practice and how you can apply them in reality in collaboration with others.

an extension of these goals, imo, is that political thought without a history is dead in the water - this is why I have kind of a hardline opposition to trying to learn political theory mostly through social media and why "leftist theory recs" on here usually drive me absolutely crazy. so any teaching of these readings would probably require a decent level of contextualization.

then there's a question of structure. my intro class was actually pretty enjoyable despite following the pattern described above, as my prof centered the class around different chapters of Plato's Republic, using each chapter as a jumping off point to talk about connections with a more modern political thinker while also incorporating some short fiction of Octavia Butler. cool stuff! I think organizing around theme is edifying. there's tradeoffs to doing chronological vs thematic organization of readings though, which I want to keep in mind

so with all that I think it would look roughly like this (though frankly my reach might be exceeding my grasp), and you could pretty much reorganize the readings to be chronological if you wanted:

"The Political"/Power: I think spending some time on "metapolitics" is important, like what politics is and what the function of political philosophy is. So start with some different perspectives on realism vs. idealism (the Republic, the Melian dialogue, The Prince) and sliding into competing definitions of politics as conflict vs consensus (the Arendt/Fanon and Schmitt/Benjamin "debates")

Authority: Hobbes/Rousseau/Hume on the social contract, the Crito/Thoreau/MLK on civil disobedience, ideally an anarchist of some stripe (would rather include Bakunin or Kropotkin but R.P. Wolff might be the more cohesive move)

Equality/Property: Locke's Second Treatise, Rousseau's Discourse on Inequality, The Communist Manifesto and/or Marx on primitive accumulation as an alternative genealogy of property/money, Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morality as illustrative of a reactionary/aristocratic perspective on equality (you could swap in Aristotle instead for a different take), Fanon in Black Skins White Masks

Justice: Plato, Rawls on distributive justice, Nussbaum on capabilities/global justice, Mills on the racial contract

Freedom: Mill's On Liberty, Marcuse's "Critique of Pure Tolerance," some chapters from Capital V1, "Throwing Like a Girl" by Young (plus maybe some Beauvoir/Wittig). work in Berlin and Pettit's competing ideas of liberty

then maybe end on Foucault writing in a broad mode about subjectivity OR Benjamin's "On the Concept of History" - either would be good for a kind of "call to action" that I like in a politics class

there are some concepts that might warrant their own segment (domination, violence, sovereignty, revolution, security, progress - I waffled on making "property" its own unit), but I'm trying to not go too crazy (and it's possible they could get folded into other concepts as corollaries). I'm also leaving out various authors that I do think merit inclusion (Adorno, Dewey, D&G, Lenin & Mao, Althusser, Davis, various contemporary writers), but I would probably follow the path of my Middle Eastern Politics professor - put supplemental/suggested readings in there for the freaks that like this stuff.

and finally I think the above is more tailored to be an introduction (if a somewhat sweeping one), you could take an alternative tack and construct "contemporary issues in political theory" (e.g. migration/refugees, climate, economic crisis, security state/surveillance) and I think that would also be a rewarding survey

#instantly regret posting this but here we are

[sehunniepotwrites]

SHELVED AWAY | JH.S

SYNOPSIS. You and Johnny have been academic rivals since the day you first met. Top Two on the Dean’s List for your university’s English Department, it was hard to tell who claimed the number one spot on the list. You always butted heads, whether it was over who led the discussion in a course lecture, who got a higher grade on a paper, or who helped more customers at the bookshop you both worked at. When a bet to see who could sign up more customers for their shop’s loyalty program came to life, the both of you would stop at nothing to win this little game even if it meant getting closer to the other.

PAIRING. coworker!Johnny Suh x (f) reader GENRE. college!au, bookshop!au, enemies-to-lovers!au, academic rivals!au, suggestive, humor, fluff (?) WORD COUNT. 4.6k+ WARNINGS. characters are like cat-and-dog, make-out scene, profanity, name-calling (lmao), they bicker a lot

DISCLAIMER. This is work of fiction. I do not own the people/characters and concepts I have written about. You cannot translate or copy my work.

There were many things you loved about your university. 

You loved how the campus was swarmed with trees, each building surrounded by a lush and vibrant green in the spring and summer months and warm brown shades during the cold of autumn and winter. You loved the sense of community your school upheld, always hosting events that were opened to anyone and everyone in the immediate area. The way it made you feel at home when you were miles away. The friends you made in your major and the small department you belonged to. 

You adored it all. 

The one thing you hated about your university though wasn’t a thing at all. It was a person who went by the name of John Jun Suh. People in the English department, whether it be faculty, staff, or fellow students called him by Johnny but you wouldn’t succumb to calling him by his preferred name. It made you seem closer to him than you really were and you despised that even being a possibility. You weren’t close. You were far from that. 

Johnny Suh was your rival in every sense of the word. The top two students in the entire department—he concentrated in Literal and Cultural Studies while you dabbled in Creative Writing—you never saw eye to eye. 

Even in a shared lecture hall, you and Johnny were miles apart, distance fueled by your competitive spirits and mutual distaste for the other. 

Miles apart and still butting heads as academic rivals were destined to do. The discussions in the courses you shared were led by your volleying, voices only increasing in volume as you challenged each other’s thoughts and cruxes. Fighting for the attention of the professors. Competing for the highest grade on the latest paper or the spot of tutor in the Writing Lab. 

And just how you had a certain way of doing things, Johnny did the same, using a completely different method. 

In other words, the two of you were complete opposites. 

While you preferred the lighter side of fiction, he longed for the darker bookish themes. The same went for your style of dress—your academia-themed wardrobe was filled with whites, off-whites, and the lighter colors of the spectrum whereas Johnny’s clothes consisted of darker statement pieces including black turtlenecks and dark brown slacks with matching coats. Dark shades and fits that only accentuated his devastatingly handsome figure. 

When you felt comfortable studying during the light of day, you always caught Johnny entering the library in the dark of night as you left for home. 

He was a bookish social butterfly, his wings fluttering about here and there around the English department building and in any club that sparked his interest, while you stayed in your tightly-knitted group of friends. 

Your friends never understood why you hated him. Yes, you were rivals when it came to grades and other educated-related things, but they truly believed you would get along if you really got to know him.

You hated him because it seemed as if he was blessed with everything in life—intelligence, a light and friendly attitude despite his dark attire, physical features that rivaled ones belonging to the gods. Thick hair that looked good in any color. Eyes that shined behind the glare of his rounded specks. Proportions that made both men and women alike swoon. A voice filled with a variety of colors. Johnny was almost perfect without even trying and you despised him for it. 

They were wrong about you and him. So completely wrong.

You knew it. You were almost certain Johnny knew it too.

There was no way you could get along with John Jun Suh. Never in your wildest dreams.

You thought you would find solace working in the town center’s bookshop. Clearly, as Johnny stood before you, with his brand new name-tag pinned against the expanse of his chest, you thought wrong.

To make matters worse, you were the one assigned to train him, to show him the ropes. According to your boss, there was no one better to show the giant how everything works around the store. Your boss wasn’t wrong, you just hated the fact that you had to share one more thing with Johnny Suh. 

With and without your help, Johnny picked up quickly and worked his way up to one of the shop’s top sellers list. Once again, you two were tied for a title. Your boss, sensing your drive to compete, fueled the fire even more in the form of commissions. 

As one of the only bookstores in your college town, your place of employment was quite a popular place. People of all ages flocked to your store to find the book they were seeking and it was time to take advantage of it. In order to engage with customers, your boss launched a loyalty program in which people could earn points that led to discounts. An employee of the shop would earn a commission every time someone signed up for the program under their recommendation. The staff member who received the most commissions within three months after launch would get an extra bonus. It was a fantastic plan, one that was well-received by the staff and the public, especially by you and Johnny.

The two of you found it as another way to compete, especially when you were the highest performers in house. A bet resulted from this “friendly” competition, the loser having to do whatever the winner wanted of them. You remembered the day the bet was established, the rage festering inside you egging Johnny on.

“I’m going to get that bonus, Suh, just you wait,” you said, pushing yourself off the shelf you leaned on. “Just you fucking wait.”

Johnny’s face whipped straight to you with a smirk permanently etched on his full lips. With raised brows, he answered, “Oh, I think you’ve got it all wrong, sweetheart, because that money is mine.”

He tried to distract you with silly nicknames and it didn’t work. “Stubborn as ever, aren’t you?”

“I’d say the same about you,” Johnny lowered his lids, lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. He crossed his arms against his chest, muscles straining against his tight shirt’s form hugging fabric. You willed yourself to look away from the bulging muscles that caught everyone else’s attention.  “I’d suggest a bet but everyone knows I’ll win.”

“Oh, please. You’re too confident in yourself!”

“And you’re not?”

“I’ve been here longer and I have more customer service experience than you, John, so I clearly have the upper hand,” you argued as your feet led you to him. 

“And yet all the customers come to me when we’re servicing the same area, I wonder why that is,” Johnny shrugged, “Must be your resting bitch face scaring them away.”

You scoffed, “Is that supposed to be an insult? You need to try a little harder to actually hurt my feelings.”

“Believe me,” Johnny paused to say your name and you tightened your fists to fight the shiver his words caused, “I’m only just getting started.”

“Okay, if it’s a bet you want, fine. I’m in. Loser gets to grant the winner’s wish, no matter what it is.” You stuck your hand out and it lingered in the air for a second too long. 

When you tried to pull it away, Johnny’s hand reached out to join them together. You ignored the electricity that shocked your brain. The feeling of warmth his touch gave you. 

“Fine,” he agreed.

“Good!”

“Good.”

Neither you or Johnny announced what you wanted as punishments, saving the surprise for when the three months concluded. Despite that, you were not one who took losing well. So, you did whatever means necessary to win. Johnny did the very same.

Your coworkers gave up on winning that bonus because no one was as passionate as you both were, parading around the grounds while sabotaging each other. Johnny hid your online orders and you stole his customers. You had yelling matches in the stock rooms, ones others could hear if they passed by the back doors. They never stopped you–they knew better than that–instead, they just let it all unfold, wondering where your arguments would lead you next.

“Stop taking customers away from me!” you screeched at him one day when the shop was devoid of people. It was a slow day so far with no one else but Johnny and a few more coworkers to keep you company.  

You passed the point of annoyance and almost grabbed the closest hardcover within your reach. A good hit on the back of Johnny’s head would do your coworker some good. Johnny deserved it, especially when that specific guest signed up for the program right in front of you. You caught Johnny double checking the person’s entered information on his computer screen, reading everything back to him to check for accuracy. 

You couldn’t believe he ripped another one away from your fingertips. According to the data up till then, tallied on a whiteboard in the break room, Johnny was five commissions ahead of you. You were in the lead last week but he intercepted so many of your customers in the past two days, Johnny saw catching up as child’s play. That last customer made it six. 

Johnny simply rested his sharp chin, “You were taking too long so he came to me. Seemed like he was in a rush.”

“I was trying to find him the perfect copy,” you spat back. “A lot of the covers were damaged during shipping.”

“And some people don’t care about that stuff.” 

“Are you saying you don’t?” you asked.

“No, I do. But others, like that guy who just left, don’t.” 

“Whatever, fucker,” you turned away from him, logging back into your computer that kicked you off during your time away. 

“Such eloquent words coming out of that pretty mouth of yours,” Johnny laughed, satisfied with the irritation in your voice. Your mind fixated on the compliment and you did your absolute best to ignore minuscule, barely-there thump in your chest. “Wonder what other insults you can come up with. Maybe you’ll dive into some Shakespearean ones, those are always fun.” 

“Watch your back and your customers, Suh,” you threatened, fingertips pressing harshly against the keys. 

He heard the anger with every little click. “Sure, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Just for that,” Johnny smirked, “I don’t think I will.”

“Thief.”

“Slowpoke.”

But as the months passed, there were times when Johnny would get a little too close to you and his presence didn’t bother you as much as before. 

His voice wasn’t as irritating from near or far. Your eyes stopped twitching when Johnny would change his commission count on the communal white board. 

Sometimes, you would feel his large, warm hand on your back as he tried to get to his register. Other times, you felt his breath hitting your cheek while he leaned down to look at your computer. When you argued, you were suddenly hyper aware of how his body was less than an inch away from yours. How he, at times, would stare at your frowning lips for a beat too long. Or how his biting words turned a little kinder when you were having an off day. 

Those things shouldn’t have affected you in the way that they did, making your heart rumble in your chest like an earthquake shaking your entire world. But as much as you wanted to deny it,  Johnny tugged on your heart strings. Unknowingly, his actions made you revisit the chapter of your story that focused on love. Little by little, they added words to pages left untouched for many years, bringing the paper to life. And you weren’t sure of where this plot point was taking you next.

“I didn’t know you liked this genre,” you approached him one day as Johnny sat in the break room. His nose was stuck inside one of your favorite novels, one that you recommended to anyone who asked for a romance suggestion. The book itself came out two weeks ago and it sold out within hours. 

You, being an avid reader and book reviewer, received access to an advanced copy in exchange for an honest review. And an honest review you gave that had everyone who followed you buzzing until the release date. 

“Well, there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Johnny smiled softly at you, his long fingers coming up to slip a bookmark in between the pages he left off on. He slid past you, gently placing the novel back into the small crevice of his work locker. “It’s really good so far, I see why you’ve been raving about it. I’d keep reading but my break’s up,” he said to you, his hand grazing at the small of your back to move you out of his way, “but I’ll talk to you more about it later, yeah? I marked some quotes I liked.” 

Your gaze followed him out, not knowing why that touch and his words made you freeze in place. It made him seem like a romantic, something that you really wouldn’t have guessed. 

There were a lot of things you knew about Johnny Suh. You knew how he irritated you to death and how he always came in early for his shifts. He hated being late. He was always on time. 

You knew how he preferred darker neutrals than your lighter colors when it came to wardrobe palettes. How he belonged to a different English concentration but still took creative writing courses to expand his verse. 

But there were a lot of things you don’t know about him, too. You didn’t know how he took his coffee in the morning or who his favorite author was. His favorite genre of book or his preferred type of music when he studies so diligently on his breaks. You didn’t know how he liked to spend his time away from school and work. Whether he preferred plain sticky notes or the Disney Princess ones he was currently placing on the pages of your favorite book.

You didn’t know if he was dating anybody or remotely interested in anyone at the moment. Not that you actually cared.

There were a whole lot of things you didn’t know about Johnny but just looking at him with your beloved novel in hand, marking the pages with his own inklings, you felt your heart wanting to learn more about the coworker you came to hate. Yearning to occupy the spot in front of him and exchange his current thoughts on the book. Longing to hear how his mind interpreted fact and fiction.

You didn’t know much about John Jun Suh but the book of your heart had already opened its pages up, ready for him to fill you up with words and maybe, his love.

It was the second to last week of the bet and you were working the busiest shift of your life. 

There was a signing with a popular author earlier in the day, flooding the store more than usual. It ended around an hour ago but the weening crowd from the event lingered in between the aisles. Some of your coworkers already clocked out for the day, only assigned the hours of the signing. But you, of course, were not able to leave as you were that day’s shift lead. So you carried on, starting your rotation as the customer service stand in the middle of the store. 

You smiled at a customer who approached you, grabbing their sheet of confirmation paper for a book on hold. Gesturing to the back room with the paper in hand, you said politely, “Wait right here. I’ll be right back with your book.”

The customer nodded at you in reply and with that, you were off. Johnny, who was manning the other customer service computer next to you, followed suit. Rolling your eyes, you attempted to walk faster but with daddy long legs behind you, it didn’t take long for him to catch up to your pace. Pretending the tall boy with the stupid round glasses and the stuck-up dark academia fit wasn’t there, your focus remained on the paper in your grip. Studying the printed font, you maneuvered through various bookshelves without looking up until you reached a door that read “Employees Only.” 

Swiping your employee card to grant you access, you hurried in to keep Johnny out. Kicking the door closed you didn’t work–Johnny’s long foot caught it before it shut and you cursed. You wished it slammed against him, inflicting some sort of pain—much like the pain he caused you. 

Sighing, a realization hit you. He was never going to leave you alone no matter how hard you tried. But did that truly upset you or did it leave your body buzzing with nerves? 

“You’re ignoring me,” Johnny deadpanned as your hands ghosted against the spines of many books lining the shelves. His heavy footsteps echoed in the room; it was louder than your nervous breaths. Being alone with him did make you nervous, not that you would ever admit it out loud.

You would never admit to the butterflies you felt when he was around or the way your heart pounded erratically against your breastbone. You would never admit the way the scent of his perfume drove you a bit mad—almost as mad as the famed hatter—or how irritatingly handsome he looked when he studied at the counter, full lips in a pout and rounded glasses sliding down the slope of his nose.

Or how much you liked when he did little things like holding the door open for you when you had a dolly filled with merchandise. Making sure you got a worksheet that you missed during a class discussion. How you grew sweet on him when he’d drive you home after a shared closing shift, expressing his concern for your safety. 

Johnny said he wouldn’t want any girl to wait out in the dark for an unreliable bus. He’d rather see you home so he was one hundred percent sure you made it back to your apartment in one piece. Johnny wouldn’t leave the lot until he saw your bedroom light turn on. He memorized what floor you were on the day he took you all the way to your door. It was the night some loiterers were being loud and obnoxious at the front of your building. You didn’t feel safe walking past them on your own, frightened by the drunken catcalls they threw at people passing by. So like any good person would do, Johnny draped a protective arm around your shoulder, told you to keep your pretty little head down, and led you to the elevator. 

You even caught yourself dreaming about him during the day and night, random thoughts of him streaming into your consciousness. They were like little movie reels playing in your head. Scenes of him sitting in the corners of the shop, reading and annotating the books you recommended to guests, or him sipping on that large cup of iced americano that he consumed daily.

You would never admit to any of those things, especially not to him.

“I’m not ignoring you, you’re too insignificant to ignore.”

Johnny laughed a light chuckle as if he thought your response was cute. You hated it. 

“I just don’t want anything to do with you, and also— I. Am. Working,” you hissed as you finally reached the shelf you were looking for. The customer had ordered a new contemporary romance novel—one you found yourself indulging in during your breaks before it was released—but it was nowhere to be found in your stock. 

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Johnny’s voice came from behind you. You felt the heat of his body and you clenched your hand, ultimately wrinkling the paper you held. That was fine; the customer didn’t need it after your interaction anyway. It was going straight to the trash, just like your heart was. 

Your not-so-fragile heart was going in the damn garbage because you were letting a stupid pretentious English major rile you up over the dumbest things. An ounce of hate consumed you as you came to this epiphany. You were supposed to hate him, despise him for challenging your position as the top seller in the store, and for stealing your spotlight from the English department. So why didn’t you?

“God—where is that damned book?” Your irritation seeped through your words and the way you slammed the metal shelves. 

Johnny chuckled, easily snatching the paper from your hands, earning a small huff from you. He took a glance at it before shifting his gaze to the higher shelves--the ones you needed a step stool for. Your co-worker, smug as he could be, found it easily and with confidence, he reached for it. The action pressed you against the shelf, your hands immediately finding purchase on the metal to steady yourself from the unexpected weight. His strong, hard chest was against your back and his hot breath hit your ear. “Looking for this one?”

You stiffened against him. You could not move, not when Johnny’s weight trapped you between his arms. Not when the sweet scent of his cologne was flooding your senses. Not when his low, husky voice whispered in your ear. 

“I don’t need your help,” you hissed back, fingers gripping onto the edge of the shelf. 

“You need my height.”

“There’s a step stool right there for me to use so no, John, I don’t need your help.”

“Clearly, you do, sweetheart, you couldn’t even find that book for that sweet customer that’s waiting for you out there.”

The nickname, although a bit heart-fluttering, was also somewhat degrading and it set you off. Fire seeped through your veins. With a breath, you turned so that you were chest to chest. With furrowed brows and a piercing glare, you said, “I don’t need you—“

“You sure?” Johnny leaned closer, his hazed eyes dipping down to your frowning lips for a fraction of a second. 

You caught the action and again, your heart tried pushing its way out of your body, “—or your help or your teasing here and in class. I’m tired.”

“I’m not.” Of course, he wasn’t. He never was. That’s what made him so annoying—his persistence. 

“Give me the book, John.” 

“Nah, I think I’ll hold on to it for you.”

“Hand it over.”

Lowering down to her level, he smirks and says, “Why don’t you make me?”

“Don’t think I can do it?”

“Oh, I’d really like to see you try.”

Johnny’s challenging words pulled you to do something unexpected. Instead of replying with words, you accepted his provocation by yanking him to your level and fitting your mouth against his. Your fingers curled in his long, soft hair while his free hand drifted to your waist. It wrapped around your middle, further trapping you in between his build and the cold metal shelf. 

Johnny kissed you like it was something that he wanted to do. Like it was something he was meant to do. Whenever you moved, he followed. Every little tilt of the head or breath you took was followed by him finding his way back to you. There was no escaping his lips, his scent, his whole entire being. Johnny was all around you and for once, you let yourself indulge in the moment. 

When Johnny swiped his tongue against your bottom lip, you opened yourself up to him. You allowed him to explore parts of you that had been closed off for many years. The levels of passion were on an equal scale, the tiny noises escaping you matching the level of Johnny’s eager groans. He made you forget where you were once his grip found its way to your chin, pulling you to close the space you created as you took a needed breath. The task of helping the customer was temporarily erased from memory as he pulled away just enough to whisper your name against your lips.

But it all came back to you once you felt that book–the one you fought him for–press against your middle. It was wedged in between your bodies, distracting you from the pleasure that came from kissing your rival. 

So, as Johnny went back in for another kiss, you grabbed the book out of his loosened grip and shoved him away. 

Taking a good look at him, Johnny’s face was red and his lips were all kinds of swollen. There was a dazed look in his eyes, one that was so hazy, it was the dreamiest thing you had ever laid eyes on. His hand remained at the level of your head, fingers twitching, as if they wanted to grab hold of you once more. Your name barely escaped his lips when you slowly retreated towards the exit. You created a wider space between you, with the coveted book in one hand and the other blindly reaching for the door handle.

“There. See?”

“See what?” Johnny said breathlessly.

“I tried,” you replied, staring right into his eyes. If you looked elsewhere, if your gaze wandered back down to the lips that tasted so addicting, you would have folded and ran back right to him. Shaking the book within his view, you continued on, “And when I try, I always get what I want.”

Giving him no time to talk back, you opened the door and made your great escape. 

His brown eyes remained on the door long after you left, waiting for his heart to calm itself. His fingers rubbed against his lips, mind still clouded with no one else but you. That wasn’t an odd occurrence to him, it was actually quite a normal one. Not that you had to know.

Johnny opened up to the thought of you long before that kiss occurred. 

It happened earlier in the year, when he saw you tutoring his friend Mark in the English department’s writing center. You diligently helped the struggling student, offering him constructive feedback with a high amount of patience. You stayed hours after your tutoring shift ended, making sure Mark hit every point on the grading rubric to ensure that he would get a passing grade. 

There was no need for you to go out of your way like that but you wanted to out of the goodness of your heart. And just like you assisted Mark, you continued to go above and beyond in your bookstore clerk duties to guarantee that every customer left satisfied. 

Your dedication to your work was admirable. It made you all the more charming in Johnny’s eyes, even more charming than the first time he laid eyes on you during first year orientation. 

A new book opened way back then, the love story in his heart practically writing itself. But as your treatment and obvious distaste towards him worsened over the years, he shelved that book away. Despite the harsh treatment he didn’t deserve, Johnny’s heart always held a soft spot for you; the page he left off on dog-eared for him to return to. It remained folded, the crease pressing a permanent indent into the page in case Johnny wanted to explore his feelings in depth once again.

And as you rang up the customer that you fought over, Johnny went through the library of his mind, searching for that book he filed away. And once he found it, he pried it out of the shelf and opened it back up, undoing the crease that bookmarked where he left off. 

Johnny was ready to fall in love again but more importantly, he was ready to fall in love with you. 

EMPLOYEE BULLETIN BOARD. Hey, everyone! I’m back. Long time no chat <3 First of all, happy new year! But more importantly, happy Johnny day!!! I went through my archives to find this. It was originally planned to be a longer fic but I lost inspiration for it. Maybe I can come back to it one day and fully flesh it out. But until then, this is all I’ve got (until Jaehyun’s birthday). Please tell me what you think of it. I feel like I’m a bit rusty ;;;

A big thanks to @lavendersuh for reading through this multiple times and editing/suggesting things when she saw fit. You’re the best, Em <3 @smileysuh you’re the king for also skimming through this. And @yutaholic for indulging me as I spam her with all my ideas uwu. You’re awesome!! 

TAGLIST. @johtenrecs @emmybyeakitty @ppangjae @sokkigarden @kaepop-trash @suhnnyskiess @baekhyuns-lipchain @bebsky @bat-shark-repellant @renjuunsz @ferxanda @lebrookestore​ @tyongblr

NETWORKS. @neowritingsnet​ 

© sehunniepotwrites, 2022

#neowritingsnet #cznnet #ankathia #johnny scenarios #johnny imagines #johnny fic #johnny x reader #nct x reader #nct scenarios #nct imagines

[olderthannetfic]

Jeez, this entire drawn out convo is embarrassing and done to death. BL is romance. It's bound to the same romance tropes as MF and FF, id-driven as many of them are. If you don't like how a male character is written, that just means you don't like the story; move on. A lot of romance and horror both function on the premise of "romanticizing" and "fetishizing" things that wouldn't be desirable in real life. Yes, horror movies do portray murder as something fun for the audience. That's why people like slashers flicks from the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s. It even became a trend that people would watch the intro of the slasher to see which teenagers are the most annoying, so it's fun when Jason or Freddy or Michael Meyers, or whoever kills them gruesomely. That's why we love the Final Destination films! That's why we like Saw! It's why we like The Evil Dead! It's why we like Wrong Turn! It's why we like Scream! Friday the 13th, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Child's Play, Halloween! They're tropey horror slashers with elaborate, gorey murder scenes that become such spectacles of themselves that by the end of the franchises, there's so much blood and viscera that the scenes are parodies of themselves. They're beloved all over the world. And people cheer for the murders in theaters! People love cheering for Freddy Krueger and Michael Meyers, and Jason when they disembowl some 15 year old who was probably just off drinking illegally with their friends. People love cheering for them so much, that there're are crossover films so we can cheer as they fight each other. These are such well-known tropes in horror that they've become cemented in popular culture, so movies like Cabin in the Woods are made. It's popular, extremely so, and I don't know how someone can go 20 years of life and not realize this. Just like how people like reading Twilight wherein Edward basically stalks Bella. Women don't want to be stalked in real life, but they like Edward because it's just a story. No one wants to date a man like Christian Gray in real life, but he's hot in a story. No one wants a guy like Ryouma Ichijou in real life, but it's fun in a tropey BL. The audience is supposed to like him because they want the main couple to get together. If it's not your thing, just don't watch it and move on to something else. The world will keep spinning.

And a lot of people like stories from the antagonists' perspective because it's interesting. This doesn't appear often in things made for children because it's for children, so it has some small responsibility of modeling behavior... because it's for kids. Things for adults don't have all these restrictions because as an adult, you should be able to judge right from wrong in real life, so you can just relax and watch Hannibal Lector abuse and manipulate Will in Hannibal without having an existential crisis about the moral fabric of society decaying. If you can't handle it, you should leave the training wheels on because genre fiction for adults will not always hold you hand--because you're an adult, and you should have common sense to know "murder/sexual assault/stalking/harassment/etc is bad in real life." Children below the ages of 4-5 aren't supposed to watch things like Spongebob for this same reason: they can't tell the difference. If you're an adult, you should be capable of that much, at least.

BL studies is an established academic field that discusses and examines BL across the world in different media forms: manga, manhwa, manhua, anime, donghua, live action, etc. from different countries. Read articles from professionals. Learn about BL and geicomi since apparently it also has to be reiterated that the characters in BL--yes, even the thin, waifs--look like straight men in East Asia. They're ikemen. There are different stereotypes of what queer men look like all over the world, wild concept, I know. The stereotype of what gay men look like in E. Asia are chubby bears, like plumbers, or super ripped men, like the body types typically featured in geicomi, the stories made by men for a male target audience.

Yes, many popular youtubers/breadtubers say convertly puritanical talking points in their videos. Few, if any, actually have media literacy. And few are actually transgressive or nuanced in their discussions of fiction or fandom. If they were, Google wouldn't promote them. You should try reading up more about radfem/TERF theory to recognize these talking points. Everyone who thinks these things isn't walking around around with a neon sign. You should know, since you actually share many of their harmful beliefs, but I doubt you'd call yourself a TERF or a radfem. Read Nancy Friday books like My Secret Garden to learn more about taboo sexual fantasies are how normal they are.

Read BL studies articles to actually learn history, read some Nancy Friday books to get over this weird projection of morality and kink in fantasy, and actually listen when people are correcting you because there's decades if not centuries of research refuting all your "points." No one is saying you have to like these stories for yourself, but you do have to realize the world doesn't revolve around you, and other people will always like different things and that's fine. These stories and discussions have always happened and they're fueled by misogyny and homophobia, as well as a desire for censorship. Read some Oscar Wilde essays too or even more recent BL manga/hwa/etc. BL anime doesn't get produced often because animation is expensive. It's 2023. Why are we pretending that Love Stage is representative of current trends in BL across different countries in different mediums, genres, magazines/publishers since Love Stage came out in the early 2000s?

--

[bg3ficreviews]

'Too Many Burdens to Bear' - #BG3 FanFic Review

Re-posted with the permission of the review author, @mishtress.

Friends, I bring you a review of a fanfic that I hold very close to my heart, and written by a very dear friend.

Too Many Burdens to Bear is an in-depth, insightful exploration of what it means to be a survivor of sexual violence and trauma. In it, @autistichalsin explores the toll that profound, untreated trauma can have on not just the psyche of a survivor, but also those who love them most. The story is centred around Halsin Silverbough, the once Archdruid of the Emerald Grove, and his lover and partner Kiaran, himself a victim of profound trauma as a result of his Bhaalspawn lineage, in a post-canon setting.

Burdens is a difficult, heavy read, and not for the faint of heart. That said, the way the author has navigated the deep complexities of trauma - not just for Halsin, but Kiaran as well - is a masterwork that few writers will ever achieve in their lifetime. I review books professionally as a journalist. I have studied works like JM Coetzee's award-winning novel Disgrace at length in an academic, university setting for a number of years. Coetzee won a number of awards for Disgrace, which also explores sexual violence. And yet, Coetzee's work cannot begin to even hope to compare to the nuanced, trauma-sensitive and profoundly compassionate narrative and story that autistichalsin had embarked upon in Burdens.

Shame is a prominent theme in Burdens as Kiaran tries to help Halsin overcome his profound sense of shame after his years held in captivity as a sex slave in the Underdark. Halsin's traumatic experiences are triggered after a horrifying encounter with someone from his past, and his anger, fear, and self-isolation in response threatens to destroy the couple. And yet, their love for one another and mutual trust perseveres through Halsin's pain as the couple try to find a way to help the former Archdruid find healing after centuries of repressing the most traumatic moments of his life.

Autistichalsin deftly, carefully, and compassionately explores the deep wounds that remain after sexual assault, with a particular focus on how such trauma can alter how survivors relate to sex, love, and romantic partners.

I have never, ever, in my entire life, read any work that so expertly navigates sexual violence, trauma, and the profound difficulties survivors must face on the path to healing, and particularly in relation to reclaiming their sexual agency. I have never before read a work that so insightfully examines the impact trauma can have on the mind of survivors, and how thoroughly and completely sexual violence can fuck up the way we think about ourselves and the world around us. I have worked in and researched the trauma field for a very, very long time (both academically, and in trying to understand my own experiences of sexual violence). There is not a single line, turn of phrase, or description of Halsin and Kiaran's experience that I could not somehow relate to or that I have not heard other survivors express over my many years - spanning more than a decade - working in this field.

This work deserves to be classed among the world's leading fiction that explores the vastly underrepresented field of recovery from sexual violence and how survivors strive to find healing and joy in sex after the most brutal and intimate of violations. As a rape and abuse survivor myself, I have found hope and healing in Burdens and the beautiful, loving and heartfelt relationship between Halsin and Kiaran. I hope other survivors find the same comfort that I have with this truly wonderful work.

As always, mind the tags on AO3, as Burdens includes heavy themes as well as NSFW elements. You can find Burdens here, and it is an ongoing work. I have included a snippet below the fold, and a picture of the husbear taken by @druidicwhisper.

Chapter 1

Halsin was hurting.

Kiaran wasn’t sure why- wasn’t sure what had happened. And he wasn’t sure how, or even if he could help. But the past few weeks, it had become glaringly clear that something was wrong. The elf loved to talk, and yet he had been so quiet, even when surrounded by the commune’s orphans. Even at night, when telling them their bedtime stories, he opted to read from a book instead of telling one of his own tales. And his voice was so distant while doing so, too, like he was going through the motions of reading while his mind was elsewhere.

If it was just that, Kiaran might have thought Halsin simply had a lot on his mind in this transitional time in their lives. They hadn’t been at their commune for too long, after all, and surely Halsin was thinking of many heavy things as they reclaimed the land that had spent the past century covered in shadow. But Halsin was distant from Kiaran, just as he was with the others: deliberately so. Kiaran could tell it was deliberate, for Halsin pulled away almost half the time Kiaran reached for him now. Even at night, in his meditations, Halsin would jolt when touched and then proceed to find somewhere else to rest, with a mumbled apology and a promise to find him later.

No, something else was clearly the matter, and Kiaran didn’t know what, nor did he know how to ask Halsin. True to form, his kind and supportive partner was all but unable to ask for help, no matter how much he needed it, and that went doubly so when those troubles were of the emotional sort. Halsin had admitted once to having gone for so long without confidantes thanks to the Shadow Curse that he was still adjusting to the idea it was possible for someone to care about his troubles.

Kiaran kept wracking his mind for an event that might have triggered such a reaction, but nothing came to him. Their lives had been blessedly quiet since arriving at the commune; their greatest worries were in blending the multiple cultures their members came from, in maintaining their food stores properly, and other such mundane issues. No longer were they balancing the world’s fate on their shoulders, or fighting to break a Shadow Curse, or doing anything that resembled the other traumas Halsin had fought against in his long life.

Unless…

Kiaran frowned suddenly. Could that be it? Maybe Halsin was so used to living one crisis after another that he was unprepared for true peace. Maybe his mind was still experiencing the tumult, even removed from the situation. After all, it wasn’t like the last century had been conducive to healing, and the idyllic calm would give his mind plenty of time to wander to those deep wounds that had never healed, only half-scabbed over.

Kiaran watched Halsin, currently in bear form, curl in on himself in the corner of their hand-built treehouse. It was only a theory, but it was the best lead he had, really. If it turned out to be something else, Kiaran might never figure out what it was unless Halsin volunteered the information himself, and that seemed highly unlikely, if Halsin hadn’t said anything already.

There was no way to find out but by talking to him, Kiaran supposed. He sighed and wandered over to Halsin’s spot, sitting next to the wildshaped cave bear and petting his fur. “Hello, love. Can we talk?” he asked softly. “I… won’t beat around the bush here, sweetheart. I’m worried about you. Very worried.”

Continued on AO3 here.

#halsin silverbough #halsin #bg3 fanfic review #bg3 #baldurs gate 3

[comradekatara]

i never thought of modern au katara being a writer, but that's so fitting and i love it. do you see any parallels between her journey learning waterbending in canon with her gaining confidence as a writer in your au? ex being dismissed bc of all the disrespect the art of writing gets irl, meeting haru and being mutually inspired/ working with jet and having a fallout? i know there's a fine line between narrative parallels in aus and like, contrived shit like katara being the last mcr fan or smth

not the last mcr fan 😭 but yeah!! it feels like the very natural connection between her being the show's narrator and the way storytelling and narrative is such a crucial aspect of her identity, culture, the way she sees the world, and survives. i think her being an investigative journalist who travels and reports on various crises and exposes corruption and inequality, but also writes more personal essays on her own experiences, or even just writing about media and art and fashion and sports and the stuff she enjoys. historical monographs, journalistic exposes, personal essays, poetry, fiction, maybe even like. a children's fantasy series. truly, she can do it all!

however, unlike waterbending, i don't think it's the kind of thing she would aspire to excel at since childhood. i actually think that she wouldn't really try hard in any academic pursuits for most of her childhood/adolescence bc she doesn't feel like she'll ever be good enough anyway, so what's the point. she's like "i only learned how to read when i was five and i don't understand number theory i must be some kind of ignoramus." the prospect of actually being very smart in many ways (including academically) just totally eludes her. because in a mundane world like ours, where bending does not exist and there is no such thing as a chosen one, it is sokka, not katara, who is the shiny, special wunderkind, and katara is the one who compensates by excelling in areas that sokka does not (namely, athletics, activism, and art). so mapping those arcs into this world actually inverts a lot of their dynamics in the sense of what and who is valued.

obviously katara does nonetheless struggle with being valued as a waterbender (by the nwt, by sokka himself, by the fire nation) and has to work incredibly hard to prove herself, so the idea that she's never underestimated or undervalued in the show isn't entirely accurate, but there's definitely a sense, at least within her family and tribe, that she is the world's specialest princess, and although i still think she'd be kanna's favorite and cherished as the baby of the family and beloved by aang in modern au, she isn't deemed inherently worthy and special. because she isn't a waterbender, she's just a normal girl.

sidenote: i do actually think a lot about how katara and sokka both undermine each other out of jealousy, like it's just not sokka calling katara a freak for playing with magic water, katara is constantly dismissing and undermining sokka in a way that's like. hang on. does she think she's....punching up?? like i do think katara probably carries resentments about not being as smart and special as sokka and compensates via her bending in the same way sokka compensates for his lack of bending via his other skills. they are constantly caught in a cycle of trying to be worthy of being the other's sibling, with the ultimate result just being that they are both incredibly gifted and accomplished in their respective areas (azula and zuko also sort of have this going on, but it's less mutual, because azula's skills are valued and zuko's are not, whereas both katara and sokka possess valuable skills that make them special to their community).

anyway. as for katara's journey to becoming a writer, i think she would write for fun as a kid but never show it to anyone, not even aang. and then occasionally she'll hand in an essay for school that she actually put effort into, which is very rare, because she only puts effort in when she's genuinely interested in the subject, but sometimes she'll put in a lot of time and research and effort just to prove the teacher wrong, which is when she truly shines. and some of her teachers can actually see that she has a lot of potential when she actually allows herself to be vulnerable and her passion seeps through the page, but she never really pays attention when they try to tell her that she's talented, because she just assumes that they're only being nice to her because they know that she's sokka's sister and feel an obligation to praise her by association. so it's only when she gets to college, and enters a world where sokka simply does not exist, that she realizes that she has merit of her own as a writer, thinker, and student.

she begins writing essays for various school publications, and after a while starts publishing them online, and then eventually in legitimate journals. it takes her a long time to actually establish herself as a career journalist, because she doesn't have the luxury of just writing full time, but eventually she's established enough that she actually publishes a book of essays, and goes on a book tour, and is invited to speak at various universities and events. and then one day, during a talk at a college, she says, "you know, there's hope for everyone. i only learned how to read at the age of five. but i went at my own pace, and eventually found my calling." and the moderator is just like "uhhh.... that's actually above average??? you're basically just saying you've always been smart." and katara. shuts down for a second while she attempts to process this information before she just goes, "WHAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

#surelyjtemple #asks #modern au katara working as a barista for her entire 20s and being addicted to twitter and being a massive jock #and always dragging her friends into supporting various causes and going to protests with her #and being really into fantasy and romance novels and getting into fights with her history teachers and and and #she is so important 2 me. -_- #modern au #katara #katara&sokka #fyi: he taught himself to read when he was 2. katara just assumed this was the norm her entire life.

[vivalabunbun]

Hiii Viva~

Hope, you'll take your time to read this. It's not a request of course. I was simply curious about something. To be honest, I've read all your fics and my goodness, they are mind blowing and always make overwhelm with emotions. Specially how you portray Al-Haitham. Every fic of his feels like a fic and a character study all at once.

You know, in your recent fic, I just noticed that you said Alhaitham is a man logic and rationality, which is true. But isn't he from the Haravatat Darshan or a department that has something to do with studying and deciphering various scripts? Like isn't he a linguist? I thought he was a man associated with the humanities stream or something like that if we put it into modern terms. So, the question here is—why portray him as a man of science? Sure, he's a genius and an intellectual person but can a person really be that apt at two different disciplines? For example, I'm a political Science Honours student and honestly....I hate subjects that has anything to do with maths or science in general. 🥲 Does that make sense?

I'm not saying, you can't portray him like that or anything but rather the intent of doing so. And honestly, I think, you yourself are a highly intelligent individual. The way you put tid bits of practical information into the plot of fics says a lot about you, the author as well. I admire that quality and probably would like to know how you do it so effortlessly?

I really hope that I did not come off as criticizing or a dumb person in general. I was just curious and wanted to know. Hope, you'll read this.

Btw, Happy Basant Panchami from India, Viva. Today, we worship the goddess of knowledge, wisdom and arts here. Fun fact, it's actually kinda officially forbidden to study today, you know.

Hope, I didn't rant much....sorry, in advance. 🥲🌹

Arunima~

Hello! this is an interesting ask 🤔

From my understanding, Haravatat focuses on semiotics, which also includes linguistics. Linguistics is a field of science, the scientific study of languages. Because empirical research is involved along with empirical evidence.

Perhaps you were thinking about literature, which is of the humanities and academia. Although of course, there are possible overlaps between linguistics and literature.

Al Haitham liked to read abstruse academic journals from a young age, so I'd like to think tidbits of information from those journals would naturally bury themselves in his thoughts.

His thoughts and ponderings resemble those who have been part of the sciences. Disagree, question, challenge.

Thus, why he's a nerd (affectionate).

But of course, this is all from my perspective, which is different from yours, which is different from the next person.

It's what makes character writing interesting because everyone will view everyone differently.

Thank you for your ask and Happy (belated?) Basant Panchami!

Your ask brought up an interesting thought, why can't people be apt at both humanities and science?

All throughout history humanities and science have helped the other progress. They are not opposites nor should they be. They progress thought, which in turn helps us better understand knowledge and the world around us.

Disagree, question, and challenge the paradigm is how the humanities and science have gotten where they are today, and how they will get to tomorrow.

I'm not an intelligent person, I'm just a curious person. I like reading a wide variety of things from fiction to academic essays, even mathematical theories in textbooks and notes from friends in premed. Because I'm curious about them.

Then I like applying them to what I create because I love creating. Little factoids here and there because I think it's interesting, learning about how things work so I can better draw the things I like.

No one has to be a genius or a prodigy to be apt at both, just be open-minded and willing to look at both. There is also nothing wrong about only liking one or the other.

Let's just not pit them against each other because then it'll just be destructive.

Maybe many have forgotten the symbiotic relationship between humanities and sciences.

#vivaramblings #I am really rambling #tldr: nerd

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Emily and Wendell Have No Chill...On Opposite Ends of the Chill Spectrum

Ok, the more you put faerie and academia up next to each other, the more I see similarities between the two that both the academics and the fae would probably be extremely pissy about, from the strict hierarchical structures to the arbitrary rules and the extreme danger of falling in love with them. And yet I'm also EXTREMELY here for it. So let's talk Emily Wilde's Map of the Otherlands.

THERE ARE SPOILERS BELOW THE BREAK. BE WARNED.

Emily and Wendell are on the same page about when it is appropriate to go absolutely feral, but they would NOT agree with that. Emily can shake off the otherlands, random faerie assassins, and absolutely godawful living conditions during fieldwork but cannot handle other humans. Wendell can shake off *actively dying from faerie poison* and entirely too credible accusations of academic misconduct, but literally cannot handle a lack of coffee.

So naturally Wendell is panicking every time Emily gets too near the otherlands without him and Emily is absolutely losing it every time Wendell ignores common sense and uses his magic which exacerbates the effects of the poison. Literally these two are falling over each other to try to protect each other. It's wonderful--I wouldn't change a thing.

I also want to just double down on academics being JUST as terrifying as fae, because in the first book Emily didn't HESITATE before chopping a finger off to break an enchantment and in this one she didn't think twice before dropping the same poison that is killing Wendell into his stepmother's cup. This woman is absolutely terrifying in her determination and her ability to do the thing she has decided is absolutely necessary. Like, Emily Wilde is a terrifying force of nature and a damn fine scholar and the level of personal and professional jealousy I feel over this fictional character knows no bounds.

So beyond Emily and Wendell being just AGGRESSIVELY in love with each other in the most academic way possible, this book is fun because we get some resolution to the mystery of Danielle De Gray's disappearance, which was heavily referenced in the footnotes of the last book, and is one of the great dryadologist mysteries. I absolutely adore the fact that Emily is so determined to find out what actually happened to this academic in whom she sees herself. It makes her success so much greater and it makes the "don't meet your heroes" disappointment so much funnier when the real Dani catastrophically crashes into the De Gray that Emily had constructed in her head. It's funny and heartbreaking and honestly the fact that Dani then sort of...adopts Emily as a researcher in her own vein is awesome. Academic respect and mentorship is...a weirdass combination of doing it yourself with imagined mentor figures and deeply flawed people who just wanted to learn everything about something niche and specific and are really cranky about being saddled with students.

Which brings me nicely to Farris Rose. Rose is...a stodgy old white man academic in every sense, and he starts by threatening to have both Emily and Wendell fired for academic misconduct and fabricating research. He ends up with one ear on backwards and offering to mentor Emily in her academic career. He is also like...the absolute chaotic evil scholar, because he is VERY cool about ethical lapses if they get him on the expedition of the century. And he is also VERY comfortable lecturing Emily on her personal life. Even after she is pretty clear that his commentary is not terribly welcome.

The number of academic friendships that begin in open conflict is astounding, and honestly the "bitter enemy on the basis of their scholarship to grudging allies to actual friends" pipeline is VERY fun to watch. It's a special hell to live, but watching it is delightful.

Emily also grudgingly gets a student in this book! And after all the crap she gave Wendell about how he treats his grad students in the last book, she could possibly have been less brusque and less ornery with her dang niece!!! Ariadne is literally a ray of sunshine though, and she and Wendell get along like a house on fire to the point where he makes her a scarf for protection in the field. She and Emily uh...have a bit of a journey in terms of getting on, because Emily prefers to be on her own, and she like...intellectually loves her niece, but it takes some time for her to respect Ariadne as a baby researcher who is enthusiastic and learning. Their journey to understanding each other is really sweet, and I enjoyed it. I also love that Uncle Wendell was Uncle Wendell for Ariadne long before Aunt Emily actually accepted his proposal. That was just adorable.

I also really appreciate the cliffhanger that this book left us on. Emily and Wendell are going back to the Silva Lupi, but they literally do not know what they'll find. The assumption is that Wendell's stepmother is dead, but like...we don't KNOW that, and I wouldn't be surprised if she found some crafty and utterly hellscape-y way to avoid a terrible death by faerie poison. Especially since Wendell himself has hammered home the "there are no absolutes in faerie stories" message. So I might actually die waiting for book 3, but when it comes out, I will 1000% be there to read it.

#emily wilde's map of the otherlands #emily wilde #wendell bambleby #faeries #adult fantasy #cozy romance #books and reading #books #books and novels #books & libraries #book recommendations