#me talking like I'm an authority figure or educated HA but no--- I just have anecdotes from other ppl

[vsaintsin]

Writeblr Re-Intro

Yo! I'm V Saintsin. Or V or Vin or Saintsin or whatever you want to call me that sounds right on your tongue. I'm a self-proclaimed Social Media fumbler who got a late start to the party and has never quite figured it out. I hate how hipster and edgy it sounds to say "I'm bad at social media" but like I used to work with some people who actually managed the social media accounts for the business we worked for and there were rules and whatnot and damn, I think online media is just not my medium. That being said, here I am! Hah

I'm an author and general mess who's hoping to be the miracle man (somebody who makes a living writing silly little stories). I do use a pseudonym but please hear me out when I say I didn't realize how edgy it sounds, it just has some sentimental value to my personal life. I'm so sorry that I sound like I'm in my emo phase HAHA

About me -

He/Him Transguy from the American Midwest (arguably the south, depending on who you talk to, but the older people still say "Sodi-pop" and "ope").

I'm dysautonomic, bendy, permanently sleepy, and a survivor of Crappy Doctors Who Suck At Doctoring.

I like DnD, Pathfinder, Baldur's Gate 3, Cyberpunk, Dragon Age, and other things in that vein.

I do make art of my stories and characters (Tablet is currently not working so I'm in a dry spell).

My writing background is predominantly ancient, dusty RPs from as far back as the foopets days and fanfic writing on Quizilla - I am an old and wizened elder of the net.

My formal education was music performance and behavioral neuroscience, I don't really know how I got where I am.

This is not my first rodeo with tumblr but it is the first time I have anything to SAY instead of just lurking.

In the event of malfunction, you can put me outside for 5 minutes and I'll probably factory reset.

My existence as I know it hinges on a massive number of sticky notes plastered throughout my room.

What I'm lookin' for -

Idk, whatever? I'm down for most things. Did you write it? Cool, let me see. I'm not too bent on genre or anything, just fascinated by the art of storytelling.

A bit tentative with fanfiction but that's just because if it's not a fandom I'm familiar with I am rather clueless about what the hell is going on and if it's a fandom I am familiar with I HUNT DOWN THE DEEP LORE.

I like art a whole lot, including fanart. Also art advice, love seeing things from different perspectives and learning something new.

Mutuals, really, for any reason. Building better connections on here, getting to know people. I am hideously bad at this but I try.

What I write -

Science Fiction with heavy subjects that matter to me - trigger warnings on a story-by-story basis.

High Fantasy (eventually books I think?) characters and their backgrounds for DnD and Pathfinder - I have been tempted to share these to help people get ideas or just for free use?

Things that I delete because I have crippling imposter syndrome and publishing makes me nauseous (doin' it tho).

Stories that I hope will make people feel less alone or that people could relate to, stories that I wish I had when life was worse and I was reaching out for anything I could find to keep me afloat, stories that try to be critical of things that SUCK in a way that's any helpful.

Lots of curse words and cussing (that's just how people talk 'round here), dubious science, things that I hope might make you cry but in a good way though.

Character-Driven stories that revolve more around the development of the person and less around the plot itself if that makes sense.

I've put blurb things below for my primary project/series which features a grumpy, queer, 37-year old chain smoking Frenchman and his misadventures with life and love and unbridled rage. If any of that sounds cool stick around and hang out? (This part is a plug bc I did a thing and I'm proud of it) And if my books sounds interesting the first one is 99 cents on Kindle and you just need a phone and a free app to read it!

THE SECRET OF LIFE (Published) - Sci-Fi/Psychological Thriller, Bi M Lead, Lovers to Enemies, AI but the oldschool cool kind not the real world thing that's stealing our future

Carlisle-Trystan Antoinette is a mercenary on a hard road, navigating life and death itself in an infinite cycle started by powers above his understanding. He has one mission - warn The Dianican Space Station of the coming threat and put a stop to a war that would encapsulate the whole of the Sol System before it can ever begin. Unfortunately for Carlisle, reality is a tenuous thing, made up only by our understanding of it. At least, according to his Psychiatrist, who tells him that there is no war, that he was never a mercenary, and that what Carlisle is experiencing is a severe but manageable psychotic break. Stripped of his combat enhancements, his bio monitor, and everything he's every known, Carlisle has a decision to make. Does he give in to the thoughts and memories, so real that he can almost taste them, or does he live a life of comfort and ease, returning to a husband and daughter that he left behind?

TWs: Domestic and War Violence, suicide, rape, medical trauma, grief, drug use

THE SILENCE OF ANGELS (Due July '24, TSoL 2) - Betrayal and Rage, Learning how to love again slow-burn romantic subplot, Learning how to Dad, A general inability for any one thing to just go right

(Quick Rough Blurb that offers no spoilers for TSoL) Making connections isn't easy for somebody who's accustomed to burning bridges. Isolation has always been Carlisle's mantra for surviving his life. Playing a role comes second nature, pretending to be the man that everyone else wants to see in him. When an old friend is murdered Carlisle finds himself as the primary suspect with all evidence pointing to him so clearly that even he calls to question what he is capable of. Unwilling to believe that he could commit such a heinous crime, Carlisle sets off to find the truth of his friend's death - was Carlisle framed or does he truly have the capacity to bring such harm upon those he loves? Old and new bonds will be tested, faith broken, and the future of everyone called into question as lines are drawn and sides are picked.

TWs: Violence, mentions of SA, graphic character death, more grief, more death

I don't know what else to say... Later!

#booklr #lgbt fiction #writeblr #writeblr intro #authors

[sergle]

I had breast reduction surgery like two weeks ago and I've been having some small yellow leaking with no pain or odor, and I've read it's supposed to be like liquified fat, but it's still kinda scary (Dr knows this happened but didn't really say anything about it—)

Did you experience anything similar?

Nope!! But it IS normal. Tons of the ppl in the breast surgery group I'm in have had the exact same thing! It's just drainage. I don't know if it's fat, or lymphatic fluid, but this is exactly what would be siphoning out of your boobs if you had drains put in! I didn't have drains, and I was sewn together pretty tight / I closed up fast, so I didn't have anyplace for it to drain, lol, my boobs just FILLED UP for like the first week before my body processed it all internally. anyway. you're all good!! it's not infected, if that's what you're worried about. You'll be going through a lot of gauze while this sorts itself out. EDIT: also congrats on your reduction!!!!! 🎉🎉 EDIT EDIT: If your doc didn't already give you Goo instructions, I was given a lot of goos to put on my incisions, and this is the one they gave me to use for the first 5 weeks. It might help you Close Up a little quicker!

#me talking like I'm an authority figure or educated HA but no--- I just have anecdotes from other ppl #+ what my surgeon told me and what came on my informed consent paperwork re: recovery expectations #sergle answers #The Goo thing is anecdotal because I can't prove that I wouldn't have healed the same without it #but like it did make me feel like the incisions were very Protected. and that's what I was instructed to use! #they more or less just told me that my incisions should be Protected at all times by something. for like the first 2 months #first 5 weeks it was That Goo. first hot minute the goo was accompanied by gauze bc I hated my incisions touching my bra #now I'm onto Scar Goo and silicone tape #I did mention the goo just bc leakage WHILE NORMAL and not a cause for concern can be keeping you open for longer.

[caparrucia]

Full offense and pun fully intended, but I genuinely think the very existence of "dead dove, do not eat" was a fucking canary in the mines, and no one really paid attention.

Because the tag itself was created as a response to a fandom-wide tendency to disregard warnings and assume tagging was exaggerated. And then the same fucking idiots reading those tags describing things they found upsetting or disturbing or just not to their taste would STILL click into the stories and give the writer's grief about it.

And as a response writers began using the tag to signal "no, really, I MEAN the tags!"

But like.

If you really think about it, that's a solution to a different problem. The solution to "I know you tagged your story appropriately but I chose to disregard the tags and warnings by reading it anyway, even though I knew it would upset me, so now I'm upset and making it your problem" is frankly a block, a ban and wide-spread blacklisting. But fandom as a whole is fucking awful at handling bad faith, insidious arguments that appeal to community inclusion and weaponize the fact most people participating in fandom want to share the space with others, as opposed to hurting people.

So instead of upfront ridiculing this kind of maladaptive attempt to foster one's own emotional self-regulation onto random strangers on the internet, fandom compromised and came up with a redundant tag in a good faith attempt to address an imaginary nuance.

There is no nuance to this.

A writer's job is to tag their work correctly. It's not to tag it exhaustively. It's not even to tag it extensively. A writer's sole obligation, as far as AO3 and arguably fandom spaces are concerned, is to make damn sure that the tags they put on their story actually match whatever is going on in that story.

That's it.

That's all.

"But what if I don't want to read X?" Well, you don't read fic that's tagged X.

"But what if I read something that wasn't tagged X?" Well, that's very unfortunate for you, but if it is genuinely that upsetting, you have a responsibility to yourself to only browse things explicitly tagged to not include X.

"But that's not a lot of fic!" Hi, you must be new here, yes, welcome to fandom. Most of our spaces are built explicitly as a reaction to There's Not Enough Of The Thing I Want, both in canon and fandom.

"But there are things on the internet that I don't like!" Yeah, and they are also out there, offline. And, here's the thing, things existing even though we personally dislike or even hate or even flat out find offensive/gross/immoral/unspeakable existing is the price we pay to secure our right to exist as individuals and creators, regardless of who finds US personally unpleasant, hateful or flat out offensive/gross/immoral/unspeakable.

"But what about [illegal thing]?!" So the thing itself is illegal, because the thing itself has been deemed harmful. But your goddamn cop-poisoned authoritarian little heart needs to learn that sometimes things are illegal that aren't harmful, and defaulting to "but illegal!" is a surefire way to end up on the wrong side of the fascism pop quiz. You're not a figure of authority and the more you demand to control and exercise authority by command, rather than leadership, the less impressive you seem. You know how you make actual, genuine change in a community? You center harm and argue in good faith to find accommodations and spread awareness of real, actual problems.

But let's play your game. Let's pretend we're all brainwashed cop-abiding little cogs that do not own a single working brain cell to exercise critical thinking with. 99% of the time, when you cry about any given thing "being illegal!!!" you're correct only so far as the THING itself being illegal. The act or object is illegal. Depiction of it is not. You know why, dipshit? Because if depiction of the thing were illegal, you wouldn't be able to talk about it. You wouldn't be able to educate about it. You wouldn't be able to reexamine and discuss and understand the thing, how and why and where it happens and how to prevent it. And yeah, depiction being legal opens the door for people to make depictions that are in bad taste or probably not appropriate. Sure. But that's the price we pay, creating tools to demystify some of the most horrific things in the world and support the people who've survived them. The net good of those tools existing outweighs the harm of people misusing them.

"You're defending the indefensible!" No, you're clumsily stumbling into a conversation that's been going on for centuries, with your elementary school understanding of morality and your bone-deep police state rot filtering your perception of reality, and insisting you figured it out and everyone else at the table is an idiot for not agreeing with you. Shut the fuck up, sit the fuck down and read a goddamn book.

#shut up rie

[turtletaubwrites]

Bend Until You Break ~ Part 1

Thank you for this request from the lovely @anemptypuddingcup for a Yandere!Law that the Reader goes to for help with a serious health condition, only for Law to take a liking to her... I swear I will write sweet Law one of these days, but for now please enjoy Yandere!Law. This contains !!DARK CONTENT!! so please check the warnings, and skip this one if it may be triggering or uncomfortable for you. This one's for us hypermobile baddies out there. 🥄

Pairings: YANDERE!Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader

Bend Until You Break ~ Masterlist

Word Count: 2679

Ao3 Link

Summary: You have struggled with mystery pains and injuries for most of your life, and had resigned yourself to suffer after every doctor told you there was nothing wrong. But when a world renowned doctor/pirate comes to town to offer aid in exchange for supplies, you decide to give hope one more chance. Maybe you'll finally find a doctor you can trust.

Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, DARK CONTENT, DUBCON, Dubious Consent, Swearing, Eventual Smut, Yandere, Manipulation, Power Imbalance, Hypermobility, Medical Examination, Medical Trauma, Medical Conditions, Chronic Pain, Injury, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Doctor/Patient, Abuse of Authority, Kidnapping, Possessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to be Added, (Reader is described as having hair "above her shoulders" that she can brush)

A/N: This chapter is SFW, but I'm adding in many tags to start out with since this mini series will contain heavy/dark content. PLEASE heed the tags, and do not read this fic if you aren't comfortable with these topics. Some of these medical issues may or may not have come from personal experience 🙃

Extra A/N: I am not a doctor, and this is not meant to be educational, or to contain any health advice. Please seek a health professional. Hopefully you'll have better luck than Reader 🙄

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

I should just leave. He’ll just tell me the same things. It’s a waste of time. 

You were close to convincing yourself to walk away, especially as the discomfort and pain of standing in one place for so long started radiating up your body. 

The line got shorter, and you stretched and bounced, trying to hang onto a sliver of hope.

“Hello, how’s your day going?”

A talking polar bear in an orange jumpsuit waved at you from behind a small table, handing you a clipboard. 

“I-I’m well thanks. How…”

“Good! It’s always nice when the captain can help people. He’s the best! Just fill that out, and he’ll be with you soon.”

Looking at the form brought you out of the shock of speaking to a bear. Instead, it filled you with intense frustration, until you were practically boiling in your skin.

‘Rate your pain from 1-10.’

How the fuck am I supposed to rate all the different types of pain I’m in on any given day?

‘Circle the parts of the body where you are experiencing pain.’

I could put circles over so many things. Might as well circle the whole fucking chart, and have them call me a liar.

‘List your diagnoses, and family medical history.’

I don’t have one, doctors never find anything. Mom has some similar symptoms, but they're so mild that she's never tried to get a diagnosis. You’re the one who’s supposed to figure this out!

You resisted the urge to vent your anger onto the page, bullshitting your way through instead. You tried to write in the most convincing way to get this new doctor to take you seriously. 

This new doctor. “The Surgeon of Death.” A fucking pirate. 

But he was supposed to be the best, and he was here on your shitty little island for a couple of weeks, trading medical treatment for the town's supplies. You had already heard reports of “miracles,” that he could perform surgeries in an instant, that he could fix anyone. 

Please fix me.

This was it. You couldn’t take anymore trying after this. Just trying to get a doctor to listen to or believe you was almost worse than the daily pain. Almost.

“Miss Y/N? The captain is ready for you now. My name is Bepo, by the way,” the bear grinned as he took the clipboard from your clammy hands. At least you hoped it was a grin.

He handed the form back to you as he led you through the dimly lit hallways of this strange submarine. It felt like you’d entered some other realm, an underworld, on your way to strike a deal with a demon. 

As long as he can fix me…

“Here you are,” Bepo motioned as he opened a large metal door. “You’re in great hands.”

Hands. 

Hands were the first things you noticed as you entered the examination room. 

Those hands were tensed over the back of a rolling chair, gripping the thin padding as if waiting for you so he could sit down. 

Long fingers mesmerized you, tattoos etched along the back of each hand. And as you stepped into the well lit room, you saw the word “death,” spelled out across both sets of those fingers. 

The sound of his throat clearing snapped your eyes to his, your skin flushing as you realized he’d been speaking to you. 

As you realized how fucking gorgeous he was. His black hair looked a bit mussed, but it only added to the effect, along with his goatee, and his dark, pretty eyes.

Already more useful than my other doctors. Easy on the eyes. 

“May I look at your form, miss?”

‘Oh, of course,'' you stuttered, thrusting the paper toward him. “I’m Y/N.”

“Dr. Trafalgar. You can take a seat.”

Well, his bedside manner seems pretty standard, you thought with a small sigh, sitting down on the familiar crinkly paper covering the exam table. 

He circled behind you to close the door, and what sounded like a lock clicking into place had your heart rate spiking. 

“Stand up, please,” he said firmly, your form still unseen in his hand. 

“Oh, sorry. I thought you said–”

“Walk to the corner, and sit back down, please.”

His voice was unreal. You would have jumped through hoops for him anyway, praying that any doctor would listen. 

But his command seemed to curl into your brain, and you followed it immediately. 

“Why are you favoring that hip?”

“Oh, it…” 

Here’s where your credibility would fall apart. Your nails dug into your palms as you willed him to believe you.

“Sometimes if I stand too quickly, it feels loose. Sometimes it pops, and is so painful that I can’t put any weight on it.”

He stared at you for a moment, and you fought not to recite a list of excuses, to try to explain why it hurts when you’d never been injured before. 

“And your right knee?”

“Oh, it’s not bad right now. It used to swell sometimes, and was really painful. But it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“Did you sustain any injuries?”

“N-No. None that I can recall.”

His lips quirked a bit before he reviewed your chart.

Believe me. Believe me. Believe me.

“You’ve reported your shoulders as being your most pressing concern. Why is that?”

His eyes were almost painfully sharp as he scanned you, focusing on your face as you answered him. He’d sat backwards on the rolling chair, his arms folded across the back with his legs spread wide to either side.

“They’ve been acting up recently. They often feel… loose. That’s how it feels to me. Sometimes if I move a certain way it almost feels like they pop out of place. But I can still move them after, it’s just incredibly painful. And then it’s weak, and I can barely hold anything.”

“What are some of the activities that have caused this to happen?”

He was impossible to read. But you couldn’t lie. He wouldn’t be able to help you if you lied.

“Um, brushing my hair. Taking off a jacket. P-Putting a sports bra on.”

“Did you used to have longer hair?”

“What?”

“Do you keep your hair above your shoulders to prevent shoulder pain? Or does brushing it still cause issues at this length?”

“Oh. Yes, actually. I used to have much longer hair.”

“I imagine you’ve adjusted many aspects of your life to cope with this pain.” 

Warmth flowed into that deep voice, and you shivered as you watched him steeple his fingers against his lips for a moment. 

“If you are comfortable, I would like to run through a few simple movements to check your flexibility. Many of which you can do on your own, but I will check in again if you are comfortable with me touching you for the others. You can always let me know if you would like to stop.”

“Okay.”

The doctor dug through a drawer to pull out a clear measuring device, almost like two rulers connected at one end. He adjusted it, creating an angle before setting it aside. 

He never picked up the device again, and you fought not to shake. He looked at your elbows, your knees, your thumbs, your pinkies, frowning slightly as you followed his instructions.

“Now, please bend over, and try to touch your toes. Just go as far as you– hm.”

Your palms were flat on the ground, just as they’d always been able to go. You could even put the back of your hands down, and stretch them along the ground behind you if you wanted to. 

“Doctor?”

“You can take a seat.”

Wincing as you sat, you shook out your legs, feeling his eyes as he watched your every movement. 

He stood, towering over you as he came close.

“For this next part of the examination, I will be touching you with my hands, and in some cases leaning or holding parts of your body against mine so that I can check the range of motion in your joints. I may also massage certain tight muscles to help you relax as we move through the problem areas. You have quite the list for us to get through, but if at any time you wish for us to stop, just let me know. Do you understand?”

“I do,” you breathed, your face angled up to meet his.

“Do you consent to me touching you?”

His voice came out softer once again, and you couldn’t hold in a shiver as you consented.

Those fingers…

His long fingers were so gentle as they crept across your body, testing, pushing, pulling. You fought to listen to his commands, pushing against or holding your body how he told you. 

“I imagine that seeking treatment has been challenging for you,” he rasped as he leaned over your face, his fingers gently massaging your shoulders. 

The pain and pleasure of his hands testing you had brought up a strangely emotional pressure, almost like tears in your throat.

“It has.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It must be incredibly difficult to suffer so much pain, and not be believed.”

You started to nod to keep your voice from cracking, but he pressed his fingers into your skin just a bit.

“Can you keep still for me,” he whispered, and it sounded so close that you opened your eyes.

“Just relax,” the doctor soothed as he stepped away, pulling a few tissues out to press against your cheeks and temples, catching the tears that had spilled when you’d opened your burning eyes.

“I’m sorry, doc–”

“No need to be sorry, Y/N. You have been suffering, been living with pain for years. It’s all those doctors that left you like this that should feel ashamed.”

His fingers had returned to your body, still relaxing, and testing.

“Thank you, doctor.”

“Please, call me Law.”

He was pressing gently along your collarbones as his name rolled over you, a small sound escaping your throat as you melted beneath him. 

“Do you have a good support system? People in your life that can help you with this?”

“I mean, my mom and my boyfriend help me. They’re supportive.”

He took those fingers away, and you mourned them, wishing you could feel that soothing touch forever.

“I’m going to test your hips now, Y/N. Please tell me if you experience any pain.”

“Okay,” you agreed, feeling self conscious of your breathy voice. His words just kept pouring over you, his voice so relaxing, so good. 

“How does that feel, Y/N?”

“Fine.”

He had your leg stretched along his torso, your foot dangling over his shoulder. You clamped your eyes shut. The sight of him between your spread legs, pushing your leg toward you, had you biting your lip, trying not to make any more embarrassing noises. 

“How’s this?”

“Fine.”

He hadn’t gotten close to your limit, but he went agonizingly slow. You could feel his firm abs warming your thigh through your clothes, his thin shirt not doing much to keep the press of him at bay. 

“You said that your mom and your boyfriend support you. How do they do that?”

“Oh, uh,” you shook your head, trying to focus on the question, and not the gentle rocking motion he’d started as he pushed you even further.

“They help me when… They help me when I’m having bad days. They listen. They both do little different things when things are bad.”

“How’s this?”

“Still fine.”

“You can go further?”

“Yeah, I can–,” you had reached for your thigh, planning to pull it toward your chest to show him, but his eyes above you stopped you before his voice did. 

“I’ll get you there, Y/N. You can hurt yourself if you rush. Can you take it slow for me?”

“Perfect,” he praised when you nodded, still gently rocking your body forward and back as he pushed, finally reaching the limit. 

“That is quite the range of motion,” he noted, carefully laying that leg down to move to the other side. “May I?”

He set himself up again, moving slow as he used his body to stretch you.

“You said that they help you on bad days, is that right?”

Meeting his sharp eyes, you took a minute to understand.

“Yes, they do.”

His face tilted a bit as he pressed closer. He started that gentle rocking motion, almost thrusting against you to help your body relax. 

“But Y/N, from what I’ve seen today, it seems like all of your days are bad. Aren’t they?”

“I…”

“All these years with no one to believe you. It must be hard to believe yourself sometimes. Do you think they really believe you, Y/N? Do they believe how much pain you’re in as you struggle through each day? As you stand up too fast, or brush your hair? Do you think they understand?”

He’d pushed closer, looming over you as he held your thigh against him. 

“Why are you–”

“I need to make sure that my patients have the support systems they need.”

His voice had smoothed back now, from almost heated to cool and detached.

He’s the only person that’s ever seemed like they understand. He must believe me. Of course he would be passionate about it, he’s a doctor. A doctor that believes me.

Closer and closer, his eyes watching yours.

“Do they believe you?”

“I think,” you started, eyes wide as you fought more tears, “I think they try to believe me. They just… They don’t know what it’s like. They don’t understand.”

“How’s this?”

“It’s fine.”

“Alright, last push.”

Your thigh was pressed between your bodies, and he stayed there.

“Does this hurt, Y/N,” he rasped, his breath warming your face. 

“No.”

He helped you stretch your leg out on the table, sitting backwards in the rolling chair before he told you to sit up.

“I believe I understand the cause of your pain, and why you’ve had a difficult time obtaining a diagnosis.”

“Can you fix it?”

Your thrill of excitement got caught in your throat at the look in his eyes, his palm up to halt your questions. 

“I believe it may be a connective tissue disorder, which would explain your hypermobility, as well as the complications you’ve had with many parts of your body. You've already met the criteria for one type based on our examination today. I would like you to come back tomorrow so that we can review more of your symptoms to be sure, and to discuss treatments.”

“You can do surgery, right? Can you fix it?”

You had gestured to him, your body panicking with failing hope. A gasp left your throat as those tattooed fingers caught your hand, his thumb rubbing over your skin as his voice went low.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. This is not a condition that can be cured,” he confessed, squeezing your hand as your body slumped. “Connective tissues run throughout our entire body, and if I am correct, yours may be weaker than most. 'Loose,' as you said. Unfortunately, there is no known way to repair or replace those tissues.”

A weight fell over you, and you found yourself not quite in your body. Your body that you’d fought so hard to fix.

That can never be fixed.

The doctor pressed your hand between his, smoothing over and warming your fingers until you were present enough to meet his eyes.

“It may not be curable, Y/N, but it can be managed. You don’t need to suffer alone in such pain like you have been. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that things are better for you. Do you trust me?”

There was something so intense about his face. The way he looked at you felt heavy, like he really did see the weight you’d carried all these years. You sank into those gray eyes, and realized you did.

“I trust you, Doctor.”

“Please. Y/N,” he hummed, releasing your hand, “call me, Law.”

Likes and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Welcome to my frustration with the health care system 😅

Tag List: @shewrites02 | @jadeddangel

Part 2

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

#cw dark content #cw yandere #cw doctors #trafalgar law smut #eventual smut #trafalgar law x reader #one piece smut #reader insert #fem!reader #x reader #turtletaub fics #one piece x reader #trafalgar law fanfiction #fic requests #use of y/n #cw chronic pain #cw medical #smut

[whimsicalpoet44]

Sorry I've been M.I.A. I've been processing a lot of grief and have had a lot of unexpected life changes (unrelated to grief).

Soooo, to cheer myself up here's some random astro observations.

Random Astrology Observations

These are based on my experiences, and not every one of these will apply to someone else with the same placements. This is just my own observations!

Note: If I use the word Karma, I mean the concept that you get back what you give to others. I want to be respectful about using the term and wanted to make sure I'm distinguishing it separately from the religious meaning of the word. I haven't found a great alternative for it even after searching extensively, so if anyone knows one please let me know! I know it's been westernized and I hate that. ☹️

⚡️ Anyone with 3rd House placements will likely encounter issues with their siblings at some point or another. They could live in their siblings shadows, been tasked to take care of them, or just never got a long with them altogether. This can play out in a hundred different ways, though.

⚡️ We talk a lot about repercussions for messing with a person who has Saturn in the 4th/8th/12th House. But Saturn in the 2nd? I almost feel like it's worse.

I know a person with Saturn in the 2nd who was being mistreated by an authority figure. The person mistreating her was getting a degree in higher education. By the time the two parted ways, the person mistreating her had her entire reputation completely obliterated, rendering her higher degree completely useless in her career field as a result. And the person with Saturn in the 2nd told nobody about the individual's behavior.

Saturn won't just come for their finances, they'll come for anything of value. Six months later, that individual was divorced, selling her home, and was pushed out of the organization she worked in. It was genuinely shocking lol

⚡️ As a person works through their Lilith sign, their appearance can change. Not just physically, but their overall vibe. They'll feel like a different person. And it's because they've owned their inner power.

⚡️ Scorpio Placements are so powerful, but they often stand in their own way. They can manifest basically anything, but their self deprecating tendencies can hold them back from attaining it.

⚡️ If the Universe pairs a Capricorn Rising and a Scorpio Rising to hold a person accountable for their shitty behavior, you know whoever that person is really messed up. Both of these rising signs hold heavy karma, one from Saturn and one from Pluto. It's actually quite a beautiful sight to behold if the person is deserving. I've seen this on many occasions and when both are through, there's nothing left standing.

Both individuals also always figure out about halfway through the divine intervention that they play a far greater role than they realize and it's a lesson for the two individuals to step into their own power as well.

When we try to be the 'better' person, sometimes we're denying the person who wronged us the accountability they deserve.

⚡️ In a synastry chart, aspects to Lilith, South Node, Chiron, and Juno can indicate potential soul contracts if you know where to look. (If you're soulmates/twin flames/karmic partners/etc). Of course there are other indicators as well.

⚡️ Sagittarius placements are seen as hopeful and positive, but a lot of the times, they're full of doom and gloom. They avoid their problems by doing whatever they want. Many of them never planned out a long-term future because they never saw themselves reaching that point of their lives, rendering them in a disaster they have to clean up and build themselves back from the bottom up. Which they do successfully. They never really lose hope, but they avoid responsibility until they can't anymore.

⚡️ Aquarius/11th House Placements fight a life long battle of trying to be themselves and not fit the mold their parents laid out for them. They only find true happiness when they realize their life path isn't for everyone and it relies on the fact that they must be who they really are.

⚡️ Aries Placements get a lot of hate, but if they react from a healthy place, they make some of the best advocates I've ever seen. I think it's because they have an endless supply of energy and healthy anger to tap into to make sure everything is getting addressed correctly.

⚡️ Leo Placements cannot escape attention. It follows them. They are usually forced to reconcile with it and learn to work through the uncomfortable feeling associated with it.

⚡️ If you have a planet that's in the same sign as your Chiron (or conjunct), prepare for that area of your life to be a complete dumpster fire until you find a healthy way to work through the Chiron wounds.

⚡️ If you tell a Scorpio something they don't want to hear, they'll just change the subject. Then they'll come back to you in 6 months and tell you that you were right, but they'll never outright say the words "you were right."

⚡️ I'm pairing Libra, Pisces, and Cancer together to work through their people pleasing phase, because once they do, they can flip a switch and cut someone off without a second thought. That's when they unlock their inner power and begin to set healthy boundaries.

⚡️ Taurus Risings have a lot of great qualities to them (and I do love them), but I've seen a lot of praise for Taurus Risings who also have Scorpio placements. While I can see the benefits, every Taurus Rising with Scorpio Placements that I've ever met (and I've oddly met a few) have created their own personal prison in their minds when it comes to trusting others and opening up. They won't crack. They are lock and key. They can express they want to be vulnerable, but they often don't know how. (Again, this is just my oddly specific experience lol) They also struggle with finding safety in materialism, while also feeling empty because they crave more spiritual interactions.

⚡️ Gemini and Sag placements always feel chronically misunderstood. I've also never met a single Gemini/Sag that wasn't diagnosed with ADHD or was a burnt out gifted kid. A couple of my friends that tried to prove me wrong came to me about 2 years later with a diagnosis in their 30s. 😂 (again, just my experience)

⚡️ Virgo North Node - How's that career in healthcare going? 😂 Jk, not everyone with a Virgo North Node is in healthcare, but it's a lot of you. lol

⚡️ Capricorns are some of the most anxious people I've ever met. They just hide it really well. It most likely stems from whatever they went through in childhood.

⚡️ Virgo placements often carry this stereotype that they're uptight and anxious (with a lot of control issues). As a person that used to work in the mental health field, every Virgo I ever met did have anxiety, but it wasn't 😢anxiety😢. It was ✨anxiety ✨. They are some of the funniest people I've ever interacted with. And they did have the stereotypical Virgo traits, but there was a layer of sarcasm to it. They're hands down some of my favorite people. A lot of them are oddly cat people too, which is weird, because I see a lot of people associate Virgos with dogs. (though it's really both since virgo rules small pets)

⚡️ Ever Sag had a horse phase. I don't make the rules. 😂

⚡️ Cancer placements likely struggled with bullying in childhood. I swear it's because other kids can sniff out their sensitive nature and try to exploit them. They always end up surprised when Cancer placements stand up for themselves, though. I would never want to cross a Cancer placement because they'll find the time and patience to extract revenge. People forget about their cold side.

⚡️ Leo Sun, Virgo Moon, and Scorpio Rising are the ultimate big three combo. And weirdly, I know a lot of people with these placements. They trigger others without trying. They just exist and people literally hate them. They have a strong sense of justice and they're very methodical and practical. It's excellent.

#astro observations #astrology observations #astrology

[frankcastleonlyfans]

Dad!Daemon as a disciplinarian and head of household

Do you think he has a hands on or off approach to parenting and discipline/teaching? (From the last ep it was def hands off … actually neglect but idk what the writers were doing). And how do you think he works with his partner in teaching and raising their children? Does he run his family with his same aggressive-“my way or the Highway”-behavior he shows in his earlier years or has children made him do a 180?

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐃𝐀𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍

pairing: dad!daemon targaryen x mom!reader

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. i hope you like it!

author's note: I'm in writing process of other dad!daemon requests stuff, but listen, your idea is AMAZING!!! And it fits really well in headcanon format. So here's what I think about Daemon's parenting.

gif by @daenerys-stormborn

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ୨♡୧ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

During your first pregnancy, Daemon found himself in a crisis.

He had no idea how to be a father.

He was a ruthless warrior, for gods' sake! He never took care of children before.

He wasted time trying to remember some of his brother's actions when Rhaenyra was young, but that was no example for him.

Viserys is a king, so it was never expected of him to take care of his daughter, or even educate her. And he never did.

Daemon remembers his father really well. He was 20 when Baelon passed away, and that's the only example of parenting he had.

Daemon knew in his heart he had a great father, and that's what he wanted to be for his children.

You were a few moons away from giving birth, and your husband couldn't stop babbling about baby names, and picking a good dragon egg to place in the crib, and fantasizing about taking the child to meet Caraxes, and...

Honestly, you couldn't wait for the child to be born.

And when Rhaegon finally arrived into your life, Daemon became everything he said he would be.

He was terrified at first. The man had no idea how to hold a child, he only held swords in his entire life.

But eventually he figured it was easier than it looked like.

Years later, Daemon learned that taking care of a child and raising a child are two completely different things.

Rhaegon was three when you had your baby girl, Alyssa.

Daemon fell in love. And when her little hands touched his face for the first time, he felt loved.

The Rogue Prince couldn't be burned by fire, but time was the thing that made his heart ache.

Alyssa was growing up quickly, and Daemon felt the years passing by like a sharp valyrian blade cutting through his skin.

In the eyes of her father, Alyssa Targaryen was perfect. She had your beauty, your delicacy, but she also had his temper.

"But I told you not to play in the dragonpit!" Daemon scolded her while washing her dust stained platinum hair.

"Aegon said it would be fun!" Alyssa retorted.

"Dreamfyre is not to play with, she could have burned you. And, you shouldn't be with Aegon, I don't want you near him again. He's much older than you."

"But why is it a problem?" The little girl protested.

"Because I said so."

"But why?! Aegon is funny, and Rhaegon doesn't let me play with him and Luke and Jace. At least Aegon doesn't make me wanna smack his face like Rhaegon does." Alyssa murmured.

"Alyssa, don't say that! And certainly, do not hurt your brother. Listen, I'm gonna talk to him, okay? But you need to promise me that you'll never listen to Aegon again. Do not trust that kid, none of them."

Daemon couldn't bear the thought of his eight year old daughter hanging around the thirteen year old prince. He knew Aegon was some kind of pervert, and he did not wanted that boy near his little girl.

Daemon never lost his temper with his kids.

He feared that someday they would be scared of him.

But he knew how to lecture his children.

"Your sister told me you don't let her play with you and Rhaenyra's boys. Mind tell me why's that?"

"She's a girl! She could be playing with Helaena, why do I have to play with her?" Rhaegon rolled his eyes.

"Because she is your sis– Did you just roll your eyes at me?" Daemon stared at his son with a menacing gaze that immediately made the boy shake.

"N-no...?"

"I think you did. I think you rolled your eyes at me, Rhaegon." Daemon gave one step ahead, and his giant form towered the boy's body.

"I'm sorry, father. I'll ask Alyssa to play with Jace, Luke and me."

"You better, boy." Daemon said with a stern voice before leaving the room.

You tried not to interfere in Daemon's way of scolding the kids, but if you thought he was being too much, then you would say something.

Sometimes he would make the children eat alone in their chambers if they'd misbehave.

Sometimes he would make them do chores.

Sometimes he would just ground them in their rooms.

But he never, ever, raised his hand to touch one of his children.

Daemon had killed so many men in battle, but had never hurt a child in his whole life. He intended to stay that way.

Daemon Targaryen could be many terrible things, but he certainly was not a bad father.

He would rather die before hurting one of his children.

And when Maegon was born, he couldn't wait to go through the beginning of parenting all over again.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen imagines #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon imagines #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen drabble #dad!daemon targaryen x mom!reader au #dad!daemon targaryen au

[tanadrin]

The Gish Gallop was a term coined I think on the 2000s internet for a rhetorical maneuver where to buttress an argument you provide a ton of low-quality evidence; that the evidence is bad means it should be easy to refute, but the very large volume means it will take much longer to explain why it's all wrong than it did to copy-paste a bunch of links, and to a certain kind of very naive onlooker, it looks like the galloper is winning--after all, the one interlocutor has presented a ton of evidence! The second interlocutor has to spend so much time bending over backwards to refute it! Surely the first guy is more knowledgeable and authoritative. You aren't going to look at all that evidence yourself, of course--who has the time?

But listening to Dan McClellan talk about the Gospel of John this morning, it occurs to me that I don't think this is disingenuous. Not entirely. I think this is just the style of argumentation a lot of Christians (of a particular religious flavor) are used to. And I'm not just talking about in non- or para-religious matters like evolution. This is how Christianity understands the Bible.

This week's Data over Dogma is about the theology of John, and why it is non-trinitarian (because the Trinity is a much later doctrine developed as a kind of political compromise, maintained only because it had state backing) and does not actually identify Jesus with God (the theological developments are more complicated here; but suffice it to say it was not at all a given that "authorized bearer of the divine name" and "actually God" were the same being in 1st century Hellenistic Judaism, and indeed the distinction between the two had developed in Jewish thought precisely to avoid the awkwardness of anthropomorphic figures proclaiming themselves God in some of the older sections of the Hebrew Bible).

The funny thing is, there are a ton of passages in John that get trotted out as proof texts that Jesus is God. There are very good reasons in the case of each one to doubt that that is actually the correct reading; but of course, if you don't know anything about Greek, all you have are modern translations produced under the assumption of the dogma of the Trinity--mostly for devotional readers of the Bible who would be outraged if the Trinity wasn't in the New Testament--and you have been raised in a cultural and/or educational milieu where it is simply a default assumption about the way the world works that the Trinity is a timeless concept that has been in the Bible from the beginning, it sure looks like one side is spinning up tendentious arguments based on silly semantics that have nothing to do with the religion you learned as a kid.

But this exegetical approach (really, eisegetical) is common to many topics in traditional Christian theology. There are a ton of passages from the Septuagint that the Gospels warp to be about Jesus, even though, in their original context, this doesn't make any sense; sometimes even they're based on obvious mistranslations, like having Jesus ride into Jerusalem on the back of two animals simultaneously because you don't understand appositives. And you can poke holes in any individual bit of this exegesis, but psychologically having a ton of low-quality evidence for a thing is a pretty effective bulwark against thinking critically about that evidence; for every individual argument you knock down, the person you are arguing against is probably thinking, "yeah, but what about all that other stuff," even if they can't actually name all that other stuff in the moment.

And it's not mendacious! This is the stuff of true belief; this is how you get breathless Christian commentators saying the Bible couldn't possibly be written by human hands, because it so perfectly predicted Jesus even in the Old Testament--and the evidence they point to is, to anyone not steeped in traditional Christian exegesis, and especially to Jews who have their own exegetical traditions, absolutely barmy. Like really pants-on-head crazy stuff. But of course even now it is still being processed, in many parts of the world, through a two thousand year old tradition trying to reconcile it all and to normalize it all, and--to bring it back to discussions of evolution on the internet in the 2000s--I can't help but think of all those people who talk about the experience of thinking evolution was so obviously nonsense, because all they were exposed to was the fundamentalist strawman of it. When they finally sat down and began to read about it on their own, from unbiased sources--often with the intent of criticizing it--they realized how distorted their understanding was, and how limited their supposed outside view.

(If there are general lessons to be wrung from this situation, I think it's simply "beware of echo chambers." Social consensus in a bubble can make bad arguments feel much stronger than they really are, especially if you are not exposed to the actual opposing view. Be on guard against mistaking "quantity of evidence" for "quality of argument," especially if you're not gonna evaluate that evidence yourself. Also all religious traditions are fundamentally eisegetical, because in order to keep holy writ relevant to the community its meaning has to be constantly renegotiated. So, uh. If you want high-quality exegesis, ask an academic, not a theologian.)

[khaire-traveler]

This is not an invitation for discourse. I am just stating my personal opinions.

I've been seeing some posts going around lately about myth retellings and wanted to give my opinion on something: I think the helpol community (maybe other polytheistic and pagan communities, too) is honestly too critical and intense about modern retellings (and even some historical ones as well somehow).

I know what it's like coming from that critical point of view. I used to be highly critical of certain retellings and stories that used Greek mythology. They used to deeply bother me, actually, but overtime, I realized that staying mad and fuming about these things I can't change - that will always be created - is really exhausting and even causes me to miss out on some truly interesting stories.

Also, seeing how intense some people can be about retellings has actively discouraged people in the community from writing them. How do I know this? I am one of those people, and I happen to know several others in the same predicament. Some people in the community will rip and tear and claw at retellings as if the retelling murdered everyone they loved. People talk about these retellings as if they're literally destroying the earth itself sometimes - like, seriously, y'all, it's wild.

Once, I saw someone post a short story they wrote - a retelling of a myth that I won't name, as I don't want to give the identity of this person away. This person posted this story with good intentions and was a worshipper of the figures depicted within the story, but still, they got absolutely dragged by larger Tumblr blogs and were torn into and literally chased off of Tumblr. This kind of behavior is not ok for multiple reasons, but the main point I'm trying to make is that we are actively making it harder for people within the community to write retellings. You want retellings from people who actually worship the gods? Then maybe make the community a much less judgmental place because sharing creative works takes a lot of courage as it is. Imagine building up the courage to create and share a retelling just to be ripped into by the very community you are a part of. I'm not saying you can't mention to someone when they've gotten something wrong or have written something potentially problematic, but I am saying that you shouldn't ruthlessly dissect someone's work and rip them a part if they seem to be well-meaning but misinformed (assume the best; not everyone is out to get us; easier said than done, I know). You can give criticism while still being respectful to the original author.

For many of these other authors, however, they likely don't even know that worship of these gods exists in the modern day, and even if they do know, acknowledging it may not be relevant to their story, or even their point. Sure, in a perfect world, these authors would acknowledge our little community and pay homage to actual ancient traditions/culture/etc, but we don't live in a perfect world, and that's ok. It is ok, y'all. Not every author writing a retelling is going to be a literal classics major or historian. Not every author writing a retelling is going to be educated on the actual ancient -or modern - worship of these gods. Not every author writing a retelling is going to pay homage to original source material. Do those things suck sometimes? Yes, absolutely. Do we need to lose our heads over it? No, not really. We can choose to focus on other things - on material and media that we actually enjoy and that do depict things how we'd like them to be depicted.

Now, none of this is to say that there are no problematic retellings or that speaking out on problematic retellings is wrong because hoo, boy, there are quite a lot of those. Some retellings claim to be historically accurate and are, in fact, not; some retellings are written by authors with less than ideal values and ideologies; some retellings are even based entirely on misinformation which can be frustrating to hear about. All of these things are true, but it's also true that not every retelling is out to get us. Not every retelling is trying to attack our small community and the gods we worship. As alarming and offensive as it can feel sometimes, it's important that we take a minute and realize that honestly, authors write stories, and sometimes a story is truly just meant to be a story. It's nothing personal. It feels like we, or our gods, are being attacked, but at the end of the day, we still have our own practices, and we are still allowed to engage with those practices. We are still allowed to worship our gods respectfully, even if others do not. And it is important to acknowledge here that others do not worship our gods. These authors are most likely not worshippers of the Theoi. They most likely do not have relationships with these gods as we do, and unfortunately, they may not have respect for these gods either. It would be ideal if they did, but they just might not, and there's no controlling that.

Honestly, most authors are trying their best. They're trying their best to write an interesting, authentic story that will capture the attention of their intended audience. They want to tell a story based on a mythology that inspired them so deeply, so carnally, that they felt the need to write a whole ass book or create a whole ass game about it. They see stories of tragic heroes, powerful gods, and all those caught in-between, and they think, "This is fucking epic; I'm gonna do something with this." Greek mythology is fucking cool. There's absolutely no denying that, and the fact that so many creators of all kinds continue to create retellings based on the love and passion of a mythology from over 2,000 years ago is pretty damn awesome, actually.

#helpol #hellenic polytheism #hellenic pagan

[misslavenderlady]

Hello Lavender I recently came across your page your writing is wonderful and I love it. May I request demon The lost boys + Micheal x nun reader smut very smutty if your up for it. I can’t wait to read this wonderful story you have planned out :).

Mary On A Cross 🛐

David/Marko/Dwayne/Paul/Michael/Female!Reader

Summary: Just because you're a holy woman on sacred ground doesn't mean you're safe from the temptations of Hell. The true test of your faith will be when five demons come to play~

Thank you @xxryn for the writing request! I appreciate your patience. This came out so much longer than I planned. I'm not Catholic (or even religious for that matter), but I did a lot of research about the church and nuns. Forgive me if some stuff isn't accurate.

WARNINGS: Nsfw/Smut/18+ Readers Only, Dub Con, Nun!Reader, Female!Reader, Virgin!Reader, Sex Dreams, Temptation, Religion Kink, Shame, Confessions, Prayer, Demons/Incubus, Teratophilia, Flirting, Pet Names, Groping, Pretending to be a priest, Sex on an Altar, Sex in a church, Group Sex, Vaginal Sex, Taking virginity, Nippleplay, Licking, Spanking, Dom/Sub, Clit rubbing, Mutual masturbation, Circle jerk, Dirty Talk, Praying, Creampie, Sex feeding

“Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. These are my sins.”  

You really felt like a failure for having to do this, but it was absolutely necessary. The struggles you were dealing with had worsened recently, and you feared that your will was being tested. Still, you had to be strong. That was why you were in the confessional, sharing your sins with the hidden priest.  

For as long as you could remember, you were devoted to your religion. It was a significant part of your life growing up. You attended many christenings, weddings, and funerals held at your family’s church of choice. Rain or shine, you went every Sunday to sing and pray. Your teen years were a balancing act between academic life and your duties for the church. Every authority figure in your life praised you for being such a good kid.  

So that’s what you decided to devote yourself to as an adult. You knew nothing of life besides faith, so you followed the path to becoming a nun. It was no small task to complete, yet you were more than dedicated. You gave up your luxuries, promised your vows, and joined your convent to live a humble life that was fully devoted to God. It was hard work, yet you handled it with ease.  

That was, until recently.  

Temptations had begun to creep into your daily life, attempting to slip into the cracks of your spirit and corrupt your very soul. Though such things would seem normal to an average person, you were a woman of God. You had to be disciplined, and you knew the smallest tests of faith could spiral out of control.  

It had started with rather sensual dreams that you had in the dead of night. Every time you slipped into a deep slumber, visions of handsome men and bare bodies danced around in your mind. They whispered lewd promises and sang out the most depraved moans you’d ever heard. The first time you had such a dream, you had woken with a start, completely drenched in sweat. You were sure you were ill with some kind of fever.  

But it didn’t stop after that.  

It was a bit different each time. Sometimes you saw a blond. Other times it was a brunet. One night, the voices promised to be gentle and make love to you. The next night, the voices demanded to fuck you like a wild animal. It made your head spin with each passing night. Though you never really remembered the faces when you woke up, you always had a dripping heat in between your legs. Cold showers had certainly become your friend.  

The shame you felt was getting worse. Everything you knew about sex was from the educational courses in school long ago. That, and there were some rather colorful remarks made by the boys whenever you wore a skirt to class. Such temptations never swayed you before, but this time was different.  

You desperately tried to pour yourself into your work. You chanted plenty of Hail Marys, spent hours each day praying and read the bible over and over again. Whenever a charity event was planned, you were the hardest worker involved. Your fellow nuns were so proud of the work you did, yet you still held a pang of guilt deep inside.  

That’s why you were confessing these sins today. You shared these erotic dreams with the intention of clearing your conscience.  

“I cannot silence these dreams, Father,” you said in exasperation. “It has gotten to a point where I can feel my mind slipping back to them during the day. Whenever I try to do my work for God, I see these images of lust and I feel...dirty.”  

“I see. While you are a faithful woman to God, it is important to remember that you are still human. We all have temptations that make us stray from the path, but we all find our way in the end,” the priest explained to you. “In fact, you truly have not done anything wrong for these are visions beyond your control. After all, you have not done anything to act on such desires.”  

Your stomach twisted with guilt. It reminded you of your days of youth when you confessed to silly things like sneaking a treat from the cookie jar or lying to your parents about where you went with your friends after school. You never did anything truly wild, but the guilt made you feel small and weak.  

“That’s the problem, Father. I...like those dreams. I find myself wanting to act on the desires they give me. Wanting to experience that pleasure...oh God, help me, I’m so ashamed...”  

Every time you dreamed of sexual conquests beyond your wildest imaginations, you felt the need to quench your thirst grow stronger and stronger. There was a time long ago when you had realized how good it felt to rub yourself on your pillow, but you were too scared of the consequences to complete your pleasure. The temptation to explore your body and satisfy the lustful ache was worsening.  

“My child,” the priest interrupted your thoughts. “You are not alone in this world. There will always be love and appreciation for who you are. These dreams are a test for you, nothing more. A test of what you are truly capable of. It may be scary, but you must have faith in yourself. Perhaps you will find that you will become stronger than you ever imagined. It will all be okay in the end; I can promise you that.”  

You exhaled, still wary of what you were experiencing, but feeling a lot better thanks to the kind words of the priest who listened to your confession. There was genuine care in his voice, and you appreciated him for not being judgmental of your struggle.  

"Should you find yourself facing the temptation again, come to the sacred ground of the church so you can share these struggles alone with God. You may find that solitude will provide the clarity you need to overcome this challenge and come out stronger than ever." 

That was certainly something you could do. With a hail Mary and a thank you to the priest, you stepped out of the confessional. You would keep his words of guidance in mind as you went about your duties for the day.  

With the moon shining down to bring another beautiful night, it was time to sleep. Your plain, white nightgown was draped over your frame, ready to keep you warm and safe during the hours of slumber. You prayed before tucking yourself in, asking for a dreamless sleep.  

Though as you shut your eyes and drifted off, that prayer was swiftly proven to go ignored.  

It was so innocent at first. Nothing but pure silence in your dreams as you rest. Then the familiar forms of your frequent visitors appeared before you. They weren’t entirely clear in your vision, but you knew these were the men you had seen night after night. One stood out more than the others, a faded image of platinum hair and a long coat. Even with his face hidden, you knew he was smirking. He always was.  

“She’s ready for us,” he purred. His voice was muffled as if he was speaking underwater. A gloved hand reached out to you, caressing the side of your face. Even in your sleep, the sensation felt so real. It made you want to squirm away, but your body remained paralyzed. 

“Now now, my pet. Do not fight us. We’ve waited for this night for so long.”  

The other figures moved closer, each moving to a different side of you. They trapped you in a circle, hovering over you. You could not see their eyes, but you certainly could feel them watching you. Never before had you felt so vulnerable.  

Playful giggles teased your ears, mocking you as their hands caressed your body. Still, your ability to move was taken away and you could not get yourself to wake up. The more these figures played with you, the stronger your fear became.  

You were under their control, up until the moment when the leader of this nefarious gang of dream monsters finally revealed his eyes to you. Yellow. Sickly yellow in a sea of red.  

“It’s time to wake up.” 

The spell was broken, and your eyes shot open. Your body was free and immediately shot up in a panicked jolt as your senses finally came back. Goosebumps were littered across your skin and your heart was pumping faster than ever. Those hands that touched you. They felt so real. Like it wasn’t in a dream.  

That wasn’t the scariest part though. What truly struck fear into your heart was how wet you were. The slick in between your legs could not be ignored. Your thighs clenched together, trying to fight off the tingling sensation that taunted you so. Even though the dream frightened you, it enticed you as well. The battle for maintaining your status as a holy woman was still going on.  

You had to fight for your faith. 

With a toss of your bed sheets, you slipped on your shoes and dressed in your robe and habit. A bible was held in one hand and your rosary beads in the other. The cover of darkness cloaked you as you maneuvered around corridors and corners, making your way to the church.  

You knew the path well. Day and night you prayed away in the church of your convent. It was a place of safety, and seeing the familiar statues and stained glass when you opened the doors immediately washed away most of your fears. The soft glow of candlelight beckoned you, giving a warm welcome as you kneeled in front of the altar. With the sign of the cross, you prayed. 

“Lord, with your bright and open heart, forgive me for showing darkness to the light. Putting my back, to what is right was wrong, and I have sinned against you. Forgive me, O merciful one, because I have relished my wrongs and I am sorry for what I have done. Lord I am ready to continue following in your footsteps. Take me from the dark. Hear me now, O lord. Amen.” 

Satisfied with your prayer, you basked in the silence of the church, taking the time to think about what you had done. You were strong. You were devoted.  

But you certainly weren’t alone.  

“Now what's so bad about the dark~?” 

Your eyes shot open at the sound of a voice speaking to you. It wasn’t across the room, but rather right behind you. Turning your head around, you were face to face with a visitor in your church. A man towered above your kneeling form, dark clothes draped over him, and hair striking platinum.  

This man was so very familiar. Though you didn’t know who he was, your gut was telling you that this was someone you had seen night after night. Still, you couldn’t believe such a thing. Surely, this was not the one that danced around in your dreams. It had to be some kind of coincidence. 

“Wh-who are you, Sir?” you questioned timidly. With your eyes locked on the man, you rose to your feet, clutching your rosary as tightly as possible.  

The closer you got to him, the better you could study his features. He was a truly beautiful man. Stubbled cheeks and icy blue eyes. You were a celibate woman, but you were still human. The priest you spoke to had reminded you of such a thing when you went into confession. Still, you would not be swayed.  

“Why, my sweet little darling, don’t you recognize me?”  

Your heart dropped in your chest. The blood in your veins went ice cold. This couldn’t possibly be happening.  

“I think she’s shy, David.” 

The new voice immediately made you jump in fright, as it was spoken right next to you. While clinging to your chest, you looked to the side to find a man with dark hair and eyes gazing intensely at you. Where on Earth did he come from? 

“I think you’re right, Dwayne. What’s goin’ on with her, Paul?” 

To the other side, a shorter man with flowing curls of gold eyed you hungrily. There was pure wickedness in his hazel eyes, and you did not like that at all.  

“Wait a minute, who wants to know, Marko?”  

Another. Right behind you. A shriek came from your mouth as you spun around, coming face to face with a blond-haired, blue-eyed man lounging casually on the altar. The four strangers snickered at your reaction, clearly amused by your fear.  

This really wasn’t good. You were a woman all alone in the church, surrounded by four incredibly intimidating men. There was no way any good could come out of such a situation. All you could do was grasp at the cross around your neck and pray to God to show you mercy.  

The one they called David took your hand, moving you so you would face him again. His smirk grew wider as he brought your hand up, kissing the back of it. The way his beard scratched at your soft skin made you feel dizzy. A twinkle danced in his eye, no doubt from the amusement of how timidly you reacted to such a gesture.  

“We’ve been visiting you night after night, my dear,” he cooed. “Surely you would recognize the sounds of lust we sang to you while you slept~” 

Before you could even get a word out, the other three men pushed in closer to you. They each moaned and whispered lewdly, perfectly clear for you to listen. Your cheeks flushed at the sounds, completely overwhelmed. All the while, David watched with delight.  

“I...STOP! Stop it!” you cried out. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not welcome here!” 

“Awww that’s not true, sweetheart,” Paul giggled behind you. “Aren’t all God’s kids welcome and all that?” 

“I dunno, Paulie. We’re not exactly related to ‘God’. Quite the opposite,” Marko added. 

Something about that made your stomach churn. There was something far more sinister in what he meant. You trembled as the boys traded looks with one another. They surely weren’t up to any good. You were about to find out just how dangerous they truly were.  

“I think it’s about time we show you exactly who...or rather what we are~” David smirked.  

You didn’t know what to expect by such a confusing statement. It was only when the blue in David’s eyes faded away and the glow of gold took its place that you realized how grave the situation was. They were the same demonic eyes you saw before you awoke.  

And the transformation only got worse.  

Before your very eyes, David and the other boys morphed into inhuman creatures. Their figures towered higher and their hands stretched out longer, talon-like claws growing from the tips. They salivated with mouthfuls of fangs. The clothes on their bodies faded into mere clouds of smoke, leaving their beautiful figures completely bare. Without the clothing, they had the freedom to show what they had been hiding behind their backs.  

Deep, crimson wings unfurled from their shoulders, stretching out to present their truly massive size. The shape and form mimicked that of bats, only far more jagged and sharp in appearance. Impish tails slithered out as well, slithering across the ground much like snakes.  

You were speechless. Horrified. Demons were right here in your church, completely surrounding you. Your body felt hollow, nothing but the void of dread swallowing you whole. There wasn’t even strength in your voice to scream.  

If it weren’t for the doors of the church opening up at the other side of the church, you would have been paralyzed with fear for eternity. Your prayers must have been answered because a priest was standing in the doorway. Young and strong, just the hero you needed.  

"HELP ME, FATHER!" you screamed out, finding the strength to push past the demons and sprint straight into the holy man's arms.  

"What's going on here?" he asked, holding you close. You already felt much safer in his embrace. His voice seemed familiar. Comforting.  

"There are demons! Real, unholy demons on sacred ground!" you cried out. He held you tighter as you hid from the sight of the monsters. "You must perform an exorcism at once! Please!!" 

The priest soothed you, holding you close to his chest. Demonic laughter taunted your fears. You couldn’t understand why they were so powerful in a church, but you had faith in the priest and his ability to cast them out. They had to be vulnerable in some way.  

“I’m so sorry. I really am. Please forgive me...” 

Before you could even ask what he was apologizing for, David spoke out to him directly.  

“You did your job, Michael. Get out of that ridiculous disguise and bring our little lady over here.” 

In a flash, your heart stopped in your chest. The man who you thought was coming to your rescue was one of the monsters. He proved it as much as he transformed before your very eyes. His chest and arms shifted around you morphing into unnatural length. The priest disguise faded away and his own pair of demon wings stretching outward. 

Gazing into his glowing eyes, you could swear there was still a human glint remaining. Perhaps his guilt was true for betraying you. Still, that certainly didn’t stop him from lifting you up into his arms and holding you tightly so he could carry you back toward his beastly friends.  

“NO! God in Heaven, save me!!” you screamed out, striking Michael’s chest with your fists in vain.  

“God ain’t here, babydoll~” Dwayne chuckled. 

“We’re the only beings you’re gonna worship now~” Paul added.  

Your body trembled as the five beings watched you carefully. They were so much bigger and stronger compared to you. When David reached forward to caress your cheek, you winced, fearful of how easily he could hurt you.  

“C’mon, darling girl, there’s no need to be frightened,” he cooed. Michael passed you to him, whispering another apology before letting you go. David smiled down at you as he carried you up the steps that you had been kneeling on just moments ago.  

“We’re not here to hurt you. Nor are we here to bring you to Hell. That’s not the kinda thing we do with humans~” 

He nodded towards Marko, silently signaling the curly-haired demon to clear the items at the altar so he had space to put you down. The man smirked with delight before swiping his claws over the table, letting the holy objects clatter to the floor below.  

You felt utterly dirty being laid down over the altar from the look of mischievousness in his eyes. There was a growing fear of just what would he would do. How could you possibly trust his word to not bring you any harm? 

“My brothers and I are very special demons,” he explained. You whined as his clawed fingers gripped at your habit. That too was tossed aside, letting your hair become exposed. “We are incubi. Do you know what that is, dear?” 

As a matter of fact, you did.  

They were creatures that fed on the desires of man. Usually, they manifested in dreams and had “sex” with their victims as a way to obtain their energy. Now all of those dirty images you dreamt of made sense. They were the monsters that tempted you so with lust.  

“I’m sorry, honey. David’s kind of mean about these things,” Michael chimed in. He was perched at the other side of the altar, fingers petting your hair as an act of kindness. “I told you, they are nothing to be ashamed of. We’re more than happy to give you the things you want. We feel good when you feel good.” 

Now you were really upset. You looked at Michael with disgust in your heart.  

“You....you monster! I trusted you! I didn’t talk to an actual priest! My sins....oh they haven’t been forgiven...” 

While you wept in fear and frustration, the other boys crowded. Though you wanted to scream out in terror, you silenced yourself when you found no danger in their touch. The boys shushed and cooed in your ears, kissing and massaging you while David and Michael still held you down.  

They were demons. Monsters that would surely destroy you. And yet, their touch made you feel....good. Amazing, in fact. You had never experienced the embrace of a lover, yet they were far more delightful than you had anticipated.  

Surely it was their power influencing you. Clouding your judgment.  

“We’re still good on our word, darling. Our very nature is to bring pleasure to beauties such as yourself~”  

David's fingers traced over your hipbones, teasing you before slinking over your inner thighs. Though you tensed at how close he was getting, the others lulled you back into your sense of calm. 

“We’ve had our eyes on you for quite some time now. We sent little Michael here to act as our eyes and ears and study you better. You are truly an adorable thing. Sweet. Innocent. Virginal.” 

A soft gasp fell from your lips as his hands slipped under your robe, claws pulling at your underwear. You shivered as the fabric slipped down your legs. All around you, the boys eyed the garment with hunger, no doubt getting anxious to divulge in your body.  

“We don’t just want to take you, my dear,” David whispered. You shook terribly as he grabbed at your legs, opening them up like the gates of Heaven. He was pressed up against your lower body, teasing you with his length. This was really happening.  

You were going to lose your virginity to a demon. God would never forgive you for this, but your body would never want to forget it.  

“Tonight, we’re going to make you our bride. And that means....consummating the marriage~” 

The last thing you heard before he sunk in was the devious laughter of his demon brothers. Immediately, your back arched and your cunt clenched, so unfamiliar with such a sensation. To your shock, he slid in easily, despite being so massive. You hadn’t realized how soaked you were up until that very moment. God, you really had been so blind to how much you wanted this.  

“Fuuuuuck, this pussy is perfect,” David growled, his voice far too low and distorted to be human. The others watched in delight, each enjoying the show. Still, they didn’t forget about you.  

Dwayne’s tongue and teeth played with the skin of your neck, finding patterns that made you squeal the loudest. Marko’s hands lewdly groped you through your robe, pinching the sensitive nipples underneath to make them stand out. Paul joined David’s work, nimble fingers traveling down over your clit to start a circling motion. It reminded you of your previous experience with experimentation.  

Michael was truly the sweetest out of them all. He held your face in his hands as he leaned in to kiss you. He wasn’t a deviant like the others. There was genuine romance in the way he kissed. It gave you that fluttery sensation in your stomach that your friends in school had talked about.  

“Are you frightened now, my little love?” David asked, watching you closely.  

“I....ooooh..mm!!....a....l-little...” you mewled. He filled you so deeply, it was impossible to concentrate on anyone but him. “Oh....I’ll tr-truly be sent to Hell....for th-this....” 

That made the others giggle playfully. You had broken your vow to God, and they were enjoying every moment of it.  

“Aww dontcha worry, babygirl,” Dwayne cooed in between licks. 

“Why don’t you say one of your prayers?” Marko suggested, flashing a fanged grin.  

“I’m sure God will forgive you for getting your cunt filled in a church if ya do~” Paul teased as he picked up the pace, getting you to wiggle and sigh some more. 

While your body was caught up in the intense pleasure, you got your mind back on the prayer you said every day. David threw your legs over his shoulders, pushing in deeper inside you. Seeing you so helpless was truly driving him wild. 

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy Name.....Thy Kingdom come...oooh...Thy will be d-done in earth....A-As it is...nmmm!..in heaven..” 

You prayed quietly, gripping tight to your rosary as David kept up his thrusting. He and the others were so wild, yet they worked so perfectly together. Your attempts to cling to your holy ways only added fuel to the fire within them. They each toyed with you more and more, hungry for you in all your innocent glory. 

“Say it louder, pet,” David demanded. He struck your ass with a spank to further the point. “Be a good girl for us~” 

“Give us this d-day...our....our daily bread...aaahh...and forgive us our trespasses, as w-we forgive those that trespass....f-fu..against us..!!” 

There was something happening inside you. Something that you never experienced before. It was growing stronger by the minute, ready to consume your entire being. It made your mind go fuzzy, and it paired well with the fast thrusting of David’s cock. Your voices and sounds of sex echoed off the church walls.  

“That’s it, sweetheart~” Michael whispered. He and the others had each begun to stroke themselves while David took you. The flush in your cheeks only got stronger when you saw their massive cocks around you. They all made the most vulgar sounds.  

David was fucking you faster now, no doubt to chase his own rising pleasure. You didn’t know what would happen, but you wanted it.  

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil...For....For thine is the kingdom, th-the power, and the gl...glory...For....e-ever and ever....Amen!” 

By what was surely a miracle of God himself, you managed to finish your prayer. Just at the right time too, as your built-up desire finally overcame you, hitting you swiftly with pleasure.  

“OOOhhh my God, David!!” you cried out for the demon. Your beautiful voice calling his name finally allowed the incubus to climax as well. He pushed himself in as much as he could, cumming deep within your sacred body. His brothers followed closely, all growling out while they marked you with their seed.  

You shuddered from the unfamiliar sensation. It was so warm and gooey on your body, and it absolutely ruined your robes. Still, all you could truly think about was how amazing they looked after all of it. David, especially, was looking quite satisfied.  

They hadn’t lied. You truly had an amazing time. If they weren’t monsters from Hell, you would have thought it was like being blessed by an angel. They certainly were beautiful enough to be such beings. But while you were feeling drowsy with how relaxed you were, the five of them had a newfound energy. After all, they technically had just fed.  

And by the way they were licking their lips and eyeing you carefully, you had a strong feeling they wanted some dessert too.  

“Ooooh you’re never getting rid of us now, sweet girl,” David purred. “We’re gonna have a hell of a night with our new wife~” 

Tag List: @ghoulgeousimmaculate @britany1997 @6lostgirl6

#the lost boys #tlb #ao3 fic #my fic #writing request #nsft #smut

[johannestevans]

Do you have any advice for handling sensitive topics in fiction, generally traumatic things a character may have been or may go through, especially if it's something we as an author haven't experienced first-hand? I have a character I'm writing that experienced a miscarriage in the past and I worry a lot about how I represent that, as it's not something I ever have or could experience

A lot of people have anxiety about writing about and representing traumas they haven't experienced because they fear the idea of like, offending or taking away from someone who has experienced that trauma and feels inaccurately depicted or recommended in what you've written. Especially when you're writing about a trauma or destabilising event that might be intrinsically linked to the ways in which the victim is marginalised, especially to a marginalised group of which you aren't a part, it can feel like you'll really wound them by writing it wrong.

Of course, the exact same applies if you HAVE experienced that or those traumas, and you're in the same marginalised groups.

Me and my best friend might have experienced exactly the same event, and yet the way I talk about and cope with it might be entirely different to the way they do - so much so that my talking or writing about it may upset or even anger them.

Writing sensitively is really about writing with compassion, and like... you can just do that.

Even if you don't know specifically what a miscarriage feels like emotionally or physically, you almost certainly have known grief. You have known the ache and pain of loss. You likely know the feeling, however irrational, of guilt or pain or just a panging longing in the aftermath of such loss - if you had been different, done something differently, would it have turned out alright? Is the loss somehow your fault? Does it feel better to blame yourself rather than admit that forces were at play beyond your control?

Or are you angry precisely at those forces? Are you bone certain that you could never have done anything differently, and does that certainty infuriate you? Chill you? Soothe you as much as it hurts you?

Trauma is trauma. It is the emotional wound that takes time to heal - if it ever fully heals at all.

Everyone deals with it differently, and the way in which your character deals with it will depend on their past experiences, their background, their relationships, their community support, their level of education or awareness on the nature of the pain they've experienced, their relationship with their body.

People experience miscarriages every day - for some, they're a blessed relief, for others, an untold agony. Was the pregnancy wanted? Had they had an ultrasound? Had they named the baby they wanted, imagined it, sang to it, told it stories? How late in their pregnancy is the miscarriage? What triggered it, if anything? Are they dependent on the success of this pregnancy for other things - their continued relationships, their sense of identity, their life, some political factor? Is a miscarriage going to affect or be affected by other health concerns? Have they had miscarriages before? Do they attach a moral idea to miscarriages or abortions? Do they feel safe and happy being pregnant? Has it been an okay pregnancy so far? If it hasn't, was the baby going to make the suffering worth it? Do those around them blame them? How many people will they have to tell? Are any of those people authority figures? Do THEY blame the pregnant person?

Read Reddit stories or forums. Listen to podcasts. Listen to people or read people talking about the many little traumas that add up to the one you have in mind - the little comments that people made that cut them, or the tiny, unexpected things that brought them solace.

In my opinion, every single topic imaginable is sensitive to somebody. To avoid or be frightened of particular sensitive topics for the fear that someone might be upset by your depiction is to shy away from a very intrinsic part of the craft - namely that to write pain (of any sort) is to be vulnerable in communicating the feeling of pain.

Consider the humanity of those that you're writing, and depict that humanity. Layer the elements of feeling in that character and their relationships.

And if you're ever SUPER worried about writing the absolute worst version of a scene or writing it so offensively, just search that instead.

Do a site:reddit.com and search something like "People who've had miscarriages, what's realistic / unrealistic about how they're shown on TV?" or "People who've had miscarriages, what do you wish people would know?" or "Miscarriages worst things people say" or "Miscarriage what made you feel better" anything else.

Read real people and learn from them. Go from there.

#musings #anonymous

[scifrey]

Cling Fast: Prologue

Read below, or read the updated/edited version over on AO3.

by Loysark

The Sandman (Netflix with some sprinkling of comics canon and Gaimanverse)

Dreamling (Hob Gadling x Dream of the Endless | Morpheus)

Unfinished

PG-13 (for now)

Unbeta'd

Hob Gadling is a clingy bastard, and he's not ashamed to admit it. He clings to life. He clings to hope. He clings to his love of humanity. He clings to his Stranger. He also, unfortunately, has a habit of clinging to his name.

Which means, when the BBC is looking for a new pet history expert to appear in their educational docudrama series "Elizabethan Manor," they're overjoyed to find a professor of domestic history who, according to their meticulous research, is actually descended from the Master of the National Trust building they're filming in - Gadlen House.

Only Hob knows how right they are.

Picks up a few hours after the end of Episode 6.

*

Author's Note: I don't know what I'm doing. New to this fandom, new to this ship, and this is the first fanfic I've written in over a year. I am just coming back from a creative burnout so bad that I ended up leaving my literary agent. I haven't written anything that isn't loosely connected drabbles in literally years. So, I don't know what's going to happen with this fic. It may get written, it may fizzle. I have the idea plotted out, but I'm trying to approach it cautiously, with my eyes averted, in case it spooks and bolts.

That's why I'm posting this here instead of AO3, I guess. I want to see if it's something that resonates with people, and me, before I commit to posting it there.

*

"One hundred years, then?" Hob's Stranger asks, hours later, when Hob's talked himself hoarse and his business partner is flipping chairs onto tables to mop. Hob's marking has been jammed unceremoniously into his briefcase and completely forgotten, and there are three empty pint glasses at his elbow. The wine glass in front of his Stranger is still full.

"2089 or 2122?" Hob asks, through disappointment like broken glass on his tongue. Hob's stomach sinks when his Stranger rises from his chair.

Hob's Stranger seems to mull this over. "'89," he says at length. "I believe it is customary for friends to meet more frequently than a century."

"Then why wait even that long?" Hob asks, both startled and completely unsurprised with how desperate he sounds. "Or is that some sort of… of supernatural law? That the terms of our bargain have to be adhered to and we can't… I don't know," he confesses helplessly. "Renegotiate?"

Helpless.

Yes, that's how he feels.

Helpless and desperate for his Stranger to stay, to not abandon him again, to not leave Hob wondering if he may miss another meeting on a whim. If his Stranger was getting tired of playing with his little mortal toy and Hob would be left to eternity with no friend, no through-line, no continuity, no foundation—

Unavoidably detained, what does that even mean? Hob thinks viciously, brain spinning in circles between despair and hurt, elation and greed. Is it an excuse? Did he even want to—

His Stranger frowns, a fearsome, dark expression that Hob's never seen on the man's face before. Hob flinches when his Stranger makes an abrupt flicking motion at Hob's shoulders, as if shooing off a housefly. All at once Hob's breathing eases, the panic and surging loneliness retreating.

"What?" Hob asks weakly, when he realizes that… that somehow that single gesture from his Stranger has banished decades worth of crushing loneliness and anxiety. Hob had grown so used to bearing the ever-grinding worry that he'd forgotten what it felt like to be without it.

"A waking nightmare," his Stranger says. "And a bold one, too, to cling to you so persistently in the face of its king's displeasure."

King.

Well.

Hob had always figured that his Stranger had to be some sort of nobility. It was in the way he dressed at the peak of fashion each century, the softness of his skin and hands, the cleanliness of his hair, the way he spoke and held himself as if he'd never been denied anything his entire life. And the giant ruby of course, which, Hob had noticed a few hours ago, was nowhere to be seen this time around.

But a King.

"My friend," Hob whispers, mindful of the staff closing the New Inn around them. He swallows hard enough that his throat clicks. "Forgive my boldness, but… what are you? Who are you?"

"It… it is not important," his Stranger hedges, hesitating for the first time since Hob's known him.

That's unusual.

That's a crack Hob can get his fingers into.

"It is, though," Hob says, rising to his own feet. He dares to reach out, to pinch the fabric of his Stranger's coat cuff between his fingers in an old-fashioned, petitioning plea. The way you would kiss a queen's hem, or a king's ring, Hob pinches the cuff and hopes his Stranger understands. "It is to me. You are important to me."

"Hob," his Stranger says, but it's not a rebuke or a dismissal. It sounds awed, and humbled. Mercury shimmers along his bottom lashes, mouth pulled tight, a display of emotion that Hob never thought to garner from his Stranger, and not one he's sure he knows how to read, just yet.

What has him so upset?

"When you didn't come, I waited," Hob whispers, daring to press closer, so the words are little more than a puff of air between them. "I waited hours. Days. I returned every day for weeks. Where were you?"

"Rest assured, I did not want to miss our appointment."

"Then why?" The Stranger hesitates again. "Please. Please, if you're really my friend, please don't…" Hob trails off, not sure what he's really trying to say here. Don't shut me out. Don't treat me like a servant who only needs to do as he's told. Don't run away from me all the time.  "Please don't go without telling me how to reach you, at least. I couldn't bare it if you…"

Without his meaning it, Hob's grip on his Stranger's cuff slips, and his fingers brush the cool, smooth back of his Stranger's hand. The Stranger hisses as if he's been burned.

"Sorry, sorry," Hob says, jerking his hand away. "I'm—"

"That is the first kind touch I've had in…" his Stranger's eyes drop to where their hands meet. Slowly, he reaches out with one shaking finger to stroke it along Hob's knuckles.

Understanding and rage flash through Hob like a lightning strike. The little hints that his Stranger probably hadn't realized he was even dropping come together, all at once, into a horrible picture.

You can be hurt. Or captured.

Hob seizes his Stranger's hand in his own, enraged further when his Stranger gasps, cheeks flushing pink and lips parting in a soft 'oh' that might have sounded lewd if it wasn't so obviously overwhelmed.

"Who did this to you?" Hob growls, low and dangerous. "Where are they now? I'm going to kill them for—"

The Stranger jerks his head up so fast that one of the quicksilver tears shakes free and rolls down his gaunt cheek.

"Hob," his Stranger chokes, and Hob is sure he would have said more, maybe even leaned closer, except that Dennis at the bar shouts:

"Fuck's sake, Gadlen. Take your booty call upstairs. I wanna close!"

"Sorry!" Hob calls back, leaning to the side and  modulating his volume so he doesn't shout in his Stranger's ear. "Sorry Dennis, right. We're going."

Hob tugs on his Stranger's hand, and is absurdly grateful when the man allows himself to be led toward the back of the bar. Hob snags his briefcase from the banquette as they pass, and heads straight for the door marked "Staff Only." He punches in the keycode and within a few quick moments, he's gently pulling his stranger over the threshold and into his flat.

"You live above the pub?" his Stranger asks, looking around with curiosity as Hob toes off his shoes and drops his briefcase by the door. The Stranger has neither released his hand, nor wiped the moisture from his own face. When Hob looks down to see if his Stranger has taken his boots off, Hob is startled to be met with a pair of bare, moon-pale and delicately arched bare feet.

Okay.

Well.

Hob knew he wasn't human.

Apparently that includes vanishing clothing at will. Which probably means making it, too. Which definitely explains why his Stranger has always been in the pits of fashion.

Absolutely 100% not a Vampire, Hob adds to his mental List Of Things I Know About The Stranger. It's a very short list.

"Live above it, own it, built it," Hob says, pulling his Stranger gently into the living room and toward the sofa. "When I heard they were going to tear down the White Horse, I did some financial juggling, dug up a few treasure caches, and bought it. The building, the land… I mean, really, the whole area. I own most of this side of the river, all the green bits at least. I couldn't stand the thought of losing all the parks and the trees and… I wanted to save the White Horse itself, but the… well, the restoration is tricky. Time-consuming and costly. Cheaper to knock it down and start over but…" he shrugs as he encourages his Stranger to sit. "I'm not into bulldozing the past because it's cost efficient. Is it okay if I let go of your hand?"

His Stranger looks down at their entwined fingers and blinks as if he hadn't realized he was still holding onto Hob. "My apologies," he says softly, and lets go.

"Don't apologize," Hob says, even as he retrieves his arm. Touch starved, his brain screams, adding it to the list of sins that his Stranger's… captors must have perpetrated. "I'm making tea. Do you drink tea?"

"I could… I could drink tea, yes," his Stranger ventures, as if he's unsure if he actually can.

"I'll be right back."

You can still be hurt. Or captured, his Stranger in his memory says again, and Hob waits until he's turned away and headed to the kitchen before he lets his face transform into a scowl.

Behind him on the sofa, the real-life Stranger makes a wounded little noise, as if he'd heard the memory.

As he fills and sets the kettle to boil, Hob tries to dissipate the frisson of tenseness hanging between them with nonsense. 

"The National Trust is both amazing and a huge pain in my arse," he laughs, but it sounds strained even to him. "It's half the reason I'm a history professor now. I wanted to preserve the White Horse right, you know? I spent so much time in historical architecture lectures, buried up to my eyebrows in library books and research grants and… well, when it came time to establish this identity I thought, why not? Fudged up an undergrad degree in Medieval History, breezed into University of York for a Masters and spent it focussing on the lives of the common folk, you know, hearth and home kind of archeology. Wattle-and-daub construction, wooden nails and cooking fires, sellswords and home remedies, the beautiful mundanity of the everyday. And now here I am. Professor Bob Gadlen, with a PhD in my own bloody life."

The kettle whistles and Hob leaps to pull it off the hob when his Stranger flinches at the sound.

I'm going to stab them through the earhole, Hob snarls to himself. When he tells me who they are, I'm going to—

"Justice has already been delivered, Hob Gadling," his Stranger says softly, as Hob pours the water into a teapot. There's not a lot of modern conveniences that Hob eschews—humanity invented new and exciting things all the time for a reason, and that reason is usually that it's better—but he has never managed to get on board with tea bags. Looseleaf all the way. "And revenge has been, as they say, dished out."

Hob sets up a tray with two mugs, some biscuits, and the teapot under its hand-knitted cozy from the 50s. He's done this so often over the last few hundred years that muscle memory takes over, even as his brain stutters to a fizzy halt as he registers what his Stranger has said.

And what it means.

"Oh," Hob says, setting down the tea tray on his coffee table. He drops into his armchair beside the sofa with a thud. "Uh. Can you... Can you read my mind?"

"Only your daydreams," his Stranger confesses. "And only those on the surface of your thoughts. You dream of doing violence to people who, I assure you, are already dead."

"My daydreams. And my waking nightmares," Hob echoes, feeling like his brain is slogging through molasses. There's a… there's a confession in there, somewhere. A truth that his Stranger is trusting him with, if he could only work it out.

And then he remembers, suddenly, what he had been daydreaming about in 1789 when he'd caught sight of his Stranger's extremely shapely calves in his silk hose, and Dear Lord above. Hob has a sudden and humiliating urge to be swallowed up by the ground. A glance at his Stranger makes it very clear, by the smug little microexpression around his eyes, that his Stranger also remembers Hob's fantasies from that particular evening.

Hell.

"You're a King," Hob says slowly, pouring out a measure of tea for each of them to hide his blush.

"Yes."

Hob dollops milk into his own, and invites his Stranger to doctor his own to his liking with the sugar and milk he'd left on the tray. His Stranger only holds the mug between elegant pale hands, and simply inhales the steam instead.

"A King of… Dreams and Nightmares?" Hob ventures.

"Yes," his Stranger says.

"So you're a, a what… a god?" Hob asks, feeling both giddy and foolish to be saying it out loud. But then, he's been alive for six hundred and seventy-two years. That's a long time. He knows for certain that while his Stranger is not the Devil by his own admission, there are more things that walk the earth than are dreamt of in anyone's philosophies.

Hob scowls at himself for letting Shaxbeard's drivel cross his mind, and hides his pout in his mug.

"No," his Stranger says slowly. "And yes." He pauses.

Hob leans back, and lets his Stranger work through what he's trying to say. His Stranger sips his tea and seems to find it lacking, because he pauses to dump four cubes of sugar into it.

Sweet tooth, Hob files away, right under the entry on the list that says God. 

"I am a being beyond gods," his Stranger goes on once he's tasted his tea again and found it satisfactory. "I am older. I am more powerful. I am… simply more. I have existed since the moment the first sentient being closed its eyes and sought its rest, and I will continue to exist until the final one slips away to the Sunless Lands in its sleep. And yet, the version of myself that you see before you was once worshiped as a god."

"That explains a lot," Hob says, redirecting the buzzing adrenaline from his lingering, now futile rage into sarcasm.

The Stranger blinks again, as if unused to being teased. Being a… whatever he is, he probably is.

"Endless," his Stranger corrects. "I am Dream of the Endless. I am…" he gestures in an elegant arc with his free hand. "Limitless. Everywhere. Unchanging and ever present. I am every Dream of every creature, across all of space and time. I am both master of all dreams, and I am the dreams themselves."

"Bit like a TARDIS," Hob says, trying to wrap his head around what his Stranger, Dream of the Endless, is saying.

Dream blinks, head tilting like a corvid, a far-away look in his pale eyes as if he's shuffling through a mental rolodex. His lips curl up into, what is for him, a very wide, expressive grin when he seems to hit on the right entry. His face brightens with mirth.

"Yes, Hob Gadling. I am indeed bigger on the inside."

Hob laughs, if maybe only to contain the slow creep of existential horror. He has some sort of cosmic entity sitting on his squashed, unhygienic sofa that he hasn't cleaned properly since the day he moved in thirty years ago. Yeah. Hob's totally fine.

What's the bigger leap of understanding, anyway? Illiterate peasant sellsword in 1389 to university professor who taught the last two years through Zoom in 2022, or normal boring human with a bit of an Immortality thing to God's teeth there is a celestial creature in my apartment, and he is my friend.

"But that is the… the whole of me," Dream goes on, seemingly amused by Hob's quiet panic. "And the facet that sits before you, this particular anthropomorphic personification, is the one born of a worship and naming on this world, several eras ago."

"Oookaaay…" Hob says slowly, not entirely sure what Dream is getting at.

"Humans create gods," Dream says, filching a biscuit and crunching on it delicately. "Not the other way around."

Even spilling crumbs across his black teeshirt like stardust looks deliberate and elegant when he does it. Hob shoves down a new daydream, as far as it will go. If Dream catches it, he doesn't let on.

"Didn't God create mankind and all the world in seven days, though?" Hob asks, dragging his treacherous brain back on topic.

"In one story," Dream allows. "And in others, Zeus sculpted humanity from clay, and sundered the pieces to create soulmates. In yet another, Skywoman fell through a hole she dug through the world, and landed upon the back of a turtle. There are as many origin stories as there are gods, and there are as many gods as there are humans to imagine them. This—" Deam gestures to himself, and only then seems to see the crumbs on his shirt. He whisks them away with a flick of his wrist. "This embodiment was thought into being by what you would call the Bronze age cultures of the Mediterranean. To them, I was the God of Sleep. I have other names, but the most appropriate and widely remembered in this day and age is Morpheus."

"Morpheus," replies flatly.

"Yes," the creature on the sofa says, preening. "I desire that you call me that, Hob Gadling."

"Not Dream of the Endless?"

"Dream of the Endless is… Dream belongs to all sentient beings, of all kinds, on every planet and plane of existence. That creature has as many names, and faces, and physical embodiments as there are species to sleep. But here, the man who sits before you, whose form and face you know—"

Thank god he said 'know' and not 'desire', Hob thinks frantically.

"--this is Morpheus."

"The God of Sleep," Hob repeats, because is bears repeating.

"And you built me a temple."

"I… what?" Morpheus flicks a look around the room. "The New Inn? No, I built it for you so you could find me." Hob clocks what he just said. Then he thinks about the libations, the singing on karaoke night, the offerings and toasts, the way everyone totters away to pass out after last call. "Fuck me, I built the god of sleep a temple."

"If that unsettles you, you may alternately call me The Prince of Stories. The Shaper of Forms. The King of Nightmares. The Sandman. The—"

"Okay, okay!" Hob laughs. "I ask for one name and I get a hundred. Careful what you wish for, eh?"  Hob scratches his fingers through his stubble and heaves a sigh as Morpheus helps himself to another biscuit, munching peevishly. "So if I'm understanding this right, Dream is… is like a diamond. And Morpheus is just one facet. And there are hundreds of facets of you."

"Millions of millions," Morpheus agrees.

"And it's Morpheus I have my agreement with? And my… friendship?"

"Yes, Hob Gadling," Morpheus says fondly.  "Though I can assure you that the whole of all I am considers you a friend, not just this facet." 

Something in his posture that changes then, something that relaxes a little. Relief, that's what it is. Did he think Hob would be scared of him?

Overwhelmed, maybe. Confused, a little. Intrigued, definitely. Attracted to? Hob's mind shies away from that one. But scared? Never. Except for when he was worried he may have condemned his soul to Hell, Hob has never been frightened of Morpheus. And even that fear was of purgatory itself, not of the man-shaped thing that may end up dragging him there.

"Then it's Morpheus I'd like to… see more of," Hob decides on, tripping over confessing something maybe a little bit too intense for just now, and sidestepping it as politically as possible. "More than once a century. If that's okay."

"Why?"

Hob blanches. "Are you not allowed to? Or… or do you not want to?" Hob asks, wondering if he's completely misunderstood the point of Morpheus' confession.

"I did not say I was opposed to it," Morpheus says gently. "I simply wonder why my company is that which you would… choose."

Hob wonders, in turn, who it was that made Morpheus feel like his company was a burden, as he clearly thinks it is. He carefully does not daydream of doing them any violence. He wants to, though.

"Listen, I…" Hob says, and stops to lick his lips, wet his throat with tea, and choose his words carefully. "Before I explain, I want to make it clear that I don't regret, or rue, or am bitter about this… this gift you've given me."

"My sister gave you," Morpheus corrects him gently. 

"Sister?" Hob asks, derailed. "It wasn't you who… made me like this?"

"You and I have but an agreement to meet every hundred years. No more, no less," Morpheus explains. "My sister is the one who granted your request to never die, and traded a boon with our father to ensure you that you and I could keep our appointments."

"Uh. And who is this sister of yours I need to thank, then?" Hob asks.

"The woman who accompanied me at the White Horse that first night, do you recall her?" Hob nods. "She is Death."

"Death," Hob warbles, heart kicking in his chest. "Oh. Okay. Yeah. Makes sense. Death. I called her stupid to her face."

"She thought it charming."

"Fuck. And… your father?"

"Time."

"Time," Hob squeaks. The mug in his hand trembles and Hob sets it down before he sloshes on himself.

Morpheus frowns. "My sister did not think that the terms of the agreement between you and I would be fair if you continued to age, but did not die."

"No, no, makes sense," Hob says, heaving in a breath and trying not to freak out at the idea that Death and Time know who he is, and granted him his greatest wish simply because he was a loudmouth braggart in the right pub, on the right night.

"But you were speaking of the terms of our friendship," Morpheus prompts him.

It's a kindness, and Morpheus must know it, to be distracted from the existential crisis that is creeping up on Hob. Maybe Morpheus can see the waking nightmare hovering behind him, who knows.

"Yes, as I was saying, I don't regret being, uh, like this," Hob starts again, pointing at his own heart. "But it gets… well, it's hard. Maybe you know what I mean, being you know, Endless. Maybe you don't notice the passage of time, or maybe mortal lives are so fleeting that you don't care—"

"I care. And I notice."

Hob swallows hard again, and plows on, because if he stops to unpack the utter misery with which Morpheus just said that, he thinks he's going to have to get up right now, race out into the early morning dawn, and dig up whoever did this to his friend and kill them all over again.

"Right. Okay. Yes, you care, so you understand that… you have to let go. Do you know what I mean? You have to walk away. You have to… let things, let people, slip through your fingers. It doesn't matter how tightly you hang on to someone or something, change is inevitable. Time… ah, your father… has its… his way with us all. Except me. And you."

Morpheus watches him carefully, intensely, and Hob can't read what that expression means, hasn't seen it before. But if it was on a human, he'd call it intense and focussed affection.

"And I love life. I love humanity. I love the weird shit we come up with, and the ways we change, and grow, and at the same time stay exactly the same. I love people. I love love. But it can be…" he spreads his arms wide, clutching at the empty air, wishing he was better at putting thoughts into poetry. Then maybe he could explain himself better to the Prince of Stories.

Oh, so that's why that bitchy little twink Shaxbeard—no, focus, Gadling. Not right now.

Morpheus smirks at Hob's line of thought, but otherwise doesn't interrupt.

"The point of what I'm saying is that…" Hob takes a deep breath and plunges in. "You're my anchor. And you pull me through the years, and I follow along the tow line and… no, no, that sounds like you're dragging me down." Hob scrubs a hand through his hair, the beer and the adrenaline and the late hour catching up with him. He feels giddy and tongue-tied and stupid. "Maybe, you're a kite, then? And our meetings is the string, and when it's wound around my wrist, when I know what direction my life is being pulled by you and the wind, then it… it's full. It's taught. It's exciting. But when that string was… was slack… when you didn't come, when I thought I'd driven you away, I… I couldn't… there was no direction, and there was no point, and I—" Hob laughs flatly, false. "I had to build myself a fan, I guess. An Inn to fill the sail of the kite, and just hope that my breeze would come back and—"

And he doesn't talk about the years in the middle. The years between when he bought the White Horse, and before he threw himself into his schooling. The years when the misery of being forced to shut down the one place he needed more than air and food and water, because it tied him to his Stranger, the years when the White Horse continued to deteriorate and there was nothing he could do, except maybe sleep until 2089 and hope. The years when he put anything and everything down his throat, into his veins, up his nose just so that he didn't have to feel it, the wretched passage of time, the despair, the isolation and loneliness, the—

Morpheus' hand on his knee brings Hob back to himself. He huffs and wipes the moisture away from the corner of his eyes.

"What I'm saying is… I lost who I am, without you," he says slowly, covering that moon-pale hand with his own sun-browned and sword-calloused one. "And I'm not saying that you have to spend time with me. But I thought I ruined everything. And learning that instead you were captured and suffering, and I had no way of knowing and no way of helping, that's just so much worse. I need you, Morpheus. And more than that, I like you. These last few decades were awful without you, and I… I don't want to force you to spend time with me to keep me sane, that's not what I'm saying. I don't want to drown you in order to keep my own head above water."

Mixing metaphors again, Gadling. Get to the point.

"I guess what I'm saying is that I want to spend time with you. More than once a century. I want to be your friend, and I want to know when you're hurt, or in trouble. I want to be there for you, the way that you're there for me. I want to be the solution to your loneliness, the kind that only people like you and me know. The people who go on, and on, and on, when everything around you is always changing or withering away. Because you are the solution to mine. You're…" Hob decides that six hundred and seventy-two is too old to speak in euphemisms. "You're all that I get to keep. So, please. Can I keep you?"

"I too find that I thrive when I am seen," Morpheus says, summing up Hob's rambling with eloquence and sincerity. "And I am more than satisfied with your explanation. I find that I… share your sentiments. So yes, I shall give you a way to contact me, and a way to know if I am in distress. And I will be happy to meet with you more often."

"Once a week too much?" Hob asks, sniffling with pent up emotion and swift relief. "God's bones, I sound like such a clingy bastard. I guess I am. I won't be ashamed of it."

"If that is the case, then I find I am one as well. Will every Tuesday evening be acceptable?"

Hob didn't teach Tuesday afternoons, but Morpheous probably already knew that.  "More than."

"Excellent. It is done."

Hob huffs out a weak laugh, flopping back into his chair and feeling like he's just gone a hundred rounds with a heavyweight champ. Or sold his soul to Morpheus all over again. Morpheus releases his hand and pours them both more tea, though when Hob takes a drink, he finds it's become a sweet, cool wine, the kind he'd once had in Greece, centuries ago.

After they sip for a few moments, Hob screws up his courage, and asks, "And was it Morpheus who was… 'unavoidably detained'," Hob says, putting the finger-quotes around the phrase. 

Morpheus goes silent for long enough that Hob worries again that he's offended his friend again.

"We don't have to talk about it," Hob assures him. He reaches out his hand for Morpheus, offering support and understanding, just as his friend had offered it to Hob. He is relieved and flattered when Morpheus takes it again, without a moment's doubt.

"I… do not think I could bring myself to speak of this again, if I were not to unburden myself now. You have confessed so much this evening, and I feel I must honor your truth with my own, no matter how… infuriatingly painful and humiliating the confession may be. I was, as you surmised, captured."

"How can someone capture a… a concept?" Hob asks softly. "A literal, actual force of nature?"

"How indeed," Morpheus says, rueful and bitter. "While most magic is insubstantial nonsense," Morpheus begins slowly. He lifts his free hand and spreads his fingers wide, and on his palm a whirlwind of golden sand swirls into the shape of a small glass cage, with a tiny, prone man trapped inside. Hob's heart clenches when he realizes what he's looking at. "There are some immutable laws of existence that can be harnessed and twisted to entrap even one such as I. But it was not Dream of the Endless that Rodrick Burgess sought to enslave, nor even Morpheus the God of Sleep, but Death her very self…"

NEXT

#Dreamling #Dream of the Endless #Sandman #Morpheus #Hob Gadling #Losyark #Fanfiction #Fanfic #Sandman Fanfic #Sandman Fanfiction #unbeta'd #I don't know what I'm doing #I just want to write something worthy of being illustrated by #fishfingersandscarves #dreamling fic #dream x hob #hob x dream #centennial husbands #centennial boyfriends #morpheus x hob #morpheus #matthew the raven #the dreaming #hob x morpheus #get together fic #Cling Fast

[orange-orchard-system]

I do enjoy being able to make a difference in people's lives, whether that's helping them with a big discovery, reassuring them that they're not the only ones with a particular experience, sharing a tip they find helpful, or just letting them know that, hey, plurality exists! Here are some basic terms for it! Here is how it applies to what you were talking about and why I think you might like to know about it! ... All of that fills me with pride.

But... sometimes I really hate that being myself like this is a radical act. That a lot of the work I do is really nothing more than unabashedly being myself for others to see, and the implications that has on how little plurality is known, how unsure and afraid so many of us are, how many misconceptions and assumptions are made about being more-than-one. That who I am is something I have to educate others on, something I have to be cautious about opening up to others about, and not something I can just casually mention. I'm happy that people can learn about plurality and themselves through my actions, but... it's bittersweet, because it reminds me of how unknown we are; that we have a long way to go in terms of awareness and acceptance of even the most clear-cut, well-known, easy-to-understand presentations of plurality.

I'm not new to this conundrum. Long before we started working with the plural community, we've been hanging out in queer communities, especially aspec communities. If I had a cupcake for every time I heard a "bringing out the PowerPoint to explain my sexuality/gender identity" joke, I'd have enough cupcakes to fill up the entire dessert table at a potluck, and probably have some spill over the edges onto the floor.

It's just... sometimes I fantasize about laws for plural rights and protections being passed. The work it will take to reach that point* is so daunting, and while I am hopeful about reaching it in my lifetime, it doesn't change that I am currently a tired uni student who is still trying to figure out what to do with my career. I am writing analyses on medical texts that mention DID in-between my assignments for class. I am posting jokes about my system when my fatigue leaves me lying at the top of the stairs, unable to do anything but scroll on my phone. There is so, so much to do and I am so, so limited in what I can do.

* to me, this point in plural activism and progress is half symbolic and half a literal goal I hope we achieve together. Symbolic, because at that point, we will have made such significant strides in awareness in acceptance that even politicians and government authorities cannot ignore us any longer. Literal, because pluralphobia and its parent bigotries are still serious problems, and I'd like to hope legal protection would improve at least some systems' lives.

My system is so important to me. I don't hate them. But sometimes I hate that the world is at odds with us. Sometimes I hate that I can't just be.

[I'm not giving up any of the work I'm currently doing, if that was a concern any of you had while reading this. I've just been thinking about how] the plural community is one that never really feels quiet in the way other communities I've been in feel quiet. There's always this underlying feeling, this go-go-go attitude, this sense that one of the main reasons we stick together is because no one else gets it, and we're constantly fighting against the tide for a moment to breathe. We're not constantly drowning – I see many stories of acceptance and support out there. But we're a community very aware of the water snapping at our heels, I'd say.

Goodness, I love the work we are all doing. I love each and every story of success. But sometimes I wish we could all have a quiet night in.

#plurality #pluralgang #actuallyplural #plural system #actuallydid #front soup.txt

[peachycrime]

SLK or Spider/Kiri/Lo'ak Headcanons

idk what these will be about tbh i’m just writing as i think of stuff lmao

Kiri had a phase where she was convinced she was a witch because everywhere she went an animal would just waddle up to her

Spider, Lo’ak and Jake talk to babies like they’re grown people, like no baby talk and it’s hilarious

Lo’ak was once holding a baby, and you know how you hold them high in the air and they’re above you? Yea they were having a moment and then the little creature threw up all over his shirt and started giggling right after

“Dude seriously? we were having a moment wtf” it took everything in him not to just drop the baby

Lo’ak would copy everything Jake did as a kid, his lil mini me fr

Lo’ak’s first words were either dad or Teyam

Spider and Lo’ak both have severe anger issues and lord knows what would happen if they ever turned on eachother abt that anger

Lo'ak is always reprimanded about the things he does, gets yelled at and gets in trouble in situations where he isn't truly at fault. Authority figures never let him explain himself and always assume he's lying or trying to makes excuses and they expect him to just take it and move on. He does, but all that annoyance and anger at a situation he can't help tends to come back up a lot.

With Spider on the other hand, adults can never seem to shut up with their backhanded comments,

"you're nicer than i thought you'd be considering your dad"

"Oh wow you're so smart I didn't think you'd get it'

"You look just like him" (in a bad way)

"Oh you're good at this, who would've thought"

All this stuff and he can't really say anything because he'd be proving them right. So he stays silent, doesn't argue back and boy does he hate it.

One time Neytiri made a comment on the wrong day at the wrong time and he honestly considered violence before he just silently walked out of the room. He definitely punches and breaks stuff but he tries to restrain himself which adds to the pent up anger

They've both used that anger on their bullies, Spider broke the guys nose and dislocated his shoulder by pulling it up his back and making him promise to never show his face again

Lo'ak just went straight to the punches, broke the dudes nose and left him slack jawed

So if you ever catch them in a slightly off mood and you even try to talk to them or act any sort of way, you're getting sent to the nurse. I'm sorry i don't make these rules

Kiri is the mediator, she doesn't want to be but she sometimes ends up being the most rational because when she's upset, anger isn't her default unlike the other two

Lo'ak collects comic books, Jake started the obsession and he went wild. Have a comic or manga you wanna borrow? Vintage or not it's probably in his room somewhere

Spider is a math genius, the formulas are just free balling in his head and it makes it easy for him.

He's also a literature enthusiast but has a hard time expressing his own ideas on paper, great public speaker though

Lo'ak definitely over analyzes his favorite characters, gets sad and cries silently abt it

Kiri is an all around science nerd, she goes to class just because she enjoys helping out w hands on science stuff, most of the content isn't new for her

Kiri despises chemistry, she understands it but finds it uninteresting. Ofc biology and botany are where it’s at

All language nerds

All great at physical education, i mean like the actually science behind the body, they have all the muscle names memorized etc

Kiri is their little jewel, Lo’ak especially, he tries to make it the least obvious but Spider definitely tells her how much Lo’ak cherishes her

Spider is very open with his affections, he just doesn’t feel the need to hide it, they live that loves that about him

Spider and Neteyam know how to cook a mean meal, put them in a kitchen together and you’re literally drooling at the smell

Spider is a spicy food enthusiast right along with Jake and Neytiri

Kiri has had a cat for 4 years, Jake has only known for 2 years because he used to be terrified of them and Kiri didn’t want him to freak out

He now carries said cat like it’s his mini purse

I’m all out

i’ll be delivering some locorro crumbs soon!

#lo’ak avatar #neteyam #spider kiri and lo’ak #avatar james cameron #avatar spider #avatar the way of water #neytiri #kiri sully #avatar headcanons #locorro

[sing-you-fools]

I think we fucked up when we stopped letting authors be weird little freaks in living cabins and never talking to anyone.

I want to write my book. I want to tell this story. Ideally, I'd like to tell a lot more after this one, too. I want people to read them and like them.

But I don't want to be a celebrity. I don't want to be a public figure at all. I want people to love my books, but I don't want to have Fans.

I'm good with words, I think - I wouldn't write if I didn't, right? But I need time to think about how to say what I mean. The idea of ever having to do a live interview is kind of terrifying. The idea of sitting on a panel of authors at a convention or something and an audience question attacks me using the worst-faith interpretation I've ever heard of something I said scares the crap out of me - I'm awful at keeping my cool in the moment, and I don't want to ruin my life because I snapped at someone who was being an asshole.

Everything is political. But I understand the famous people who insist they aren't. I have beliefs, of course, but I really suck at talking about them. My writing is definitely political, but I'm no Ursula Le Guin, and put on the spot, my answer to an excellent thought-provoking question would be more like "capitalism bad." Given more time, maybe I could say, "here's some stuff you should read if you're interested," but I don't want to be shoved into the "political educator" role. It's not one I would be good at.

My processing is slow. When I'm listening to someone talk, or reading something they wrote, in the moment, I always feel like they're making a lot of sense and plenty of good points (well, not always; word salad is word salad). Sometimes I will realize a day later that, wait a minute, that guy didn't actually make sense! Or worse - that did make sense, but it didn't mean what I understood it to mean at the time, and I agreed with him. This is very much not something I want to do on a public scale.

Philosophically, I don't really want to explain my work. I don't want to tell people what I was thinking, why I made this choice, and so on. I want to let it stand for itself. I also don't want to accidentally spoil anything. But I also have an extremely hard time shutting up, and unlike Tom Holland, there's no way to keep me in the dark. Not when it's my own work.

Sometimes I think World's Greatest Author Chuck Tingle has the right idea. Cover my face, use a pen name, play a character, don't let anyone perceive me. But that wouldn't actually solve most of the reasons I don't want to be perceived. I'm not sure what options there are for me, though. Can I just be a recluse? Can a reclusive author succeed these days? Probably. But can I manage to both be a recluse professionally and continue being very online personally? Would I be able to keep it separate? Would I be able to see a shitty take about something I wrote and scroll past it?

I realize and take comfort in the fact that the likelihood of achieving that level of success is vanishingly small. I remind myself that Neil Gaiman is not the average published author. He is not even the average very successful published author. These are worst-case-scenario worries for a situation that will never happen. I'm still not done with Step 1 (Write a First Draft). I just wish I could work on Step 1 without my brain saying, hey, what if someday someone's mean to you because you wrote this?

#musings #writeblr #sing-you-fools

[haleigh-sloth]

I cut this ask into two parts because this top part is....idk. I can't ignore it. So, I'm seeing this topic all around today, not just in my inbox.

I'm honestly a little confused. The manga strongly implies....honestly it goes beyond implications at this point, that Rei was not in agreement with Natsuo and Shouto. I mean....she literally was arguing saying it's not a good idea, and too cruel, and pointing out how Endeavor's plan is affecting the two kids they already have.

Then, when does she agree?

After showing us this terrified look on her face. I could go back and watch how the episode handled it and see if they truly removed that implication from the scene, but actually I won't even refer to the anime for this. Refer to the source material, because she looked fucking terrified and disturbed by her husband in that moment, and next thing we see is two babies, and an exhausted, clearly on the verge of losing her shit Rei.

I do think the terms of consent for the first two are debatable. There is a whole other discussion to be had about Rei's "choice" to accept the marriage proposal. I've seen very decent points made about how it could go either or on the consent train there from the get go.

What I'll say I agree with is that Touya and Fuyumi were not coerced out of her out of fear. They were the result of an arrangement she stepped into (again, consent in this area is debatable and just an entire other discussion that doesn't belong here).

Natsuo and Shouto though--I don't know what else Hori could have done to portray the horrific preceding circumstances to their births, aside from showing more detailed insight into Rei's head, making the manga much, much darker than I think Hori was willing to go. It's not subtle, it's not hard to figure out.

Natuso and Shouto were CLEARLY born into a different atmosphere than the first two. There is just....no debating that.

I do not agree anon. I'm sorry but I don't view the circumstances that preceded Natsuo's and Shouto's births as those of Rei being in agreement. That is, beyond agreeing to maintain her end of the deal. Which still, you can see the difference before her "holding up her end" when Touya and Fuyumi were born and when Natsuo and Shouto were born.

Former child welfare worker (an investigator no less) here in the US--the system here is shit.

I can confidently say without a doubt that, remove all the super power aspects of the Todoroki household from the equation, and you have a case of emotional abuse and neglect that the system would have pretty much no authority over. That is, unless Touya's self-harm was discovered by someone who was willing to report it (and even then, not much the system can or will do about it besides order the family to get MH services), or until Touya's death.

Yeah, idk. It really sucks. And I don't take anybody seriously who has these takes because they clearly have no idea what they're fucking talking about, and that's not my problem.

As someone who works with these situations often, has been involved in the midst of some nasty cases, and is uhh pretty heavily educated and trained in these areas--it's really hard for me to engage with people who just...want to say things to sound smart or trying to make some kind of "gotcha" point. I can't take a lot of takes about Rei seriously--those that demonize her AS WELL AS those that absolve her in the like--I can't listen to a lot of people talk about Touya either. I literally have 0 patience for it.

#tw abuse #todoroki enji #todoroki rei #todoroki touya #dabi #todofam #anonymous #bnha asks

[timemachineyeah]

Hiya I just stumbled across your Mr Robinson post. First of all condolences, I saw that he died a few years ago. Second, I'm very much curious, what subject is he supposed to teach? I couldn't really figure it out from the stories..

So I was in the gifted program at our school

(istg if y’all start gifted kid discourse in notes I will block you! yes everyone should have access to higher quality education, no don’t invalidate other people’s trauma, and this post about my BELOVED DEAD FORMER MENTOR FIGURE WHO DIED WELL BEFORE HIS TIME IN AN ACCIDENT is not the place to talk about it! My notes are not for that discussion thank you!)

and the way the program worked, we had two teachers who taught all subjects - often in interlocking or combined ways. Like a science project that uses the math we’re learning or a history project that ties into scientific advancements of the time, etc.

Like we still had “hours” and “subjects” technically, but only sometimes did the bell ringing indicate we were changing tasks. Depending on where we were in the curriculum it might just mean we all take a five minute break and get back to it.

Our two teachers were Mrs C and Mr R. Sixth graders had Mrs C for the morning and Mr R for the afternoon. Seventh graders had the reverse. Some of the subjects they were technically responsible for switched places when we changed grades - I think C was science in sixth grade and R was in seventh - but they often worked together on kind of interlocking curriculums. So on rare occasions both grades would be together and more commonly we’d sort of make… blind tag team projects? Like our project and their project technically combined into a bigger project.

Or we’d go on lots of hikes and stuff as a group or have big group classes outside. We did lots of catching live bugs and drawing plants with Mrs C. There was a creek right near the school so we didn’t have to go far to see the local wildlife.

I think Mrs C and Mr R pioneered the program together. Our class was the last to finish it as it was run. No Child Left Behind passed in March that year. The program ended with us that June.

Mrs C and Mr R were both fighting to get the program expanded and adopted for all the classes. Like we were supposed to be the proof of concept. They cried when we graduated seventh grade. The sixth graders were all in the room knowing the fun they’d had that year would be cut in half from what it had been planned as.

Our grades were good and our education was top notch and we tested well and I don’t even think it was that much more expensive than what funding a classroom already costs - if at all.

No Child Left Behind has its clear part of the blame - the timing of when the program was canceled and when that was being pushed are obviously linked - I also think it was honestly too liberal for our community. Like, sure, we were happier, learned better, liked school more, passed our tests, etc. But we also had hard discussions about race. We also protested the administration. Good Christian children often from wealthy families were questioning authority too much. Imagine if it got to the rest?

This is just speculation on my part. But it’s not without its evidence.

My wording on the original post was unclear, so let me be clear here: Mr Robinson wasn’t lying when he said we weren’t supposed to learn world religion.

It really was a forbidden subject. We actually did have to hide it from faculty.

Now, this did also make it more fun and compelling for us. And we did treat it like a spy game. But we also knew it wasn’t a game. They could actually get in trouble. And I don’t know. Maybe they did. Or maybe whether someone complained or not, the higher ups just noticed. This program was producing smart kids, high achieving kids, sure, but it was also producing problem kids that questioned the status quo.

And there are people that that kind of education wouldn’t serve.

Anyway to answer your question he taught math, social studies, and sometimes science, but really he taught everything in tag team with Mrs C. Except gym and band.

#timemachine wuz here #mr robinson