#Define Condition Tables

[straw-berrysoju]

STUDY BREAK (18+)

Synopsis: A late-night study session with your sexy, sharp-tongued study partner turns into a game of control when he quizzes you with pop questions, punishing wrong answers with teasing touches and threats. What was supposed to be studying quickly becomes an erotic lesson in submission and power.

Themes: study partners, college setting, psychology majors, study sessions turning into intimate encounters, power play, teasing and edging, control and submission, sexual tension, public risk, control, obedience

Pairing: seungcheol x female reader (both psychology majors)

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, power imbalances, public setting (library), oral sex, fingering, edging and orgasm control

Word count: 1.9k

Minors dni!

PART 2 : STUDY BREAK (ORAL EXAM)

_______________________________________________________

It’s close to midnight when Seungcheol finally shows up.

He’s ten minutes late, again, with his hoodie pulled low and his hair still damp from a shower. You pretend you don’t notice the way he smells—like soap and warm skin and something a little too clean for the things running through your head.

“You already started without me?” he asks, throwing his bag on the chair across from mine.

“You were late,” you say flatly, not looking up.

He laughs, the deep kind that vibrates low in his throat. “Someone’s cranky.”

“I’m focused.”

“Mm. We’ll see how long that lasts.”

The words are offhand, but his gaze lingers. There’s something about the way he says it—how casual his voice is while his eyes roam over you like he already knows what’s going to happen.

You cross your legs under the table, gripping your pen a little tighter.

He takes his seat. You start reviewing. At first, it’s normal—terms, definitions, case studies. But then…

“Define operant conditioning,” he says, leaning in just slightly.

“Reinforcement or punishment used to increase or decrease a behavior,” you reply automatically.

“Good girl.”

You freeze.

He says it so softly you're not sure you heard him right. But when you glance up, he’s looking at you—really looking.

“You—what did you just say?”

Seungcheol smiles. “Just giving feedback. Positive reinforcement.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Call you a good girl?” His voice drops. “Does it bother you?”

“It’s distracting.”

“Interesting,” he says, folding his arms behind his head. “Because it looked like you liked it.”

Your pulse kicks up. The room is too quiet. Too private. It’s the end of the semester, and most of campus is asleep or wired on caffeine in another building. We’re in a back corner study room, half the lights off, no one walking by.

You should shut this down. You should get back to your notes. But then his foot slides under the table and touches yours. Light. Testing.

“Want to play a game?” he murmurs.

Your hand stills. Your mouth is dry. “No games. We’re behind.”

“Then let’s multitask.” His eyes flash. “For every correct answer, I reward you. For every mistake…” He smiles slowly. “You get punished.”

You know you should say no. Should roll your eyes and go back to reviewing. But your thighs are already pressing together under the table, breath catching in your throat.

You glance up. “How are you defining ‘reward’ and ‘punish’?”

His gaze drags down your face, your chest, your legs.

“Why don’t we find out?”

You swallow hard and nod once.

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, legs wide.

He smiles like he’s been waiting for this.

“Question one: What’s the difference between positive and negative reinforcement?”

You blink, recite from memory. “Positive reinforcement adds a stimulus to increase behavior. Negative reinforcement removes something to increase behavior.”

His smile deepens. “Good girl.”

The words slide under your skin like silk.

You’re not prepared for the way his foot slips under the table, brushing your calf, sliding up, slow and deliberate. You suck in a breath.

“That’s your reward,” he says. “Next.”

You barely have time to recover.

“Question two: Define punishment in behavioral terms.”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. “Punishment… decreases behavior. Positive punishment adds an unpleasant stimulus. Negative removes a positive one.”

His foot presses between your legs, nudging your knees apart.

“That hesitation cost you.”

You stiffen.

He leans forward, dark eyes locked on yours. “Don’t close them. Keep your legs where I put them.”

You obey, your breath catching when his toe presses lightly against your inner thigh.

“Third question. Define fixed ratio schedule.”

You’re panting now, trying to think. “It’s… reinforcement given after a specific number of responses.”

“Correct.”

This time it’s not his foot—it’s his hand, sliding under the table, fingers skimming the bare skin just above your knee. You’re hyper aware of every brush, every shift of his knuckles.

“Shorts?” he murmurs. “Or skirt?”

You meet his gaze, throat dry. “Skirt.”

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes briefly, like he's holding himself back. “You really are trying to test me.”

His fingers drift higher.

“Fourth question. Describe the concept of learned helplessness.”

You try. You swear you try. But all you can focus on is the heat of his palm against your thigh, creeping higher, tracing the crease where your leg meets your hip.

“W–when an individual… is exposed to inescapable negative stimuli, they stop trying to escape, even when a solution is present.”

His fingers pause just short of your underwear.

“Very good,” he murmurs. “So smart.”

You’re aching. Slick between your thighs. And he hasn’t even really touched you yet.

His thumb strokes along the waistband of your panties. The featherlight touch makes your breath hitch.

“Next one,” he says. “Ready?”

You nod, swallowing hard.

“Name two famous behaviorists.”

“Skinner and… Watson.”

“Good girl,” he whispers, and this time he rewards you with a single, slow stroke over your clothed core. You twitch in your seat, biting your lip to keep from making a sound.

“Oh, you liked that.” His fingers repeat the motion. “You’re so wet already, baby. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You shift in your seat, thighs tightening. “Cheol, we can’t—”

“We can,” he cuts in, voice a command now. “No one’s coming in this late. And you’re the one begging for attention with those pretty little skirts.”

“I wasn’t—”

He cuts you off with a soft, dark laugh, leaning in. “You wore lace under that skirt to a study session. You wanted to be touched.”

Your cheeks burn. He’s right.

And when his fingers slip past the lace this time—bare skin to bare heat—you forget how to breathe.

He groans, the sound deep and quiet. “Fuck. You're soaked.”

“Cheol—”

“I told you.” He sinks a single finger in, slow and teasing. “Get the answers right, and I’ll give you what you want. Get them wrong…”

He pulls his hand away. Cold. Empty.

“…and you’ll have to beg.”

You whimper, chasing his hand instinctively.

The smirk he gives you is pure sin.

“Last question. Get this right, and I’ll make you come right here, right now.”

You stare at him, shaking slightly, thighs slick and trembling.

“Define conditioned stimulus.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. His hand hovers just above your cunt, waiting.

“One…”

You panic. “A—a previously neutral stimulus… that, after association with the unconditioned one, triggers the same response.”

His hand sinks back down. Two fingers this time. Crooked just right.

“Correct.”

And just like that, you fall to pieces—back arched, breath ragged, his name on your lips like a secret sin.

You try to stay quiet, really, you do.

But when his fingers start pumping in and out, slow and steady, curling just right, it’s impossible to keep still on his lap. Your hips roll instinctively, chasing the friction, grinding down as your thighs tremble around him.

“Fuck, you’re needy,” Seungcheol growls against your neck, voice barely above a whisper. “Dripping all over my hand in a goddamn study room.”

You bite your bottom lip, tasting skin, trying to suppress the moan clawing its way up your throat.

His free hand grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head back just enough so he can watch your face as he fucks you with his fingers. “Let them hear if you want,” he says, eyes dark. “Or be a good girl and stay quiet. Either way, you’re not leaving this chair until I feel you come.”

You dig your nails into his hoodie as your body shakes, that coil in your stomach twisting tighter and tighter. Every press of his thumb against your clit sends sparks flying. You’re soaked, whimpering into his shoulder, thighs clenching around his wrist as he works you through it.

“Cheol—please—”

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Come for me, sweetheart. Be loud. Be messy.”

You do. You fall apart right there in his lap, teeth sinking into his collarbone to muffle the broken gasp that spills from your lips as your orgasm hits hard and fast, making your whole body go tense and weightless at once.

By the time you catch your breath, your panties are ruined, and his fingers are glistening.

“You made a mess,” he smirks, sucking one finger into his mouth with a filthy groan. “We’re not done.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover. Doesn’t let you fix your hair or adjust your skirt. He just grabs your bag, presses a kiss to your cheek like you’re some innocent girl he’s walking home, and guides you out of the library with his hand on your lower back like he owns you.

When you finally reach his dorm, he doesn’t even turn on the lights. He locks the door, pins you to it, and kisses you like he’s been waiting all semester to ruin you.

And he does.

He strips you slow—fingers tracing every inch of skin he uncovers like he’s studying you now—and when he finally peels your panties off completely, he brings them to his nose with a groan, then pockets them like a trophy.

“You’re gonna ride me,” he says, voice rough as he pulls his hoodie off and sinks onto the edge of his bed, jeans undone, cock thick and hard in his fist. “Nice and slow. Show me how much you really learned tonight.”

You climb onto him, thighs sore, cunt still throbbing from earlier. His hands grip your hips as you sink down, and the stretch steals your breath. He’s thick. Hot. Heavy. Every inch of him fills you up perfectly.

You start slow, bouncing gently, rolling your hips the way he taught you to move, but Seungcheol clearly has other plans.

“Not like that,” he snaps, slapping your ass. “You teased me all week wearing those short skirts. Begging for my attention in those tight little study group outfits. You don’t get to take it slow.”

He grabs your wrists, pulling them behind your back and holding them with one hand, while the other grabs your throat—not tight, but firm enough to make you moan.

“Now fuck me like you mean it.”

And you do.

You ride him hard, your thighs burning, tits bouncing, moans filling the dark room. His cock hits every sensitive spot, thick and perfect, dragging over your walls until you’re crying his name like a prayer.

“Touch yourself,” he growls. “Let me see how pretty you look falling apart on my cock.”

Your fingers find your clit, and with just a few messy circles, you’re unraveling again—legs shaking, cunt clenching tight around him as you come with a sharp cry.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, and then he’s flipping you onto your back, hooking your legs over his shoulders and slamming back in, fucking you deep, hard, relentless. “One more,” he pants. “Give me one more.”

Your head lolls back, brain fogged with pleasure, body wrecked and begging. “Cheol—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, biting down on your collarbone. “You will.”

You come again—shaking, sobbing, nails digging into his back as he finally lets go with a low, guttural growl, spilling inside you and holding you tight as he rides out every wave.

After, he doesn’t speak for a while.

Just pulls you into his chest, kisses your forehead, and strokes your hair as you lie tangled in the sheets, spent and dripping.

“Guess we’re doing another study session tomorrow,” he murmurs.

And the smirk in his voice makes you shiver all over again.

_______________________________________________________

Author's note: this smut may or may not have been a reaction to Scoups' met gala look. Sorry not sorry. I also may have gotten a little carried away and started writing the second part of this oneshot but I'll most probably not upload it.

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they react to your bad cooking

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, higuruma, shiu

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

It started the day you proudly handed Gojo your newest culinary creation. A dish you confidently described as 'innovative'. Gojo, sitting at your kitchen table like he’s about to be on Hot Ones, stares down at the plate you just served like it’s an unexploded landmine.

You made spaghetti. Or, rather, a version of spaghetti that would legally have to be called 'Tomato-Inspired Pasta Chaos' in 36 different countries. The noodles are sticking together. The sauce? Questionable. Chunky in places it shouldn’t be chunky. Is that… is that cinnamon?

Gojo pokes it with his fork like it’s going to fight back. “So, like, was this cooked under normal human conditions? Like, with fire? Or a curse technique?”

“I followed a recipe!”

"Is it supposed to be smoking?"

"That's steam," you assured him. It definitely wasn't steam.

He takes a deep breath and dramatically scoops up a forkful with the bravery of a man about to bungee jump into an active volcano.

The second the food hit his tongue, he paused. Like, really paused. Statue-still. Then, ever-so-slowly, he chewed. And chewed. And continued to chew.

"Is it good?" you asked hesitantly.

He swallowed with a visible struggle. That bite physically transported him to the astral plane. He saw God. God told him to DoorDash. "Define 'good'."

₊⊹. From that day forward, Gojo developed an impressive array of tactics to cope with your cooking. He masters the art of distraction, pointing dramatically out the window, yelling, "OH MY GOD, IS THAT A CURSE?!" When you inevitably look away, your carefully cooked food mysteriously teleports from his plate into a potted plant or the bin. After a while, you begin to wonder why all your houseplants suddenly keep dying.

₊⊹. When Yuji enthusiastically comes over for dinner once, Gojo immediately redirects your culinary efforts onto the unsuspecting student. And Yuji, gullible and perpetually hungry, bites in, only to instantly make eye contact with you, looking betrayed, scandalized, and utterly tragic. Gojo laughs, completely unfazed, and offers a sympathetic pat. "It's a growth experience!"

₊⊹. At one point, your cooking gets so atrociously bad that Gojo begins miming Oscar-worthy death scenes every single time he takes a bite. He staggers across the kitchen floor, clutching his throat, gasping, "Tell... Megumi... I’m proud of him... and Yuta... he was always my favorite!"

You just sigh, rolling your eyes while he fake-collapses on the floor, legs sticking straight up like a cartoon character. After about ten minutes of complete silence, he peeks one eye open and whispers, "Are you grieving yet?"

₊⊹. Eventually, after another disastrous culinary experiment leaves Gojo dramatically collapsed against your kitchen chair, you cross your arms with an exasperated sigh. "Satoru, seriously, it can't be that awful every single time."

Peering at you over the rims of his sunglasses, Gojo groans theatrically, as if the very idea pains him. "You’re right. Sometimes it’s worse."

You glare at him, mock offended. "It's not THAT bad."

He scoffs, draping himself across your lap like a giant, overly dramatic cat. "The curses I’ve fought pale in comparison. But don't worry," he smirks, eyes twinkling behind his sunglasses, "I'll always heroically sacrifice myself to your cooking disasters. It’s what the strongest sorcerer does."

"You’re an idiot," you mutter, gently running fingers through his messy hair.

He smiles smugly, tipping his head back to meet your eyes. "Yeah, but I'm your idiot."

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

When you first present Geto with your cooking, he observes the plate with his typical calm, pleasant smile. The one that hides a thousand judgmental thoughts. His eyes flicker subtly to you, then back to the suspiciously grey lump on the plate.

"Interesting," he starts slowly, cautiously prodding the meal with his chopsticks as though testing a highly volatile chemical. "Did the recipe specifically mention this color?"

"Well... it said golden brown," you mumble sheepishly. "I improvised."

He nods gently, like a supportive parent acknowledging a child’s drawing that looks suspiciously like nightmare fuel. "Ah, creative liberty. Bold choice."

Then, without hesitation, he pops a chunk into his mouth.

You hold your breath, watching anxiously as he chews. But Geto’s face doesn’t change. Not a single twitch, not the slightest grimace. He swallows smoothly and nods at you approvingly. "Interesting texture. Reminds me of... something familiar."

₊⊹. From then on, it becomes painfully clear that your cooking doesn't faze Geto at all. No matter how horrendously bad your dishes are, Geto remains unfazed. One day, after tasting a stew with the exact consistency of glue, he remarks calmly, "You know, this might actually pair well with zaru soba."

When you doubtfully ask, "Really?", he smiles peacefully, eyes closed. "No, not at all. But it's the thought that counts."

₊⊹. At one point, he decides to teach you basic recipes. Simple stuff like miso soup or rice balls. Unfortunately, his instructions become increasingly cryptic and philosophical, like, "Cooking is much like life. Just throw it all together and hope no one notices the mistakes."

You stare at him blankly, ladle in hand. He smiles reassuringly. "Just kidding. Please follow the recipe exactly. I'm begging you."

₊⊹. You start finding mysteriously placed cookbooks everywhere. On your pillow, in the bathroom, even tucked inside your bag. When confronted, Geto merely shrugs, sipping tea elegantly. "It must be fate gently nudging you toward culinary salvation."

₊⊹. One night, Nanako and Mimiko visit. Your attempt at cookies turns into charcoal disks. The girls stare, wide-eyed and silently horrified. Geto, completely unfazed, picks one up and crunches loudly, maintaining full eye contact with you. "Crispy. Like edible charcoal. Good for digestion."

Nanako whispers softly to Mimiko, "He’s built different," as if witnessing a supernatural feat.

₊⊹. Finally, you corner Geto one day, genuinely confused and slightly insulted by his immunity to your horrible cooking. "Suguru, seriously, how are you never grossed out? Are your taste buds, like, broken?"

He looks at you fondly, calmly setting down his tea. "Nothing you could ever make would come close to the culinary horrors I have willingly endured. Trust me, this is child's play."

You gape at him. "What kind of culinary horrors have you experienced?"

He pauses, serene smile unwavering. "I have eaten things," he says carefully, "that make your cooking seem Michelin-star worthy."

You don't fully understand, but he seems so genuinely sincere that you grudgingly accept the compliment.

Geto pats your head affectionately, amusement glinting softly in his eyes. "But if it makes you happy, keep experimenting. I will endure it all. For science. And love, of course."

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

Nanami always imagined a peaceful life: coming home from work, cooking dinner, sipping whiskey, and peacefully reading a book. Until he met you. Now, coming home meant playing culinary Russian roulette and hoping tonight’s dinner wouldn’t send him directly to the ER.

The first time you cook for Nanami, he walks in looking uncharacteristically hopeful. He neatly folds his blazer, rolls up his sleeves, and sits at your tiny kitchen table like a polite guest at a hostage negotiation.

You place the food in front of him. “Tada!” you announce proudly.

Nanami’s eyebrow lifts slightly as he observes your creation with the intensity of a forensic scientist. He quietly adjusts his sunglasses, then softly mutters under his breath, “Well… it certainly has personality.”

You beam at him. He sighs internally, offering a solemn prayer to whatever god looks after tired salarymen-turned-sorcerers.

He takes a bite, chewing carefully. His expression barely shifts, except his jaw tenses slightly. Finally swallowing, he sets down his chopsticks, clears his throat, and nods solemnly. "It's edible."

“That’s it? Edible?” you pout.

He stares at you very seriously. “Edible is good.”

₊⊹. Your dishes become a battlefield. Each night, Nanami quietly eats, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, face unreadable. It becomes almost impressive how calmly he approaches your meals, treating them like yet another inevitable overtime shift. When Gojo asks how he survives, Nanami calmly responds, "My previous job prepared me for this level of suffering."

₊⊹. You ask for feedback once. Big mistake.

After thoughtful chewing, Nanami calmly delivers his verdict. "Your meal tastes like how overtime feels. Painful, unnecessary, and slightly disrespectful."

You stare, offended but strangely impressed. He pats your hand reassuringly. "I appreciate your effort. But next time, let's stick to recipes."

₊⊹. One night, after tasting yet another questionable casserole, Nanami hands you a fancy cookbook wrapped neatly with a bow. "What's this?" you ask, smiling sweetly.

"A gentle suggestion," he says plainly. "For the safety of our digestive systems. And relationship."

You stare blankly, and he nods solemnly, "It's a romantic gesture. Trust me."

₊⊹. You overhear Nanami murmuring quietly to himself as he suffers through another of your meals.

"Malaysia," he sighs wistfully, eyes distant and dreamy. "White beaches. Street food stalls. No kitchen appliances. Peace."

₊⊹. One night, after yet another tragic dinner, you sigh dramatically, slumping across from him. "Kento, I appreciate that you put up with this every night. Why haven't you left me yet?"

He pauses, carefully setting down his utensils, face impossibly serious. "If I survived being a salaryman and daily exposure to Gojo Satoru, surely your cooking won't break me."

You frown. "That's sweet but… rude?"

His lips twitch into a tiny, almost invisible smile. "Take it as a compliment. My continued survival speaks volumes about my dedication to you."

You can't help but laugh. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand gently. "Besides," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly warm, "a life without minor inconveniences wouldn't be realistic."

You smile softly. "Are you calling me inconvenient?"

"Only your cooking," he clarifies immediately. "You, on the other hand, are extremely worth it."

You're stunned into silence. Nanami clears his throat awkwardly, avoiding your eyes, the tips of his ears slightly pink.

"Aw, Kento!" you tease, "That was almost romantic!"

He sighs deeply, pretending to be irritated. "Don't get used to it."

You lean forward, grinning smugly. "Too late."

He groans quietly, but the tiny smile that quirks his lips betrays him entirely.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

Choso is… different. Sweet, earnest, adorably intense, but still fundamentally… different. Because even though he theoretically knows how being a human works, thanks to the vessel he took over, he still hasn’t quite mastered the whole actually existing as a human thing. And it really shows when it comes to your cooking.

The first time Choso experiences your culinary 'skills,' he sits stiffly at your dining table, staring blankly at the plate in front of him with a carefully neutral expression. You smile proudly at your concoction: it's grey-ish, ominous, and vaguely smoking, but hey, you tried.

He frowns slightly. "From my vessel’s memories, I remember food typically being... less aggressive?"

"Choso, it's not aggressive. It's innovative," you insist, holding a fork up to his mouth encouragingly. "Go on, try it!"

He stares suspiciously at the fork like it personally insulted his brothers, before dutifully opening his mouth. His eyes widen slightly, eyebrows furrowing as he chews slowly, cautiously. Then he swallows and takes a deep, slow breath.

"I see. My vessel's memories must be incomplete," he murmurs very seriously, meeting your expectant gaze. "I don't recall humans regularly eating food that tastes like cleaning agent?"

Your horrified look makes him pause. "Ah. Social tact. I apologize, I’m still adjusting."

₊⊹. Yuji stops by unexpectedly and reaches to try a bite from your suspicious casserole. Choso instantly intercepts his hand, expression gravely serious. "Little brother, you mustn't. Your human body can’t withstand this."

Yuji looks bewildered. You look betrayed. Choso calmly explains, "It's my duty as eldest to protect you."

₊⊹. Choso, genuinely concerned, secretly browses the internet for solutions. You catch him on your laptop at 3 a.m, gravely searching 'is cooking supposed to make people sad'.

You sigh dramatically and close the laptop gently. "Choso, please stop."

He nods solemnly. "I understand. Truth hurts."

₊⊹. Gojo casually jokes, "So, did their cooking try to assassinate you again?"

Choso instantly goes rigid, glaring intensely at Gojo. "Do not speak negatively about their efforts."

Gojo raises an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? So you enjoyed it?"

"Absolutely not," Choso deadpans. "But only I can acknowledge their food’s threats to my existence."

₊⊹. After an especially questionable meal, you jokingly sigh, "Maybe cooking just isn’t for me. I'm a failure."

Choso looks genuinely distressed, immediately reaching across to grip your hand. "Please don't be upset. Failure is natural. Humans fail constantly."

You blink slowly. "Thanks?"

He squeezes your hand encouragingly. "Yes. Failing is part of human charm."

₊⊹. Eventually, feeling guilty for repeatedly poisoning your sweet (if socially inept) partner, you timidly ask, "Choso, do you actually enjoy anything I cook?"

He takes a long pause, genuinely thinking, before responding solemnly, "Humans appreciate effort more than results."

You sigh. "Choso, that's not answering my question."

He tilts his head thoughtfully, dark eyes softening slightly as he looks at you. "I enjoy that you try. I believe that's very important. I will eat anything you create."

"That's sweet," you mumble shyly.

He shrugs earnestly. "It’s simple logic. If Yuji can withstand Sukuna, surely I can survive your cooking."

You burst into laughter, feeling strangely comforted that no matter how badly you fail in the kitchen, Choso will be there. Awkwardly and confused, but unwaveringly supportive.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

Toji is many things. Cold assassin, ruthless gambler, the bane of the Zenin clan's existence. But above all, he's a man who appreciates good food. Meat, offal, a juicy steak grilled just right. Your cooking, however, is none of those things. Your cooking is the culinary equivalent of stepping on a Lego. Painful, distressing, and definitely not something you signed up for willingly.

The first time Toji sits down to dinner with you, he eyes the questionable lump of 'food' you've proudly placed before him, dark brows furrowing skeptically.

"You made this?" he asks, voice devoid of emotion, poking the dish suspiciously as if it might leap up and attack him.

You nod excitedly. "It's my special recipe!"

He leans back, crossing muscular arms over his chest. "Huh. Special. You sure that's the word you wanna use?"

You glare. He shrugs casually, picking up his chopsticks and bravely placing a bite into his mouth without hesitation. The moment he tastes it, you see a rare expression flash across his usually unbothered face.

Genuine shock.

"How is it?" you ask nervously.

Toji slowly swallows, locking eyes with you seriously. "Y'know, people've paid me good money to assassinate others. Next time someone hires me, I'm just gonna send you with this instead."

"Toji!"

He smirks lazily, raising an eyebrow. "What? It's more efficient than knives."

₊⊹. One afternoon, you discover Toji suspiciously packaging leftovers into small containers. When confronted, he smirks calmly, completely deadpan. "Selling 'em on the black market as poison. Client said it's more effective than cyanide."

You glare at him flatly. He chuckles dryly. "Relax, I'm kidding. Not about the poison part, though."

₊⊹. Even the worm-like inventory curse that literally lives inside Toji’s body refuses to consume your cooking. The first (and only) time Toji tries feeding it leftovers, the creature spits it back out immediately, squirming dramatically on the floor.

Toji just stares at it blankly. "Traitor," he growls.

₊⊹. After another catastrophic meal, Toji sighs, rubbing his temples like he just lost yet another bet. "Eating your cooking is like gambling. Low odds of survival, but damn, what a rush."

You roll your eyes. "Thanks."

He smirks. "Welcome. I'm starting to see why I keep losing all those horse races. I'm using up all my luck surviving dinner."

₊⊹. One night, after forcing down yet another questionable casserole, Toji leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

"You know," he begins dryly, "the Zenin clan threw me in a pit full of curses when I was a kid. Thought it was the worst thing they'd ever done to me."

You pause, staring at him. "And?"

He smirks lazily, dark eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. "Then I tasted your food."

You toss a spoon at him in outrage. He dodges smoothly, chuckling softly. "Relax. I’d still pick you over them any day. At least your cooking doesn't monologue about cursed energy."

You pout, reluctantly softening. He notices and reaches across the table, tapping your chin gently with his finger, voice low and teasing. "Besides, I thrive in dangerous environments. Keeps things interesting."

"You mean dangerous because of the food or dangerous because I'm gonna kill you if you don't shut up?"

He grins slyly. "Bit of both."

₊⊹. Hiromi Higuruma

Higuruma has always had a knack for calmly handling high-pressure situations. Defending impossible court cases, facing certain doom within cursed games. Piece of cake. But facing your cooking? That might actually kill him.

The first time you cooked for him, Higuruma’s weary eyes regarded the food with gentle apprehension. He politely inspected it from all angles, as though carefully examining an obscure piece of evidence.

You nervously watched him. “Is it alright?”

He paused thoughtfully, tilting his head, brows knitted slightly. "Interesting."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Interesting… good?"

"Interesting," he repeated carefully, "in that this dish defies several established laws of physics."

"It's supposed to be pasta," you admit, deflating slightly.

His eyes widen just a fraction, a hint of panic briefly flickering across his tired face before he schools his expression into a supportive, blandly reassuring mask. "Of course," he murmurs smoothly, gently patting your shoulder. "Let's... try it together."

You both eat silently. After an incredibly tense pause, Higuruma slowly swallows, sets down his fork, and politely coughs. "Creative," he states seriously. "Certainly breaks conventional culinary laws."

"Is that good or bad?" you ask anxiously.

He smiles tiredly, but fondly. "We'll call it a mistrial."

₊⊹. Higuruma starts keeping a small notebook near the kitchen, diligently taking notes after each new dish.

You sneakily peek one night, horrified at what he’s written: "Experiment #26: Soup (?). Temperature: Lukewarm. Flavor profile: Deeply unsettling. Observations: Possibly sentient."

You gasp loudly, "Hey!"

He looks up calmly, “It’s purely objective documentation. I’m sure the food appreciates my honesty.”

₊⊹. When asked how your meal tastes, he often sidesteps elegantly, offering cryptic answers instead.

"This stew," he begins thoughtfully, holding a spoon dramatically, "makes me question if objective reality even exists."

You blink suspiciously. "Hiromi. Did you just say my stew makes you dissociate?"

He nods gravely. "Precisely. Quite impressive, actually."

₊⊹. “Sometimes,” he murmured after a particularly unhinged omelet, “I think your cooking represents the postmodern condition.”

You stared. “What?”

He motioned vaguely with his chopsticks. “Chaotic. Absurd. Unapologetically hostile to meaning. I respect that.”

₊⊹. One evening, genuinely frustrated, you slump across from him. "Hiromi, just admit it. My cooking sucks."

He carefully sets down his utensils, eyes softening slightly. "Perhaps. But everyone has their strengths. Yours simply… manifest in areas other than cooking."

"Like what?" You challenge, skeptical.

He pauses, then gently answers, "Like persistence. It takes remarkable tenacity to continue creating edible tragedies night after night without losing hope."

You groan, laughing despite yourself. "That was the weirdest compliment ever."

He smiles faintly, one of his rare, genuine smiles, and quietly admits, "Truthfully, your enthusiasm makes even the most terrifying meals bearable. At this point, I’d miss it if you stopped."

You smile softly, genuinely touched. "Really?"

He nods solemnly. "Yes. My life would feel disappointingly stable without your daily culinary chaos."

"Aww," you tease. "You’d miss the food poisoning?"

He tilts his head, eyes glinting with quiet humor. "I’d miss the thrill of surviving it."

Laughing, you throw a napkin at him, which he catches effortlessly, setting it down carefully, lips twitching upward gently.

₊⊹. Shiu Kong

Shiu Kong is a man of questionable morals, minimal expectations, and plenty of street-smarts. In his line of work, he’s seen some serious stuff: curses, assassins, shady deals, Toji Fushiguro’s unpaid ramen tabs. But none of that could’ve prepared him for your cooking.

Your cooking is… controversial. Shiu knows it, you know it, the smoke alarm in your apartment (which screams in agony every night) knows it. Yet somehow, against his better judgment and entirely by accident, Shiu has become your unofficial food critic.

Shiu sits at your tiny table, suit jacket carefully hung on the chair behind him, cigarette extinguished (mostly out of concern that your food might spontaneously combust if exposed to open flame). He stares at the plate you present him, face unreadable.

“Wow,” he finally says dryly, raising an eyebrow at your oddly gelatinous creation. “Did your fridge explode, or was this deliberate?”

You pout indignantly, arms crossed. “It’s an authentic recipe from the internet.”

He hums skeptically. “Was the internet angry at you personally?”

You glare at him, and he sighs deeply, picking up the fork cautiously, as though it might detonate upon contact.

“I better get hazard pay for this,” he mutters, bravely stabbing a fork into the dish. He hesitates, briefly staring at the forkful as though making peace with his life choices, before finally taking a bite.

Chewing slowly, he nods thoughtfully. "Honestly? Tastes like crime."

You glare. "Excuse me?"

"Crime," he repeats casually, shrugging. "Illegal. Punishable. Possibly violates human rights."

"You're exaggerating," you mumble, arms crossed.

He gives you a genuinely amused half-smirk. "Sweetheart, I've worked with criminals for twenty years. Believe me, this is criminal."

₊⊹. From then on, Shiu’s sarcastic yet charmingly detached responses become a routine part of your questionable cooking.

He watches you cook once, genuinely puzzled.

"Strange," he muses out loud, "I always thought curse users were my most dangerous clients."

You look up, offended. "I'm not dangerous!"

He gives you a deeply skeptical look. "That's exactly what someone dangerous would say."

₊⊹. One evening, Shiu walks in, cigarette dangling from his lips. He pauses at your kitchen doorway, staring blankly at the mess. Pots, pans, unidentified stains everywhere. He whistles softly. "Wow, I’ve seen actual murder scenes cleaner than this."

You turn, unamused. "Very funny."

He shrugs easily. "I'm serious. You want me to call a cleanup crew, or is the carnage still ongoing?"

₊⊹. Shiu, ever the career criminal, genuinely ponders using your dishes to extort information from his underworld associates. After tasting another tragic attempt, he eyes you seriously. "You ever considered a side job in interrogation?"

You roll your eyes. He insists gravely, "I know guys who’d spill their guts after one spoonful."

₊⊹. Eventually, your bad cooking becomes weirdly endearing to him. Somehow, choking down your meals each night becomes his strangest, most irrational sign of affection.

"You don't actually have to eat this, you know," you say softly one evening, watching him calmly choke down burnt stir-fry.

He glances up, eyes surprisingly soft. "I've willingly babysat Toji’s kid. This isn't even top ten worst decisions I've made."

You laugh despite yourself. He sets down his fork and reaches out, awkwardly patting your hand with surprising tenderness. "Listen, I handle curse users. Compared to that, your cooking is... charmingly manageable."

You snort loudly, shaking your head. "Shiu, that's literally the worst compliment ever."

He smirks gently, voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Fine. Your cooking sucks, but you're kinda cute. Better?"

You grin, nudging him playfully. "Better."

He sighs dramatically, lighting another cigarette. "Just promise me you'll never cook professionally. I don’t have enough shady connections to bail you out from mass poisoning charges."

[canine-economy]

Daisuke’s Death and the Invisible Abuse of “Privileged” Children

tw: extensive discussions of child emotional abuse

Another mouthwashing text analysis before I post any polished art? Shocker. But I really really appreciate the reception on my Swansea post, especially as a new account! This Daisuke-centric analysis is gonna be a quick one (< this was a lie. long read ahead!) but he is a character who resonates deeply personally with me as a victim of childhood abuse that resembled some of his experiences. I do plan on doing a larger analysis of his character, but the abridged version necessary for this piece goes as follows:

Daisuke’s treatment in the narrative—both his implied home life and Jimmy’s taking advantage of him to go into the vent—is another one of this game’s excellent portrayals of normalized (and thus invisibilized) abuse. Children are often cited as one of the most vulnerable classes of people, if not the most vulnerable (I acknowledge that Daisuke is not a child, but Mouthwashing implies that this narrative of his inadequacy has persisted throughout his upbringing and, to this day, he is dictated tasks and lacks independence, treated like a dependent. His youth is also an undisputed feature of his character and, most importantly, the cast treats him like a kid). Children’s dependency on adults and our willingness as a society to accept that the adults in their lives provide the most objective perspective on these young people renders them particularly prone to abuse easily swept under the rug or “justified” by wardens who possess the power to dictate the narrative. Jimmy’s engagement with Daisuke is an extension of the latter’s vulnerability. The co-pilot’s assertion that “he’ll be fine (…) mommy and daddy have him covered” at the birthday party represents a deference to Daisuke’s parents as adequate caretakers who will ensure his longevity and comfort on the basis of their wealth. And we know that Daisuke’s parents think the same—the Q&As reveal that they believe they are doing the best to secure their son a good future. However, the same Q&As indicate that they don’t actually engage with or understand Daisuke’s interests and that their approach to parenting him is entirely understood through their personal beliefs, not those of their son. And Daisuke clearly carries that quite close to his heart. He seems to struggle with identity and acceptance, seeking validation in the form of praise. Daisuke is defined through what he can do for others and not what he independently brings to the table, because that has never mattered where he grew up. The consequences of his parents’ failure to meet his emotional needs ultimately conditioned Daisuke to be perfectly available to be taken advantage of in a corporate setting defined by capitalist attitudes and hierarchies.

While it’s not concrete to say that Daisuke grew up in an emotionally abusive household, it is most important that we cannot dismiss the possibility and that his behavior as the outcome of some obvious degree of neglect is well-aligned with this theory. Moreover, the young man who comes out of that household is easily targeted by Jimmy’s abusive tendencies as a direct result of what he internalizes growing up. Daisuke is apparently financially well-off (contextually we can’t be sure if Daisuke’s family is upper class, middle class, or somewhere in between), and with that comes privilege. Even the way he packs—multiple personalized outfits, entertainment devices, etc—reveal that he’s used to certain comforts and hasn’t yet acclimated to the harsh expectations of companies like the Pony Express. But, especially where young people are concerned, it is all too easy to allow this privilege to act as a curtain between abuse and the outside world. We can acknowledge the privilege that he undoubtedly enjoys and also recognize that it benefits his parents much more than it benefits him as a young person.

Emotional abuse is complex and extremely damaging and Daisuke *does* show symptoms of at least being constantly verbally accosted and emotionally neglected by his parents to the point of permanently warping his sense of self. It also generated his overreliance on authority figures to tell him how to keep himself safe in their world. His mother apparently insulted him to his face (“such a slacker, she said”, and being reprimanded for being too talkative [from the Daisuke teaser]), and a lot of his negative self talk (“total screw-up”, “fuck up”, etc) is reminiscent of how people define themselves by parroting what they are called after internalizing consistent externally-imposed definitions of their identity. While these are not surefire indicators of abuse and I am not willing to diagnose a situation as abusive purely predicated on these factors, the behaviors Daisuke exhibits as a result share many commonalities with those of victims of childhood abuse. In fact, just about every time Daisuke speaks about himself in Mouthwashing, he mentions his failures and his work. It’s not lost on me that the teaser for the whole character is him pondering his mother and how she might not recognize him if he isn’t noisy and obnoxious. He personally puts a lot of stock in their assessment of him as lazy and annoying, but nevertheless tries to accomplish learning through the internship. Furthermore, Daisuke takes on a lot of his mother’s pain, hoping she doesn’t blame herself for the negative things that happen to him (even though in the same scene he reveals that she’s the reason he’s on the stranded Tulpar at all), indicating that he has taken responsibility for the feelings of people in his life even when those people are not his to care for and even bear responsibility for his pain.

Now in young adulthood, Daisuke rarely seems to have any sense of self beyond his parents and his work aside from one-off quips about baseball and babes. It suggests that he has always had to prioritize his parents’ desires growing up to avoid being treated unfairly and even cruelly, stunting his self-discovery. In abusive situations, your understanding of safety and your pursuit thereof are radically impacted and we see this manifest in Daisuke’s continuing willingness to accept those in command as the pinnacle of safety over what one might consider logical, personal acts of self-preservation. He equates safety with obedience, and I contend that that equivalence suggests a lot about how his parents reprimanded deviance from their plans. And not to be that guy, but it is kind of outright cruel to dump your utterly inexperienced teenager-to-early-20-something on a 1 year, no contact, unsafe space voyage in a failing industry knowing that he doesn’t have the necessary skillset yet. That’s what his parents do when they aren’t satisfied with his progress, and it’s intense and disproportionate and alarming! Especially for the dependent! They toss him into the deep end of the corporate machine and insist he learns to swim in such an oppressive, stifling atmosphere. It’s no surprise that he drowns, especially when he himself can’t recognize this as an unrealistic expectation and tackles it with everything he’s got because his parents are theoretically always right about what he needs. I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that normalized emotional abuse from the home and how it maps onto a victim’s adult life is a topic Mouthwashing would endeavor to touch on, because visibilizing invisible abuses of power in heteropatriarchal capitalist schemes is arguably the central undertaking of the game.

I don’t think Daisuke has evil parents or anything, rather that what we accept as “good parenting” and “good mentorship” is often negligent with regard to emotional needs and can easily become a source of heavy trauma for the children and mentees if that emotional aspect is stretched too thin in the pursuit of success. Not all abuse is intentional, and the dev Q&As imply that Daisuke’s parents thought they were sincerely investing in his future. They cared, just not in the best way for his wellbeing. Because capitalism emphasizes the individualistic pursuit of success above all else, it’s no wonder that a parent would think that the best thing they can give their kid is an avenue to prosper financially. But in doing so, Daisuke’s parents deny him the opportunity to define himself, to experience agency, and to build up confidence. Effectively, they create a young man so vulnerable to abuse by higher-ups (a manifestation of abuse that is often intentional at the systemic level) that he decides to climb into that vent at Jimmy’s discretion under the pretense that he will make somebody proud. Because that’s how Daisuke has been raised to understand himself and his place—the presumed screw-up boy as a default, making you proud by doing the right thing, who has learned to pursue that achievement to avoid the condescension and disproportionate backlash (e.g. the internship itself) that comes with failure. Everything circles back to his parents’ expectations that he makes for a good worker. When the cocktail knocks Swansea out, Daisuke makes an offhand comment about getting a bad reference—even in the most dire of circumstances, he can’t stop thinking about their capitalistic expectations for his “good” future.

I find that Daisuke really is such a good subtle portrayal of how parents with resources can get away with emotionally stunting their children because we perceive their ability to put a roof over their heads, food on their plate, etc as adequate parenting and even a privilege for the child when it should be the bare minimum. Jimmy certainly buys into it, and even some of the fandom parrots that, really and truly believing Daisuke is some good-for-nothing kid who doesn’t try hard when all we see is him working, including climbing into the vents to try and help despite not being assigned the work (foam scene, not his death). I find this reception shows how inclined we are to accept those narratives of the privileged child’s inadequacy before we address the parent for not fulfilling a child’s emotional needs, which are just as important if not more than the material.

To wrap this up with a quick discussion of the symbolism of his death in the context of the emotional abuse of children (which is the reason I made this whole post but I can’t talk about this guy without going off): Daisuke getting so badly injured trying to do what’s right is a very physical manifestation of the suffering he was already going through. It is the pain of constantly people-pleasing and of holding it all in when he’s lashed out at. He gets injured at all in the pursuit of appeasing Jimmy and (theoretically) Swansea, both of whom he blindly trusts despite how they treat him because he has always been expected to just adhere to the adults with authority in his life. Being talked down to by them is not new and has never been a reason to question their judgement. Daisuke sees this as a product of his own inadequacy as implied by other people, and not of external cruelty. He was raised not to question the system for fear of repercussions.

Jimmy is perfectly situated to coerce him into a dangerous situation because Daisuke has never been taught to say no. The safest option for a scared child is to trust their mentors, and an adult Daisuke does just that. Even Swansea’s teachings of safety are dismantled by Jimmy’s tactical use of captainhood to break the camel’s back. Authority. Daisuke must always listen to authority. Jimmy knows the vent isn’t safe. Swansea tells him directly and he observes the foam incident (if from a distance). For as much as he acts like he cares about taking responsibility for Daisuke’s safety, his individualistic pursuit of “fixing” things manifests in Jimmy again taking advantage of a vulnerable person on the ship. Jimmy doesn’t reconcile Daisuke’s eagerness to help with lessons on safety like Swansea does, but rather uses it only when it benefits him. Daisuke is taught by his upbringing to accept this kind of treatment—for safety, defer to the leader in the room even if it hurts and you don’t want to do it (just like he didn’t want to be on the Tulpar in the first place).

Then, once the intern is out of the vent and mortally wounded, Jimmy applies the mouthwash (a product to be sold, hauled in the interest of the corporation) to “help” sanitize the wounds. But the sugar content negates medical utility and only worsens the pain. We can interpret this as the application of material privilege, “sweetness”, that wasn’t actually any help at all to solve the deep wounds left by emotional pains. Mouthwash rids you of the bad taste but doesn’t kill all the underlying germs. One could argue further that in this scene, the mouthwash is specifically representative of the Pony Express internship: a rare stepping stone in the corporate hustle gained through privilege and presented as a boon. Like the mouthwash, the internship is imposed on Daisuke to try and “help” him succeed and be better, but it only elevates the pain by irritating the wounds and ends in his agonizing demise. However, this fine-tuned comparison isn’t necessary to my point. I find the broad implications of the mouthwash as an antiseptic immensely representative of parents and caretakers who don’t seem abusive to the outside world but who are actually subversively hurting their children and ultimately conditioning them to be victimized by capitalist attitudes. Our deference to material comforts and corporate opportunities as indicators of wellness renders us blind to where caretakers fail to address the emotional needs of young people. At the end of the day, Daisuke is still killed by the values his parents have instilled in him. It’s always the “captain’s” (literal or figurative) orders that seal the deal and cut off any of his autonomous doubt or dictation (for example, his desire to listen to Swansea and not go in the vent). His parents’ symbolic and saccharine gestures mean very little in the scheme of creating a person who can survive the pressures of the “real world” when malicious actors (JIMMY.) and the capitalist enterprise as a whole bear down on the cracks of an emotionally taxing youth.

A/N: Maybe I’m thinking about all of this too hard, but the beauty of Mouthwashing is that I’m never quite sure that’s the case as this game feels so deliberate. Based on my experiences, I’ve long found this to be a really important analysis to posit and I finally had the time to put it into words. I feel like Daisuke as a symbol is often overlooked by the fandom. He’s enjoyed, yes, but not really broken down like the others are. That diminishing of his importance and his feelings about the situation also feels like a symptom of his age. But that’s neither here nor there—like I said, I believe I could do a much more in-depth analysis of Daisuke as a victim of subtle abuse but this will have to do for now. A lot of my major points have been made, anyway! Perhaps video format would be best for something longer-form. 🌺

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 003. the framework.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: well well well... this took a long damn time. apologies, apologies, but the science had to be figured out. these two are absolute NERDS, i fear. oblivion is absolutely delicious on those who claim to possess and pursue the knowledge of the universe. i fear you will be suffering for a WHILE if youre not into the slow burn HAAHAHAH. also,, if you guys ever want to see the actual equations and notes i took to write some of the science for this chapter, i could post it as well,, hehe,, -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Hushed voices, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted hum of thought is all that fills the air in the library. You sit at your usual table, papers strewn before you. The assignment has consumed your thoughts since it was given to you—an open-ended challenge demanding structure, logic, proof. Model something that physics refuses to acknowledge.

Your notes are chaotic, an evolving web of connections scrawled in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. A familiar frustration gnaws at you—the feeling of standing on the precipice of understanding, just shy of articulation. You run a hand through your hair and exhale sharply, staring at the mess of your own making. You need structure, a foundation to hold onto. If the soul exists, then it cannot be an anomaly—it must be governed by laws, patterns, something definable. If every human mind is unique, then what makes them so? The answer cannot be randomness. There must be an underlying form, a universal template from which all variation emerges.

You tap your pen against the page, mind turning. If identity is not a static entity but a recursive function, shaped by initial conditions and iterative transformations, then no self is ever fixed. The soul would not be a singular essence but a structure in motion, a process of becoming. And if this process holds, then consciousness cannot be isolated. The soul, then, is not merely a singular phenomenon—it is networked, existing not only within itself but through its connections. But what is it that determines it?

If this recursion is real, then it must not be a property of human existence but a fundamental principle of consciousness itself, a universal law.

It isn’t proof. It isn’t even a complete theory yet. But it is a start. A framework, a way forward. You stare at the words in front of you, pulse steady but intent.

Your fingers ache from gripping the pen too tightly, your vision blurring as you stare at the same lines of text, reading and rereading without truly absorbing them. The library’s stillness, once a comfort, has become suffocating—a static silence pressing in around you, the air too thick, the rows of bookshelves seemingly endless, as if space itself is closing in.

You lean back, dragging a hand down your face. A glance at the clock startles you. How long have you been here? Long enough that the lamps cast long, slanted shadows over your scattered notes. Long enough that exhaustion has settled into your limbs, dull and insistent.

You need air. Movement. A change in surroundings before your thoughts begin looping endlessly in place.

Gathering your papers into a loose stack, you shove them into your bag with little care for organization. You rise, stretching the stiffness from your spine before heading for the exit. The fluorescent lighting of the library hums overhead as you step out, the cooler evening air brushing against your skin like a quiet relief.

Minutes later, you find yourself at the café, drawn by the promise of warmth and caffeine. As the quiet hum of the city presses in, you click a few buttons on your phone and lift it to your ear.

–

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, grounding you. You wrap your hands around the ceramic cup, letting its heat seep into your skin. You sit near the window, coffee cup nestled between your hands, eyes skimming the notes spread haphazardly across the table. The light overhead buzzes softly—old wiring, probably—but the sound fades into the background as you focus.

You’re not here to have a breakthrough. You’re here to map the boundaries.

The problem with studying the soul—if you can even call it that—isn’t just defining it. It’s figuring out where to look. If it exists as more than a philosophical concept, then there have to be parameters. A framework.

You flip to a blank page in your notebook.

What is the soul?

A real question. Not in the poetic sense, not in the way people speak about it in hushed tones and late-night confessions, but as a function. A thing with properties.

You write:

— The soul is not isolated. If it were, it wouldn’t interact with the world. People change. Learn. Influence each other. Whatever the soul is, it isn’t locked away inside a single person.

— It has persistent traits, but it is not static. Memories shape behavior. Experience alters perception. The thing that makes you you isn’t a fixed point, but it also isn’t random. There’s continuity, even through change.

— It extends beyond individual experience. Connections leave an imprint. People carry each other—sometimes in ways they can’t explain. If the soul exists beyond metaphor, then its effects should be traceable.

You take a slow sip of coffee. These aren’t conclusions. They’re places to start.

At the very least, if you’re going to chase something this impossible, you have to know what it isn’t–

"Trial and error."

The voice is measured, almost idle, but it cuts through the noise of the café like a well-placed incision.

You jolt, pen slipping from your fingers. Anaxagoras is standing beside your table, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking over your notes with mild interest. His presence isn’t overwhelming, but it shifts the air in a way you feel immediately. Like a variable introduced into an equation.

"You can’t just—appear—like that," you say, exhaling sharply as you retrieve your pen.

He lifts a brow. "I used the door. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention." His gaze drops back to your notebook, reading without asking, though you suspect if you told him to stop, he actually would. "Trial and error," he repeats, as if the phrase itself is under scrutiny. "A method you seem to be employing."

You sit back slightly, fingers curling around your coffee cup. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Not at all," he replies, voice as even as ever. "It’s an honest approach. Just an unpolished one."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Practicality aside, it’s the only thing I can do at this stage. I'm defining parameters, not solving anything." You tap your pen against the page. "Or would you rather I skip to the part where I give you something half-formed and empirically worthless?"

His mouth curves—just slightly. "I appreciate the restraint."

"High praise."

Anaxagoras doesn’t acknowledge that, but his gaze lingers on your notes a moment longer before he straightens. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to join, but he also doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he says, "It’s getting cold."

You blink at him. "What?"

"Your coffee," he nods toward your coffee cup, still mostly full. "You’ve been holding it for minutes without drinking."

You glance down at it, then back up at him. "I didn't realize you were keeping track."

"Well, far be it from me to disrupt your... inefficiency." he remarks, stepping back.

You glance toward the door. "I'm actually waiting for someone."

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly.

"A friend," you clarify, though you're not sure why it feels necessary to do so.

He makes no move to leave, and you take another sip of coffee, not minding the silence that settles between you. It's surprisingly comfortable, even in its brevity.

Then, the door swings open.

Ilias strides in, scanning the café—then stops dead when he sees the two of you. His eyes flick between you and Anaxagoras, narrowing with immediate, delighted suspicion. And then, with exaggerated slowness, he pivots on his heel, turning straight back toward the exit.

"Oh, for—come back," you call, exasperated.

Ilias replies, raising his hands in mock surrender but grinning as he turns back around. "Please. Continue your—" he gestures vaguely, "—whatever this is."

Anaxagoras exhales, barely more than a breath, and finally steps away from your table. "I’m leaving."

Ilias watches him, expression far too entertained. He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe you invited me to your impromptu date."

You glare at him, but before you can retort, you catch the faintest shift in Anaxagoras' posture—nothing overt, no reaction beyond the briefest pause in his step. Then he continues toward the door, leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

Ilias collapses into the seat across from you like a man overcome by the sheer weight of his own amusement. "That was," he announces, "the single most deliciously awkward thing I have ever witnessed."

You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook.

"And yet," he sighs, folding his hands under his chin with a smirk, "here I am—like the universe itself has conspired to place me in this exact moment.”

Ilias is still grinning as he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You know, if you ever need a chaperone for your secret intellectual rendezvous, I’m available.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your notes with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an—” You stop yourself. There’s no point. Ilias seemingly lives for provocation, and you won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you shake your head and lean back in your chair, stretching your arms with a sigh.

Ilias, ever the dramatist, makes a show of settling in across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “You’re unusually quiet,” he muses. “Brooding, even.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger against the table. “That was an awfully long pause for a simple ‘no.’”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the people moving along the street, the steady glow of passing headlights. The café hums around you—low conversations, the occasional clatter of a cup against its saucer. It’s late, but not late enough to leave just yet.

Ilias orders something sweet, drumming his fingers absently against the table while he waits. You sip the last of your now-cold coffee, your mind still lingering elsewhere. A glance at your notes does little to pull you back. The thought won’t let go.

You don’t even realize you’re frowning at your notes until Ilias nudges your cup with his own.

"Thinking about your not-a-date?" he teases, grinning.

You glare at him half-heartedly, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Thinking,” you say simply.

Eventually, Ilias finishes his pastry, brushing crumbs from his fingers before stretching with a yawn.

The two of you step outside together, the shift from the café’s warmth to the crisp night air making you shiver. The city has quieted, the usual rush of movement settling into a steadier rhythm. You walk side by side for a while, boots clicking against the pavement, the hum of distant traffic filling the spaces between conversation. 

Even as Ilias chatters on about something inconsequential, the ideas still linger at the edge of your mind, waiting to take shape. 

By the next morning, the café is a memory drowned out by the quiet rustle of students filling the lecture hall. The usual pre-class murmur settles into a steady rhythm—books thudding against desks, the sharp clicking of laptop keys, the low hum of voices exchanging half-hearted speculations on today’s topic. 

You slide into your usual seat at the front, your notes open in front of you, though your pen remains idle between your fingers. The thoughts that have followed you since the library refuse to resolve, circling just beyond reach. There’s something missing—something foundational, yet frustratingly unformed.

At the lectern, Anaxagoras sets down his drink with practiced ease, the cup making a soft, deliberate sound against the wooden surface. The hall quiets. 

He surveys the room with that same composed intensity, his gaze flickering over the assembled students before settling briefly—too briefly—on you.

“Continuity,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly, “is a deceptively simple concept. We assume that when two systems interact, they influence each other only at the moment of contact. That once they separate, the interaction ends.”

You straighten slightly. A slow prickle of recognition runs down your spine.

Anaxagoras picks up a piece of chalk and sketches a familiar equation on the board—one you’ve seen before, but never in this exact context. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

“But,” he continues, underlining a key term, “this assumes a linear, local model of influence. What happens, then, if we acknowledge that certain interactions leave something… persistent? That even after separation, a trace remains?”

The rustling of papers around you barely registers. Your thoughts lurch forward, bridging gaps in ways they hadn’t before.

You shift, almost without realizing, and Anaxagoras glances in your direction—briefly, but with intent. He knows.

A student two seats over raises a hand. “Are you talking about quantum entanglement?”

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly. “A useful analogy, but not a perfect one. Entanglement suggests an instantaneous connection regardless of distance. What I am asking is more fundamental—does influence itself persist, even outside direct interaction?”

A murmur ripples through the hall. A few students exchange looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others frowning as they try to grasp the implications.

Your heart beats a fraction faster as the pieces align. The answer should be simple. If two variables are no longer in contact, the influence should end. The system should reset. But—

“They don’t go back to what they were before,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Anaxagoras sets the chalk down. “Louder.”

The words form before hesitation can stop them. “Even apart, they still retain the effect of their interaction. They update each other, whether they remain in proximity or not.”

The silence that follows is the kind that shifts the atmosphere of a room. Not an absence of sound, but a space filled with quiet recognition.

Anaxagoras watches you, his expression unreadable, but you swear something flickers in his gaze.

You grip your pen tighter. “There’s a kind of imprint,” you continue, voice steadier now. “An effect that doesn’t disappear even after separation. A persistence beyond time or proximity.”

He nods once, the movement precise. “Nonlinear. Nonlocal.”

A slow breath escapes you.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. A student coughs. Someone flips a page too loudly. The world presses back in, indifferent to the shape of revelation.

Anaxagoras turns away first, back to the board, where the equation remains half-finished. He picks up the chalk again, his voice returning to its usual cadence, folding the moment neatly back into lecture. 

His gaze flickers back to you for a moment—steady, contemplative, threaded with something unreadable. Interest, perhaps. Amusement, restrained but evident in the slight tilt of his head. And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

“You were closer than you thought.”

You exhale, staring at the marginalia scrawled in the edges of your notebook—sharp, decisive, yet somehow restrained. Outside the window, the campus air carries the crisp scent of rain—not quite fallen, not quite gone. And yet, the thought lingers, refusing to leave you.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @somniosu (send an ask or comment to be added!)

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Childhood friend reader who goes blind slowly over the course of growing up? Like starts losing vision at 5, fully blind by 18.

Reader childhood friend being their defender at school, walking them home from school every day hand in hand, eventually their first blind-friendly teenage date night (maybe a home-cooked dinner? Or maybe going to a local concert)

I wonder how a yandere would react to their darling being so vulnerable? Not just a random stranger could steal you from him, but also something as simple as a wet floor.

I also imagine him staring down people in public that are rude to reader, while showing none of it in his voice. Like if he catches a guy leering, it's ice in his eyes but voice warm like a summer day.

You don't need to know how ugly the world is, if he can possibly hide it from you

🫣

Yandere Guide x Blind Reader

You’re five the first time the world dims.

It happens in a quiet, almost forgettable way. You blink at the sun too long and can’t see the chalk lines on the playground anymore. You think it’s a game at first—close one eye, then the other. But something doesn’t quite come back.

When your parents bring you to the doctor, you’re swinging your feet beneath the exam table, more fascinated by the rubber hammer than the gravity of the tests being done. The diagnosis is clinical, cold, and incomprehensible to your young mind: a degenerative condition. Your vision will fade slowly, year by year, until it’s gone.

You’re too young to understand.

Ezra is sitting beside you, swinging his feet too, but his shoulders are stiff, his fingers clenched so tightly on the arm of the chair that his knuckles go white. When your mother starts crying, Ezra doesn’t look away like the doctor does. He watches her. And then, he turns to you and takes your hand like he’s done since you were toddlers.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll see for both of us.”

Years pass.

You start to forget the precise colors of things. Your drawings become less defined, more abstract, until you stop drawing altogether. Reading becomes a chore. Eventually, someone teaches you Braille, but it doesn’t feel the same. The books don’t smell like they used to. You can’t lose yourself in the margins anymore.

But Ezra is there. Every day.

He walks you home from school, hand in hand. He learns to read Braille faster than you do, just so he can tutor you. You don’t know this, but he stays up late at night, fingertips raw from running over dotted pages again and again until he gets it right. He never tells you how hard he works. He just smiles that gentle smile of his when you praise him for being such a good teacher.

He’s your shield at school. When kids stare too long, or whisper cruel things, you hear Ezra’s voice—light, calm, always kind. But what you never hear is the way he stares back at them, like a wolf staring down prey. You never see the way people flinch under his gaze. He never lets you see it.

The world is getting darker for you. But it’s never anything less than warm when he’s near.

By the time you're fifteen, your vision is mostly light and color. Vague shapes. A world painted in blurred watercolor.

You begin to understand how dangerous things can be. A single step on uneven pavement, a misjudged curb. Once, you fall on a slick cafeteria floor, and you cry. You hear the snickering before someone helps you up.

But Ezra’s already behind you, pulling you gently to your feet, whispering, “Don’t listen to them.”

You listen to him.

Later, the boy who laughed at you gets suspended for a ���locker accident.” No one connects the dots. You never even hear about it. Ezra makes sure of that.

You don’t need to know how ugly the world is.

Your seventeenth birthday comes with a full moon, but it’s just a pale blur to you now. Ezra’s hands are sure and steady as he leads you down the hallway of your house.

“Where are we going?” you laugh.

“You’ll see,” he says softly.

The scent of food hits you before anything else. Rosemary, garlic, warm bread. There’s music playing faintly—a song you told him once you liked, years ago, when you could still see the album cover.

He made dinner. Not just any dinner—your favorites, arranged thoughtfully and cut into perfect bite-sized pieces. The table is set. Candles flicker. You can’t see them, but you feel the warmth, the flicker against your skin.

He seats you like it’s a restaurant. Holds your hand for just a moment longer than necessary.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says.

You blush. You hadn’t thought to ask him what you were wearing. You don’t know anymore what looks good on you. But Ezra says it like a promise, like a fact.

He feeds you with care—only when you ask, never assuming you need the help, but ready the moment you do. The whole night is seamless.

You don’t know how long he’s been dreaming of this.

By the time you’re eighteen, there’s nothing left. No shapes. No light. The world is made of sound, of touch, of scent. You know Ezra better than anyone—not by face, but by footsteps, by breath, by the quiet way he clears his throat when he's thinking.

You don’t see the way men watch you sometimes—how your blindness makes them think you’re easy, or helpless, or not quite whole.

But Ezra sees.

You never hear the venom in his voice, because there never is any. He keeps it warm, soft, friendly.

“Careful, there,” he’ll say, when someone walks too close. “She’s delicate.”

You don’t see the way his eyes bore into theirs, daring them to speak again. Daring them to try anything. You don’t see the way his fingers twitch at his side, or how he memorizes faces.

No one touches you. Not without going through him first.

You never know how many times Ezra has protected you from shadows you’ll never see.

And he never tells you.

Because you don’t need to know how ugly the world is.

Not when he can carry it for you.

Not when all you need is his hand, warm in yours, leading you through the dark like he always has.

Masterlist

[psychhound]

spiritkeep is an upcoming multiplayer campaign-length ttrpg that helps players heal from trauma through play

spiritkeep is a community restoration game where the player characters comprise a special taskforce who undertake missions such as diplomacy, intelligence gathering, rescuing potential allies, seeking boons from powerful spirits, stopping ecological damage, and more in order to heal their dying town ... whether they're trying to be helpful, running from legal consequences, seeking stability, or grasping at belonging, this group of lost souls are on this journey together. there is no giving up until this place can be a home

players collaboratively craft a region and a town together in a world full of nature, diverse peoples, and spirits. then, the game master guides them on journeys into the world designed to help players heal from complex trauma during long-term play

a sunfolk knight and naturefolk/wisp shepherd by @paladinbaby

player characters in spiritkeep are based on storybook tropes. their archetype and paragon define the role they fit into in the story. are you a knight or a shepherd? a revolutionary or a ghost? a damsel or a trickster? your choice out of 18 total options gives you abilities called keywords that shape how you interact with the mechanics and the world around you

more about playbooks

sneak peek at the lonesome and the minder

though almost everyone in spiritkeep is human, humans in this world are diverse and often magical. you probably come from one of several lineages that has been bound to the magic of the world by the many kinds of spirits that live around you. sunfolk burn bright, but have to be careful not to hurt others. animalfolk have been blessed - or cursed - with the traits of predators and prey. you may even come from a mixed lineage, meaning there are many hundreds of possible combinations to start your character with

more about lineages

sneak peek at dreamfolk, wisps, and mixed lineages

in spiritkeep, players work collaboratively to flesh out the world and its local cultures and societies as well as the town they're trying to restore. but in this game, the world is always animist, full of nature, and full of many kinds of spirits. you may seek help from the great spirit of the mountain ... or the meek house spirit who lives in your fireplace. a human-like spirit may accompany you to aid you on a journey ... or you may struggle past the nightmare of a violent spirit beyond your comprehension

through it all, you must take care of your own personal spirit, through which you can unlock memories, heal from harm, gain advancements and boons, and even change your role in the story

more about worldbuilding

a dreamfolk wayfarer by @astrophysician

players interact with the mechanics through a full set of dice, rolled in pairs. choosing which dice to roll indicates the level of effort your PC is putting into their action. larger dice are a limited resource gained through rolling the smaller ones, meaning you have to pace yourself and learn from failure in order to have a better chance to succeed later. however, consistently putting all your effort into actions can lead to burnout, which leads to conditions, which leads to breakdowns ... potentially harming yourself or the mission

your stats indicate various strategies you can take to overcome a challenge rather than concrete skills, and are also added in pairs. they represent how you think, how you embody yourself in the world, and what you value. there are no good or bad stats to have, only different strategies helpful in different contexts. will you roll Gentle + Tactful to sway the nervous princess to your side? will you need to roll Grounded + Hardy to safely weather the sudden storm?

more about mechanics

game masters are supported in spiritkeep with varying levels of NPC creation, lists of prompts, roll tables for missions and complications, and a great amount of advice. GMs will have a lot of agency over the story without pre-defining the narrative or character arcs, guided by the players' collaborative worldbuilding as well as prompts and questions built into the PC's playbooks

the game is designed based on scholarship from therapeutically applied ttrpg, trauma, play therapy, and disability experts. the creator, Luka Brave (that's me!), has a masters degree in writing studies and psychology with a focus in game studies, and a work history in neurodivergent-focused social work, disability advocacy, and community service. spiritkeep is the subject of my thesis

an animalfolk alchemist by @bbonbonss

if you want to support the project, you can help fundraise by buying my games (currently very on sale!):

fundraiser for art and promo materials

fundraiser for therapeutic gm training

and if you like my work, you can follow along with me:

here on tumblr

on my itch

on my website

on my bluesky

questions, feedback, or offers of collaboration or sponsorship can be sent to psychhoundgames (at) gmail (dot) com

[reflectionspace]

Veilguard and the Failures of Surface-Level Liberalism

Strap in pals of all genders and creeds, this is long.

Despite presenting itself as a progressive and inclusive RPG, Dragon Age: Veilguard is not a leftist game. It reflects the superficial politics of contemporary Western liberalism: visually diverse, rhetorically inclusive, but politically hollow. Like the modern Democratic Party in the U.S., it trades radical or transformative ideals for shallow representation, and in doing so, it reveals an underlying conservatism that both limits its storytelling and leads to unintentional ideological harm.

Before we begin, a brief note: a materialist analysis, rooted in Marxist thought, focuses on the concrete, material conditions that shape social life—such as class structure, labor, power relations, and access to resources. It asks who holds power, who produces value, and how inequality is maintained or challenged. In media, this means looking beyond what stories say and analyzing how they reflect or obscure real systems of oppression and change.

It's useful to briefly define neoliberalism. Neoliberalism is an economic and political philosophy that rose to dominance in the late 20th century. It emphasizes deregulated markets, privatization, and individual responsibility over collective solutions. Under neoliberalism, social problems are reinterpreted as personal failures, and political engagement is reduced to consumer choice. In media, neoliberal storytelling often replaces systemic critique with personal empowerment, turning collective oppression into individualized struggle and positioning social justice as a matter of branding or taste rather than structural change.

On its face, Veilguard looks like the product of progressive ideals: you can customize your character's gender presentation, choose from a visibly diverse party lineup, and engage with themes of identity and belonging. But these elements stop at the surface. The game offers no deeper vision of social change, economic transformation, or solidarity.

This mirrors the liberal fixation on identity politics without class analysis. Like the Democratic Party, Veilguard wants applause for "looking inclusive" while sidestepping the harder work of interrogating systems. It does not question who holds power, how that power reproduces itself, or what solidarity across difference might look like in practice. There is no structural critique—only aesthetic gestures. There is no vision of solidarity. It's similar to how the Democrats have been running on a platform of "vote for us or else" for decades, because their politics largely agree with the basic material premises of the other party, that being neoliberalism, and the only thing they have to offer is the "or else".

And, just so you don't brush me off as some chud, I am not American, and I cannot vote in the elections. If I were American, I would vote

Democrat, not third party candidates, for obvious reasons. It's just, from where I stand, the US has a party on the right, and a party on the far right, and leftist options aren't genuinely on the table.

Veilguard has no meaningful conception of class struggle. The party members do not grapple with class dynamics between themselves. There is no collective vision for how to reshape the world. NPCs and factions are individualized; systemic analysis is nowhere to be found.

Compare this to Final Fantasy VII Remake or Disco Elysium, which offer actual political theories, explore the costs of extraction and labor exploitation, and question the player's place in systems of oppression. Veilguard instead takes the safer path: personal identity as the only axis of oppression worth mentioning.

This isn't progressive. It's neoliberalism.

One of the clearest examples of this failure is how Veilguard handles Tevinter. In previous games, Tevinter was known for brutal class hierarchies, magical oligarchy, and chattel slavery. This should have been fertile ground for a materialist critique: a fantasy setting where the costs of empire, elite rule, and oppression could be examined.

Instead, Veilguard sanitizes Tevinter. The anti-slavery detective Neve is stripped of her struggle's stakes, because slavery is nearly invisible. Her political engagement becomes personal branding. Her character reads like a consultant's PowerPoint slide on "gritty female rep," not a fighter in a living system of exploitation.

While Tevinter should be the perfect setting to interrogate labor, class, and entrenched hierarchies, Veilguard flattens the issue of slavery into a stylized backdrop. One of the most politically loaded questions—how to dismantle slavery—is presented as a choice between two NPCs: the moderate reformer Maevaris Tilani, and the more radical Dorian Pavus. If the player saves Minrathous, they can choose between Dorian's immediate upheaval at the cost of stability, or Maevaris's slow institutional reform, which keeps Tevinter structurally weaker but more diplomatically stable. If Minrathous is not saved, Dorian simply becomes Archon by default. Mechanically, this choice only affects the ending credits and a few party member reactions, not that party member opinions actually come with consequences like in DAO or DA2.

This choice is not interrogated. It becomes a matter of player flavor, not political vision. It reduces the end of slavery—a deeply systemic issue that could have spanned quests, moral tension, and class engagement—to a question of who should be the next enlightened ruler, as though the system will simply fix itself with the right person in charge.

It's a Superman fantasy dressed in moral earnestness.

Let's have a few examples of how the lack of thinking hampers the narrative and messages of the game.

The same lack of structural thinking undermines Taash’s storyline as well. Taash is a character navigating a nonbinary identity in a supposedly transphobic and sexist society—but Veilguard never convincingly builds that society. Every major character except Shathann affirms Taash's identity without question. The arc is framed around whether the working immigrant mom will use the correct pronouns, which might be emotionally resonant if Veilguard actually depicted transphobia or gender norms in a systemic way. It doesn’t.

The setting’s supposed prejudices are surface-level inventions with no institutional or cultural weight. The Chantry is matriarchal. Women serve in every political and martial role, and conversely, men in the setting have been portrayed as caretakers, mages, academics, or healers. Transition is possible, and even accepted in Qunari society. Unlike Dorian's story—where his father's attempt to use literal blood magic to "fix" his son's sexuality comes with real stakes, taboos, and danger, or Maevaris's story of coming out and starting to live as a trans woman, to great scandal in the aristocratic society of Tevinter—Taash’s conflict lacks material consequences.

The result is that Taash’s arc feels both emotionally weightless and politically incoherent both inside the world and at a meta level. Remember, Veilguard presents a cast full of women, but often does not treat them as full people. Maternal characters are punished. And only women are expected to perfom allyship and be sexually available, whereas the male characters are exempted from caretaking beyond having quirky pets. And so on.

And while the choice between Dorian and Maevaris makes sense on a story level and I like both characters, it just underlines the lack of critical lenses in the editing room that the end result is that the new top leadership for Tevinter will always be the AMAB scion of an aristocratic family.

It's such a missed opportunity honestly, I would have loved to see a Calpernia-as-the-wildcard-newcomer-from-the-working-classes and Maevaris-as-the-aristocratic-mentor-behind-the-scenes girlboss teamup.

The treatment of the Dalish elves provides yet another example of how Veilguard lacks the empathy and complexity needed to write real diversity. Despite being a displaced diaspora with a long, storied spiritual tradition, the Dalish as a group suddenly and near-unanimously turn away from their gods once it's revealed that those gods were corrupted or false. None of them seriously grapple with the emotional or cultural weight of this loss. There is no spectrum of belief. No internal conflict. Even Bellara's brother is portrayed as mind-manipulated and corrupted by evil forces and then killed off, conveniently removing any need to engage with his ideological position.

In real-world diasporas and cultural groups, the opposite is true. Disagreement and ideological diversity are the norm. Cultural traditions, even those with flaws or dark histories, remain emotionally potent and hotly debated. Some members cling harder to old beliefs in times of crisis; others reform or reinterpret. But Veilguard sidesteps this entirely. It reduces a displaced people to a monoculture with a conveniently aligned opinion.

Based on the content in Veilguard, I am fairly sure the authors would describe themselves as feminists, and would, if asked, reject sexism or inequality between men and women, classism, racism, and so on. This failure I'm describing doesn't happen because of agreeing with the wrong ideology or support for a party or whatever.

The ultimate problem is that Veilguard is trapped inside a specific liberal worldview: one that fears complexity, refuses solidarity, and replaces structural critique with PR-friendly inclusion. It treats oppression as a set of aesthetic signifiers rather than a system. It treats politics as something that happens through identity choices, not collective action or transformation.

Really, beneath its inclusive surface, Veilguard treats its core cast not as members of a collective, but as exceptional individuals who matter more than the world around them.

In this way, the game echoes Ayn Rand's ideology: the exceptional few are the only ones worth saving, empathizing with, or narratively prioritizing.

This explains how characters like Emmrich and Harding can plan a whimsical picnic trip to the Blighted South with zero social consequence. The world is dying, half the continent has been consumed by a magical cataclysm, yet somehow the party has access to luxury food items like expensive coffee beans. There is no material scarcity or logistical tension. This also explains why the player is never allowed to tell Taash to set aside the identity struggles until after the apocalyptic threat is dealt with—because in Veilguard, individual emotional arcs matter more than shared survival. The elite chosen few still deserve their personal resolutions, no matter what collapses around them.

Nowhere is this clearer than in the Minrathous vs. Treviso decision. Mechanically, the choice has no meaningful effect on the larger world. Minrathous is doomed either way. Treviso's destruction matters only in terms of whether the male romance option, Lucanis, will date the player or not. The female option, Neve, of course, remains romantically available no matter what.

The stakes are not moral, structural, or material. They're personal and transactional.

The Blight can spread, cities can fall, but your companions still host book clubs and have access to fresh fruit. This isn't solidarity. It's elite individualism dressed in inclusive costume.

Veilguard may look inclusive, but it’s deeply status-quo. Its treatment of women, its sanitized view of systemic oppression, its Randian elevation of the elite cast over the world, and its absence of class consciousness are not just narrative flaws—they’re ideological ones. The game mirrors a liberal worldview that wants to feel like progress without doing the hard work of justice—one that smugly assumes its values are universally shared, regardless of players’ and characters' backgrounds, cultures, or material realities. As a result, it doesn't meaningfully explore what building real solidarity or inclusive political futures might require.

If we want better games—and better futures—we need to move beyond representation as window dressing. We need stories that see power, challenge structure, and believe in something greater than optics.

And we need games that don’t just let women, or black people, or sexual minorities exist.

We need games that ask why the world tries to erase them in the first place.

[unlosts]

Late Spring

Summary: In an Italian restaurant somewhere in Nebraska you and the BAU decompress after non stop cases. And like a magic trick SSA Aaron Hotchner goes back to being Aaron

Word count: 1.8k

After a serial arsonist in North Hempstead, New York; a serial killer in Chandler, Arizona and an amber alert taking you to Lincoln, Nebraska back to back the entire team was running on fumes. Actually fumes were what you were running after the second week, right now it was just coffee and the thought of eventually getting to sleep in your own beds.

It’s not easy being in close quarters with the same group of people for so long, especially when you’ve had to share bedrooms for most of it. First a week with JJ, then three days with Emily and even one night with Spence after both Derek and Rossi refused to bunk with him citing intense sleep talking - which was, in fact, confirmed by you.

Eventually all the rooms started to blur together in your head, from the ugly pink explosion that was the bed and breakfast (which by the way had none), to the motel 6 in Nebraska that seemed straight out of a horror story, complete with an extremely creepy caretaker. Or future unsub Mike as Emily dubbed him.

Tonight was the last night before you could get home and you guys were celebrating big time, which at your current combined energy level meant an actual sit down meal where you didn’t have to look at a dismembered torso while trying to keep down some soggy fries and an under cooked burger.

You all ate in relative silence, brains too fried to talk about anything anymore, the rundown “italian” restaurant - yes Italian in air quotes just like Rossi insisted on doing every time he mentioned the place. The buzzing of the fluorescent light and the scraping of cutlery against plates being the only backdrop to your collective exhaustion.

The only good thing to come out of it was the fact that, finally, after close to three weeks Hotch could ditch the BAU Unit Chief SSA Hotchner and for once just be Aaron. And oh how you missed Aaron.

Despite having spent the better part of each day right next to him it felt like the chasm between you was larger than ever. It was what you had both agreed to; at work pretend like he’s just your unit chief and you’re just the media liaison. No room sharing, no public displays of affection.

Sometimes the affection bleed through the contours of professionalism he insisted on keeping well defined. Something as simple as him pressing his big palm in the middle of your back right between your shoulder blades as you spoke to him; heads a smidge closer together than strictly necessary.

Right now, though, he was just Aaron. Your Aaron. Sitting right next to you, chairs pushed together. Shirt sleeves rolled over his forearms, tie discarded in the hotel room along with his jacket and the last vestiges of whatever sense of professionalism he was still clinging to. His arm around the back of your chair as you leaned into it, head tilted back looking at him as he drank a beer.

He looks back at you and gives you a brief smile, the fondness in his eyes lingering, leg nudging yours underneath the table.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired already,” He says. “Me? Are you kidding?” You yawned “Send us off to the next case I’m ready” Although it wasn’t the cold the sleepiness was making the air conditioned room feel ten times colder so you shivered and took the liberty to lean even closer to him. His hand went to rub your arm trying to warm you back up.

“Do not” Derek chimed in “even joke about that, pretty boy said the same thing after Lincoln and look at us now”

“Yeah, look at us now, in Lincoln” Said Emily with a straight face before drowning the remainder of her beer and snatching JJs before she could realize what had happened.

“I’m too tired for this, you know what I meant.”

“mhhh, sooryy” You replied, not looking very sorry as you closed your eyes and rested your head on the crook of Aarons neck. Breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne and him, more present than ever after day three in the Nebraska summer. His hand is still trailing a path up and down your side, wrinkling your already very wrinkled green shirt and lulling you to sleep.

You felt Aarons lips nudge your temple talking to your in low gentle tones, his breath tickling the baby hairs in your forehead “Do no fall asleep on me or I’ll have to carry you back to the hotel”

“And you’re afraid that if people saw I would lose all of my hard earned Lincoln Nebraska street cred?”

He huffed a laugh before planting a whisper of a kiss on your temple “No, I’m afraid I’m going to throw my back and then you’ll be stuck taking care of me for two weeks”

“If it gets you to rest for two entire weeks I might just consider it”

“Jack would probably help”

“It’s good that you know us so well, and besides I saw you yesterday you still got it” You smiled against his neck remembering the brief but very interesting fight against the unsub before he could be apprehended. “Remind me to ask Penny if she has a copy of the surveillance tape, I’m planning on making the showing it at your birthday dinner next year”

“Look forward to it”

Suddenly you felt a small object hit your chest, looking down to see a crumpled napkin on your lap.

“Can you please get a room? This is the first decent meal I’ve had in weeks and I would hate to throw it back up” Said Emily with a mocking smile, her pearly white teeth contrasting with her faded, barely there plum lipstick.

“I’ve been trying to find a room for days now but none of you know how to cooperate” You reply with a huff.

“Saying please repeatedly until I tell you to shut up is not a good persuasion strategy” Said JJ frowning after getting her beer back from Emily and realizing it was almost empty.

“I don’t see why not, it’s never failed before” You said with a smug smile.

“Besides if we suffer, you suffer” Derek interjects.

“Aww just like a real family”

After a couple of minutes Spencer piped up next to Derek “I would have traded rooms with you”

“Don’t encourage her” Said JJ in her patented and perfected disgruntled mom voice

“I’m going to keep this in mind next time you ask us to babysit Henry so you can have alone time, Jareau”

“Okay, okay” Emily interrupted “Let’s all change subjects, the last thing I want is to talk more about Hotch’s sex life; no offense but in order for this to work I have to think of you like a Ken Doll”

You let out a startled laugh, properly awake now “oh I can assure you my friend-”

“Okay, that’s enough” Said Hotch trying to invoke his authoritative former prosecutor, current FBI unit chief voice. Which was, of course, completely useless when he was blushing so hard.

You just laughed once more, leaning over to briefly kiss his cheek in apology as your friends heckled you both.

What was meant to be a quick dinner before hitting the hay, although in this case the hay was actually a very thin and lumpy hotel mattress, turned into a couple more beers. And yes there were times this week when going to sleep and waking up to Emily's snoring face made you want to quit and move to the seaside but there was truly no other group of people that could make an “Italian” dinner this fun.

Afterwards you all headed you, the brief rise in energy quickly waning at the prospect of more than five hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Aaron held you back towards the rear of the group, his arm around you possibly the only thing keeping you upright. The dusk settling over the skyline painted the city pink and gold, you looked back at him standing next to each other on the sidewalk. His eyes a syrupy sweet caramel brown in the golden hour.

“Apparently there’s an ice cream place a couple of blocks from here, it’s supposed to be very good actually” He said looking down for a minute. It took you back to your first date, him asking to take you to a jazz bar which was more so Dave's plan than his, only to end up at a taco truck talking until three am. It amazed you then just as it did now how he could go from stern FBI agent, commanding a room without raising his voice to, well, Aaron.

You smiled up at him, the others long gone leaving you two enveloped in the last rays of sunlight.

“I’d love to, you might actually have to carry me back though, I don’t think this second wind is gonna carry me more than an hour”

“That’s alright, I heard that if I throw my back I get a couple of weeks”

“Whoever told you that was so smart”

“And beautiful”

“Can’t forget that part”

“Well I might not be able to swing two whole weeks but I did arrange to have three days off for everyone” Aaron said, hands in his pocket walking by leisurely next to you as passersby carved a path around you both, a hurried businessman bumping into your back made Hotch pull you closer still, once more enveloping your back.

“Are you serious?” At his assenting nod you couldn't help but smile “and you kept that all to yourself?”

“Mhm”

“Anything else up your sleeve Hotchner?”

“Aaron”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve heard the name Hotch so often these last couple of weeks I almost forgot what my actual name sounded like” He said with a small smile, but you also knew by the way he melted when you said it that he was particularly fond of how it sounded coming out of your mouth.

“Okay, anything else up your sleeve, Aaron?” You asked fondly, unable to resist any longer and stealing a quick kiss before resuming your walk.

“No, nothing else”

“Okay”

“Oh I did convince Dave to share a room with Derek tonight which would indicate that I’m on my own tonight”

“No way, did I miss an anniversary or something?” You asked looking up at him

“No, I just missed you lately”

“Me too but no one else would budge on the room thing, how did you do it?”

“It only cost me forty bucks and promising to take over both Morgans and Rossi's reports for the last case”

“Ah bribery, should have done that sooner”

“You can’t blame yourself honey, I was a prosecutor after all”

You laughed once more, giddiness dispersing your exhaustion, making you feel like you could stay up until next morning, without trouble.

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, the ice cream shop just right around the corner, you drew him towards you, leaning up to kiss him slowly and unhurried. Savoring the feeling of coming home after three weeks and not being able to wait a moment more.

[prokopetz]

Your long and arduous journey has led you to this, the final confrontation. You thought you knew what to expect, but just as you struck the final blow, your ultimate foe's eyes gleamed with unnatural light as they proclaimed…

THIS ISN'T EVEN MY FINAL FORM

A game for 4–6 players

Introduction

This Isn't Even My Final Form is a GMless tactical minigame for 4–6 players. You'll take on the roles of a party of heroic adventurers nearing the end of a world-spanning quest to defeat a great evil, the Final Boss. Unfortunately for them, each time they think they've won, the Final Boss assumes a new, even more horrifying form, and the struggle begins anew. Is there any end to this conflict? There's only one way to find out!

What You'll Need

This Isn't Even My Final Form requires a dozen six-sided dice, as well as a way of keeping track of a few important numbers – a shared text document or some scrap paper will suffice.

Update 2023-10-30: Print-and-play card decks are available here:

http://penguinking.com/this-isnt-even-my-final-form/

Character Creation

Choose two of the following actions to be your Party Member's Class Actions: Strike, Heal, Buff, Debuff. If you'd rather determine this randomly, roll on the following table.

1. Strike, Heal 2. Strike, Buff 3. Strike, Debuff 4. Heal, Buff 5. Heal, Debuff 6. Buff, Debuff

Give your Party Member's Class a name which suits your Class Actions. Also give your Party Member a name; it is traditional but not obligatory for your Party Member's name to have exactly five letters.

Playing the Game

Play is divided into a series of Phases. During each Phase, one player takes on the role of the Final Boss. That player's Party Member does not participate in this Phase; they're trapped, lost, incapacitated, or otherwise separated from the party or unable to act for the duration of the Phase. All other players take on the roles of their Party Members.

The Final Boss player's first order of business is to describe what the current Phase looks like. The Final Boss player can roll 1–3 times on the following table (re-rolling duplicates) to decide on a theme, or use it as inspiration for their own theme. To use this table, roll a six-sided die twice, treating the first roll as the "tens" place and the second roll as the "ones" place, yielding a number in the range from 11 to 66.

11. Beasts 12. Bells 13. Blood 14. Bones 15. Chains 16. Chaos 21. Cubes 22. Eyes 23. Fire 24. Flowers 25. Food 26. Games 31. Gears 32. Glass 33. Gold 34. Hands 35. Holes 36. Ice 41. Iron 42. Light 43. Mazes 44. Meat 45. Mirrors 46. Music 51. Orbs 52. Order 53. Plague 54. Shadow 55. Slime 56. Space 61. Spikes 62. Teeth 63. Time 64. Trees 65. Weapons 66. Wings

Once the Phase has been defined, set the party's Momentum to zero. Momentum is a value which will increase or decrease over the course of the Phase; it has a minimum value of zero, and no particular upper limit.

Play proceeds in a series of rounds, as follows.

The Final Boss Attacks

The Final Boss always goes first in each round. Roll one die:

1–3: The Final Boss chooses one of the following actions. 4–5: The Final Boss chooses two of the following actions. You may not target the same Party Member twice; however, you may use the same action on two different Party Members if you wish. 6: The Final Boss does nothing this round. On its turn next round, it does not roll and instead uses its Ultimate Attack.

Wound: Inflict the Critical Condition on a single Party Member. If the chosen Party Member already has the Critical Condition, it's replaced with the Down Condition and the party loses one Momentum.

Imprecate: Inflict the Cursed Condition on a single Party Member.

Envenom: Inflict the Poisoned Condition on a single Party Member.

Bewilder: Inflict the Confused Condition on a single Party Member.

Counter: If you're targeted by the Strike or Debuff actions this round, after resolving that action, perform the Wound action on the Party Member who targeted you. You may counter any number of actions in this way.

Dispel: Remove the Buffed and Protected Conditions from any number of Party Members.

Enrage: The Final Boss rolls two dice and takes the better result on its next action. The party may cancel this benefit with a successful Debuff action; doing so removes the extra die instead of forcing the Final Boss to roll twice and take the lower result.

Ultimate Attack: This action can only be chosen by rolling a 6 during the previous round. When the Final Boss uses this action, choose Cursed, Poisoned, or Confused: you may perform the Wound action AND inflict the chosen Condition upon any number of Party Members, in that order. (i.e., Wound each targeted Party Member, THEN Curse/Confuse/Poison any who remain standing.)

The Final Boss player describes the outcome of the chosen action(s) in as much or as little detail as they like; control then passes to the other players.

The Party Acts

After the Final Boss has attacked, each Party Member who doesn't have the Down condition chooses one of the following actions, in any order the players wish. After choosing any action other than Defend, the player rolls their dice pool, which is a handful of six-sided dice constructed as follows:

Start with a number of dice equal to the party's current Momentum (initially zero, though it will grow over the course of the Phase)

Add one die if you're performing one of your Party Member's Class Actions

Add one die if your Party Member currently has the Buffed Condition

Add one die if your Party Member currently has the Critical Condition

Roll all of the dice together, and find the highest result. Ties for the highest result have no special significance; for example, if you rolled four dice and got 1, 3, 5 and 5, your result is 5. If you'd ever end up with zero or fewer dice for any reason – either because your dice pool was empty to begin with, or because some effect obliged you to discard every die you rolled – you receive an automatic result of 1.

If an action requires you to target a specific Party Member or make other choices, you can wait and see the result of your roll before making those decisions.

Strike: You attack the Final Boss. Roll your dice pool:

1–3: Nothing happens – either the attack misses, or the Final Boss turns out to be immune to whatever you just did. 4–5: The attack strikes true. The party gains one Momentum. 6: Critical hit! The party gains two Momentum.

Special: If you roll triples or better (i.e., at least three of the same number) on a Strike action, the Final Boss' current Phase is defeated, and you move on to the next Phase. It doesn't matter what number comes up triples.

Heal: You attempt to restore the party's strength. Roll your dice pool:

1–3: You may remove the Critical Condition from a single Party Member. If no Party Member has the Critical Condition, nothing happens. 4–5: You may remove the Critical Condition from any number of party members OR you may remove the Down Condition from a single Party Member. 6: You may remove the Critical and Down Conditions from any number of party members.

Buff: You attempt to bolster a party member. Roll your dice pool:

1–3: You may grant the Buffed Condition to a single Party Member OR remove a Condition of your choice other than Critical or Down from a single Party Member. 4–5: You may grant the Buffed Condition to a single Party Member AND remove a Condition of your choice other than Critical or Down from that Party Member, if they have one. 6: You may grant the Buffed Condition OR remove a Condition of your choice other than Critical or Down to any number of Party Members. You may choose a different option for each targeted Party Member.

Debuff: You attempt to weaken the Final Boss. Roll your dice pool:

1-3: Nothing happens – it turns out the Final Boss was immune to that effect. 4–5: The Final Boss rolls two dice and takes the lower result on its next action. 6: The Final Boss rolls two dice and takes the lower result on its next action AND the party gains one Momentum.

Defend: You may grant the Protected condition to a Party Member of your choice. Do not roll.

Based on the outcome of your roll (if applicable), describe the outcome of your action in as much or as little detail as you wish.

Once each Party Member has acted, return to "The Final Boss Attacks" to begin the next round.

Ending the Phase

As noted above, rolling triples or better on a Strike action results in the immediate defeat of the current Phase. Alternatively, if all Party Members simultaneously have the Down Condition, the Final Boss player's Party Member suddenly breaks free or arrives on the scene and rescues everyone in a stunning deus ex machina; this also ends the Phase, but does not count as defeating it.

In either case, reset the party's momentum to zero, remove all Conditions, and move on to the next Phase. The role of the Final Boss passes to a different player, with preference given to those who haven't yet had a chance to be the Final Boss; the previous Final Boss player resumes playing their Party Member.

Continue until the party has defeated a number of Phases at least equal to the number of players, or until mutual agreement has been reached that all this has gone on quite long enough.

Conditions

Some actions can impose Conditions upon the individual Party Members. Conditions can be positive or negative, and last until specific conditions for their removal are met.

Buffed: Your strength has been boosted. When rolling your dice pool, you roll one extra die.

Confused: You've lost your wits. When the party acts, your action is determined by rolling a d6 – 1: Strike; 2: Heal; 3: Buff; 4: Debuff; 5: Defend; 6: do nothing this round AND remove this Condition. This Condition is also removed if you gain the Critical Condition while under its effects. You may choose targets normally if the rolled action requires them. Confused Party Members always act before their un-Confused peers; if there are multiple Confused Party Members, the Final Boss decides the order in which they act.

Critical: You are badly wounded. Desperation lends strength, and so this Condition adds one extra die to your dice pools; however, if you suffer the Critical Condition a second time, it becomes the Down Condition instead.

Cursed: You've been afflicted with misfortune. Discard your highest result after rolling your dice pool, but before applying your chosen action's effects. If there's a tie for the highest result, discard all of them; for example, if you roll four dice while Cursed and get 1, 3, 5 and 5, your result is 3. If the Condition causes you to discard your only set of triples of better on a Strike action, the Phase does not end.

Down: You are incapacitated by injury or foul enchantment. When the party acts, you may not choose an action; your action remains lost even if this Condition is removed before the end of the round. When you gain this Condition, remove all other Conditions, and the party loses one Momentum. (This is not in addition to the Momentum loss noted by effects which inflict this Condition – those are just reminders.) You may not gain other Conditions while this one persists.

Poisoned: You're afflicted by a poison, plague, or death-curse. If you have the Poisoned Condition after resolving your action for the round, you gain the Critical Condition. If you already have the Critical Condition, you instead gain the Down Condition, and the party loses one Momentum.

Protected: The next time you would gain any Condition other than Buffed, remove this Condition instead. You also remove this Condition if you take any action other than Defend on your turn.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

do you have any tips on how to write for a quiet character living a comfortable life abruptly being forced to adapt to a rowdy and somewhat violent environment?

Writing Ideas: Quiet Characters

common literary & character tropes

Beware the Quiet Ones: When the character who is hardly ever upset about something, suddenly raises their voice, the world turns upside down and seems to come to an end. There is an unleashed raging or cold speech of epic proportions that not even the most demented character in the story would want to sit through. This rage is almost always expressed verbally, though violence can also be included. Another version could be when the heroes' team is in low spirits, and The Quiet One, fed up with all the sulking, throws the table (or something else) to the side and gives a Rousing Speech to their comrades.

Elective Mute: It turns out that a character assumed to be unable to talk actually can speak, they just choose to be silent most of the time.

Emotionless Girl: An enigmatic female character who appears to be entirely emotionless. Whether she actually is emotionless depends on the story and often on her level of characterization.

Heroic Mime: A hero who never speaks.

Silent Scapegoat: Somebody who willingly takes the blame for everyone else's wrongdoings.

Suddenly Speaking: A character who was initially silent eventually reveals that they can speak after all.

The Quiet One: A character who does speak, but not as much as the other characters.

The Stoic: Quiet demeanor tends towards the brusque or outright rudeness, though there are a few polite Stoics. Some stoics may try to give the impression of a lot going on inside, cultivate an air of mystery and confuse other characters with cryptic one-liners. The Stoic sometimes displays emotion when under extreme stress or in other highly emotional situations, but their usual repertoire consists of mild boredom, detached interest, Dull Surprise or dignified disdain. The Stoics in ancient Greece were philosophers who believed that self-control is the highest virtue, and detachment from strong emotions and passion would give them greater insight in their quest for truth. They also thought that emotional reactions to the inevitable were silly; given that We All Die Someday, what is grieving over death but a judgment that the inevitable was somehow wrong? Stoics would later be criticized for fatalism and apathy.

The Voiceless: A character isn't shown speaking, but might still be capable of speech.

Tranquil Fury: This character can range from happy or stoic, but their anger is more quiet (but still dangerous). What defines this trope is the tendency to become deadly serious when it gets deadly serious.

Examples

In the story "The Six Swans", collected by the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen among others, a Fallen Princess must make six shirts out of nettles and can't make a sound for seven years or the spell that transformed her six brothers into swans will never be broken. She manages to keep all of these conditions and gets to break the spell. This is an example of the Elective Mute trope.

Peter in Jumanji, who talks to no one but his older sister Judy ever since their parents' death by car accident. Once Alan gets out of the game and finds his parents are also dead, Peter starts talking to him as well.

Charles Wallace was an Elective Mute trope a child in A Wrinkle in Time. By the time of the later books, he has grown out of it.

Irish Mythology: The battle trance Nuada enters before the first battle of Maige Tuired is sometimes described as a battle fury. However, unlike The Riastrad, the famous "Warp Spasm" of the hero Cu Chulainn, Nuada does not become a berserker, but instead becomes exceptionally calm. This is an example of the Tranquil Fury trope.

Older Than Steam. Shakespeare's Henry V has the eponymous character's Tranquil Fury reaction to the tennis balls.

Dead Poets Society: The shy and insecure Todd Anderson spends most of the film struggling to get out two full sentences and is overlooked by the school and his parents. After his best friend kills himself, the school tries to bully him (and the other boys) into pinning the blame on their favorite teacher — and he leads half the class in an outright rebellion against the headmaster.

Don Vito Corleone from The Godfather is famously very soft-spoken, even hoarse, but an extremely menacing screen presence.

In the original novel The Godfather, both Vito and Michael Corleone were noted as young men for being soft-spoken, understated, and reasonable, especially in contrast to many of their Sicilian immigrant and first-generation compatriots. They go on to become in turn the most feared "Family" heads of their generations, while still rarely raising their voices above a normal speaking tone.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

This is already quite a specific character, and it seems you have a rough idea of your storyline. I don't want to intrude too much on your story, so I compiled tropes and examples in literature as well as other media that are somewhat related to what you described, and you could perhaps incorporate these (& edit as needed/desired) to further flesh out your specific character and plot. Consider which direction you want your story to go; what reactions you want your own character to show once they're thrust into that new environment (Will they continue to be quiet? Will they go the other end of the spectrum? Perhaps somewhere in between? Will they succeed in "adapting" in this new environment?). Do go through the sources for more information and examples. Plus these previous posts that may be useful as well:

On Shyness ⚜ On Mutism ⚜ On Introverts

Word Alternatives: Quiet ⚜ Five-Factor Model of Personality

[rosieswriting]

More than what you see

Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: You need to remind your boyfriend how much he is worthy off once again after a terrible full moon

Note: English is not my first language so it probably has some mistakes! It´s pure fluff with hurt/comfort from reader to Remus because i just love this prompt so much.

Words: 1.4K

He was barely holding himself together; shoulders slumped as he leaned against the cold wall of your bedroom. Still, as you reached for him, he shifted, pulling his torn sleeves down over the raw skin on his arms.

“Don’t. I’m fine,” he muttered, but the words lacked conviction, his voice barely a hoarse whisper. He tried to tug the tattered fabric tighter, as if hiding the wounds could somehow shield you from seeing just how much he was hurting.

You knelt beside him, hands hovering just inches away, waiting. He took a shuddering breath, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, guilt flickering in them. “You… you shouldn’t have to keep doing this,” he mumbled, voice cracking as he finally let his head fall back against the wall. He was quiet for a moment, then added, “I don’t want you to see me like this. Not… every time.”

You bit your inner cheek at his words, your own heart aching for him. “But I want to be here for you. I want to help you,” you said slowly and softly, making sure not to elevate your tone. “Please, let me help you.”

He looked up at you; it still felt surreal to him to have someone in his life who wasn’t annoyed or bothered by his condition, even after years of friendship and months of dating. He just looked at you for a moment and nodded, allowing you to care for him.

You smiled softly and grabbed the hem of his shirt, slowly and carefully beginning to take it off him, the new scars along his chest revealed.

“It’s not like I prefer you with clothes anyway,” you muttered playfully, trying to lighten the mood as you let his shirt fall to the floor and reached for the med kit beside your bed.

He looked away, trying to hide a hint of a smile as you joked. It definitely helped reduce the tension. “Shut up,” he muttered back.

He tried to relax as you gently tended to his wounds, first disinfecting them and cleaning the dried blood from his chest and arms. “It’s not that bad, really,” he mumbled, wincing only slightly a few times when the cloth touched a particularly painful spot.

He was trying to downplay the whole thing, acting like he wasn’t struggling. He didn’t want to bother you or make you worry. Even so, the fact that you were here with him, taking care of him, made his heart fill with a different kind of comfort.

“Rem,” you called out softly. “I worry and heal freaking birds when they have a broken wing or something. You clearly went mad if you think I won’t help my boyfriend,” you teased him.

Remus raised an eyebrow, giving you a deadpan stare. “I’m offended that you’re comparing me to a bird,” he joked back, appreciating your playful banter. “You’re too good for me, you know that, don’t you?” he muttered, the smile that was beginning to form at the corners of his lips fading a little.

You finished healing his wounds and set the med kit on the table next to the bed before sitting in front of him, looking at him.

“I don’t know that. What I do know is that you don’t give yourself enough credit. I’m only good for you because you’re good for me. That’s how we work,” you spoke softly, brushing his hair out of his face.

He let out a soft sigh, closing his eyes. Of course, he had his moments of confidence and self-acceptance. Still, on days like this, his self-esteem hit an all-time low, and he couldn’t help but feel like you were doing too much for him.

“But I’m a werewolf,” he pointed out in a low voice. His mind kept telling him that someone as good as you should run as far away as possible from a creature like him, not stay and care for him.

“You are Remus Lupin,” you said quickly and softly. “You are my friend and my boyfriend. Being a werewolf is part of you, but it doesn’t define you. You are you, and you happen to be the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”

He swallowed hard at your words, feeling a mixture of emotions welling up inside him. It wasn’t as if no one had ever said something kind to him; thanks to Merlin, he had wonderful friends. But those words coming from you always hit him hard. He still hesitated to believe them, though. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Rem,” you mumbled softly, your own heart breaking at how he couldn’t see himself as you did. You cupped his face softly and made him look at you. “You know me; if I even thought for a second that you were a monster, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be dating you, and I wouldn’t be telling you how amazing you are. But I am here because you, Remus Lupin, are nowhere near a monster. Not even close.”

He closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of your soft hands as you cupped his face. Your words were like a warm caress that soothed his aching heart, but he still struggled internally to let your message sink in. “I just don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered, opening his eyes and looking into yours. “You deserve someone who’s normal, someone who isn’t a walking time bomb.”

“I know what I’m worthy of,” you cut him off softly, not wanting him to keep talking down about himself. “I’m worthy of someone who loves and appreciates me. Someone who’s with me at all times, who cries with me when something bad happens, and who laughs with me when something good happens. I’m worthy of love and devotion. Of someone who’ll come to me the moment I call them, even if they’re doing something important. Of someone who makes me feel safe,” you spoke sweetly, caressing his cheek. “And that someone is you.”

Remus was quiet for a few moments, his eyes locked on yours as he took in your words. Each sentence was like a knife, tearing down the walls he’d built around himself. He swallowed hard against a sudden lump in his throat. “You do deserve that,” he managed to say at last.

“And you give me all of that and more,” you let out a short laugh. “Merlin, I used to think I was such a loser, Remus. Really, I always thought nobody would ever have the patience to even try to date me. But then you appeared, and you were you. You were the only one—and still are—who lets me ramble for hours about silly things. You’re the one who makes me feel loved. No monster could ever do that.”

His heart clenched at your words. The thought of you thinking of yourself as a loser tore at his soul. How could you, the kindest, sweetest, and most generous person, ever think something like that? He reached out and took your hands in his, holding them tight. “You are not a loser,” he murmured softly. “You are vibrant, caring, and everything good in the world.”

You smiled at his words and squeezed his hands. “So are you, and it pains me that you don’t realize. I love you, everything about you.”

Remus’s breath hitched at your words. The feeling of your hands clutching his and your smile washing over him left him lost for words, unable to find the right response to express just how deeply your love affected him.

“I love you too,” he choked, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours. “More than anything in the world.”

“I will tell you every day that you are not a monster until it gets into your thick head, do you understand me, Lupin?” you mumbled softly, teasingly.

He let out a soft chuckle, a mix of amusement and affection. “Trust me, you’re loud enough that it’s impossible to ignore what you say,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips, making you roll your eyes in playful banter.

“But in all seriousness,” he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer, the tension and lingering self-doubt slowly melting away. “I’ll try to stop beating myself up all the time.”

You smiled widely at his words. “Can I kiss you now?” you asked playfully, making him chuckle.

“Of course, dove.”

He leaned in, closing the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a slow, soft kiss filled with reassurance and love.

The next day, when you went off in the afternoon to spend time with your friends, he went to a jewelry shop and bought an engagement ring.

[aspenmissing]

I’m projecting badly but I’m alone and I hurt… what about Viktor, Jayce, and Jinx with an s/o that suffers from two forms (genetic lotto, lost) of early onset arthritis but due to high pain tolerance, easily hidden braces and usually well managed pain medication… simply never told them about their condition until one day they show up using the cane they only need on exceptionally bad pain days, much needed simply to stay upright.

ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊɪɴx | ʙᴏɴᴜꜱ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 3943 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ||

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴍᴇᴅɪᴄᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (ᴀʀᴛʜʀɪᴛɪꜱ), ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʜᴇᴀʟᴛʜ (ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʙᴜʀᴅᴇɴ).

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏʜ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ ᴀʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ! ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢɪᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ɪɴᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇᴀʙʟᴇ ɪɴ ᴀʀᴛʜʀɪᴛɪꜱ - ʙɪᴛ ɪ ᴅɪᴅ ᴍʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜰᴇᴇʟꜱ. ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ᴅᴀʏ/ɴɪɢʜᴛ ʟᴏᴠᴇʟʏ <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

Y/N’s arthritis wasn’t something she spoke about often. Diagnosed young, she’d learned to adapt over the years—hidden braces, carefully managed medication, and a remarkable tolerance for pain. It wasn’t a matter of shame but rather a deep-seated instinct to handle it herself. She didn’t want the condition to define her or become a reason for others to treat her differently. On most days, it wasn’t obvious. Her movements were smooth, her posture upright, and her smile steady.

Her colleagues and friends had no idea she lived with the condition, and she preferred it that way.

But some days were different. Some days, the pain flared so intensely it felt as though her body were betraying her, her joints a battlefield she couldn’t escape. On those rare occasions, she relied on a cane—an unspoken admission that her strength alone wasn’t enough.

Today was one of those days.

The morning had been particularly cruel. Her knees and wrists throbbed even before she attempted to get out of bed. Every joint seemed to protest as she moved, her fingers stiff and uncooperative as she fumbled with the simple act of getting dressed. Each step felt like walking through wet cement, every movement a negotiation with pain. She’d sat on the edge of her bed for a long moment, staring at the cane propped against her wardrobe. She hated using it. Hated what it represented.

But today, there was no getting around it.

Work beckoned, as it always did. Y/N wasn’t one to let discomfort stop her. She had too much to do, too many projects and experiments that needed her attention. So, with a resigned sigh, she grabbed the cane and made her way to the lab, each tap against the tiled floor echoing louder in her ears than it probably was.

She told herself no one would notice.

That hope was dashed the moment Jayce turned around.

His attention snapped to her like a magnet, his usual easygoing smile faltering as his eyes zeroed in on the cane. His expression shifted from surprise to concern in an instant, his brow furrowing as he took a step closer.

“Y/N?” he asked, his voice laced with worry. “What’s going on? Are you hurt?”

Y/N winced internally. Of course, he’d notice. There was no hiding the cane, no brushing this off. She offered a smile, though it was strained. “I’m fine, Jayce,” she said lightly, her voice betraying none of the pain that lanced through her with every step. “Just... having a bit of a bad day.”

Jayce’s work was forgotten as he moved towards her, his strides purposeful yet hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure how close he should get. He stopped a few steps away, his hands hovering mid-air like he wanted to help but didn’t want to overstep.

“A bad day?” he repeated, his gaze flickering between her face and the cane. “Y/N, you’re using a cane. Why didn’t you tell me you needed one?”

She sighed, leaning the cane against the nearest table as she lowered herself into a chair. The relief of sitting down was immediate, though she didn’t let it show. “Because I don’t, usually. Only on really bad days.”

Jayce crouched in front of her, his warm brown eyes filled with worry. “What do you mean, ‘really bad days’? What’s going on?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tightening around the cane’s handle. She’d spent years keeping this part of her life private, even from Jayce. It wasn’t about trust—it was about independence, about not wanting to burden anyone. But there was no avoiding it now.

“I have arthritis,” she admitted quietly, her voice almost drowned out by the hum of the lab’s machinery. “Two kinds, actually. Early onset. It’s genetic.”

Jayce’s expression softened, concern deepening as understanding began to dawn. “Arthritis? Since when?”

“Since I was a kid,” she said, offering a small, wry smile. “It’s manageable most of the time. Painkillers, braces, pacing myself—it usually works. But sometimes... the pain flares up. Like today.”

He shook his head slowly, disbelief mingling with worry. “Y/N, why didn’t you tell me? I’m your boyfriend—I would’ve helped.”

She looked away, her gaze fixed on the floor. “Because I didn’t want to worry you,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve lived with this for so long that it’s just... part of life. I can handle it.”

Jayce reached out, his hand enveloping hers with a warmth that made her chest tighten. “But you don’t have to handle it alone,” he said firmly, his voice low and steady. “You know that, right? You can lean on me, Y/N. Literally, if you need to.” He cracked a small, lopsided smile, an attempt to lighten the mood.

Her lips trembled, and she blinked against the tears that suddenly blurred her vision. “Jayce, I didn’t want to be a burden. You’ve got so much on your plate already.”

“You’re not a burden,” he said with quiet conviction, squeezing her hand gently. “You never could be. I hate the thought of you hiding this, suffering in silence. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

A tear slipped free, and she hastily wiped it away, a small, shaky laugh escaping her. “Alright,” she said after a moment, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll try to let you in more.”

Jayce smiled warmly, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “That’s all I ask.”

From that day forward, Y/N began to share more of her struggles. Jayce threw himself into learning everything he could about arthritis, scouring research papers and talking to specialists. He designed tools in the lab to help ease her pain on difficult days, his care and attention shining through in every detail.

And on those rare days when Y/N needed her cane, Jayce stood proudly by her side, his love for her unwavering. She wasn’t alone anymore, and that made all the difference.

VIKTOR

It had been a quiet morning in the lab, sunlight streaming through the high windows and casting long shadows over the many contraptions that filled the room. Viktor sat at his workbench, his fingers deftly tinkering with a hextech core, while Jayce hovered nearby, deep in thought, scribbling notes on a blueprint spread across the table. The usual hum of creativity filled the air, the faint whir of Viktor’s mechanical leg accompanying the occasional clink of metal tools against delicate machinery. Everything seemed normal—calm, productive, routine.

But something was off.

The sound of your steps broke through the stillness, heavier than usual, each one deliberate and measured. There was an unfamiliar tap accompanying them, a rhythm out of sync with the soft padding of your shoes. Viktor looked up instinctively, and his heart immediately sank. You stood in the doorway, gripping a cane, your knuckles white against the polished wood. The shadows beneath your eyes were darker than usual, your lips pressed tightly together as if to suppress a grimace. Even the faint smile you managed looked strained, barely holding against the weight of whatever pain you were carrying.

“Miláčku,” Viktor said softly, setting down his tools. His golden eyes locked onto you, concern etched into every line of his face. “What is this? Why are you using that?” (Darling)

You froze for a moment, your mind racing for an explanation. You hadn’t wanted this to happen, hadn’t wanted him to see you like this. For years, you’d carefully concealed the realities of your condition—braces hidden under long sleeves and trousers, medication tucked discreetly into your bag, a well-practised mask of strength that rarely faltered. But today… today, the pain was unrelenting, a relentless storm that surged through your joints with every movement. The cane was the only thing keeping you upright, but it was also the betrayal of a secret you’d worked so hard to keep.

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, forcing a lightness you didn’t feel. “Just a bad day. You know how it is.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. He was no stranger to hiding pain—he recognised the way you shifted your weight carefully from one leg to the other, the way your shoulders tensed as if bracing against an invisible force. Slowly, he rose from his stool, leaning on his own cane as he made his way toward you.

“You are lying,” he said gently but firmly, his voice laced with quiet determination. “Please, tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor. His voice wasn’t accusatory—it was filled with worry, the kind that made your chest ache even more than the pain in your knees and wrists. With a deep breath, you decided there was no point in hiding it anymore.

“I have arthritis,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Two types, actually. It’s genetic and… well, I got unlucky.” You tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. “Most days, it’s manageable. I can push through. But today…” Your grip on the cane tightened. “Today isn’t one of those days.”

Viktor stopped in front of you, his expression shifting into something unreadable. He reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering over yours on the cane before finally settling lightly atop it. The warmth of his touch grounded you, even as his silence stretched on for a moment too long.

“And you never told me?” he asked finally, his voice trembling just slightly, a mix of hurt and concern. “Why, Y/N? Why would you keep this from me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you said quickly, your words tumbling out in a rush. “You already have enough to deal with, Vik. Your work, your health, everything with Piltover. I didn’t want to add to that.”

Viktor let out a sharp exhale, his brows knitting together. “Lásko...” He gently cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “You are not a burden. You could never be a burden. If you are in pain, I want to know. I want to help.” (Love)

Tears pricked your eyes, blurring the golden glow of his irises. His sincerity was overwhelming, his words breaking through the walls you’d built around yourself. You let out a shaky laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “You’re going to regret saying that when I start complaining about how much my joints hate me.”

A small smile tugged at Viktor’s lips, though his eyes remained serious. “Then we can complain together,” he said, his voice soft but resolute. He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your waist to support you. “Come, sit. You should not be standing like this.”

You let him guide you to a nearby chair, easing down with a grateful sigh as the pressure on your knees lifted. Viktor pulled up a stool beside you, his hand never leaving yours.

“From now on,” he said softly, his gaze fixed on yours, “no more hiding. We face this together, yes?”

You nodded, your heart swelling at the unwavering resolve in his voice. “Together,” you agreed.

Viktor pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering as if sealing his promise. When he pulled back, there was a new determination in his expression, the kind that always lit up his face when he was deep in thought.

“I will look into this,” he said firmly, his mind already racing with possibilities. “There may be something hextech can do to ease your pain, or at least make your bad days less… bad. I promise you, Y/N, we will find a way to make things better.”

For the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to lean on him—not just physically, but emotionally. And in his arms, you realised that you didn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.

JINX

Jinx hadn’t seen Y/N all morning, which was unusual. Normally, you’d have already poked your head into her room by now, making some sarcastic quip about her projects, asking if she ever slept, or offering her something to eat. It was your routine—your way of grounding her when her thoughts spiralled out of control. But today? Silence.

She frowned, throwing aside the pile of blueprints she’d been half-heartedly sorting. The hideout felt eerily quiet, and the faint hum of the city outside seemed to grow louder in the stillness.

“Y/N?” she called out, stepping into the main room. Her voice echoed, and the emptiness only deepened her unease.

Jinx’s sharp eyes darted around, scanning every corner. No sign of you. The gnawing feeling of dread, the one she thought she’d buried long ago, crept up her spine. She hated this—hated the hollow ache that came with wondering if someone she cared about had disappeared, leaving her behind again.

She clenched her fists, shaking her head as if to banish the thought. “Get it together,” she muttered to herself, before heading towards the workshop.

As she neared the doorway, the sound of faint, uneven footsteps on the stairs made her freeze mid-step. Her heart leapt to her throat.

“Y/N?” she called again, her voice hesitant this time.

When you finally appeared, gripping the railing tightly with one hand and clutching a cane in the other, Jinx’s breath caught. Her bright blue eyes widened as she took in the sight of you.

Your face was pale, a sheen of sweat on your forehead. The usual warmth in your expression was dimmed, replaced by an exhaustion you couldn’t quite hide. For once, you looked... vulnerable.

“Jinx,” you greeted softly, your voice as steady as you could manage. You offered her a smile, the same comforting one you always gave her, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“What the hell, Y/N?” Jinx demanded, sprinting over to you. Her sharp gaze darted between your face and the cane. “What’s this? You hurt? Did someone do this to you?”

You huffed a weak laugh, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Calm down, love. No one did this to me. It’s just... well, it’s me.”

Jinx’s frown deepened, her confusion giving way to worry. “What do you mean, ‘it’s just you’? You’re not making any sense.”

You sighed, gesturing for her to help you over to the nearby sofa. She was at your side in an instant, her hands hovering nervously as though unsure where to touch. She ended up slipping an arm around your waist, supporting you as you eased down onto the worn cushions.

The relief was immediate, though the ache in your joints persisted. You let out a breath, wincing slightly as you adjusted your position. Jinx stood in front of you, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her foot tapping anxiously against the floor.

“Alright,” she said, her voice sharper than usual, “start talking.”

““I’ve got arthritis.” you began, your tone calm but serious. “Early-onset. Two kinds, actually. Lucky me, eh?”

Her jaw dropped, her expression twisting into one of disbelief. “What? Since when?”

“Since always, really,” you replied with a shrug. “It’s genetic. But I manage it, mostly. Pain meds, braces... you’ve just never noticed because I’m good at hiding it. Today’s just... a bad day.”

Jinx’s brows knitted together, and she clenched her fists at her sides. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, her voice cracking slightly. “You always tell me to come to you when something’s wrong. Why didn’t you do the same?”

You reached out and placed a hand on her arm. “Because I didn’t want you to worry, Jinx. You’ve got enough on your plate without adding me to it.”

“That’s stupid,” she shot back, her tone laced with frustration. “You’re the one person who’s always been there for me. You can’t just... hide this from me! What if you get worse? What if you—”

Her words faltered, her voice breaking as her throat tightened. She looked away, blinking rapidly, but not before you saw the tears welling in her eyes.

“Jinx,” you said softly, your voice full of warmth as you reached up to cup her cheek. She flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. Instead, you gently turned her face back towards you. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’ve been dealing with this for years, and I’ll keep dealing with it. But you’re right. I should’ve told you. I’m sorry.”

Her lip wobbled, and she let out a shaky breath, her blue eyes searching yours. “You scared me,” she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” you said, pulling her into a hug. She hesitated for a moment before wrapping her arms around you, clinging tightly. Her grip was firm but careful, as though afraid she might hurt you.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of machinery in the background and the distant murmur of the city outside.

When Jinx finally pulled back, her expression had shifted. Her usual manic energy was creeping back, though her concern still lingered. “Alright, here’s the deal,” she said, her voice more determined now. “From now on, no more secrets, yeah? If you’re in pain or need help, you tell me. Got it?”

You smiled, brushing a tear from her cheek. “Got it.”

“Good,” she said, standing up and cracking her knuckles. “Now, you sit there and rest while I go blow something up. That’ll make us both feel better.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Go on, then. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

“No promises!” she called over her shoulder, her grin wide and mischievous. But as she bounded towards the door, she paused, glancing back at you. Her gaze lingered, softer than usual, before she finally disappeared from sight.

You leaned back against the cushions, letting out a slow breath. The pain was still there, a constant ache in your joints, but for the first time in a long while, the weight on your heart felt a little lighter. You didn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.

BONUS: JAYVIK

The soft glow of Piltover’s lanterns spilled through the workshop windows as the rhythmic clinking of tools filled the air. Jayce was hunched over a blueprint, his brow furrowed in concentration, his hand occasionally scribbling notes in the margins. Viktor, seated nearby, tinkered with a new Hextech prototype, his movements precise despite the faint tremor in his hands. Both men were so engrossed in their work that neither noticed you entering the room—until the unmistakable sound of a cane tapping against the floor cut through the silence.

Jayce’s head shot up immediately, his blue eyes wide with concern. Viktor’s hand stilled, his grip tightening on the small screwdriver in his fingers as he turned towards you. The intensity of their gazes was almost enough to make you want to turn around and leave, but the pain radiating through your joints made standing without the cane a battle you weren’t willing to fight.

“Y/N?” Jayce’s voice was thick with alarm, his gaze dropping instantly to the cane in your hand. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

You hesitated, your hand tightening around the polished wood. The pain today was unbearable, spreading through your body like fire, refusing to be ignored even with the strongest medication you had on hand. It had taken everything you had just to make it to the workshop. Hiding this from them had always been easy—you’d mastered the art of disguising discomfort with easy smiles and careful movements—but today wasn’t one of those days.

“It’s nothing,” you said softly, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just… a bad day.”

“Nothing?” Jayce echoed, his voice rising slightly with disbelief. “Love, you’re using a cane. That’s not nothing. What’s going on?”

You sighed, your shoulders sagging under the weight of both the pain and their scrutiny. “It’s arthritis,” you admitted at last, your tone calm but firm. “I’ve had it for years. Most days, it’s manageable. I don’t even need the cane most of the time. But sometimes…” You glanced at the cane in your hand, then back at them, gesturing vaguely. “Well, sometimes it’s like this.”

Jayce looked as though someone had just punched him in the gut. His mouth opened and closed several times before he managed to get the words out. “You’ve had it for years? And you didn’t think to tell us?”

Viktor, however, didn’t react with the same shock. His amber eyes studied you with quiet understanding, his shoulders relaxing as he leaned back slightly in his chair. “You didn’t want us to worry,” he said gently, his voice low and measured. “You’ve dealt with it alone because you thought it was easier that way. Am I right?”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you nodded. “Yes,” you admitted after a moment. “I didn’t want to burden either of you. You’ve both got so much on your plates already—Hextech, the Council, everything with Zaun. I didn’t want to add to it.”

Jayce ran a hand through his hair, his pacing footsteps echoing softly in the workshop. “Burden us?” he repeated, his voice tight with emotion. “You’re not a burden. You never could be. How could you even think that?”

“Because I know how much you two care,” you said softly, your eyes flicking between them. “And I didn’t want to see that look on your faces—this look—every time I had a bad day.”

Viktor’s own cane tapped gently against the floor as he moved closer to you, his expression steady but compassionate. “I understand,” he said, his tone reassuring. “It is not easy to let others see your struggles, especially when you’ve become so used to hiding them. But you don’t have to hide from us.”

Jayce stopped pacing and turned to face you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He’s right,” he said, his voice softer now, tinged with guilt. “We’re a team, Y/N. If you’re hurting, we want to know. We need to know.”

You felt your resolve waver under their combined concern, a lump forming in your throat. “I didn’t want to seem weak,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N.” Viktor’s tone was firm but warm. “Strength is not pretending to be fine when you are not. It is letting those who care for you help.” He paused, a flicker of amusement softening his serious expression. “Besides, if you ever need to borrow my cane, you’re welcome to it. We can be a matching set.”

A startled laugh bubbled up through your tears, and you found yourself smiling despite the ache in your joints. “What, and have the two of us hobbling around like an old married couple?” you teased. “I think I’ll pass, Viktor.”

Jayce’s lips twitched into a smile, his shoulders relaxing as some of the tension left the room. “For the record,” he said, crossing the room in a few long strides and wrapping you in a fierce hug, “you’re not weak, Y/N. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore. We’re here—for the good days and the bad ones.”

Viktor placed a hand gently on your shoulder, his touch grounding. “And I promise I won’t make too many jokes about sharing canes. Only a few.” His eyes sparkled with subtle mischief.

You leaned into Jayce’s embrace, feeling the weight you’d been carrying alone begin to lift. With Jayce’s unrelenting support and Viktor’s quiet understanding—peppered with his dry humour—you realised you didn’t have to face the worst days alone anymore. And that thought, more than anything, made the pain a little easier to bear.

[corruptedcaps]

Model Behaviour

Liam paced his tiny workshop, his fingers twitching nervously as he glanced at the nearly completed bodysuit hanging in front of him. The latex and silicone masterpiece shimmered under the harsh overhead light, an uncanny recreation of the fictional supermodel girlfriend he’d spent the past year bragging about.

Maddy sat on a stool, arms crossed, her expression a mix of annoyance and disbelief.

“This is insane, Liam, I can’t believe I’m even considering this.” She said.

Liam stopped pacing and turned to her, pleading. “Maddy, you’re my best friend. You know I didn’t mean for this to happen. It just… got out of hand.”

“You could’ve just told the truth at any point,” Maddy shot back. “Instead, you built that.” She gestured at the suit.

“I panicked, okay? And now, if I don’t show up with ‘Sophie,’ my career is over. They’ll never take me seriously again.” He said, his face distraught at the thought.

Maddy sighed, shaking her head. “Ok fine let’s do it.” Liam lit up with excitement.

“The suit’s fully functional. It even has built-in voice modulation. You’ll look, sound, and… act just like her.”

“Wait, act?” Maddy raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

Liam hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “I may have added a… personality enhancer. You know, to make you more convincing. A touch of… um… supermodel flair.”

Maddy’s eyes narrowed. “Define ‘supermodel flair.’”

“There’s no time, just know it’s just a little conditioning to help you out is all.” He said hoping his house of cards won’t topple.

Maddy glared at him but stood up. “This better not mess with my head, Liam. If I end up on a therapist’s couch because of this, you’re paying the bill.”

“Noted,” Liam said, handing her the suit. “Now, let’s get you suited up.”

Minutes later, Maddy stood in front of the mirror, transformed. The suit hugged her frame perfectly, the flawless blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Her lips were pouty, her posture effortlessly poised. She turned slowly, her reflection almost unrecognizable.

She placed a hand on her chest, running her fingers over her impressive boobs. “That’s… me?” Her voice, now sultry and smooth, startled her.

“Pretty convincing, huh?” Liam said nervously from behind her. “You look incredible.”

Maddy tilted her head, studying herself. A sly smile crept onto her lips. “Of course I am. Incredible doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Liam frowned. “Maddy? You okay?”

Maddy adjusted the shimmering blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her heart pounding as she stared at her transformed reflection. This was her chance, the closest she’d ever get to being Liam’s girlfriend, even if it was just pretend. It was the main reason she had agreed to do it in the first place.

And yet as she gazed at her new and improved body a voice in the back of her head was telling her that Liam didn’t deserve her now that she could have any man she wanted now. The voice made her hunger.

“Of course I do, darling.” She purred, her modulated voice smooth and sultry. She struck a playful pose, a mix of teasing and allure. It felt incredibly natural. “Now can we get going, I NEED to be seen.”

A few hours later Liam stood near the drinks table, awkwardly nursing a glass of sparkling water as his coworkers mingled around him. His eyes kept darting to Maddy, who was currently surrounded by a captivated crowd, her laugh ringing through the air like music.

She was wearing the dress that she demanded he buy her on the way to the party. A shorter than short red dress that she insisted was festive but also showed off her long legs and ample chest. She was the center of attention, and Liam could hardly believe how flawlessly Maddy had pulled this off, or rather, how flawlessly the suit had.

As he watched her endless charm his colleagues, his boss, David, sauntered over to Maddy with a confident grin. David was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a reputation for his charm. Liam’s stomach sank as he watched David lean in, clearly flirting.

“Liam, she’s stunning!” Claire from accounting exclaimed, sidling up beside him, blocking his view of Maddy. “You were underselling her. No wonder you were so smitten.”

“Uh, yeah, she’s, uh… one of a kind.” Liam muttered, forcing a smile.

“So, Sophie, Liam’s been keeping you a secret from us for too long. What do you do?” David asked, his voice smooth.

Maddy tilted her head, a playful smile curving her lips. She was drinking in David. A man like him would never have took a second look at a girl like her before. A girl like Maddy.

“Oh but you’re not Maddy anymore remember?” The voice said in her mind, now louder than before. “You’re Sophie a beauty queen, who knows a king when she sees them.”

The words weee accompanied by a dumping of endorphins that made her eyes flutter a little and a soft moan pass through her lips.

“Are you alright?” David asks with actual concern.

Maddy felt a flush of lust come over here as concern etched David’s face. “Mmm I’m sorry, it’s just I was taken by your good looks for a moment. It’s made me light headed.” She said biting her bottom lip at him. He looked a little taken aback by it himself but was still intrigued.

Placing his hand on her lower back he started to guide her way from the noise of the party. “Why don’t you sit down? I know the perfect place.” He said to her with a knowing smirk which she returned.

Meanwhile Liam was still trying to break away from his conversation with Claire. “I know why don’t I introduce you.” He finally said after ten minutes of her gushing about how amazing ‘Sophie’ looks.

However as he glanced back toward where Maddy had been he found her to be gone. His eyes scanned the room frantically until he spotted her. He left Claire to go deeper into the office, far from where the office party noise was. However as that sound died, a new one took its place. The sound of a woman moaning and panting.

Liam turned the corner and saw Maddy sitting on David’s lap, jumping up and down as she moaned like a wanton whore.

Liam froze, his stomach flipping. “No. No, no, no…”

He pushed through the cubicles, his mind racing. By the time he burst through the door, Maddy was running her fingers through her hair as her eyes rolled into the back of her head, climaxing and completely lost in the moment.

“Sophie!” Liam blurted.

She pulled back, her expression still utter bliss as her orgasm settled. However as the afterglow of it faded so too did her euphoria, as it shifted into something cool and indifferent. But also something else in her eyes that Liam couldn’t place. “Oh, Liam. There you are.”

David looked between them, smirking. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t realize she was off-limits.”

“She’s… she’s my girlfriend!” Liam stammered, his voice trembling.

Maddy raised a perfectly arched brow. “Girlfriend? Liam, don’t be so possessive. It’s unbecoming.”

Liam blinked, stunned. “What?”

David chuckled as he did up his pants. He clapped Liam on the shoulder, as he said “Relax, Liam. She’s just being friendly.”

“Friendly?!” Liam’s voice rose. “You were fucking!”

Maddy sighed dramatically, turning back to David. “He’s always so sensitive. Isn’t it adorable?”

David laughed, clearly amused.

“Meet me back at the party hot stuff.” She said, kissing David on the lips in front of an irate Liam. David smacked her on the ass as he sauntered out back to the party.

Liam’s face burned with embarrassment and frustration. “Maddy, what the hell are you doing?”

“Maddy? Who the hell is Maddy? Have you had one too many cosmos?” She said sharply, her voice dripping with condescension.

“This isn’t you!” Liam hissed, lowering his voice. “It’s the suit messing with your head.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms. “What suit? What the hell are you talking about?”

Liam froze, the words catching in his throat. “The suit, you’re wearing a suit! I built it, remember? You’re not really… this. You’re Maddy!”

She laughed, a harsh, hollow sound that made his stomach churn. “You’ve lost it, Liam. Is this ‘Maddy’ one of your friends you have a crush on or something?”

“No, no, no!” He stammered, his voice cracking. “You’re Maddy! You’re my best friend! We put this plan together, remember? You’re wearing a suit that I—”

“Stop it!” She snapped, her eyes blazing. “Do you hear how insane you sound? A suit? Ugh… at least you losing the plot will make this a lot easier.”

Liam looked at her confused. “Make what easier?”

Maddy let a smirk curl up on her lips, clearly revelling in what she was about to do. “We’re done. Honestly I don’t know why we were even together in the first place.”

Liam shook his head, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Maddy, listen to me. You’re not thinking clearly. The suit, it’s altering your mind. You have to fight it.”

She took a step closer, towering over him in her heels, her presence somehow larger than life. “You’re pathetic.” She said, her voice low and cutting. “You can’t handle the fact that I’ve outgrown you. That I don’t need you. You’re the one who’s confused, Liam. Not me.”

His heart sank as she turned on her heel and strutted back toward the party, her laughter floating over the sound of the music.

Liam stood there, frozen, his mind racing. She didn’t remember the suit. She didn’t remember who she really was. She was Sophie, his perfect girlfriend who wanted nothing to do with him.

[unfgvien]

seeds of a dream chapter one

pairing - dom!mother rhea x sub!mummy reader

summary - Rhea and Yn, are devised to find out that yn has endometriosis The condition causes inflammation and pain, impacting yn's fertility. They research fertility treatments like IVF, donor eggs, and surrogacy, but the medical terminology feels impersonal. Their love and commitment guide them through the challenges, proving their resilience and shared dream of parenthood. In a fertility clinic, they face the responsibility of finding potential sperm donors, each contributing to their future child. Their love serves as the foundation for their journey and their shared journey.

word count - 5.5k

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the polished wooden floor of Rhea and Yn’s apartment. Dust motes danced in the golden light, a serene scene at odds with the storm brewing within Yn. The crisp white envelope sat on the coffee table, unopened, a silent, yet menacing presence. Rhea, perched on the arm of the sofa, nervously flipped through a magazine, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a quiet anxiety that mirrored Yn’s own. The air crackled with unspoken fears, the comfortable silence of their usual evenings shattered.

Yn finally reached for the envelope, her fingers tracing the sharp edges as if hesitant to break the seal. She knew what it contained, the results of the tests she’d undergone, tests that had hung over her like a dark cloud for weeks. The weight of possibility and dread pressed down on her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She ripped open the envelope, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The words swam before her eyes, blurring into a chaotic mess of medical jargon. Endometriosis. The word hit her like a physical blow, a jarring truth that stole the breath from her lungs.

She sank onto the sofa beside Rhea, the paper crumpling in her hand like a discarded autumn leaf. Silence descended, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each tick a relentless reminder of the passing time. Rhea, sensing the gravity of the situation, gently took Yn’s hand, her touch conveying a silent promise of support. The warmth of Rhea’s hand offered a small measure of comfort, a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty that had suddenly engulfed them.

“What does it say?” Rhea whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes filled with a mixture of concern and apprehension.

Yn’s voice trembled as she read the report aloud, each word a painful confirmation of her fears. The doctor's explanation replayed in her mind: the endometrial tissue growing outside her uterus, causing inflammation and pain, significantly impacting her fertility. The dream they had both nurtured for so long, the dream of building a family, felt suddenly fragile, threatened by a medical condition they knew little about.

Tears welled up in Yn’s eyes, hot and stinging. The image of a family, a happy, bustling household filled with laughter and love, flickered like a candle in a strong wind. The reality of their situation crashed down upon them, the weight of it almost unbearable. Rhea pulled Yn close, holding her tightly, offering the comfort only a loving partner can provide. In that moment, the cozy apartment, usually a haven of warmth and intimacy, felt cold and sterile, a stark reflection of their suddenly uncertain future.

They spent the next few hours lost in a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, anger, sadness, and a deep sense of loss washed over them in waves. The initial shock gradually gave way to a grim determination. They wouldn't let this diagnosis define their future. They would find a way. They would fight for their dream.

Their research began immediately. They spent hours scouring the internet, poring over medical journals, and seeking information from support groups. The world of fertility treatments felt overwhelming, a complex labyrinth of procedures, medications, and probabilities. IVF, donor eggs, surrogacy – the options felt both hopeful and daunting, each path fraught with its own set of challenges and uncertainties. The sterile medical terminology felt cold and impersonal, a stark contrast to the intimate and personal nature of their desire to have a child.

The initial despair gradually transformed into a focused energy, a collaborative effort to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of infertility. They learned about the different types of endometriosis, the various treatment options, and the success rates associated with each. They discussed their options openly and honestly, their communication a testament to their enduring love and commitment to each other.

Yn's pain became a shared experience, a bond that strengthened their relationship even as it tested its limits. Rhea learned to understand the often-unseen struggles that Yn faced – the chronic pain, the fatigue, the emotional toll of dealing with a condition that affected every aspect of her life. They were a team, facing a daunting challenge together, their love a beacon in the darkness.

The weight of their decision hung heavy in the air. Each option presented a unique set of challenges. IVF was expensive and invasive, with no guarantee of success. Using a donor egg would mean that Yn wouldn't be genetically related to the child, a thought that initially brought a pang of sadness. Surrogacy presented its own set of logistical and emotional complexities. Each path involved sacrifices, compromises, and a leap of faith into the unknown.

The conversations were long and sometimes difficult. Tears were shed, doubts were voiced, and fears were acknowledged. But through it all, their love remained a constant, a unwavering force that guided their decisions. They found comfort in each other's arms, in shared silences, and in the quiet strength they discovered within themselves as they faced this new reality. Their love story wasn’t just a fairytale; it was a testament to their resilience, a demonstration of their unwavering commitment to their shared dream of parenthood.

They were not simply a couple facing infertility; they were partners navigating a challenging journey, their love strengthening with each step. The journey would be challenging, full of uncertainty, but their determination remained firm. They would find a way to build their family, together. Their love was their strength, their compass, and their unwavering hope.

The diagnosis had been a blow, but it hadn’t broken them; it had forged a new strength in their bond, a determination that would guide them through whatever lay ahead. Their path might be unconventional, but their love was the foundation, solid and enduring. The seeds of their dream, though planted in challenging soil, still held the promise of flourishing.

The sterile white walls of the fertility clinic felt a world away from the cozy intimacy of their apartment. The air hummed with the low thrum of unseen machinery, a constant, almost unsettling background noise to the hushed conversations of other couples navigating the same complex terrain. Rows of identical chairs lined the waiting area, each occupied by a couple wrestling with their own hopes and anxieties. Yn clutched Rhea’s hand, the familiar comfort a small anchor in the sea of uncertainty that surrounded them. Rhea squeezed back, offering silent reassurance.

The counselor, a kind woman with gentle eyes and a calming demeanor, greeted them warmly. She guided them through the process, explaining the extensive database of sperm donors, each profile a carefully curated collection of information – physical attributes, medical history, genetic predispositions, personality traits, even hobbies and interests. The sheer volume of information felt overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of their initial desire: to have a child, together.

They spent hours poring over the profiles, a meticulous process that felt both clinical and deeply personal. Each donor was a potential father, a genetic contributor to their future child. The weight of that responsibility settled heavily on their shoulders, the gravity of their decision echoing in the silent clinic. They discussed each profile in detail, their voices hushed, their words carefully chosen. Did they prioritize physical resemblance? Genetic compatibility? Or did they focus on qualities they hoped to instill in their child? The questions felt endless, the answers elusive.

Yn, ever practical, focused on the medical details: genetic screenings, family history, and potential health risks. She meticulously checked off boxes, noting details that seemed insignificant to Rhea, yet held profound importance for her. Rhea, however, found herself drawn to the personal narratives, the snippets of life offered in the brief descriptions. She searched for a glimpse of personality, a spark of connection, a sense of shared values. It felt strange to choose a father for their child based on a carefully constructed profile, on a collection of data points, rather than through the familiar dance of love and attraction.

The process felt impersonal, almost mechanical. The clinic, with its clinical sterility, seemed to stand in stark contrast to the intimacy of their shared dream. They were creating a family, but the act of creation felt strangely detached, lacking the raw, organic energy of natural conception. It felt surreal, navigating the world of sperm donation, a world they hadn't anticipated when they envisioned their future family. Yet, here they were, determined to navigate this unfamiliar landscape, together.

They studied photographs, each image a snapshot of a potential father they would never know, a stranger whose genetic material would shape the life of their child. The smiles in the photos were generic, devoid of the warmth and intimacy of their own relationship. Rhea found herself searching for a resemblance to herself, a shared glint in the eye, a similar curve of the smile. Yn, however, focused on the factual data, seeking genetic compatibility, an assurance of health and well-being for their future child. Their different approaches, however, reflected a shared commitment to making the best possible decision for their family.

Days blurred into weeks as they immersed themselves in the process. They debated, discussed, and argued, their anxieties and hopes interwoven in a complex tapestry of emotions. The clinic became a second home, a space filled with both anticipation and apprehension. The weight of their decision pressed upon them, a constant, persistent pressure that challenged their resilience. Yet, their love remained a constant, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of uncertainty. They relied on each other, offering comfort, support, and understanding. Their conversations were long, filled with both joy and apprehension, each word carefully weighed, each decision pondered.

The donor profiles became less like documents and more like stories, each containing a fragment of someone's life. They started seeing glimmers of potential parenthood in these brief descriptions, weaving narratives about the potential father and the child he might help them create. They imagined the child's future, their personality, and their potential, a tapestry woven from the threads of their love and the genetic blueprint they carefully chose. It was a delicate balance between practicality and emotion, a dance between the scientific and the deeply personal.

One profile, in particular, caught their eye. The donor was a musician, a graduate of a prestigious university, with a history of philanthropy and a passion for outdoor activities. His medical history was impeccable, and his genetic profile matched well with Yn's. The accompanying photograph showed a kind smile, intelligent eyes, and a gentle demeanor. He seemed like a good fit, a responsible and caring individual who would be a good genetic contributor to their child.

But the process didn't solely involve analyzing data and photographs; it was also about exploring their own hopes and expectations for their child. They talked about the kind of person they envisioned their child to be – intelligent, kind, compassionate, resilient. They discussed their dreams for their child's future, hoping that their offspring would lead a fulfilling and meaningful life, one filled with joy and purpose. Their conversations were a testament to their love, a reminder of their shared vision, and a testament to their commitment to building a family.

The final decision was a culmination of weeks of careful consideration, a mix of data-driven analysis and heartfelt intuition. It was a compromise between their individual preferences, a balance of logic and emotion. As they finally selected the donor, a wave of emotions washed over them – relief, anticipation, and a touch of bittersweetness. They had made a choice, a pivotal decision that would shape their future and the future of their child. It was a choice born out of love, determination, and the unwavering hope that their dream of building a family would come true. The sterile environment of the clinic receded into the background, replaced by the vibrant vision of their expanding family.

The weight of the decision didn’t vanish completely, but it felt lighter. There was still anxiety, the uncertainty of the unknown lingering, but now it was accompanied by a cautious optimism, a sense of hope and anticipation. They had chosen a path, a seemingly unconventional one, but a path paved with their love, their resilience, and their unwavering commitment to creating a family.

Leaving the clinic, hand in hand, they walked towards the sunset, their shadows lengthening, their hearts filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation, but primarily, with an unyielding love. The seeds of their dream were finally sown, ready to germinate and blossom into the family they had always envisioned. The journey would be challenging, certainly, but the path ahead, though unconventional, was paved with their love, and that, they knew, was more than enough.

The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of appointments, ultrasounds, and the slow, steady bloom of a life within Rhea. The stark white of the fertility clinic faded into a background memory, replaced by the warm glow of their apartment, now meticulously rearranged to accommodate the imminent arrival. Yn, ever the planner, had transformed a spare room into a nursery, a haven of soft pastels and gentle lighting, filled with tiny clothes and miniature furniture, each item a testament to their meticulous preparation and burgeoning love.

Rhea’s body, once a familiar landscape, transformed in subtle yet significant ways. The initial nausea subsided, replaced by an insatiable hunger that seemed to defy logic and reason. Yn, ever attentive, catered to her every whim, bringing her cups of chamomile tea in the morning, preparing her favorite meals, and gently rubbing her aching back at night. Their kitchen, once a space of shared culinary adventures, became a sanctuary of nourishing meals, tailored to Rhea’s ever-changing needs.

The first flutter of movement was a revelation, a moment both ethereal and profoundly real. It was a subtle shift, a faint tremor deep within Rhea’s belly, a sensation so delicate it could have been imagined. Yet, it was undeniably there, a confirmation of the life growing within her, a living testament to their shared dream. Tears welled up in Rhea’s eyes, a mix of joy, wonder, and a profound sense of awe. Yn held her close, her embrace a silent expression of shared joy and overwhelming emotion.

The physical changes continued, each day bringing new and surprising developments. Rhea's belly, initially a subtle swell, grew larger, more prominent, a tangible manifestation of the life growing within. The once-flat abdomen blossomed into a rounded curve, a living testament to the miracle of life. Her clothes, once comfortable and familiar, became increasingly snug, a constant reminder of the burgeoning life within. She started a pregnancy journal, meticulously documenting her changing body, her fluctuating moods, and the overwhelming emotions that accompanied this remarkable journey.

The weight gain wasn't just physical; it was emotional, too. The anxieties intensified, evolving into a complex mixture of excitement, apprehension, and the gnawing fear of the unknown. Rhea found herself overwhelmed by a wave of protectiveness, a primal instinct to shield this precious life from any harm. Sleep became elusive, her nights punctuated by frequent trips to the bathroom and the unsettling pangs of restless legs. The once-peaceful slumber was replaced by a series of interrupted moments, filled with anxieties and vivid dreams. Yn was her constant rock, a beacon of calm amidst the storm. She massaged Rhea’s feet, read her stories, and simply sat beside her, offering silent comfort and unwavering support.

The monthly checkups became milestones, each visit a small victory, offering a glimpse into the growing life within. The images on the ultrasound screen, initially grainy and indistinct, became clearer, more defined, revealing tiny fingers, tiny toes, and a tiny beating heart. With each visit, the reality of parenthood felt closer, more tangible, the weight of their responsibility becoming more profound. These regular checkups provided not just medical updates but emotional reassurance, each visit strengthening their resolve and nurturing their hope.

Rhea's relationship with her body evolved as well. She found herself strangely connected to her changing form, appreciating the subtle nuances of her burgeoning motherhood. The stretch marks that appeared on her abdomen, initially a source of self-consciousness, became badges of honor, marks of transformation and a testimony to the miraculous journey she was undertaking. The shifting center of gravity, the sudden fatigue, and the intense sensitivity – all were accepted as part of this extraordinary experience, a testament to the power and beauty of motherhood.

Their social life underwent a subtle transformation, too. Dinner dates were replaced by cozy evenings at home, conversations turning increasingly towards the practicalities of baby care and childcare. Friends and family rallied around them, offering advice, support, and gifts – a tangible manifestation of their love and support. Baby showers, filled with laughter, joy, and thoughtful presents, became a celebration of their expanding family. Rhea savored the warmth of connection, the outpouring of love and support from her loved ones.

Rhea's cravings became legendary. One day it was pickles and ice cream, the next, it was spicy noodles and orange juice. Yn, ever the accommodating partner, fulfilled her every whim, even at 2 am. Their shared laughter during these culinary adventures became a cherished memory, highlighting their unwavering commitment and the joy of shared experience. Their fridge became a kaleidoscope of strange and wonderful combinations, a testament to Rhea's ever-changing palate and Yn's unwavering devotion.

As the weeks turned into months, Rhea’s emotions ran a full spectrum. There were moments of pure joy, of overwhelming love, and intense excitement for the upcoming birth. But there were also moments of fear, doubt, and overwhelming anxiety. The unknown loomed large, a dark cloud hovering over the horizon of their bright future. The thought of childbirth, once a distant idea, now felt immensely real, filled with both excitement and trepidation. She sought reassurance from Yn, her words a steady balm on her troubled mind, a comfort in the face of uncertainty. They talked, they shared their fears, and their love for each other, and for the child growing within Rhea, grew stronger and more profound.

The preparation for the baby's arrival was more than just purchasing cribs and changing tables; it was a process of emotional and mental preparation as well. They attended parenting classes, read countless books, and discussed every aspect of newborn care – feeding schedules, swaddling techniques, and the art of soothing a crying infant. The once-distant concept of parenthood was now rapidly approaching, each detail a tangible step towards their dream of building a family.

Yn, ever practical, meticulously planned every aspect of the transition into parenthood. She researched different types of baby carriers, designed a detailed feeding schedule, and prepared a comprehensive list of emergency contacts. Rhea, however, focused on the emotional aspects of motherhood. She spent hours reading books about attachment parenting, imagining the joy of holding their child, the warmth of their skin against hers, the deep connection between a mother and her child.

The final weeks of pregnancy were a mix of excitement and anticipation. Rhea’s body was now fully prepared for the arrival of their child. Her belly was large, and her movements were slow and deliberate. She spent her days resting, tending to her garden, and connecting with Yn. The connection between them grew deeper, strengthened by the shared experience of their upcoming parenthood. Their love was a constant, a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of hormones and anxieties.

The apartment, once just a home, was now a sanctuary, a place filled with love, anticipation, and the unwavering hope that their dream of building a family would soon come to fruition. The seeds they had carefully sown, nurtured with their love and determination, were now ready to blossom. The journey had been challenging, filled with complexities and uncertainties, but their love remained their guiding light, the unwavering foundation upon which their future family would be built.

The air in the delivery room crackled with a nervous energy, a palpable tension that hung heavy in the space between the whirring of machines and the hushed whispers of the medical staff. Rhea, her breath coming in ragged gasps, focused on the rhythmic contractions that pulsed through her body, each wave a surge of pain and anticipation. Yn, her hand clasped tightly in Rhea's, offered silent support, her presence a steadfast rock amidst the storm. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor provided a constant, if somewhat unsettling, soundtrack to the unfolding drama. Sweat beaded on Rhea's brow, her face contorted in a grimace of exertion, yet her eyes, despite the pain, held a spark of unwavering determination.

The room, initially sterile and impersonal, had slowly transformed into a haven of shared emotion. The clinical white walls seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the warm glow of the bedside lamp and the soft light emanating from the monitors. The air thrummed with anticipation, a tangible energy that vibrated through the room, connecting the three of them – Rhea, Yn, and the tiny life growing within.

The contractions intensified, each wave more powerful than the last, bringing Rhea closer to the brink of exhaustion. Yn’s words of encouragement, whispered softly into her ear, were a lifeline, a source of strength that helped her navigate the turbulent waters of labor. She stroked Rhea's hair, her touch a soothing balm on her aching body and troubled mind. The nurses, efficient and reassuring, moved around the room with practiced ease, their presence both reassuring and professional.

Then, a shift. A change in the rhythm, a subtle alteration in the intensity of the pain. Rhea felt a primal urge, a powerful instinct that guided her through the next series of contractions. The pain became more intense, more all-consuming, yet within the throes of exertion, a new feeling emerged – a sense of purpose, a clear understanding of what she was doing, of why she was enduring this.

With each breath, each push, Rhea felt a profound connection to her body, a newfound respect for its strength and resilience. The pain was immense, but it was also a part of something beautiful, something extraordinary. It was the pain of creation, the agony of birth, and the exhilaration of bringing new life into the world.

Yn, her eyes filled with a mixture of awe and anxiety, watched with bated breath. She held Rhea’s hand, her grip tightening with each contraction, offering unspoken support and unwavering love. Their shared gaze, filled with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, spoke volumes of their shared journey, their shared dream. The room was a sanctuary, a shared space where their hopes, fears, and dreams converged into one powerful moment.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the moment arrived. A wave of indescribable relief washed over Rhea as she felt the pressure release, the culmination of hours of effort, a release that signaled the beginning of a new chapter. The cry that followed was a primal sound, raw and powerful, a sound that echoed through the delivery room, filling it with the promise of new beginnings.

A tiny, wrinkled face emerged, a perfect miniature of their combined features. Lilly. Their daughter. The nurses quickly worked to clean and wrap the newborn, their movements swift and efficient. The first glimpse of their daughter was a moment etched in their minds forever – a moment of overwhelming joy, of profound love, of an emotion so deep it transcended words.

Rhea reached out, her trembling hand gently touching the soft, delicate skin of her daughter’s cheek. The sensation was extraordinary, a connection so profound, so immediate, that it brought tears to her eyes. The exhaustion, the pain, all faded into insignificance as she gazed upon her child, her heart overflowing with love.

Yn, overcome with emotion, moved closer, her eyes filled with tears of joy. She gently touched Lilly’s tiny hand, her touch both tentative and reverent. The overwhelming emotion was palpable, a shared sense of wonder and gratitude that resonated through the room. They were parents. Their family was complete.

The bustling hospital room, previously filled with the sounds of medical activity, now hummed with a quiet, peaceful energy. The beeping of the machines faded into the background, replaced by the gentle sounds of Lilly’s soft breathing. The room, once sterile and impersonal, became a sanctuary of love and new beginnings. The three of them – Rhea, Yn, and their precious daughter – were a unit, a family bound by an unbreakable bond.

The nurses left them alone, giving them a moment of private reflection. The silence that followed was not an uncomfortable silence; it was a moment filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet celebration of their remarkable journey. Rhea, cradling Lilly close, felt a surge of protectiveness, an overwhelming sense of responsibility. Yn watched them both, her heart filled with a depth of love that seemed impossible to contain.

Hours passed in a blur of tender moments. Rhea gazed at her daughter, marveling at the tiny features, the delicate fingers, the soft downy hair. Yn gently cleaned Lilly, her movements precise and loving, while Rhea recounted their journey, sharing their fears, anxieties and the sheer joy that had overcome them. They whispered stories and dreams, their voices soft and filled with wonder.

The journey to this moment had been challenging, filled with uncertainties and complexities. The path to parenthood had been fraught with emotional and physical trials, demanding perseverance and unwavering commitment. But they had overcome the obstacles, their love serving as a beacon, guiding them through the darkest moments.

This love, their shared dream, had blossomed into a tangible reality. The seeds of their dream, sown with love and nurtured with patience, had finally yielded its most precious fruit. Their family, unconventional yet profoundly real, was a testament to their resilience, their unwavering commitment to each other, and their profound desire for family. In the quiet moments, they whispered promises of love, commitment, and shared adventures to come. Lilly, nestled securely in her mother's arms, seemed to soak in the warmth and security, the love that enveloped her completely. This was just the beginning of their story, a story filled with the promise of love, laughter, and the joys of building a family in their own unique way. The sounds of the hospital faded into the background as they focused on this small, perfect miracle of love. The future stretched before them, infinite and full of hope.

The hospital faded into a distant memory, replaced by the comforting chaos of their own home. Lilly, no longer a fragile newborn, was a tiny, gurgling bundle of energy, demanding and rewarding in equal measure. The transition from the sterile environment of the hospital to the warm embrace of their home was jarring, yet somehow profoundly right. The first few weeks were a blur of feeding schedules, diaper changes, and a sleep deprivation that stretched the limits of their endurance. The idyllic picture of parenthood they had envisioned, filled with gentle lullabies and peaceful moments of gazing at their sleeping child, was replaced by the stark reality of relentless exhaustion and a constant, low-level hum of anxiety.

Rhea, despite her own exhaustion, felt a powerful surge of protectiveness towards Lilly. Every coo, every gurgle, every tiny grasp of her finger was a source of immense joy. Yet, the relentless cycle of feeding, burping, and soothing quickly morphed from a sweet adventure into a relentless marathon. Nights were a particular challenge. The peaceful silence they had craved was replaced by the frantic cries of a hungry infant, the soft glow of the nightlight illuminating the frantic dance of feeding, burping, and rocking. Yn, her usually calm demeanor slightly frayed at the edges, would often take over during the night, offering Rhea precious moments of rest, her love and support a silent testament to their commitment to one another.

Their carefully constructed routines crumbled under the weight of Lilly's needs. The meticulously planned schedules, the romantic dinners, the quiet evenings spent curled up on the sofa, all fell by the wayside. Their lives, once their own, now revolved around the tiny human who had stolen their hearts. There were moments of frustration, moments when the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm them. There were times when arguments erupted, fueled by sleep deprivation and the sheer pressure of adapting to this new reality. But amidst the chaos, their love remained their anchor. They learned to lean on each other, to share the burden, to find moments of connection amidst the storm. A shared glance across the room, a silent nod of understanding during a particularly difficult night, these were the small moments that sustained them.

Yn, ever the pragmatist, took charge of organizing their new lives around Lilly's needs. She created meticulous charts tracking feeding times, diaper changes, and sleep patterns, her organizational skills proving invaluable. Rhea, more intuitive and nurturing, focused on Lilly’s emotional needs, soothing her cries, responding to her subtle cues, and building a strong bond through skin-to-skin contact and gentle rocking. They discovered that their different approaches complemented each other, their strengths balancing out the challenges. The division of labor, initially a carefully planned strategy, morphed into a fluid dynamic, adapting to the ever-changing needs of their daughter and themselves.

As Lilly grew, so did their understanding of parenthood. The early anxieties, the fears of inadequacy, began to fade, replaced by a growing confidence and a deeper connection to their daughter. The first time Lilly smiled, a radiant burst of pure joy, it felt like the world paused. The first time she reached for them, a small hand grasping their fingers, it was a moment of profound connection, a testament to the bond they were forging. They celebrated her milestones with a mixture of awe and excitement – her first roll, her first crawl, her first word. Each achievement felt monumental, a reminder of the remarkable journey they were undertaking.

Life wasn't always perfect, of course. There were still moments of frustration, moments of exhaustion, moments when they questioned their ability to do this. There were challenging days, filled with tantrums, sleepless nights, and the sheer overwhelming nature of raising a young child. But through it all, they found strength in each other, their love for Lilly binding them together, their resilience forged in the fires of shared challenges. They learned the art of teamwork, of finding joy in the small moments, of appreciating the preciousness of this journey.

Their unconventional path to parenthood had been challenging, yet it had also strengthened their bond in ways they couldn't have anticipated. The experience of creating their family, navigating the complexities of fertility treatments and overcoming the hurdles of unconventional family building, had forged an unbreakable connection between them. Their love story, woven with threads of determination, resilience, and unwavering commitment, continued to unfold, enriching their lives with the joy and challenges of family. They learned to navigate the delicate balance between individual needs and the demands of parenthood, maintaining their personal space while creating a secure and loving environment for their daughter.

They rediscovered the importance of communication, learning to express their needs and concerns openly and honestly. The exhaustion, the sleepless nights, the moments of doubt – they shared these experiences, finding solace in their shared vulnerability. They celebrated their successes, both big and small, cherishing the moments of quiet connection amidst the chaos. They learned to embrace imperfection, to accept the unpredictable nature of parenthood, and to find beauty in the messiness of family life.

As Lilly grew older, their focus shifted, but the challenges, though different, remained. The joy of watching her learn, grow, and blossom continued to inspire them, solidifying their commitment to one another and their family. Their love, their shared dreams, had not only brought them together but had created something profoundly beautiful – a family, unique and fiercely loved, a testament to the power of love, perseverance, and the unwavering desire to build a life together.

They sought support from other parents, sharing their experiences and finding comfort in knowing they weren't alone. They discovered the hidden joys of early parenthood - the quiet moments of connection, the laughter that erupted amidst the chaos, the shared sense of wonder at witnessing the growth of their child. The exhaustion was still a constant companion, but it was now tempered by the immense love they felt for each other and for their daughter. Their family, though unconventional, was undeniably strong, their bond woven with threads of shared experiences, unwavering commitment, and an abundance of love.

The challenges of early parenthood served only to strengthen their relationship, highlighting the resilience of their bond and the unwavering love that lay at its heart. They created rituals, small moments of connection that became anchors in the ever-changing landscape of their lives. Bedtime stories, snuggles on the couch, weekend adventures – these moments became sacred, preserving their bond amidst the demands of daily life.

Their home, once a haven of quiet intimacy, now echoed with the laughter and cries of a growing child, a beautiful testament to their journey together. They learned to adapt, to evolve, to navigate the complex terrain of parenthood, their love serving as their compass, guiding them through the joys and challenges. And as they looked at Lilly, their hearts overflowing with love, they knew they had found something truly special – a family, built on love, resilience, and the unwavering belief in the power of their dream.

DO NOT TRANSLATE, COPY PUBLISH OR EDIT MY WORKS, I DO NOT CONSENT TO MY WORKS BEING PUBLISHED ON ANY 3RD PARTY WEBSITE. © bunbun 2025 - 2027˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡˚

[ieunstq]

imagine you being the only person to be able to baby THE bakugo katsuki? imagine him having a fever and being too stubborn to admit it. now imagine it together.

❝you're clearly sick, you need to rest.❞

❝i'm not and i don't❞

❝katsuki, now stop acting like you aren't because you are. sit down.❞

❝no.❞

❝sit. down.❞

with a scoff, he obeyed. ❝i'm not sick,❞

❝yes, you are! listen to your body before it shuts down. i am not gonna let you go to work and faint during your patrol, katsuki.❞

『 °*• ❀ •*°』

later during the day, you got him in bed, shirtless because he was sweating profusely. he didn't want to skip work but at the same time he didn't want to mess with his wife (u argue better than him and it shuts his mouth up lol)

❝hey, how do you feel?❞ you entered the cold room, carrying a cup of water and medicine. ❝what does it look like, idiot?❞ so his attitude returned, maybe he's feeling better, but to truely know if he's alright, you must press all the buttons.

you sat next to him at the edge of the mattress, setting the items on the bedside table. ❝how's my sick baby, hm? did you sleep well?❞

bakugo growled, a scowl written on his face, ❝I AM NOT A GODDAMN B-❞ his words broke off once you fixed his messy hair. your touch was filled with warmth and fondness, enough to silence him for a while. his burgundy eyes shifted anywhere once your hands cupped his pale skin that blushed. ❝i slept fine,❞ he fixed his tone.

❝good. take your meds now,❞ your soft palms ended its contact with his cheeks and then bakugo found himself wanting more. you reached for the medicine and popped a tab, ❝here,❞ you gave him.

your husband received it, dropped it in his mouth, and his arm reached for the cup of water. his torso was sweaty despite the air-conditioning blasting throughout the bedroom, katsuki gulped the water as if he hadn't drank the whole day. since he was shirtless, you could see how lean he actually was. he had faint abs with a happy trail, defined biceps that you wished would put you into a headlock, and every breath he took, his chest rose up and down.

"such a lucky girl," fans of his were envious the day it was announced that you two were engaged. katsuki proposed at a beach and everything was expensive. he bought a diamond ring that probably costed millions, bought the whole beach lot and resort, and paid the staff a month's worth of salary for one day of service. he didn't find it to be such a cost, he was born wealthy and made his way through another level of richness as a pro-hero.

why am i thinking so much? you questioned yourself and shook your head for clearance. ❝you should rest now. i'll check up on you later, maybeee two hours from now. okay, sleep well katsuki,❞ you smiled before standing up. ❝wait-❞ his hand clasped your wrist, your grip on the empty cup loosened.

❝stay with me, just for a while. i can't sleep.❞

you gasped out of shock dramatically, ❝you mean you can't sleep without your beautiful wife besides you?❞

❝what, no,❞ katsuki thought it through and corrected himself, ❝i mean yes. i just need you here and don't make such a big deal about it.❞

❝i'm sorry, i wasn't informed that my husband is so deeply in love with me that his body won't let him sleep peacefully without my presence. i am flattered, mr. bakugo,❞ you moved to your side of the bed.

❝talk about being delusional. you're full of it. i want you here 'cause i'm used to your loud snoring every night, mrs. bakugo,❞ he exchanged the title.

❝excuse you, i don't snore! you snore! you snore like a damn pig.❞

❝MAYBE I DO, BUT YOUR SNORES SOUNDS LIKE AN ENTIRE ANIMAL FARM, IT WASHES OFF MY SNORES.❞

❝HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT THAT YOU MIGHT BE HEARING YOURSELF!?❞

he broke a scoff, ❝christ, you're impossible.❞

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✎ : maybe this is it. should i add more?? i can't imagine katsuki flirting tho, that was what i struggled with😭🙏🏼