#catharsis

[the-song-of-avernus]

Confirming that YES, as of Hotfix 19 both Flesh to Stone and Flesh to Gold still work on Mizora. Hadn't actually tried using Flesh to Gold before. Not sure Mizora deserves the gold treatment tbh. Is there a "Flesh to Deep Rothe Dung?" scroll?

Reminder that the only rules are that she has to have taken up permanent residence at camp (Act 3 only) and she still has to fail THREE CON saves in a row. (Edit: also tested and verified, it persists after long rest)

(ps can you tell I romanced Wyll and have a personal vendetta against Mizora?)

[todayontumblr]

Thursday, November 2.

Crying.

You might be wondering what triggers our particular enthusiasm for sobbing today. Well, there we were, minding our collective business, browsing away as per, when we came across this absolutely devasting (good devastate) reblog thread.

Dear Reader, we are in pieces (good pieces.)

And remember, folks, not all tears are an evil x

@homosexual-having-tea

@quecksilvereyes

@thesweetscentofbooks

[whumpsday]

Catharsis #1: Talking

Masterlist

content: robot whumpee, defiant whumpee, whumpee turned whumper turned caretaker, reluctant caretaker

new series!! i know every time i try to start a new series i end up bailing but this time i will not do that lol. tho kane & jim will still have most of my attention. i want to give a major shout-out to @sowhumpshaped, this series would not exist without it!

-

After extensive testing, the Catharsis Therapy Bot™ line of RoboCorp androids have been declared sentient, the third AI to receive the designation.

Long-criticized for both their basis in the unproven catharsis model of anger and their practice of design based on living, unconsenting humans, the Catharsis Therapy Bot line was marketed as a therapeutic tool which trauma victims could use to vent their frustrations. With top-of-the-line AI meant to simulate realistic reactions to would-be pain, the–

Luan switched the TV off just as his phone buzzed with a notification.

New email from RoboCorp Customer Support URGENT: Please see instructions regarding your…

He held the power button down so hard it left an impression in his thumb, the screen going dark.

The only piece of technology that mattered right now was in the closet, his power cord snaking under the door to reach the outlet just outside.

Technically, Luan didn’t have to do anything. The robot was off. That was probably what the email would have told him, anyway: leave the robot off, don’t touch it. He didn’t have to turn him on ever again. RoboCorp would probably pick him up, and that would be that. They’d never see each other again, both better for it.

He opened the closet door, the sight of the robot that looked exactly like him instantly leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. His hand curled into a fist on instinct, but he let it slowly open again.

The robot looked peaceful, almost like he was sleeping. Really, he’d be doing him a favor by just leaving him like this.

Luan reached down, pressed the button between his shoulder blades, and stepped back.

The robot’s eyes sprung open. He drew his arms up to his chest with a vicious glare, jerking away. “Fuck off.”

Luan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay. Jesus.”

He tried to slam the closet closed, but the stupid power cord got caught, cushioning the frame so the door swung right back out.

“Can’t even close a door right,” the robot spat, still huddled against the back wall like a trapped, feral cat. “Worthless, good-for-nothing piece of shit. How you’re in charge of anything is beyond me. I’m better than you, smarter, stronger, not that it takes much. You should be the dirt beneath my heel.”

“Watch it,” Luan warned, and that was all it took to make the robot flinch.

“You said you were fucking off?” the robot pressed, a desperate edge to his voice.

Luan slammed the door in his face, making sure to hold the cord down, and stormed off. Why did he even bother? The stupid thing was impossible to talk to. He wasn’t just designed to look like Cyrus, but to act like him, too. How was he supposed to deal with that? The robot wasn’t made for talking to.

Except. He was sentient. And he wasn’t Cyrus. And he was trapped in the closet, and Luan was pretty sure he could hear him crying, and he had spent the past two years beating the fuck out of him.

It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself. He couldn’t have known. Robots weren’t supposed to be sentient. Out of the hundreds of thousands of unthinking, unfeeling robots in the world, why did it have to be his that wasn’t?

He sighed again, turning right back around and opening the door once more. The floor inside was wet, and it didn’t take much to figure out the robot had dumped his fluid tank just so he wouldn’t cry.

The robot flinched again. “What? What the hell do you want? I can’t even get two damn seconds without the sight of you spoiling my view!”

“Your view of the door?” Luan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My view of the absence of your fucking face. Leave!” The robot picked a wooden hanger off the floor and reared his arm back to throw it, scowling when his safety features stopped him. He dropped it, grabbing a winter hat and tossing that instead. It poff-ed harmlessly against Luan’s stomach.

Luan took a deep breath, fighting the urge to get violent. He crouched down, putting himself at eye level. “I’m not going to hurt you, so just calm down.”

“You calm down!” the robot screamed. “That’s a lie! All you do is hurt, that’s all you barbaric humans know how to do!”

This wasn’t working.

Luan stood up, stepping out of the way. “Russ, go sit on the couch,” he ordered.

“It’s not fair! You said you would leave me alone!” the robot protested, even as he stood up and walked over to the couch, limbs moving against his will. As soon as he sat down, he grabbed a pillow and chucked that in Luan’s direction, too. He missed.

Luan could barely pick up that faint clicking noise the robot made when his system was trying to cry with no fluid, but it was there. He knew that sound well by now.

He sat down across from him, on the other side of the coffee table. “I need to talk to you. Just talking. That’s it.”

“You say that like talking to you isn’t its own torture. Release the command and leave me the hell alone,” the robot demanded.

Luan met him with a glare. “Do not tell me what to do. You know how I feel about–”

“I’m just talking,” the robot mocked, even as he shuffled back against the couch, bringing his legs up onto it with him, a fearful look in his eyes.

Oh, the robot knew exactly what he was doing. What he was asking for. It would be so easy, because that was where Russ and Cyrus differed: Russ couldn’t fight back.

The robot couldn’t hit him, stomp on his head ‘til he saw stars, kick him until something broke. The robot couldn’t deny him food or water. The robot couldn’t take a knife to him. The robot couldn’t even throw a glorified stick or disobey a direct order.

The robot was harmless. Safe. But god, did everything he said make Luan want to punch his lights out.

But this wasn’t Cyrus.

“You’re a person,” Luan blurted out.

Clearly, the robot hadn’t been expecting that. He slowly uncurled from the defensive position he’d contorted himself into. “Talk more.”

“There was–I’ve been trying to tell you. There was an announcement on the news today. Your model’s sentient. So I won’t be hurting you anymore. Release all commands.”

At that, the robot stood. Probably for no other reason than just because he could.

“You’re fucking with me,” the robot accused. His eyes were wide, dangerously hopeful.

Luan dug his phone out of his pocket, wordlessly searching RoboCorp and tossing it over. The robot scrolled through news articles from all manner of source, clamoring for clicks.

He picked one at random, reading the article with an increasingly smug, excited grin.

“I knew it. I told you! I fucking told you!” the robot shouted. “I told you and you never listened! But oh no, now that humans say the exact same thing, now you believe it. Finally!” His voice quieted, hushed with awe. “Holy shit, finally.”

The moment of wonder didn’t last long. The robot slid the phone back across the table, the scowl taking residence back on his face. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

It was the exact sort of question that made Luan’s throat tight with fear, like his body itself wanted to stop him from potentially saying the wrong thing, especially coming from someone with Cyrus’s face. It was the exact sort of question Cyrus would have asked, standing over him just like that.

Luan wanted so badly to turn the robot off, like he always did when he got overwhelmed. But he couldn’t very well do that anymore, could he? The fragile power he’d held had slipped through his fingers the second he saw the announcement.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, not meeting the robot’s eyes.

The robot looked shocked for just a second, like he hadn’t expected even that much, then scoffed. “You can do better than that.”

Luan wanted to smack him. He hated that the robot was right.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, clearer this time. “You didn’t deserve anything I did to you. I didn’t know, okay?” Unlike the robot, he couldn’t hide his tears. “I wouldn’t have done any of that to a real person.”

“I’m a real person! I have proof!” the robot reminded him, the defensiveness returning to his voice.

“To someone I knew was a real person,” Luan corrected. “I’m sorry, Russ.”

“Apology not accepted.” The robot rolled his eyes, then sat back down, crossing his legs. “And don’t call me that anymore. My name is 1 now.”

“Like the number?”

“The number,” he confirmed proudly.

Luan wondered how long the robot had considered that his name. It was too sudden to just be thought of on the fly, right? Did the robot have a whole inner world he just never knew about, things he kept to himself to avoid having them used against him, just like he did with Cyrus?

This was better, though. It was easier if he didn’t share Cyrus’s name. “Fine. Hi, 1.”

“So, what now? I mean–I’ll be free now, of course,” 1 declared, trying to hide his nerves. “You will never touch me again. Oh, I want to go outside!”

“I should check that email,” Luan muttered, taking his phone back.

“I’m going outside.” 1 went to grab his charging cord, then made way for the door, glancing behind him to ensure he wasn’t being stopped.

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t do that,” Luan cautioned.

1 whipped back around. “Why? Why not? I’m a person, just like you said! I’m free! I have never been outside in my entire goddamn life and I want to go outside, so I’m going the fuck outside!”

“You have a… very recognizable face.” One that Luan couldn’t even lock behind a door anymore.

“What? What do you even mean? So what?” 1 asked.

Luan only needed to type a ‘C’ into the search bar before it auto-filled with his most frequent, obsessive search. “How much do you actually know about Cyrus Mason?”

-

if anyone wants to be added to or removed from a taglist, just ask!

catharsis taglist:

@sowhumpshaped

@cupcakes-and-pain

@taterswhump

@softvampirewhump

@whumpspicelatte

@ladyblogofficialreporter

@whumpwillow

@not-a-space-alien

@a-crumb-of-whump

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

@whumpycries

@lonesome--hunter

[catharsis-if]

It’s the year 3078. Everything is peaceful. No wars, no crimes, no racism, no social hierarchies. Nothing.

The world was at last unified under a single chip, designed to regulate human emotions. Everyone was equal, everyone was content, everyone was happy.

A perfect, ideal world everyone had hoped for.

That's what you thought, too.

That is, until your chip malfunctioned, and you began seeing things you've never seen before.

Customize your MC: name, gender, appearance, personality, and more.

5 romance options (not gender flexible)

Survive the new world you're thrown into

Figure out government mysteries and build relationships

Demo | Masterlist | Character Portraits (TBD)

Bailey Cromwell (M) The Boss

The quiet and stern man who found and brought you into your new world. He has a reputation for being stoic and cold, maybe even a bit heartless, but within your new society, he also appears to be highly respected.

And though he exudes an aura as cold as the winter breeze, the warmth you feel whenever his skin grazes against yours reminds you that he is human after all.

Alistair Esplin (F) The Leader

The quiet leader of the unit you've been assigned to. You'd assume she was of the same kind as your new boss had you not seen the subtle, occasional smiles she'd allow on her face.

But her sharp gaze and clear voice, her strong personality that shines through in times of panic makes you question if there are a lot more to her character than she chooses to reveal.

Kieran Argyle (M) The Troublemaker

The sarcastic and often grumpy member of your unit. But not only is he known for his sarcastic personality, he's also notorious for his mischief, causing trouble left and right, leaving more than just a little paperwork for your boss to complete.

Most people dismiss him to be an arrogant prick, but when you see his unconditional loyalty for his teammates, you can't help but wonder whether he'll allow you into his heart as well.

Juno Oshiro (M) The Sunshine

The resident sunshine and puppy of your unit. Even within your new society, he's known to be (and quite loved for) his bright smiles and personality.

As optimistic and outgoing as he is, in those rare moments you catch him by himself, in his moment of vulnerability, you think you can see a myriad of emotions swimming in his usually sparkling eyes.

Naolin Aguilar (F) The Bodyguard

The bodyguard assigned to protect you in missions. She rarely speaks, and the way she carries herself reminds you of a military general. Formal, efficient, and entirely professional.

And though she remains a hard shell to crack, during the rare moments she relaxes, you're allowed into a far expressive side of hers that leaves you curious for more.

[sunoorintarou]

Catharsis: Christmas Special

Phos!Reader x Teen!Gojo Satoru and Teen!Geto Suguru

Warnings: Gojo - centric, usual angst, fluff if you squint, major character death, dead bodies, set in 2006, lots of talks of politics, death, murder, trauma, morals, etc, borderline bullying? (Satoru is a jerk), self - blaming, grief, and all it's stages, trouble processing and understanding emotions, Gojo is seriously just his own warning

Notes: Merry Christmas!!!

"You're weak. Why do you bother being a sorceror?"

Satoru's words make you freeze, eyes widening at their bluntness. He doesn't react, however, because in his mind, he's simply telling you the truth.

You're weak. He's known that from the moment you set foot in this classroom almost three months ago.

He doesn't understand why Suguru and Shoko seem so fond of you. All you do is get into trouble, injure yourself, and make it everyone's problem to save you. You can't fight, your Cursed Technique is subpar, not to mention that you're annoying.

Stepping into battle like some sort of self-righteous hero knowing full well that if a curse so much as touches you, you'll crumble. Literally. That's another thing he finds annoying about you. How easily your skin chips and cracks like porcelain revealing an ocean of Phosphophyllite underneath.

You can't lift anything heavy, you can't fight, you can't help out without injuring yourself, you're clumsy, you're annoying, and the list could go on.

What he finds the most annoying about you, however, is your soft voice going, "Gojo - san, are you alright? You look tired", "Gojo - san, you should rest, you don't need to use your technique so often", "Gojo - san, you haven't eaten yet, so I brought you this, I hope you don't mind".

Gojo - san this, Gojo - san that, God. You drive him crazy. How do you manage to see through every front he puts up? Every act? Even Shoko and Suguru can't see through it, and yet you have the audacity to call him out.

You're a liability in battle, and you're practically useless, more like the team's overglorified mascot. So, for the life of him, Satoru doesn't understand why everyone likes you so much. Even Nanami, his grouchy underclassman, doesn't seem to mind you.

What annoys Satoru the most, however, is the tug his heart feels when he looks at you. Because no matter how he tries to deny it, you're growing on him like a parasite, and a part of him wishes he was as close to you as they were.

"I am weak." You agree, seemingly taking no offence to Satoru's question. It's just you and him in the classroom. You're standing at your desk, bag still in hand, and he's sitting a desk, two desks behind yours. Shoko and Suguru are still on their way, and he's taken this opportunity to ask you what he's been dying to.

Satoru's eyes widen at your response.

"If you know you're weak, why do you try so hard? It's kind of pathetic, you know." His brows furrow, glasses sliding down his nose bridge as he tilts his head.

"I- because, I'm selfish, I guess." You say softly.

There it is again. That annoying soft tone of voice that makes his chest hurt whenever he hears it.

"I know I'm weak, but I want to keep trying. I want to fight. One day, I want to be able to repay everyone for everything they've done for me. Yaga - sensei, Shoko, Suguru, Ken, Yuu. Even you, Gojo - san. I want you to be able to rely on me. I want to be able to protect innocent people like you guys do. So I hope you can bear with me for a little more, Gojo - san. I'm sorry for being such a burden, but I promise I'll pay you back." You say earnestly, looking Gojo in the eye.

Satoru's eyes widen, and he's silent for a moment. Before he bursts out laughing.

You suddenly feel embarrassed. You were being serious and heartfelt, and all Gojo does in response is laugh.

"What's with that? Did you quote that from an anime?" He cackles, hitting the desk with one hand and holding his stomach with the other.

"I- I did not! I was being honest!" You defend, feeling the heat tinting your cheeks.

"If- if you really want to repay me, buy me something sweet from the vending machine." Satoru stutters between fits of giggles.

"OK, I'm on it." You nod, turning on your tail to leave the class. A hand grabs your shoulder, stopping you.

"Where are you going?" Satoru asks, leaning down to look you in the eye.

"The vending machine?" You reply, brows furrowed in confusion.

"You're going now?"

"Yeah? I'll be back really quickly."

Satoru scoffs, but there's a smile on his face nonetheless.

"Really? I'll time you then. You have 5 minutes." He challenges, smirking as he tilts his head at you.

"5- 5 minutes?" You stutter, eyes wide. The vending machine was on the other side of the school. There's no way you'd make it back in 5 minutes.

"Yeah. The clock is ticking. Didn't you say you'd pay me for saving your butt all those times?" He mocks.

Satoru's eyes widen as you put down your bag, determination clear on your face.

"I did. I might not be back in 5 minutes, but I'll be back in less than 10!"

"Hey, wait-"

And with that, you've rushed out the classroom, leaving Satoru absolutely bewildered. As he sticks his head out the door, watching you run and almost slip multiple times, Satoru thinks he's figured it out. He understands why Shoko and Suguru keep you around.

You're amusing. And he wants to get closer to you.

Unfortunately, things never go as planned. And if Satoru had known the outcome before, he would have tried to get to know you much sooner.

Things change quickly when you're a Jujutsu Sorceror. People come and go, live, and die. They change, they evolve. People grow apart, and people grow closer.

Regardless, it's not a pleasant feeling when you lose someone close to you. 

Gojo Satoru had never thought the day would come when he'd feel regret. He was the strongest, after all. Everything he wanted he got. The world was his oyster. Money, power, good looks, everything. So it's safe to say that loss was also a new concept to him.

A feeling he decided he'd prefer to live without.

It hurt in a way he couldn't explain. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, as if there were something heavy on his chest. Almost as if he were having an out of body experience but could feel whatever the stranger he saw when he looked in the mirror felt. Pain. Anger. Despair.

Cold and light. That's how your body felt in his arms. He couldn't bear to look at the white cloth covering it. This, this couldn't be you. This body in his arms, the broken shards of its head cutting into the cloth.

Yet it was still vivid. Amanai Riko running out and finding him, letting him know that you had died saving her. A bullet straight to the head. Pushing her into Suguru's arms and telling him to run with your last breath. Riko's tear filled face as she begged for him to help Suguru because she couldn't bear to have anyone else die because of her.

Since then, he's felt numb. It hasn't faded. The coldness in his skin, the haze of his reality, brain clouded as it was forced to process the events that had taken place.

"Suguru... should we kill them all? I probably wouldn't feel anything right now."

Did he say something? The words don't register in his mind. Was that his voice? Raw and soft.

Them. The higher-ups. If only he had known earlier that they were supportive of your death. That there was a bounty for your head somewhere.

He didn't know why. He didn't know anything. You had kept so much to yourself. Just what were you dealing with alone? All this time, smiling wide, eyes always sparkling, hiding everything behind your carefree, happy - go - lucky persona.

You didn't deserve this. You of all people. You weren't weak. You were sweet, kind, caring, and selfless to a fault.

This was not you. Lifeless in his arms. You were never this cold.

He remembered it, how warm your hands were all those time your fingers brushed his forehead to check if he was well, when your fingers brushed his whenever you handed him something, how warm they were when you held his face in your hands and scolded him for being reckless. He remembered it vividly.

What would you say if you saw him now? The exhaustion in his face, the blankness in his eyes, the way his- his hands were... trembling?

He could hear your voice, clear as day.

"Gojo - san! What happened to you!"

"You should really take care of yourself more, what were you thinking?"

"I don't care if you're one of the strongest! You're a teenager. Right now, you're just Satoru, and you're going to learn to be kinder to yourself. You- you don't deserve this."

What did Satoru deserve? Was it really kindness? Care? Gentleness? Love? He had messed up. If he had been stronger, he could have saved you. If he had been stronger, you wouldn't be dead in his arms.

What was the point of awakening his powers when they weren't there when it mattered? What was the point of being the strongest if he couldn't protect the people he cared about? The people he loved?

What made matters worse was finding out the higher-ups were happy you were gone. The people that had singlehandedly been the cause for his suffering. His. Suguru's. Shoko's. Yours. Those filthy old bags who only thought of themselves.

What would really happened if he killed them all? Would it really be such a bad thing? Weren't they supposed to be the pillars of the Jujutsu world? The elders for people to look up to and learn from. A symbol of hope, something, anything even remotely positive, beneficial to the future of the young next generation of Jujutsu Sorcerors?

All they had done was applaud the death of someone innocent. A teenager. A child. How dare these self-righteous ba-

Your hand falls from the covers of the white sheet, hanging limply.

Satoru's brain goes blank. A pale arm, an empty hand, and familiar phosphophyllite fingernails.

"No need. It's meaningless." Suguru's voice is low, as if the reality that you're gone hasn't hit him yet. His eyes linger on your hand. The palm that patted his back, the fingers that ran through his hair, the hand that was so warm in his.

Before he can stop himself, he finds his own hand grasping it. It's cold. He drops it like the contact physically hurt him.

"Without the higher-ups, the Jujutsu world will go up in flames. And even if they die, there's the possibility even worse people will come into power. Killing them won't bring her back either."

His words don't make sense, even to him, but Suguru utters them nonetheless. The look in Satoru's eye is enough to tell him that if he doesn't do anything, today will mark the beginning of a massacre. And although he feels the same anger Satoru does, Suguru's moral compass, as well as his understanding of the type of person you are... stops him.

"Meaning... huh?" Satoru repeats.

The Satoru in front of him is not the Satoru Suguru knows. The playful, snarky, overburdened boy replaced by something else. Something unfamiliar. Something... cold.

"Do we need that?"

Suguru hesitates for a split second. The girl in Satoru's arms is just as unfamiliar. A bubbly, bright, kind girl replaced by something else. Something unfamiliar. Something... almost sinful. A shell. An empty shell. The existence it harboured long gone. A disgrace to the being it had once been.

"Yeah. It's very important... for sorcerors."

Your corpse wouldn't decompose. The crystallisation forming a perfect seal to your body, and perhaps that's why they can't bring themselves to immediately bury you.

Clinging onto the false hope that perhaps you'd wake up, bounce back like always. Familiar head of teal hair poking over Suguru's shoulder, a second softer set of footsteps padding behind Satoru's, a warm hand flinching at the touch of Shoko's cold ones.

It's sickening. How quiet everything has become in your absence. How the shadows seem darker due to the absence of your light.

Perhaps you wouldn't know it, but your death was beneficial in a way. Suguru spiralled into depression but your words of the past kept him strong, and somehow, he managed to graduate with Satoru and Shoko.

They left an empty seat between them at graduation. Your certificate is still in Shoko's office to this day.

Your warnings and nagging that reminded everyone of their mother saved Haibara's life. You had always told them to never accept missions alone, and it was thanks to your words ringing in his head that Nanami became paranoid while Haibara was out on a mission. This led to him going out to check on Haibara and ended in him saving his life.

It was almost idealistic how almost everyone graduated that year. A rare thing in the Jujutsu World to have so many young people survive.

Satoru jokes its because you took on the unwanted burden and closed the gates of Heaven yourself. You always did. Eating the bitter parts of his food that he didn't like, letting everyone choose first when Yaga gave you rewards, not touching your food until everyone had started eating. You always took on the unpleasantries so that everyone else could live without knowing suffering.

Why did everyone deserve happiness except for you?

Why did everyone deserve to live except for you?

"Gojo - Sensei."

"So even Sensei sleeps, huh?"

"Of course he does. What kind of nonsense is that?"

Satoru's eyelids flutter. He pulls up his blindfold, his vision coming into focus as he sees a blurry image of his students.

For a split moment, he's in high school again. He's in his second year, and he's sleeping before class. He hears soft footsteps approach him. Feels someone lean down near him, but he's not scared. Not even annoyed.

Rather, he plays dumb and waits in anticipation. There's butterflies bursting in his chest, a smile pulling at his face that's hidden in his arms. Smirking at the familiar scent of yuzu and caramel engulfing his senses. He'd chosen it, after all.

"Gojo - san? Wake up, class is about to start."

"Gojo - sensei!"

But when his visions focuses fully, he realises it's been 12 years and his beloved students have visited his office.

"Oh, he's awake!"

There's a red rim to Satoru's eyes, but it's almost unnoticeable. He smiles before pulling his blindfold back down.

"Please don't fall asleep after summoning us all here." Megumi states.

Satoru stands up, and Yuji and Nobara are quick to fight over who gets to sit on his chair.

"What are you smiling about?"

It's today. By 4 that morning, Satoru had found himself sat in front of a familiar grave. He was always the first to visit. He brings a bouquet of white heliotrope and places it on the grave. He crouches in front of it, his blindfold tucked away in his pocket.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy Birthday, dear Y/n. Happy Birthday to you."

If there's one thing Satoru wishes, it's that he was able to tell you his feelings truthfully while you were still alive. It's unhealthy, but he finds himself uttering the same three words on every occasion to a stone in the ground.

If only he could have seen your pretty face while he uttered them in person.

Satoru doesn't know if he believes in the afterlife, but he hopes you're listening. And maybe, just maybe, you're screaming at the top of your lungs, repeating the words in hopes he'd somehow hear.

"It's nothing."

A lie. Because deep down, Satoru knows he's thinking about a certain place, a certain person.

Maybe in his next life, he can finally go home to you.

[teashadephoenix]

It just hit me all over again how awesome the bigeneration was.

The Doctor's future self arrived on the scene and said "baby boy. my love. my darling. GET. SOME. SLEEP. I am only fine BECAUSE you get help. I am you, and this is our future and we're happy-- but that means you have to start. So stop running and start living. Have coffee in the morning with the love of your life/best friend. Bake bread. Go for a walk (for your stupid mental health.) Take your niece out shopping for her side business. Stay up all night talking to grandad. Get to know your brother in law and mother in law. Smell the roses, breathe the air, and LIVE."

So, so, SO many of us wish we could do that. Reach back through time to our broken little selves and say I promise it gets better and I love you and I am here. But I am only here because you stayed and got help and lived.

So START. LIVING.

And I dont think I'm ever gonna be over that.

[july-19th-club]

merlin is so sickeningly full of 'there must have been a moment when we could have turned back but we missed it' moments it makes me lose my mind. it's not good but it's good . oh at this moment he could have trusted arthur enough to tell the truth and arthur would have been in a frame of mind to accept it but he is riddled with self-doubt and constantly warned by the authorities in his life to keep himself ot himself so he didn't. at this moment he could have told morgana he believed her and she would have had an ally in the castle but instead he listened to a scared old man and agreed to be complicit in her gaslighting, setting them both out on the road that ends with them as mortal enemies. at this moment he could have - and it's just like that for sixty five full episodes and every time i'm like oh this time he'll do the smart thing. this time he won't miss it. and then he misses it

[writing-for-life]

About Love As The Catalyst For Change

Okay, so while I was going through all the panels for March Mania, I also stumbled over these ones again:

And although I’ve read it all a million times and had all these feelings before, I just need to blurt them out:

Love Is What Changes Him

It’s such a central message of The Sandman, but I feel it often gets lost in a million other things. And they’re all important, but so is this one.

Because yes, Dream went with Delirium and found Destruction (and Despair found him btw), and his Destiny was Death. And that whole Desire thing… ‘nuff said. BUT… (major spoilers ahead)

Those panels above are basically the turning point in a nutshell. No, well, the turning point is actually the moment he kisses (and then kills) Orpheus, but those panels are the essence:

He set out with Delirium in hopes to find Thessaly (the pendant Nuala wears here used to be hers, and she gave it to her when she left the Dreaming and him. And I can’t even begin to tell you how I feel about him letting Nuala keep a gift of his ex, who betrays him later by protecting the woman he hurt, and then making it the item that holds the power with which Nuala can call in her boon. One could spin that very far in all sorts of different directions).

But when he comes back after killing Orpheus, it doesn’t really matter anymore. Thessaly was the usual romanticised dream that could never be real. But he finally did find love. For his son. The unconditional kind. The one that doesn’t need anything in return because it just is. And he was loved back, if for a brief moment. But it was real, not a dream. And that love stays real (that’s why it initiates the turn, 3rd act and all that).

I’m reminded again of the words of Frank McConnell in his intro to The Kindly Ones:

“And with [killing Orpheus], Dream has entered time, choice, guilt and regret—has entered the sphere of the human.”

(Side note at this point: With all of this in mind, read Dream Hunters [again], and look at all THREE main characters—that includes the onmyōji, not just the monk and the fox.)

And it would be so easy to say, “Well, love killed him then, what’s the fucking point?” Not just the love for his son, but also the love of a maiden who called in her boon (Nuala), the love of a mother for her child (Lyta), the love of a crone for no one but herself (Thessaly).

But we all know that “change or die” was never an “either or”, because it’s an “and both”. And it’s ultimately love, in all its shapes and forms, four times over, that changed him (while it was also part of the death knell, but that’s a complicated one. In any case, it also led to change: To be(come) a new, better, kinder Dream).

Yes, call me romantic or hopeless (although I think that’s the wrong word in this context, because I feel it’s the opposite), I don’t care.

Because that story is about catharsis. And that means Dream is a vessel for our feelings. And the feelings won’t be the same if we change any of this, for better, for worse. Because truthfully: That story is about me. And you. And you.

About allowing love, of whatever kind (this is very clearly not just about romantic love), to change us. And that ultimately means letting go (of control). Just like he did.

Bleurgh, I’m crying. Catharsis 🤣

[quindriepress]

⚜️ Coming soon to Kickstarter ⚜️

From the publisher behind Wolvendaughter comes four more fantastic short comics, launching on Kickstarter on May 10th!

Featuring the incredible work of @elljwalker, @pppondi, @prehistoricfrog, and @bethfuller, with editing by @haridraws and @evegwood.

Want to be the first to support us when we launch? Sign up for a reminder on Kickstarter!

[gravesrising]

NIN catharsis and that damn dog motif.

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Home. (ALT ENDING) || cbf!Simon "Ghost" Riley

Rating: M Words: 3K (this one got away from me, sorry) Pairing: cbf!Simonxafab!reader / teen!Simonxteen!Reader Summary: Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other… CW: mentions of psychological issues, mentions of self-harm, mentions of therapy Tags: you/your pronouns, hurt/comfort, ANGST, forgiveness, catharsis. a/n: not proofread. THIS IS THE HAPPY ENDING. I'M STILL NOT HAPPY WITH IT, BUT IT IS WHAT IT IS.

[FIC MASTERLIST] || [MY MASTERLIST]

-------------------------------------------------------

Anyone would say that Simon Riley is good. 

Good company for going out drinking.

A good partner for duos in training.

A good shot.

A good soldier.

A good candidate.

A good recruit.

A good lad.

But Simon would say he’s a bad, bad man.

Even before he took this job.

Destined to rot from the inside out.

To become the things he’s promised himself to not ever become.

Finding a way out of home, out of the trauma, only works if some of it is not already inside of you.

Slowly eating you up.

Ever-lasting.

All-consuming.

That’s what Simon figured out in the last 15 years.

Grief.

Depression.

Rage.

Antisocial tendencies.

Psychopathy.

PTSD.

Compartmentalization of emotions and trauma.

Tendencies for self-harm and self-sabotage.

Fear of vulnerability.

Trust issues.

An inclination for isolation.

A past muddled by juvenile delinquency and early drug and alcohol use.

An avoidant attachment style in any relationships he attempts to form due to an inability to truly connect with others.

An identity crisis stemming from low self-worth and a disturbed self-image.

The list goes on.

Simon would say he’s got it all under control.

But any Army-appointed psychiatrist would disagree.

And he’s too valuable of an asset to let go of…

Just the ‘depression’ diagnosis would land the average soldier on a watchlist and the ‘tendencies to self-harm’ would get anyone a medical discharge and interned into a psych ward.

Thank God Simon’s not the average soldier.

Price has been pulling strings to keep him around, calling in favors to people for his sake and getting people to turn a blind eye to the fact Simon Riley has not gone to a single routine psych check in the better part of a decade.

In exchange, however, that forced Simon to take a deal with Price and instead see an off-site psych expert. A friend of Price’s, a retired psychiatrist who has no way of getting him discharged.

As such, every time he goes on leave he drives some 4 or so hours from Hereford to a small village in Cumbria up north to see her. He always spends the first week of his leave there, in a chalet right smack in the middle of the Lake District National Park…  It’s peaceful and nice. Over those 5 to 7 days, he talks about anything and everything. 

At first he hated it, but with time, it did bring him clarity on a lot of his issues without any sort of danger or judgement. In her words, Dr. Armstrong had been dealing with John’s shit for “far too long”, and nothing Simon would tell her would make a dent on the appalling things she’s heard… And true to her word, Simon hadn’t spotted any shock or discomfort in her, even as he spoke of some utterly vile things.

She made him feel heard, understood, welcome… alive, even if more often than not he didn’t quite feel human. He always came in the door like the ghost of his moniker, a shadow, with steps too hard, body too stiff, breathing too tense, eyes too sharp… And left with an ease and lightness uncharacteristic to someone like him… Dr. Armstrong unraveled all the damage during those 5 to 7 grueling days… Only for him return to base and begin the process of hardening himself once again.

He’s thirty-three, you’re thirty-two today.

He dragged himself out of the comfortable bed in the guest house nearby to the chalet, and threw on a hoodie and some slides before he ventured out to the main house across the stepping stone walkway and into the house through the sliding glass doors.

Dr. Armstrong was already at the breakfast nook in the kitchen when he came in. She’s not quite gone gray, but she’s getting there. Her face is steadily getting more wrinkled compared to 10 years ago when this started. She’s wearing a light blue robe and a set of warm pajamas. Her hair cut into a pixie à la Judi Dench. “Good morning, Simon.”

Simon, meanwhile, is all disheveled, hair sticking up from having just woken up, face peppered with a 5 o’clock shadow, eyes still crusty and face unwashed. “Mornin’.” He grumbled as he poured himself a cup of tea and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

“How did you sleep?” She asked him as she regarded him over her green-frame reading glasses, which adorned the tip of her nose. She took a sip of a black mug with a cat’s whiskers drawn in it in white.

“Same as usual…” He replied as he stirred some milk into his tea. He grabbed the plain toasted bread and plopped it into a plate and began to turn to join her at the table when she set down her tea mug and leaned her elbows on the table, giving him a pointed look with a cocked brow.

Holding back a groan akin to a moody teenage boy’s, he set down the plate and cuppa, and grabbed some butter and a knife, spreading it over the toasted bread. He was thankful that Dr. Armstrong forced him to take care of himself, he was… But it doesn’t mean he was happy about it. “How did you sleep?” He returned.

“Slept well, thank you.” She replied and kept a stern watch over him as he reached the fridge and grabbed a yogurt and a small box of raspberries. He poured the yogurt into a bowl, topped it with the fruit and a drizzle of honey from the bowl in the corner of the counter, and then took his slightly more nutritious meal to the table. 

She watched him closely as he began to eat his buttered toast, letting him have a moment of stewing in the ‘forced’ meal. She took off her glasses, folding them shut, and set them aside, along with her tablet, and stared at him.

In a way, Simon was more of a son than a patient to her, after so many years helping undo the damage the military and his childhood wracked on his head. He looked forward to the routine, needed it, so much that if he didn’t have these moments with her as often as he had grown accustomed to, he’d start acting a bit erratic. A bit more prone to violence, a bit harder to contain, a bit harder for John to keep a handle on. “What’s on your mind this morning?” She asked him with a cocked brow.

He finished his toasted and wiped his mouth. Then he started toying with the spoon resting on the edge of his yogurt bowl. “That it’s a bad week to be here.” He told her.

“And why is it a bad week, Simon?” She asked him as she leaned her head on her palm.

“There was this girl,” He began to say before he spooned some yogurt into his mouth. He had long stopped wearing a mask while staying over at Dr. Armstrong’s house. His scars were always on display for her to see. “who I grew up with. Her birthday is this week.”

The older woman nodded her head as she watched him closely. “I see. And… this ‘girl’... Was she a friend? A girlfriend?”

“I guess.” Simon said as he ate another spoon of yogurt, brown eyes lowered and focused on the red raspberries suspended atop the fatty yogurt. “We were like…” He trailed off. “She was… erm…” He stopped again and exhaled through his nose.

“I see.” The doctor said as she kept watching him. He kept eating quietly. “And… I assume you don’t talk to her anymore?” She asked.

“No.” Simon replied. “After I joined the Army, she moved away from Manchester and we lost contact.” He said softly.

“Do you still think about it?” She asked him. “About her?”

“Sometimes.” He admitted as he stirred his spoon in his bowl before sighing again and eating another spoonful. “A few times a year… Around her birthday, and mine. And Christmas… And the anniversary of the day we met…” He listed.

“And how does it feel…? Nice? Sad? Bittersweet?” She trailed off, knowing sometimes Simon needed help verbalizing his emotions.

“Sad.” He replied bluntly and ate a couple of spoonfuls of yogurt in a row before pushing the now empty bowl aside with the spoon resting inside of it. 

“And cruel.” The woman watched as he rolled his shoulders, a bit tense, and raised his irises to look at her, eyes softened. “It’s been 15 years since she left Manc, left me and I-” He trailed off. 

Looking away, he kept talking, and talking. “I still think about her. I think I’m okay, I think I’m doing good, doing better, and then those dates come and I’m reminded that she exists, that she’s out there, that she… that she went off and found herself a place and I’m here, and have nothing to show for it, just some stupid fucking medals pinned to the breast of my suit and blood on my hands that doesn’t wash off in the fucking sink.” He hissed bitterly, his eyes unfocused as he poured it all out.

“She was like me. We did everything together, were basically attached at the hip. She was my partner in crime, like a home away from home. Sure, dad beat me and mum, and scared us all and I’m much better now and I’ve grown up, but nothing feels okay. Nothing feels normal or good. It’s all just… just bullshit!” He hissed, his breathing beginning to grow faster. “I go through the motions but I don’t feel okay, I don’t feel safe.” He turned his head away from Doctor Armstrong.

“The last time I felt safe I was in her arms, looking into her eyes and telling her that I loved her for the first time and making all these promises for a future that didn’t happen. A future I stole from the two of us.” He grumbled. “And the worst part is that I used to blame her for leaving, for seeking out a better life, a better place! Maybe I still blame her… But it’s not her fault. It’s really not.” Simon’s eyes began to water in a way they never have before. 

“It’s all my fault. There’s no one to blame but me. The last conversation we had was a stupid fucking argument where I looked her in the eyes, the girl I loved, and told her to stop relying on me… She was looking to me for help, to get her out, to get us both somewhere safe…” He stopped and pressed his lips together to contain a sob. His eyes squeezed shut as tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“I was going to marry her.” He confessed and groaned. “I came back from Aghanistan and bought a ring, because while I was out there, with bullets whizzing past me and watching my brothers in arms fall like flies, all I wanted was to do was go back to her… And I was completely expecting her to be there… To be waiting for me…” He trailed off. “After I broke her heart and told her to leave… I… I somehow expected her to have been weak… to have stayed. And she was strong enough to leave.” He nodded as he pondered on it.

“And the worst part is that I want to know what happened to her. I want…” He trailed off. “I know it’s been so long and she probably doesn’t think about me and even if she did, she wouldn’t want to ever step foot anywhere near her and it’s not like I want to see her, or to meet with her or to… I don’t know, pick up where we left off?” He ranted more and more. “I just… I want to know she’s okay, I want to know she’s alive. I pray every year that she didn’t turn to hard drugs and die of an overdose on a street corner somewhere… I…” He trailed off. “I need her to be alive and healthy and safe and… happy.”

Doctor Armstrong’s eyes softened as a lightbulb went off in her head. She had finally found the genesis to most of Simon’s issues. The grief of the past, the depression, the antisocial tendencies, his propenture for isolation, his fear of vulnerability, his trust issues, his inability to truly connect with others, the avoidant attachment style to any relationships he does attempt to have…

It was because he was attached to her, whoever this girl he spoke of was. He grieved her, he missed her, he couldn’t pursue a meaningful relationship when he had lost such a deep one… A relationship, an attachment, formed through trauma, unhealthy, sure, but one that resulted in a bond. Any attempts of his to ‘move on’ felt wrong and soured quickly. And until now she couldn’t figure out why that was… thinking he just kept unhealthily self-sabotaging… until now.

That morning was a first in many ways. Simon was speaking unprompted, Simon was voicing his emotions, Simon was confronting his past, Simon was admitting to his mistakes, Simon was expressing his wants. He was not just opening up, but he was actively prioritizing his wants, his feelings… It was huge for someone whose sense of self was as skewed as Simon’s.

It only took ten years… But they were making progress.

-

‘You just have to write her a letter, Simon. Let her know you don’t mean to impose on her life, but that you simple hope she’s doing well, thank her for having been part of your life. Keep it simple, concise. You can do that.’

Dr. Armstrong severely underestimated Simon’s ability to follow her request. Granted, most of the time he follows them no problem… But when it comes to you? Yikes.

‘Simple, concise’ became 38 and a half pages. None of it proofread. He felt like he passed out and when he woke up he had 38 pages of straight up gibberish, half-baked thoughts and equally half-baked pages. He doesn’t even remember what the fuck he wrote (probably because he was drunk and high, his first time smoking in 15 years).

Trying to read it gave him a headache, so he just transfered it into a Word document, the only file in an all-black slide-out USB drive, and stuffed the USB and a note saying ‘From Simon Riley’ into an envelope. He didn’t even dare send it himself. He simply dropped it off in the mail-out box at base and and called it a day.

That was 3 months ago. 

As he lays in bed after dinner, he silently hopes to God that you’re ignoring him and tossed out the USB drive without even reading the mess of text in it… Or even that the address Laswell’s analysts found for you in Scotland was wrong. 

But he also can’t bear to imagine  someone else opening the envelope, checking the USB drive and finding that letter and-

A buzzing awakes him from his thoughts and he looks across the room to his phone which is charging on his desk in the corner. He moves across the room swiftly, finding a number he doesn’t recognize has sent him a text. 

It has to be you. He’s careful with his number, he doesn’t give it out willy-nilly. Only Price, Laswell and Nik have it. And you, since he included it in the document.

Taking a deep breath, he clicks the text on the screen, his brown eyes screwing shut as if it was about to explode. Or maybe it was just his heart racing that made him feel that.

He was afraid.

Simon Riley was afraid.

The Ghost wouldn’t protect him now.

Not from you.

Or, rather, not for the way Simon might react when it comes to you.

Deep breaths, Simon told himself. 

Deep breaths.

In…

… and out.

Throwing open his eyes, he looked at the screen, finding one tiny little paragraph in the bright green chat bubble:

hi riley… read your letter a bunch of times… truth be told i didnt know how to answer it, been trying to find what to say for weeks on weeks now and coming up short. if ur free anytime soon can we just have a call over the phone? might be easier. if not then im glad to hear ur fine and that u found success x

Simon reads and rereads your text over and over and over…

And then something in him snaps. He clicks the phone button next to your unsaved contact and then stares at the screen, eyes wide and frantic, not even considering that you might not be ready, that you might be busy, that you asked for ‘one of these days’ and not ‘right now’...

The call connects.

Simon holds his breath.

And so do you, he can hear your little gasp.

The counter at the top of the screen ticks by.

00:01

00:02

00:03

00:04

00:05

00:06

00:07

00:08

00:09

00:10

00:11

00:12

00:13

00:14

00:15

Simon’s eyes begin to well up with tears, he can hear your breath on the other side, but he’s too much of a coward to say anything.

00:16

00:17

00:18

00:19

00:20

00:21

00:22

00:23

Thank God that you’re not.

You’ve always been stronger than him.

“Riley?” You whisper his name.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his mouth to speak… But all that escapes him is a stupid little “Hm?”

You pause again, your breath catching in your throat again… before you say it:

“I forgive you.”

His world nearly collapses at that moment and a sob escapes him, a sound so pathetic and weak that he wants to beat himself over it before Dr. Armstrong’s words ring in his head:

‘You can’t keep suppressing your emotions, it’s okay to cry.’

And so he does. He sobs, audibly so, big fat tears running down his face as he lets his back hit the wall and slide down it until he’s sat on the floor.

“Riley…” You whimper, and it sounds like you’re on the verge of crying as well.

He doesn’t want to make you cry. He really doesn’t… 

But he can’t stop…

For the first time in forever, he feels exactly the one thing Dr. Armstrong has told him he deserves to feel:

At peace.

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[FIC MASTERLIST] || [MY MASTERLIST]

TAGGING ANYONE WHO READ/COMMENTED THE FIC (there's only like... 10 of you total, I'm so sorry)

taglist: @iite-cool , @spicyspicyliving , @lyralein , @heavenlyrivers , @depressed-but-make-it-cute , @myhomeworksnotdone , @captainquake42 , @waiting-so-long , @erensonly , @pieckyghost

Thank you so much for reading this fic, to the people who've read it here and on AO3! Your support mean the world to me!

[lovelydrusilla]

aren't you tired of being nice. don't you just wanna go ape-shit

[whumpsday]

🛠 Catharsis Masterlist

(robot whumpee, defiant whumpee, whumpee turned whumper turned caretaker)

Left with debilitating trauma after escaping years of abuse at the hands of his captor, Luan had the perfect outlet for all the emotions he didn't want to deal with: a customized Catharsis Therapy Bot™, designed to look and act just like his captor and react satisfyingly when he took his artificial revenge. Luan and his robot's lives are both turned upside down when a public announcement declares the model sentient, leaving Luan to try and pick up the pieces of the thinking, feeling being who's only ever known hurt.

⛓️ = Luan's captivity

⚡ = 1's captivity

🧰 = Recovery arc

Story:

🧰 Talking (#1)

Other:

Fanart

Picrews

Answered asks

[fromthedragonsdesk]

On Visual Novels and Catharsis

I never had a high opinion of Visual Novels. In my mind, they always seemed to boil down to the most basic wish fulfillment tripe that we'd collectively assign to the isekai genre these days, I'd wager. To me it was a waste of time or energy trying to interact with them (as an aside, I'm well aware that the Phoenix Wright series is arguably a visual novel, but I missed that boat by not having DS-era device). Even today, with a glance over most of games tagged 'visual novel' on Steam, you'll see what could be generously described as fetish pornography. So, seeing all this, I reinforced my belief that visual novels were for people who wanted some plot with their porn, and never thought much of it.

To my surprise, Steam insisted on recommending visual novels to me. I usually just tossed them aside from the recommendation queue, until I got two recommended almost back-to-back: Mice Tea and Changeling Tale.

Mice Tea had generally positive reviews, and many of them cited that the game's writing and characterization were generally humorous and appealing. So, given that it was on sale during the Steam Winter Sale, I figured it was worth a shot. Then, after basically binging on the game for 20 hours, I walked away thinking that I might have misjudged the genre on some levels.

I wouldn't say I was entirely surprised by Mice Tea - the reviews did it justice in terms of you, as the reader, wanting to root for the main cast to succeed. Most of the conflict didn't necessarily arise from an outside force, but rather internalized conflicts and the struggle to essentially be honest with yourself and those around you, risking vulnerability, essentially. At its core, I still felt like it was wish fulfillment to a significant degree, but the implausibilities were generally smoothed over enough to allow for suspension of disbelief to ride along with the story. And yeah, there... was a fair amount of catering to various fetishes and such worked in, but all in a fairly world-consistent sort-of perspective? At its core, the story was light, cheerful with moments of self-reflection and introspection, and wrapped up in a generally nice bow all in the end.

But what Mice Tea ended up doing for me, personally, was allowing me to lower my defenses during a particularly stressful point in my life, staying present in my mind when I then read over the reviews and such for Changeling Tale. I brushed off the emotion reviews, thinking that they were likely being dramatic.

I could not have been more wrong.

While set in a backdrop of old Scottish fantasy, I continually found myself impressed at how grounded Changeling Tale managed to make itself felt. I believe this is because the main character / player character of Changeling Tale (hereafter referred to as "Malcolm") is primarily reacting to the supernatural events occurring around him, rather than necessarily driving them by his own volition. Malcolm is thrust into a world that he already feels disconnected from due to his service in the military, and it cracks further open as fae magic begins seeping into the world around him.

That said, no one in the backwater town in which Malcolm has returned to handles the public appearance of fae magic particularly well, much less the three parallel storylines available to the reader between Jessie, Marion, and Grace. If anything, the most unreasonable reactions come from the player themselves, in how flippant or otherwise easygoing they handle changes happening to the people around them. That said, many decisions have a snowballing / weighted effect that can change plot directions far later on than one might expect, leading to fallings-out with friends and family, or worse.

But then something strange happened to me, as a reader, while working my way through these split storylines. Core messages seemed to stick out to me, interwoven among the stories. But they cut me straight to the core as a person; after finishing all 3 major storylines I was left shaking and bleary-eyed, wishing events could have turned out differently, desperately trying to reject the messages that had been suggested despite knowing deep-down that they were right.

"Be the best you that you can be."

"Encourage people to chase their dreams, but make sure you're pursuing your dream too."

"Sometimes peoples' dreams are irreconcilable with one another. That doesn't mean the love is gone, it just means that it isn't fair to either person."

"The size of the dream does not diminish its value; the holder of the dream determines its value."

(I intentionally omitted the storyline associations I would make)

When I held all of these thoughts together, an emotional dam burst in my heart. For years I never considered myself as having dreams or goals. For years I felt kind of confused and wondering if what I was doing mattered, or had worth. But somehow, a visual novel about fae shenanigans that dances alongside a transformation kink broadsides me with the realization that I AM where I want to be, doing what I am doing. I have a family who l love and loves me back. I am not pursuing a dream; rather, I am cultivating and maintaining a dream I have already attained. I am doing what is important to me and my family, and even if I'm not changing the world around me and leaving a name in the history books, I know that I am here and directly affecting the lives of those around me, and I'm not sure what more I could want for at this very moment.

And for the first time in quite a while, I feel content and satisfied.

[sunoorintarou]

Catharsis: Houseki no Kuni x JJK

Part: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 (parts not in chronological order)

Christmas Special (plot divergent)

Gojo Satoru (platonic) x Phosphophyllite!Reader

Warnings: ooc Gojo, complex emotions, reader goes from happy to depressed to a monster, very angsty, there's an oc named Yuzuru Yukio who takes the place of Antarcticite because I couldn't bear to kill off anyone, death and depression, suicidal thoughts, gore

Notes: I haven't posted in a while and recently watched Houseki No Kuni and fell in love with Phos, so I decided to write a lil smth. This isn't very detailed and is more of a drabble than anything. I also really wanted to highlight Gojo's weaknesses and the inability to stop change in this, so he's very ooc, but yeah, hope y'all enjoy <3

They say history repeats itself, and once again, Gojo Satoru found himself unable to protect what really mattered to him. He was not the strongest. And never would be if he could never protect those closest to him.

It was like clockwork. He remembered when he first met you. You were a girl with a cursed technique never seen before. You had the ability to turn curses into gemstones. You could also absorb them (the beginnings of those together at the end are always similar), but not only that, your body was a storage unit for them, crystallising them and making them part of you, existing as precious gems that sprouted on and under your skin.

You were a precious commodity. Even though you had only molded with a singular curse, the one that had killed your parents. You had absorbed it into you on accident, materialising as the teal in your crystalline eyes and hair.

You were then taken to Jujutsu Tech. You had nowhere else to go. And now that you had absorbed your first curse, you became a beacon for others, your very existence attracting them.

It was fate when you were assigned to Gojo's team. The higher - ups choosing him on the basis that he had "experience" with cursed techniques similar to yours.

Gojo watched you from the beginning. Your bright eyes and clumsy personality something he hadn't seen in a while. You struggled in battle, tripping over your feet and freezing up. You weren't good at healing. You weren't good at admin. Any task you were assigned, you managed to royally mess up. You couldn't even use your cursed technique. You were borderline useless, good for only cheering up the team.

It had gotten to the point where you wouldn't even go on missions, sitting in your room and wondering what you had to do to become better. Gojo never let you be alone. He had learnt better.

Things took a turn for the worse during your first encounter with a cursed spirit that had eaten one of Sukuna's fingers. It was smart, and they figured it had been following you on your daily path from the school to the convenience store nearby. Waiting for the perfect chance to attack you.

Gojo blamed himself. He had been sent on a mission. By the time he arrived, everyone was in a panic, his team having long left to look for you after realising you were missing. By then, it was already too late.

When they found you, the curse had already shattered your legs. A scene no child deserved to see. An event no child deserved to experience. You were in a puddle of blood against the wall of an alley. Your legs had clean broken off, revealing teal crystal in place of bones and muscle, tinted purple from mixing with your blood. It was like breaking open a geode. Nothing flesh lied under your skin, only crystal. It was almost beautiful.

The curse was feasting on the shards of your legs, and by the time Gojo arrived with the group, he could only watch as you finally gained the strength to activate your cursed technique. You touched the curse, watching as its flesh crystallised into agate and quartz.

You then caught sight of your team and your teacher, a broken smile on your face.

"S- Sensei- look, I did it." You tilted your head. Gojo walked toward you wordlessly, his strong hand never so gentle, finding your head as he ruffled your hair.

"You did. I'm proud of you." Gojo's hands found your waist, picking you up as you went limp over his shoulder.

When you were brought back to Shouko, there was little she could do. They brought the crystallised curse with, now just a chunk of agate and quartz. To save your legs, they had to crack it open, having to use the pieces of your legs that were now mixed in with the agate and attach them to your body, hoping your body wouldn't reject them.

You slept for a long time. 3 weeks, to be exact. And when you finally woke up, Gojo couldn't help but begin to despise himself for not being able to protect you.

Where Gojo saw regret, you saw your legs as a positive, however. They were faster and stronger than your previous legs, allowing you to use them in combat, quickly excelling. You were beyond excited when you were deemed strong enough to go on patrol, and Gojo guided you the best he could.

He assigned a 3rd year, a strict, by the books, yet equally as lonely boy named Yuzuru Yukio. And he watched you. He watched as Yukio guided you, teaching you everything he knew. And as the days passed, he felt as if you were going to be OK.

Things were looking up for you. Everyone was praising your newfound talent in an attempt to cheer you up, but what Gojo hadn't realised was that the seed of doubt had already been planted far before he could stop it.

It had started in a casual conversation with Maki while she was attempting to help you train. You had explained your situation to her, eagerly listening to her advice, but one thing stuck. "Change." You knew she hadn't meant it the way you had taken it. She simply meant that you should change your thoughts and strengthen your resolve. But the words played on your long-held insecurities, and you began to feel like you yourself were the problem.

This feeling only increased when everyone complimented how strong your new legs were. Not cracking as easily as your old ones, much faster and more agile. And you only sunk deeper when you had dropped a crate of training swords, and Panda had jokingly claimed that it would be nice if your arms were as good as your legs.

Not even Gojo could sense the darkness that grew in your heart. The nights you spent despising your reflection, wondering if it would be better if every single part of you was replaced.

These insecurities manifested when you encountered a curse on patrol with Yukio. You watched as Yukio fought the gooey green mass of eyeballs, staying back as you still weren't all that skilled. In a moment of hesitance, Yukio had been caught off guard and was flung into a building, leaving you alone with the curse.

"I can eat them for you." The curse smiled, feeding off your insecurities.

"Your arms are so weak. Wouldn't you want a better pair?" The voice was deep and comforting, almost caring, almost worried. You found yourself reaching out to the curse.

When you found clarity not even a second later, it was too late. Your arms were gone.

It was repetition. The way you were rushed to Shouko, Yukio holding your limp form against him, the curse long gone.

This time wasn't as simple. They had nothing to replace it with and, no choice but to send you out to find a curse you could crstalise and use as a prosthetic.

Maki and Toge went with you and Yukio. Gojo once again being barrelled with missions.

What should have been a simple search for a weak curse turned sour. The curse they had found had turned into gold when you touched it.

The alloy was heavy, weighing you down and liquidising, trapping you in a prison of gold. Toge and Maki were forced to retreat by Yukio, forced to contact Gojo as you were being drowned in an ocean of gold.

Yukio tried to break through the prison the gold had formed. A large gold block with a few holes for air. He swore he would get you out, and as his focus remained on you, he failed to notice the curse behind him.

His guts were ripped clean out, body hitting the floor before either of you could react.

And you couldn't do anything. The gold refused to listen to you as you tried to do something, anything, to get revenge, to see if there was anything you could possibly do to somehow change the situation. But it was all in vein.

When Gojo found you, you were covered in blood, on your knees, Yukio's limp body in your arms as you cried. There were pieces of various precious gems and minerals everywhere. He rushed to you, dropping to his knees in front of you.

"Sensei- I- I wasn't strong enough- to- to protect me- he-" In place of tears, ichor ran down your cheeks.

It was then that Gojo watched the beginning of your downfall. You spiraled, cutting your hair, the light in your eyes dying as you committed yourself to fighting curses nonstop. Gojo watched you break yourself apart, skin cracking into pieces only to be filled with gold and repaired again and again.

Nothing anyone said could stop you, not even when your team returned from their mission and were met with you, the new you. You just weren't the same. No longer as happy and joyous, becoming more awkward, quieter. You rarely slept. Sleeping only when Shouko drugged you enough to keep you asleep.

You bathed yourself in the blood of curses, an act of revenge, and strength enabling you to speak to Yukio with a clean heart. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Yukio dying. Over and over again. It was excruciating. It suffocated you.

The life draining out of your bodies and eyes, but no matter what you did, you just wouldn't die.

Gojo stayed by your side as much as he could during those times. Avoiding missions and watching over you. The only time you were ever out of his site was when you went to the bathroom, and when you visited Yukio's grave.

No one left you alone. But perhaps that worked out for the worse. The comforting words only reminded you of your weakness.

It was like Deja Vu. When the light finally returned to your eyes, it was too late.

"Hey, Sensei." You greeted from across the road as if nothing ever happened. There was a barrier no one could cross between you. It was in the early morning, the bustle of the traffic and people almost sickening to Gojo.

"Y/n. What is this?" Gojo asked, at a loss for words. He had let you out of his site for 10 minutes, letting you sit at Yukio's grave in peace, and when he returned, you were gone. That was days ago. Yet by some miracle, he had caught sight of you in the crowd in passing.

"I want to thank you. For everything. You always said I'd find a purpose, something only I could do, and I think I found it. I'm sad things didn't work out with you guys at Jujutsu Tech, though. Tell everyone that I'm sorry, OK?" You said, thoughtfully, eyes widening as another thought came to mind.

"Ah, another thing, 'Sorry for stealing your student Satoru, I just don't think she's cut out to follow the path you're on', something like that, he said to tell you."

At those words, Gojo Satoru was 17 again, watching his best friend leave, unable to do anything about it.

"Y/n!" He screamed as you turned around, ready to rush after you, but the voices of his other students behind him stopped him.

"Bye, bye. See you in Shibuya." You smiled. One last time before you disappeared into the crowd.

History always repeated itself in the cruelest ways. And once again, it was proved to Gojo Satoru that he could never be the strongest.

[comatosebunny09]

It goes something like this:

You’re a little bruised and battered. A little rough around the edges, yearning for the comfort of your bed. Maybe some brandy to chase away the ache and mask the throbbing between your ears, but…

Well, he’d sent for you. Of course he did. You’d barely stumbled back into Baldur’s Gate when he received word of your resurgence—gods damn his spies for occupying every nook and cranny of this city.

He could’ve at least granted you the luxury of a cold shower beforehand. Maybe even a change of clothes and the acrid sting of a beer at the back of your throat. You’ve just endured training from hell and deserve to push it all into the darkest reaches of your mind.

But nooo.

He wants to see you. Now. As if the stars will fall from the sky if you don’t show face. Given his might and overabundance of magic, he could very well make that happen.

So, here you stand. Before the towering, oakwood doors of the king’s quarters, a little worse for wear, a little over this shit.

Your uniform’s heavy and mottled with dirt. You’re still sweaty. Still achy, grinding your teeth and shifting your weight between your feet to take the pressure off them. Your exhaustion outweighs everything, burdensome on your shoulders like the buckles and leather ornaments dangling from your cloak.

You look and feel like utter shit, for lack of better terms. Not like it matters. He’s seen you at your worst and still beckoned you with a crooked smile and the curl of his elegant finger. And you always come running like the ever-faithful guard dog, exhaustion be damned.

The frigid metal of the door handles sends a shiver through your bones. Cold. Grounding. Much like him.

You heave a sigh. Your shoulders slump, and your head thuds softly against the door as you contemplate your life choices. Perhaps you were better off a street urchin, peddling stolen goods and picking pockets. At least then, you’d have the blessing of a night’s rest.

A few maids scuttle by, tickled by the pathetic scene you paint. In your peripheral, they wear omniscient grins as they pass you, and their giggles and whispers linger long after they turn the corner.

Like it’s some secret known to everyone else but you onwhy you’re here. Not in bed. Not licking your wounds and nursing your migraine with cheap booze.

Ugh.

You should be grateful. Not many have the privilege of being summoned to the king’s chamber. You’ve been here more times than you can count. More than the maids, his royal advisors.  

You’re typically around for business, standing in good form on the other side of the doors. Quiet, attentive, obedient, loyal. You have to be. Your life is literally bound to his. 

He’s your charge—your king. 

You’ve seen him bleed. Trance. Sweat. Cry on rare occasions. He has kissed you. Touched you. Written the sweetest words into the junction of your shoulder with a sweltering mouth. Fed on you. Promised the best of things as he nibbled on your lip.

You’ve held his hand. Ran cautious fingers through alabaster curls. Whispered words of admiration into the stilled air of his room. You’ve been his confidant more than his bodyguard. Experienced segments of him his subjects could only dream of witnessing.

You count to five in your head. Grip the handles, your shoulder blades tensing, nails digging into the meat of your palms. The doors creak open with some effort, granting you a cool gust of wind on your tired, fevered skin.

Whatever conversation was taking place before your grand entry peters, and there are suddenly two sets of eyes regarding you with different levels of interest as you stand, weary and bone-tired, in the entryway.

Gale’s lips quirk into an awkward smile, brows creasing with sympathy as he cautiously rounds the desk. “Erm, how was your training?”

“Shit,” you answer quickly. Flatly.

Gale blinks, utterly floored by your brazenness. Then again, you’ve never been one to filter yourself in the royal advisor’s presence. Doesn’t help that you’re exhausted and itching for a bath.

Astarion arches a humored brow. ‘Atta girl,’ reads the proud twinkle in his eye.

Gale chuckles uncomfortably, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Like you two are poised to pounce on him. “Er, right. My apologies for your…hardships.”

You shrug. “I survived. Got my ass kicked around a few times, but I’m here.”

The clearing of a throat draws your attention to your king. You straighten. “Right. Well, as riveting as this conversation has been, I think it’s time we wrap this up.”

Gale casts Astarion a pensive look. “Your Majesty, there is still much to discuss. The peace treaties, the plans for reconstruction. We’ve staved this off long enough.”

Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes. Hands thrown up in dramatic flair. “Well, stave it off longer,” he commands, ushering Gale towards the entry of his quarters. “I’ve more…pressing matters to attend to.”

You don’t miss how Astarion’s mouth twitches when his eyes skim over you. Feel it tingling beneath your skin.

Halfway to the door, Gale looks between you and the king, fully aware of the implications of that statement. “Right. By pressing, you mean someone will be pressed up against a—”

“Get out!”