#manipulation techniques

[tiktok-singularity]

“If toxic people were honest”

Very eye 👁️ opening, and educational.

[themindtools]

The secret language weapon that separates power players from everyone else. While you're trying to be "clear," they're using amphiboly to control outcomes before you even realize the game started. #PowerDynamics #LanguageWeapons #MindControl

[huginsmemory]

The one thing led to another night is very much likely hinting at Bill and Ford fucking, but considering Stan's penchant for getting married while drunk, LITERALLY at one point to ol' Goldie, a horrifying gold panning statue souvenir dispenser(?), may mean that Ford would also have a penchant for that. So Ford marrying Bill that night, instead of them fucking (or marrying and fucking) is actually plausible, and also EXTREMELY FUNNY to me. Both of them have such terrible romance track records.

Also like, I know there's a lot of jokes going around about Stanley being like YOU FUCKED A TRIANGLE? Which I love btw, but like. SIR YOU MARRIED A MAYBE CURSED SOUVENIR DISPENSER THATS A STATUE OF A HORRIFYING OLD MAN GOLD PANNING, DO YOU REALLY HAVE A LEG TO STAND ON?

[the-nada-thing]

y'all Nick haters better have NOTHING to say about Nick anymore this boy stood in front of a room of people who wanted to kill him for months now, people who he spent years trying to escape from but put himself back in their orbit and explicitly called out their racism, misogyny, and propaganda. No ally is doing it like him

[windvexer]

This is in response to an anonymous ask. Anon has been able to sense what we might call Oversoul or Big animals for a while, but since a significant magical awakening Anon has lost the clarity of their Sight.

Anon has advised that after trying connection techniques that used to work, this problem has not resolved.

---

Anon, I disagree with your hypothesis that this may be an active choice by your spirits, either to test you or to encourage you to do something.

When I went through my 'awakening' I encountered an intense shift in the kind of work I had been able to do, and I had to re-learn old skills I was already confident in. It's happened to me more than once. It blows.

This isn't because I was being tested, but rather because my circuitry was being converted from DC to AC and the 12 volt systems weren't compatible with my hardware any more.

I believe it's normal for practitioners to lose and have to re-learn or adapt around old skills. It sucks, but it happens. It would rarely be my first assumption that these things are spirits wanting distance, or putting us through shit tests, or something.

Here are my suggestions:

Tell them you do not like the distance and it's scary. Invite them back and ask them to stay close.

Put old techniques up on the shelf and try something completely new. Like if before you were attempting grounded visualization, this time try water scrying. Or, shapeshifting during astral travel.

Ask them to send clear, direct messages about how to resume old levels of clarity and contact.

Redirect your focus away from spirit working and towards psychism: perform experiments to see if there are any other changes to your Sensing and try to troubleshoot

Engage the help of an ally known to assist with matters of Sensing and clarity, perhaps including gods, plants, or mineral spirits; or smaller spirits (especially the Dead) who can give you information to improve your Sensing and solve this problem.

Redirect focus towards matters of magical hygiene; regular cleansing, unblocking, and ward maintenance can have material effects on Sensing.

Review all ongoing sorcery and ensure no wards, spells, or any projects could be impacting the ability of spirits to easily arrive to you.

Review many recent actions and ensure you have not accidentally caused offense or accidentally did something to send the spirits away; resolve offenses, known or unknown, through general offering rituals asking to bury the hatchet and resume a positive relationship

[artbyblastweave]

"Why does everyone hate the X-Men but love the Avengers and the Fantastic Four-" well, Ultimate Marvel had a pretty thematically coherent response to that question, namely that the Avengers (ultimates) are a CIA publicity stunt and the Fantastic Four are the superhuman equivalent of industrial runoff from a government backed think tank, while the X-Men are a self-directed clandestine militia-bordering-on-cult with cool-at-best relationships to the U.S. government (implicitly tolerated because the U.S. government considers them significantly more aimable than the Brotherhood of Mutants, who they nonetheless also do under-the-table deals with on the regular). However nobody likes Ultimate Marvel

[nanamineedstherapy]

Hollow Worship: It was never about him

Summary: Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. That was the natural order of things. But worship isn’t always devotion. Sometimes, it’s possession. Sometimes, it’s something far worse. Trigger Warnings(Contains Spoilers): MDNI, Non-Con. A/N: The people who feel close to someone call them by their first name. Those who don’t—or don’t see themselves as a living being or a human—use surnames. This is my dark little gift to my muses @mullermilkshake & @TheVillagerandtheSea—hope you both enjoy your dose of brain rot. Hehe.

Your POV

Gojo Satoru was used to being admired. Worshipped, even. It came with the territory—being him.

His power? Unmatched.

His looks? Otherworldly.

His charm? Debatable. But that was your problem, not his.

The first time you met him, you were busy existing like a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer with a stellar track record.

That lasted exactly five seconds.

Because then he walked in, all six-foot-whatever, grinning like an idiot, and your brain just—

Flatlined.

Your eyes dropped.

Not to his ridiculous sunglasses.

Not to his stupid smirk.

Lower.

His chest.

His stupidly big, indecently sculpted, menacingly perky chest.

The fabric of his uniform stretched obscenely across his pecs, and you were stuck staring at them like a sleep paralysis demon locked in combat with intrusive thoughts.

“Uh,” you said, completely forgetting every word you’d ever learned.

Gojo wasn’t surprised when you immediately froze upon meeting him. Awestruck, clearly. Like a rookie catching their first glimpse of true greatness.

His smirk widened. “Oh? Speechless? Must be my overwhelming presence—”

You didn’t respond, still frozen.

Satoru knew what people usually looked at. His blindfold. His jawline. Sometimes his hands (for some weird reason).

But you? You looked like you’d seen God’s greatest creation.

Right there.

On his torso.

It was bizarre.

Your love for Satoru (or Toru, as you lovingly called him in your dreams) didn’t start that day. It had been brewing for years—long before you ever laid eyes on him in real life.

Back when he was just an unattainable god-tier existence on your timeline, you already knew he’d be yours.

Because there was one thing that separated others from you, your special grade technique was a bad match for his.

When someone dared to call him overrated? You were there, bombs locked and loaded.

When a hater tried to say he wasn’t that strong? You had an entire thesis, six sources cited, and a clip of him soloing special grades in 4K.

And when anyone tried to downplay his assets—the sheer, disrespectfully sculpted divinity of his existence—?

Oh, you were feral.

“I wonder if sex eyes replineshes his cum output too and efficiently releases cum to the point where he releases massive cum while releasing almost close to 0 cum. Also, would it look blue? Would it be stronger than normal cum? Lot of questions.”

“How much do you love Gojo?”

“How much water have you drank all your life?”

"Honestly, at this point, if he fucked my Grandma, I’d lick her asshole just to taste his cum.”

The Gojo fandom was a lawless wasteland, and you thrived in it.

You had favorites, of course.

The thirst edits that sent you into a spiral.

The fanart that made you question if you needed to start paying tithes.

The slow-mo clips of him laughing, walking, existing—each one a religious experience in its own right.

And then there was The Video. The one where he cracked his neck before a fight, his uniform stretching just right across his chest.

That was the day you learned true spiritual enlightenment.

“Daddy Gojo needs to be locked in a mating press IMMEDIATELY. I’m tired of this.”

“I will open my mouth and take big bites of your huge breasts. Then I will open my anus behind me and let you impale me with that huge dragon-slaying eagle. Until the flowers fade, until my room becomes sticky, until your semen rushes from behind me toward my esophagus and out of my throat. Until the blood flowing in my veins becomes your semen. Until I howled loudly, which made me very happy.”

It was true love.

Except now you were here.

You had spent years preparing for this moment. Practiced your greeting. Rehearsed a perfectly normal, non-feral introduction. Told yourself you were above the insanity.

Then he walked in.

And your brain just left the building.

It wasn’t just the face. Or the voice. Or the aura that made everyone else in the room seem insignificant by comparison.

No, it was worse.

Because Gojo Satoru in real life?

Was so much more.

---

A few days later, you were on your first mission under Tokyo Jujutsu Tech.

Supposed to be dealing with a curse. A minor one, at that. Easy work for someone of your caliber.

Barely a threat.

But then it happened.

Satoru’s chest bounced when he dodged an attack.

The moment he’d moved, his uniform shifted—just slightly, just enough for the fabric to pull taut, for muscle to flex, for the weight of him to move in a way that was, apparently, devastating to you.

Your brain short-circuited like a Windows XP error.

You stopped mid-step, completely entranced, like a deer staring down an 18-wheeler made of raw pectoral muscle.

You almost died.

Over boobies.

Gojo had saved you, obviously. He yanked you back, put down the curse like it was nothing.

Then he turned to you, expecting at least a little bit of shame.

Instead, you were still looking.

Not at the curse.

Not at the aftermath.

At him.

At something beyond, something in, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

“…Newbie nerves?” he said, tilting his head. “You know, I could give you some pointers—”

Nothing.

No reaction.

Just that same, unblinking, fascinated look.

“Huh,” he frowned.

And, like a curse magnetized to a ten-pack, you kept staring.

---

Gojo’s POV

The first time he met you, he thought you were a normal, competent jujutsu sorcerer. Maybe even impressive.

Then he noticed the staring.

It wasn’t the usual kind—no awe, no fear, no giddy admiration at his reputation.

It was fixed. Heavy.

It took him longer than it should have to realize what you were staring at.

Not his uniform.

His chest.

At first, it was easy to ignore. Gojo was used to people looking at him, analyzing him, wanting something from him.

But this was different.

Your gaze didn’t waver, didn’t break away when caught—it just locked on, paralyzing, suffocating, an unspoken weight pressing against his ribs.

Gojo wasn’t used to feeling watched.

Not like this.

Sure, people stared at him all the time—students, sorcerers, civilians, enemies. Everyone wanted a piece of him, whether it was his power, his reputation, or just the sheer spectacle of his existence.

But your gaze?

Your gaze felt different.

He laughed it off.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

He’d gone to Nanami first.

“She stares at my chest. Constantly,” Gojo said, sitting backward on a chair like the human embodiment of a red flag.

Nanami didn’t look up from his paperwork. “And? I have important matters to handle, Gojo-san.”

“No, but seriously. She stares like—like she’s buffering. It’s like she’s studying them. That’s weird, right?”

Nanami’s pen stilled. He glanced up. “You mean the sorcerer with a higher kill count than you?”

Gojo blinked. “...What?”

“She’s a special grade.”

“Huh—”

“She’s more competent than you.”

Gojo frowned. “Okay, rude, but—”

“You should be grateful she even looks at you.”

“How can you—”

“She has more important things to do than entertain your delusions.”

He tried Ijichi next.

“Ijichi, listen, she stares. A lot. You believe me, right?”

Ijichi sighed, exhausted. “I believe you’re tired and hallucinating, Gojo-san.”

Surely Shoko would believe him, right?

Shoko took a drag of her cigarette and, without looking at him, said, “Sounds like a skill issue.”

No one believed him. No one.

And that’s when Gojo knew: he was alone in this.

That should have been the end of it. But it kept happening.

You were competent, respected, powerful—and yet, Gojo would catch you frozen, staring at him.

Not at his face.

At his chest.

It happened during missions.

It happened in meetings.

It happened when he was simply breathing in the same space as you.

And then, the first incident happened.

It had been a nasty mission.

Multiple special grade curses.

Gojo handled it like always, but the last one caught him off-guard.

Just for a second.

Then the mission went wrong.

Fast.

Gojo got clocked.

Hard enough to black out.

It wasn’t often that he felt truly helpless.

It would be fine; you were there; you’d take care of it.

But when he woke up, there was cold floor pressing against his back.

Did he tear off his clothes in the fight?

But there was warmth too.

Something was off.

Pressure. Softness.

Something was… moving?

His brain caught up at the same time his eyes adjusted.

He tried to sit up, but—oh.

Oh, no.

He looked down.

It was you.

Your face was buried in his bare chest.

Fully.

And—oh God, were you moterboating his chest?

Gojo was a man of many words.

Right now? He had none.

Your hands clutched his uniform pant’s waistband, face buried between his pecs like you were trying to merge with them.

“...The hell?” Gojo rasped.

You froze.

Stared at him, unblinking.

You had been waiting for this.

Didn’t look embarrassed but... devastated?

A long, long pause.

Then:

“...Can I—”

“No.”

“Just one more—”

“Absolutely not.”

You sat back with the heaviest sigh known to man.

Because you were disappointed.

Gojo scrambled away from you, grabbing his uniform coat, almost tripping on his own feet and putting it on hurriedly before teleporting away.

---

Your POV

You loved his chest.

And Gojo Satoru, for all his confidence, was confused by the sheer devastation on your face as he pulled away, as if he’d just denied you your one purpose in life.

Meanwhile, you?

You had been thriving.

You had touched him.

Felt him.

Got a taste—no, an experience—of the divine creation that was his body, and it had been just as glorious as you always imagined.

Better, even.

Your fingers still tingled.

Your face still burned.

Your soul? Ascended.

And he had moaned.

Not a little gasp, not a sharp inhale—he had moaned.

The moment his consciousness had flickered back into reality, before his brain even had the decency to register what was happening, a soft, breathy, utterly wrecked sound had left his lips.

For you.

He could deny it all he wanted. Could try to act like he wasn’t completely gone for you, but you knew the truth.

It was only a matter of time.

And time was something you were ready to bend.

You’d always admired him—Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, the most beautiful man alive, the reason why your entire search history was a carefully curated shrine of edits, thirst posts, and questionable thoughts.

You were the one who lived and breathed Satoru. The one who had a folder on your phone labeled “Toru’s Temple” filled with pictures and clips (taken of him when he wasn’t looking) of him doing the most mundane things—like adjusting his blindfold or his fingers intertwined when he sat waiting for his hot coffee to cool—because even the smallest movement felt religious.

But admiration had limits.

Love didn’t.

And what you felt for him?

It was love.

Because if Satoru told you to jump off a cliff, you’d ask how high?

Because if he ruined your life, you’d apologize for wasting his time.

That’s why, as you watched him stumble out of the infirmary, still slightly dazed, still rattled from your little touch, you knew exactly what you had to do.

Toru baby needed guidance.

Someone to make him understand.

And that someone was you.

You smoothed out your uniform, lips curving into a soft, sweet smile as you watched him head toward the training grounds. The first-years were waiting for him, clueless to the fact that their beloved teacher had just moaned like a two-bit whore under you.

Adorable.

But you weren’t worried.

You had a plan.

All you had to do was wait, when he was just tired enough, just distracted enough—

And then?

You were going to corner him.

And you were going to make him see.

Make him understand that what happened between you wasn’t just a coincidence.

That his body knew what his stubborn little brain was taking time to accept.

That he belonged to you.

And if you had to break him in to make him realize it?

Well.

That was just love, wasn’t it?

---

A few days later - Gojo’s POV

Gojo had always assumed there were limits.

There were things he could stop, things he could overpower, things that no one—no one—could ever do to him.

Because he was the strongest.

Because he had Infinity.

Because he was untouchable.

Because—

Because—

Because he was wrong.

It happened fast.

Too fast.

He saw the shift in your eyes before he even registered that his body was already reacting.

Already activating Infinity.

The barrier was up.

Infinity was absolute.

That’s what Gojo had always known.

A law of physics as natural as breathing. No one—not even a special-grade—should have been able to touch him without permission.

But your fingers wrapped around his wrist anyway.

Like Infinity wasn’t there.

Like he wasn’t there.

He had never seen you use this technique before.

Something that bypassed Infinity like it was nothing.

Not time manipulation, not a Domain Expansion—just something else.

Something made for this.

He had seen cursed techniques used in ways that violated human limits, but never like this.

Never against him.

Never against his body.

Gojo didn’t understand.

Didn’t want to understand.

His breath stuck in his throat. His body locked.

His vision tunneled, and it wasn’t because of a fight, wasn’t because of an opponent stronger than him, wasn’t because he had made a mistake in battle—

No.

This was something worse.

His body wasn’t reacting the way it should have.

His instinct screamed at him—pull away, push back, destroy—

But he couldn’t.

Because his body wasn’t obeying instincts of war anymore.

It was responding to something else. Something he had never prepared for.

Fear.

Not of death.

Not of losing.

But of you.

Your hands touched his chest first, like before.

Then lower.

Lower.

The horror didn’t hit all at once.

It came in waves, in wrongness, in realization.

He had never been touched like this.

Never been unable to stop it.

His body was screaming at him to move, but he couldn’t.

He wasn’t fighting a curse.

He wasn’t facing death.

He was frozen.

He wasn’t the strongest.

Not in this.

Not when it was your weight against him, your voice—his own name slipping out of your mouth in a way that made his stomach churn—

Not when he realized his body was obeying instincts that had nothing to do with power.

He wanted to disappear.

His body was betraying him.

Why?

Why?

His arms twitched—move, move, fucking move—

The world tilted when you shoved him back onto the floor. It wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but it was enough to make one thing painfully clear—

He wasn’t in control.

You straddled him, your weight pressing down on him like a cage. Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to look at you.

Your hands slid over his body, exploring, claiming, violating.

Everywhere you touched felt like fire, but not the kind that burned away impurities. This fire was corrosive, eating away at him, leaving behind nothing but ash and shame.

Gojo wanted to die.

His body—his own body—betrayed him.

Heat pooled under his skin, a sick, involuntary reaction that made his stomach churn.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

It meant nothing.

He wanted to laugh.

He wanted to vomit.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Not to him.

The strongest. The untouchable. The undefeated.

That’s what everyone thought.

That’s what he had always thought.

Until now.

Your voice cut through the haze, cooing words that sounded sweet but felt like poison.

Like nothing was wrong.

Like he was a willing participant.

Like he wasn’t lying there, wishing he could sink into the floor, wishing he could dissolve into nothingness, wishing he could sit under water and watch as his skin shredded away layer by layer until there was no trace of you left on him.

Until your touch became a bad dream, a distant memory, and not his reality.

He closed his eyes, desperate to escape, but his Six Eyes betrayed him.

They showed him everything—the way you looked at him, not as a person, but as meat.

As something to be devoured.

His arms refused to move, heavy and useless at his sides.

Was this the freeze response people talked about?

The body’s way of protecting itself when fight or flight wasn’t an option?

He shut his eyelids tighter, as if he could block out the world, block out you, block out the unbearable reality of what was happening.

But he couldn’t.

He could still feel your hands, your weight, your breath.

He could still hear your voice, soft and sickeningly sweet.

He could still see, even with his eyes closed, the way you looked at him—like he was nothing more than an object for your pleasure.

He waited.

Waited for it to end.

But it didn’t.

And all he could do was lie there, trapped in his own body, wishing for it all to be over.

Wishing for the nightmare to end.

Wishing for the strength to fight back.

But it never came.

And so, he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then—

A crack!!

The weight was gone.

Gojo barely felt himself collapse back on the floor, his body folding in on itself like a marionette with its strings cut.

His body still wasn’t listening.

Then he heard the sounds.

The sickening crunch of bone against bone.

The sharp, wet slap of flesh meeting flesh.

The guttural cries of a fight that wasn’t his to finish.

His body did not move.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t help.

Even as the fight broke out around him, even as voices—familiar, urgent, furious—got lost through the fog in his mind, even as he felt the warm splatter of blood against his skin, he remained still.

Paralyzed.

Helpless.

When the silence finally fell, heavy and suffocating, he felt something solid.

Warm. Safe.

A hand.

“Satoru.”

His whole body shuddered at the sound of his name, at the weight of it, at the way it anchored him back to reality.

Nanami was there.

Gojo’s hands, trembling and weak, gripped Nanami’s coat like it was the only thing keeping him from being swept away.

Nanami was real.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

The world had tilted off its axis, and he knew, deep in his bones, that he would never be able to straighten it again.

So he asked, because he had to.

“You believe me now, right?”

The words clawed their way out of his throat, raw and broken, the weight of them thick enough to drown him.

He was drowning.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, after everything, Kento finally spoke.

“I believed you then, too.”

Soft. Solid. Unshakable.

“She had ears on us. I couldn’t risk tipping her off.”

Gojo’s stomach dropped.

Because that meant—

That meant he had never been alone.

That meant Kento had known.

That meant someone had taken it seriously.

Gojo’s chest collapsed inward, the weight of it crushing him.

Like he had been bracing for something that never came.

Like he had been drowning alone this whole time when, in reality—

Kento had been there.

Had always been there.

His breath broke, a ragged, shuddering thing that tore through him like a storm.

He broke.

The strongest man in the world.

He didn’t let go of Kento.

He couldn’t.

His body still wasn’t listening, still frozen, still trapped in the aftermath of what had happened.

Because it knew.

It finally, finally knew.

And the knowledge was worse than the violation.

The realization that he had never been alone, that someone had seen, that someone had cared enough to take it seriously—it was too much.

Too much to bear.

And so, he clung to Kento, to the solid, unyielding presence of the one person who had believed him, who had been there all along.

Because if he let go, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the fall.

---

She was dead, but Gojo Satoru was afraid.

Of women.

Of touch.

Of himself.

Of what had already been taken from him.

And of what would never come back.

Gojo didn’t talk much anymore.

He laughed when he needed to, the sound hollow and rehearsed, a performance for the sake of those around him.

He joked when expected, the words slipping out like a reflex, but the humor never reached his eyes.

The mask fit perfectly, molded to his face over years of practice, but it was heavier now.

Heavier than Infinity.

Heavier than the weight of the world.

Because beneath it, he was breaking.

He didn’t touch anyone.

Not casually. Not intentionally. Not unless it was absolutely necessary.

And he didn’t let anyone close.

Not physically. Not emotionally.

The space around him became a fortress, walls built from the rubble of what had been done to him.

But the fortress wasn’t impenetrable.

It couldn’t keep out the memories.

The phantom sensations.

The way his body betrayed him, flinching at the slightest brush of a hand, freezing at the sound of footsteps behind him.

He felt it every time someone’s eyes lingered a little too long.

Every time he caught a glimpse of a smile that felt too familiar.

The weight of hands on his chest.

The warmth of breath against his skin.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

The disgusting truth of it all.

And no one noticed.

Except for Kento.

Kento, who didn’t comment when Gojo’s hands shook as he reached for a cup of coffee.

Kento, who didn’t force a conversation when Gojo’s responses dwindled to single syllables or silence.

Kento, who—one day, in an empty hallway, when a female walked a little too close—stepped between them without a word.

It wasn’t just the hallway.

It was the little things.

The way Kento would subtly position himself between Gojo and anyone who got too close during meetings.

The way he would linger in the room after everyone else had left, fiddling with his phone, giving Gojo the space to breathe without the pressure of being watched.

The way he would hand Gojo a file or a pen without letting their fingers brush, a small but deliberate act of consideration.

And then there were the things Gojo didn’t even realize he needed until Kento provided them.

Like the time Gojo froze in the middle of a mission, his body locking up at the sight of a curse that bore an unsettling resemblance to her.

Kento didn’t ask questions.

He didn’t demand an explanation.

He simply stepped in, taking over the fight without a word, giving Gojo the space to retreat without shaming him for something that wasn’t his fault.

Or the time Gojo found himself unable to enter a room—that room, his feet rooted to the ground at the sound of laughter—her laughter, or at least something close enough to make his stomach churn.

Kento didn’t push him.

He didn’t tell him to get over it.

He just stood there, a silent presence at Gojo’s side, until the laughter faded and Gojo could breathe again.

Gojo didn’t thank him.

He couldn’t.

The words stuck in his throat, tangled up with everything else he couldn’t say.

But Kento didn’t seem to expect gratitude or even think of it.

He didn’t seem to expect anything at all.

He was just there.

Steady. Reliable. Unshakable.

Reminding him, even in the darkest corners of his mind, where the memories lingered like shadows, there was a light.

Faint, but there.

Kento didn’t touch Gojo. Didn’t even look at him.

But he was there.

A barrier.

A shield.

Gojo had never needed a shield before.

Now, he couldn’t survive without one.

A/N: The comments in this fic are real comments people have actually made about Gojo on Twitter & Reddit. "How would this actually play out in a realistic setting?" I’ve always had this thought lurking in the back of my mind whenever I read some of the feral, lawless thirst comments people make about Gojo. So I did what any sane person would: I turned it into a horror fic. Also, if you thought Gojo was too OP to be a victim… yeah, so did he. Now, tell me—be honest—what’s the worst Gojo thirst comment you’ve ever seen? 👀 Drop it in the comments. (Or, if this broke you emotionally, just leave a 🍞 emoji so I know you’re still breathing.)

All Works Masterlist

[brucewaynehater101]

Nightwing AU:

Some new hero, maybe a new member of the JL, meets Nightwing. They see this charismatic young man and instantly label him as a sunshine character, much to the amusement of the Titans.

Nightwing, in 93% of his interactions with other heroes, is super friendly and nice. He's great as a leader and team player. Most heroes, especially the newer ones, gravitate towards him and trust him.

Then this new hero so happens to accompany Nightwing on a mission that goes wrong. The villain does henious, disgusting acts (either to civilians or other bats), and Nightwing's personality does a 180. No longer is the new hero in the presence of a bright and happy Nightwing.

No. Now they have to work with a man boiling in rage and anger issues who doesn't stop until his gauntlets drip in blood.

[miyuskye]

MAG 67 after statement scene (and really the aftermath of every time Elias praises Jon)

[kiyomitakada]

The ship lurched again.

Kiyomi Takada gritted her teeth as she thrust her hand out, catching herself against the bridge’s safety rails before she slammed into the walls. She raised her voice. “Mikami, status update!”

“The ship is fine!” Mikami yelled back faintly. She could hear him banging around in the main status panel at the back of the ship.

“Clearly it’s not!”

“I meant physically!”

“Code looks fine too,” Yagami added, fingers flying across the keyboard. “Nobody’s hacked in or anything.”

“Then how is this” — Kiyomi gestured at the instruments they hadn’t bothered to tie down flying around the bridge, the groaning metal walls, the planets in their viewing window tilting this way and that as the ship wobbled — “happening?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Yagami said grimly. Kiyomi peered over his shoulder; he was checking camera logs now. Still nothing. “Unless there’s a giant invisible magnet outside that’s moving really fast.”

Kiyomi had discovered very late into their acquaintanceship that Yagami, despite all appearances, had a bit of a weird imagination. It was endearing most of the time, but not when they were probably about to all get concussions and die.

Kiyomi clenched her jaw. She hated this. Her job as a communications officer was fulfilling, but in emergencies like these she felt as useless as an underwater basket weaver.

“I’m going to check the windows,” she said.

Yagami nodded, not taking his eyes off the screen. Kiyomi dashed off to the hallway into the back of the ship.

“Any updates?” Mikami asked, poking his head out of the panel. His perfectly groomed hair was now greasy with motor oil.

Kiyomi shook her head. “Anything I can help with?”

“No,” Mikami said, with the finality of an expert.

Kiyomi sighed. She’d figured that was the case. “Alright. Good luck, I suppose.”

Mikami nodded at her and ducked back in.

Kiyomi looked around, a little helplessly. The vibrations of the ship were stronger now. She darted into her room across the hall; the glass globe she kept on the windowsill, a gift from her father when she decided to sail, was shaking against its restraints so quickly that it was practically emitting music.

Kiyomi narrowed her eyes. Why did that remind her of something?

She rooted around in the back of her head, but turned up nothing. Kiyomi frowned. Maybe she should brush up on her textbooks again, if they didn’t all die here and now.

She pushed the flapping window blinds open perfunctorily, ready to turn and look for something else to do —

She froze.

That was… a person. There was a person outside, floating in the vacuum of space with no protection, blonde hair tied in two pigtails that swayed in a nonexistent breeze. Their eyes were closed. They were smiling.

Where their legs should have been was a long, shimmering black tail.

Kiyomi froze only briefly. Then she yelled: “Yagami!”

“What?”

“What do the starboard cameras see?”

“Space,” Yagami said. “And Aresthos X13 about 1.5 billion kilometers away.”

“Never mind that.” So they weren’t showing up on the camera feed, but were visible to regular humans?

Kiyomi remembered what the passage in her textbook said about this. Mermaids were almost extinct in the 32nd century; most had been poached for their scales, believed to have healing properties. (The human-level sentience of mermaids was established by the 28th century, but that had never stopped poachers before.) The few who had survived were theorized to have developed light manipulation techniques such that they could avoid detection when necessary.

Which meant that this mermaid was letting Kiyomi see them.

“I know what’s wrong,” Kiyomi said, letting the window blinds drop and pushing the door open.

Mikami pulled his head out of the panel again. “What?”

“There’s someone outside. A mermaid.”

Mikami’s face screwed up — not at the prospect of the mermaid but at the prospect of potential social interaction. “Oh god. What do they want?”

“To kill us all, most likely,” Kiyomi said. Her textbook hadn’t really elaborated on what mermaids tended to want. “I’ll go negotiate.”

“I suppose that means there’s nothing wrong with the ship?”

Kiyomi hesitated. Was it possible that the mermaid was unrelated?

Reports from before mermaids became endangered universally describe a mermaid encounter as a hazard, though it is often unclear why. Their suspected powers include manipulation of the metal around a spacecraft, manipulation of the visible light levels, and possibly manipulation of the mind.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Kiyomi said decisively. “It has to be our visitor.” She took a breath. “Go back to the bridge. I need you and Yagami ready to fire if anything goes wrong.”

Mikami paused. For a second Kiyomi was afraid he would object or pull seniority on her, but he nodded and extracted himself from the panel. “Discreetly, I assume.”

“Mm.” No need to let the mermaid know they had somewhat stronger firepower than an ordinary government-turned-merchant vessel probably should. “And do you know where the memetic shielding suits are?”

“In the closet with the rest.” Mikami pointed. “The blue ones.”

“Thank you,” Kiyomi said, and briskly power-walked over. A few slightly humiliating minutes struggling in the closet ensued before she was in the airlock, tying the extraction tether around her waist just in case.

She pressed the READY signal button on her suit.

“Cleared,” Yagami’s voice crackled in her ear, and the doors opened.

Instantly everything turned pitch-black.

Kiyomi’s breath involuntarily caught in her throat. There was a faint light she could see bobbing at the end of her tunnel of sight, but that was all. She whipped her head around. The ship was gone.

No, she reminded herself, not gone, she just couldn’t see it. Automatically she felt for the extraction tether; it was still there, taut as always. She exhaled a sigh of relief.

“Y’know, it’s not nice to look away when someone’s talking to you.”

Kiyomi blinked, then flinched back. The glow was right in front of her now. It was coming from the mermaid: the shimmer of their scales lit up an aura around them, just bright enough for them to be visible in their entirety without illuminating any of the surrounding area.

Yes, this was the same mermaid. Blonde. Twin pigtails. And they were… pouting at her?

“Takada!” It was Yagami from the internal radio. “The ship’s stopped lurching!”

“What?”

“Keep doing whatever you’re doing, we’ll get on securing everything,” Yagami said.

Had Kiyomi done anything? She turned back to the mermaid.

“Hey, can you even hear me?” The mermaid’s pout had turned into a scowl. “Anything in that suit?”

Kiyomi reached down and flipped the switch that allowed her voice to project outward. This was usually pointless. Sound couldn’t travel in space. But Kiyomi had learned very quickly that in some areas of the universe, the laws of physics were more like suggestions.

“My name is Kiyomi Takada. She/her.”

The mermaid’s eyes lit up. “You can talk! What do you do?”

“I’m a communications officer for the ship Kira-maru,” Kiyomi said. Her voice came out very steady. “So I… communicate.”

“So formal,” the mermaid mused, frowning a little. “You’re definitely government for sure.”

“I’m actually not—” Kiyomi caught herself. Never volunteer too much information. “What’s your name?”

“Me? I’m Misa Amane! And I’m a she, I guess.” The mermaid beamed at her, then positioned one hand into the shape of a gun and cocked it at her. A wink. “But you can call me Misa-Misa.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Amane-san.”

“Definitely government,” Misa mumbled to herself. “So what brings you all here to our little corner of the galaxy? We don’t get many visitors.”

“‘We’?”

“Yeah, we,” Misa said, smile sliding a little off somehow.

“We’re only passing through. Distributing the census,” Kiyomi lied. This was a practiced cover story. “Aresthos X13 population scan.”

“Hmm.” Misa’s head tilted. Her pigtails drifted in the nonexistent breeze; her eyes, now that Kiyomi was close enough to observe, were brown, but they flashed with electric blue every so often. A trick of the light, Kiyomi told herself.

“So if you don’t mind, we’d very much like to be getting on.”

“Wait!”

Kiyomi blinked. There was a thread of desperation in Misa’s voice, but it was gone as soon as it came.

“What is it?”

“If you go,” Misa said — and her eyes flashed the most brilliant blue yet — “I’ll start singing again.”

“…Singing?”

Instead of replying Misa closed her eyes. The glow around her began pulsating softly. She smiled that strange little smile that Kiyomi had first seen on the ship…

Yagami yelped in her ear.

Kiyomi flipped the switch back to internal audio. “What is it?”

“It’s shaking again,” Yagami said. “What’s—?”

He was cut off by a metallic crash.

“Just keep talking,” Yagami said hurriedly before the transmission was cut off.

Kiyomi flipped the switch back on and was about to demand answers from Misa, when she froze.

She heard it. The music. Only a few notes, but it was a familiar melody:

La, lalala lala la…

It was the lullaby her mother used to sing to her.

No. No, that was impossible. Kiyomi blinked away the sudden tears forming in her eyes. “What are you doing?”

Misa’s smile widened just a little. Instead of answering she kept humming — Kiyomi was sure that was it now; Misa’s throat was vibrating, and her scales fluttered like feathers.

La, lalala lala la…

The ship audio transmission buzzed to life again. Kiyomi waited for an order, but there was nothing — just another metallic crash. It must have turned on by accident.

“Stop it,” Kiyomi said, her heart hammering in her throat. How dare she remind her of her mother?

“Funny,” Misa said, grinning now. “Usually people are dead by now. Or they’ve gone cuckoo.”

Kiyomi took a breath in the temporary reprieve. “Maybe I’m different.”

This wasn’t true. It was the memetic protection from her helmet and she knew it. But it felt extraordinarily good to believe.

“Maybe you are, Kiyomi,” Misa said.

La, lalala lala la…

“What do you want?” Kiyomi tried. The reverberations of her ship shaking apart echoed in her ears. “We’re carrying food, jewels…” Ammunition…

“Take me with you.”

“What?”

“Take me with you,” Misa repeated, crossing her arms again defiantly. “Or I’ll just keep going.”

Kiyomi swallowed.

She could just yell for Mikami to fire. His marksmanship was inexplicably expert.

Back in the academy her superiors had always told her she was too soft. Communication doesn’t mean everyone just gets along, they’d say while Kiyomi seethed because she knew that already. Sometimes you have to make hard decisions.

So she’d gotten colder. More objective. Refined Takada, some said with awe and others with a sneer. She could look desperate people — alien entities, the handbook insisted — in the eye during simulations and tell them that she would need much higher compensation if they wanted clean water infrastructure sometime in the next decade.

But this was reality. And maybe Kiyomi was weak, maybe they’d been right this whole time.

She looked at Misa Amane and imagined her head blowing off her shoulders right in front of her.

La, lalala lala la…

Her instructor, on the first day of freshman year: A communications officer is one of the most important components of a ship. You represent your crew. You represent the Empire. Your voice could sink spaceships.

Kiyomi flipped the internal audio switch and yelled, “Yagami!”

“What is it?” He was panting from exertion.

“Get into a memetic shielding suit now,” Kiyomi said. “You and Mikami both.”

“What? Why?”

“Trust me!”

Another crash. The sound cut out again.

Kiyomi took a deep breath and considered Misa. She’d finally identified the emotion in that smile she wore when she hummed.

It was wistfulness.

There was someone who Misa Amane missed very, very much.

“I accept your conditions,” she said. “But only if you stop singing right now.”

Misa froze. “What, really?”

“Yes,” Kiyomi said. She held out a hand. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Misa stared at her for a very long time. She wasn’t humming anymore.

“Well?”

Misa reached out and wrapped her hand around the arm of Kiyomi’s suit. Her fingers, Kiyomi noticed, were ever so slightly longer than a human’s would be.

“Okay,” Misa said.

Her eyes had stopped flashing. They were a dark, solid brown; Kiyomi thought she’d be able to see constellations in there if she looked hard enough.

“Hold on,” Kiyomi warned, then slammed the button for EMERGENCY EXTRACTION.

The tether attached to the waist of her suit started reeling in, and then they were flying, and Misa’s laugh was giddy in her ears, and Kiyomi —

For just a split second, Kiyomi thought she felt joy.

[ @deathnotetober day 17: music ]

[aliusfrater]

it couldn't even have been a bedroom. it had to be the panic room. with metal walls and a bucket and hunting magazines and a pitcher of water. and a mirror. and the door has a metal toggle to view whatever is inside

[a-grim-thin-hope]

if anybody wanted to know how my lawmane fic is going (incredibly well), look at my opening line!! im so PROUD of it it's the best I've ever done

Cameras were usually so kind to Misa Amane, perfectly capturing the beauty that was so eagerly pasted across thousands of magazines in Japan. In the dim haze of the headquarters at night, though, L's feed did her no favours.

this is for all 22 of y'all 🗣️ I love you fellow lawmane truthers

[asha-mage]

Assorted Thoughts From Forcing My Friends to Watch all of WoT as a birthday gift, Season 2 Edition-

When taken as a whole unit, the show actually completely conveys what's happening with Lan's bond from the jump, it's just that several characters are incorrect or working with incorrect information- as was often the case in the books. Lan thinks he's just been blocked out, but in reality Moiraine has released his bond entirely (as she floated she might do to Alanna back in season 1) and you can see the moment he realizes this in episode 2, when saddling the horses- he realizes that he didn't sense the Fade and what that means, and then Moiriane realizes he has realized.

The show in general is a lot more subtle, and a lot more willing to delve into the idea that often characters are just...wrong, or uninformed, or lying, without holding the audience's hand to explain that fact then I think people give it credit for- which is very in line with Jordan's ethos. For example, Ishamael's telling of Perrin 'the more wolf you become the more you are mine' is a blatant manipulation attempt to scare him into being afraid of his Wolfbrother powers and Perrin, who is going through hell, just buys it- and that makes sense he's already wrestling his own anger issues and fear. He doesn't question why Ishamael would tell him this, or what the effect would be (i.e not trusting the wolves, and thus maybe making himself more vulnerable to the Shadow) he just accepts it because it plays into his existing fears and biases about himself.

Anvare also raises this point really well when she gives her 'ask yourself- is it true?' speech to Moiraine. Moiraine is operating at that point under a lot of assumptions that aren't true- not just that Lanfear is going to hurt or capture Rand, but also that she really was stilled, that she can't trust Lan with her fears and doubts, that her presence is a threat to Barthanes and Anvare (when really Barthanes's presence is a threat to her)- and this moment, is meant to cast doubt not just on that, but on a lot of the assumptions the audience has likely been making too, which characters their taking at face value and which characters their thinking off through the lens of their own biases.

Continuing the trend of Moiraine displaying many of the bad coping mechanisms that will later dog Rand/Rand will internalize from her- @ofthebrownajah pointed out recently Rand's consistent issues with food and eating, which made it stick out to me how frequently in the show Moiraine has a similar problem. People repeatedly try to reach out to Moiraine via food/encouraging her to take care of herself, and she repeatedly rejects them. Lan's attempt to get her to come down for dinner, then to bring dinner to her in her rooms, Barthanes's sandwich, tea with Anvare- Moiraine has her walls raised so high she rejects this basic form of self-care and attempt to reach out hand in hand. This is especially notably because their is a repeated emphasis on food this season. Every major character gets at least one scene eating or drinking this season (Egwene and Elayne doing bootleg, Rand grabbing flatbread on his way to work, Mat with Liandrin's honey cakes, Nynaeve preparing dinner in the arches world, Lan sharing dinner with Alanna's family at her farm) but even Moiraine's eventual forced tea with Anvare goes deliberately unshown.

On rewatch I think that, while I really really love the moment where Renna and Seta are left to the mercy of their own culture by Nynaeve and Egwene in the books, the moment of Egwene killing Renna just makes the most narrative sense for the show- and I think will be a change that they are going to walk out through it's consequences.

The point of that sequence in the book is that Nynaeve understands that Egwene's bloodlust and anger are valid- but that the fact of killing will not help her in the long run. "It's okay to hate them. They deserve it. It's not okay to let them make you like them." I suspect, especially given how thoughtful the show has been about violence and death (and how clearly hollow the experience of actually killing Renna is for Egwene) that the show will take the plank of 'she deserved to die- but killing her did not undo everything you went through or heal you'. Which, again makes sense both Egwene's oncoming Aiel arc, and the fact that the books do spend a lot of time focusing on Egwene working through the trauma of her captivity.

The arches are another thing I've come around on after initial trepidation about their changes. I think each manages to still cut at the heart of Nynaeve's character arc and her struggles. The last one was my biggest concern, the shift from Nynaeve deliberately rejecting a perfect life with Lan for the sake of going back for the other Emond's Fielders to Nynaeve going back after realizing that such a life lived with Lan, as much as it might give her joy for a time, would still be hollow in the end. She can't turn her back on the struggles of the world and her friends without consequence- she can't just go back to life in the Two Rivers. She has to keep fighting for what she loves.

I think the choice itself also works when put in the context of the steady removal of Nynaeve's charges one by one. She thinks Rand is dead (and is probably blaming herself for his death as pops up in her interaction with Tam), Mat ran off, and Perrin is safe with the Shinearans. Her main charge left is Egwene- and hering that she's not helping Egwene but hurting her, overshadowing her- removes the final reason she really had for being at the White Tower, staying on the adventure. If the people she left home to save don't need her- then why is she there?

I continue to really think people are over hyping how bad the show supposedly makes Siuan look- my friends despite being largely uninitiated in the book series immediately groked that Siuan and Moiraine where just doing what they felt was right, in a complicated situation. They both are trying to save the world, and they love each other- but the world is more important.

Moiraine also brings a lot of the trouble on herself by not telling Siuan she was stilled and damaging the trust between them- leaving that detail out is the first crack in Siuan's ability to trust Moiraine still be honest with her, her partner in all this, and then her seeming to have either lied or regained that power, right at the moment she's allied with Lanfear, is the final blow any hope they where still standing together.

Despite stopping frequently to talk at even minor moments, we ran through almost the entire finale without pausing and then collectively all just sat there speechless. Man is the battle of Falme and everything around it so good.

Quote one of my friends re: Moghiden "Oh she's a little freak."

Also shout out to Lanfear for making one of my MLM friends doubt his sexuality with her 'short hair pirate t shirt look'.

That entire scene in the dream world bedroom cased a collective meltdown and one of my other friends to say 'oh I see why you where insane about this'

The effects continue to be killer throughout the season and god I can't wait to see season 3.

[drivngonceagain]

choso sketches i want2 be him sooo bad<\3

[nichhed]

“You have been rather good today. As promised, you’ll get your treat — if you complete just one more task for me.”

[the-most-humble-blog]

☣️ TIER 3 ENTRY LOG — HOW I BROKE THE BLAZE ALGORITHM

They gave me ads. I gave them dominance.

You ever seen a Tumblr Blaze post go over its cap? Not hit. Not match. Exceed.

That’s not ad success. That’s bioliterary domination.

I’ve done it across campaigns — 7442/7000, 3643/2500, 21829/20000 — and now I’m releasing exactly how.

I’m not teaching “how to write.” I’m teaching how to possess.

Cadence that triggers reblogs. Sentences that bypass logic and aim for the spine. How to break Tumblr’s tools and make them serve you.

If you're ready to stop begging for likes and start pulling them from the root —

⚠️ Then you’re ready for this:

☣️ HOW I TURNED TUMBLR BLAZE INTO AN ALGORITHMIC WEAPON patreon.com/TheMostHumble ← 🛡️ Tier 3: Biological Weaponry Carrier

➤ Screenshots of breached Blaze limits ➤ Psychological warfare breakdown ➤ Subconscious influence drills ➤ Cadence blueprints that train your audience without their consent

This isn’t a guide. It’s classified scrolltrap doctrine.

Reblog if you already felt the pull. If not?

Keep watching. The next one might say your name.