#reactive extension

[pinacoladamatata]

maybe the real brainworms were the friends we made along the way?

[myreia]

✦ S A G E

Power surges. Her nouliths hum, the pendulums whirling about her in a cloud, thrumming with aether. Healing eluded her for so long, but the techniques of a sage made those muddy waters clear. She can stand in the epicenter of the battlefield and shield her companions, protecting them from their foes. She has no fear. —level 90 compendium

[rawliverandgoronspice]

okay getting to the point where I start writing tmi vent posts, deleting them, starting again, deleting them.

I think I need to go to bed.

[moeatsushi]

brain feels like conk creer right now

[presdestigatto]

we’re teetering on the brink of something and it’s stressing me out

[haztory]

where you are.

— continuation to bias. (yes, i am making a series. yes, i am making us work for it) — jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but reader is late 20s and up, jack is mid 40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, mention of patient death, gore, medical descriptions, descriptions of c-sections and premature birth, medical inaccuracies, jack and city girl being a formidable unit together in the ER then a LONG stint of pining, yearning, and embracing of domesticity, these two taking care of each other without realizing, please heed the warnings there are descriptions of invasive and traumatic birth — word count: 4.5k — summary: The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you.

The night had been going fine up until this point. Maybe it was that faulty line of thinking that led to this. The sudden implosion, the shatter of the steady. 

Jack isn’t one to brag much about himself. There’s no grand honor in being a doctor. Private practice, sure. Maybe. In the ED, it's shit work in shit situations where actual shit may or may not be involved. He’ll tell that to anyone who asks. When the inevitable question comes—are you any good at it?—he’ll shrug and tell them, depends on the day. 

He’s seen enough, done enough, worked with little more than two plastic straws and a boning knife to do a crike in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. He knows his way around the block, and can do more than the average ED can—that he will admit. But it's still a shit job sometimes. 

He hates all of the tragedy that rolls through the doors. They all eat away at the sinews of the mortal coil, but pregnant traumas? They get to him. It’s unsteady ground, the one type of call that he’s always shown a physical reticence to handling. 

There’s too much variability, too many unsuspecting errors, too much divided attention in the multidisciplinary approaches where focus has to be split for the sake of mom and baby. Crack open a body and you’re in for a world of hurt. Throw pregnancy into the mix, and now you’re one step away from God’s door asking what kind of games he’s playing. 

Aching despair is wedged in each part of an obstetric trauma that makes someone as battle tested and weathered as Dr. Jack Abbot sweat and cringe with a grief too profound for words. 

They wheel the young woman into Trauma One and the adrenaline surges through him like a needle straight to veins. His eyes, cold and hurried, press into Lisa. A terse instruction is barked out, your name in his lips.

“Get her in here now.”

Lisa is quick on her feet, stepping out of the OR to find you just as he cuts open the young girl’s shirt. In his survey of her body—the distended stomach dark with bruising from her injuries, blood staining every part of her body, most notably her inner thighs—his eyes find her face, shining a light in her eyes. 

The pupils remain unilaterally fixed in their dilation, non reactive. And it’s then that he notices how much of a child she looks. 

The sudden slam of the trauma doors welcomes you into the room, a rush in your step as you tie the surgical gown behind your back. A readied focus on your eye. The sight of you instills a relief akin to a cool splash of water on Abbot—something he notes and stores on the shelf of things to deal with later. A shelf that is starting to pile up these days with things he’s avoiding. Things that all, concerningly, relate to you. 

“Tell me.”

A resident presents with speedy construction as Jack oversees the tracheostomy. Young female ejected from an MVC, tachycardic, extensive blood loss and apparent extreme cardiovascular collapse and hypoxia. Non reactive pupils indicating neurological nerve damage. EMTs conducted an ultrasound to confirm pregnancy and baby’s length at 30 weeks. Dr. Hudson, the OB-GYN specialist, is on the phone, her own hands wrapped up in an emergency delivery upstairs, asking for details just as they’re presenting them to you. But there’s value in having you in the room—you’ve told Abbot enough about your New York residency. He knows just how much knowledge you have in obstetrics for this. 

The decision is made by you without further delay. Sure and serious. 

“We’re getting this baby out, now.” Your suggestion meets no rebuttal from Dr. Hudson over the line.

“CT has been ordered, we’re next in line.” Dr. Basu, the attending surgeon, speaks from the side of the bed.

“For it to confirm what we already know and waste more time?” You explain, not meanly. Just direct, intense. “We’ve got vaginal bleeding, likely dealing with placental abruption and the longer we wait, the longer the baby is not getting oxygen. We get this baby out now or we lose both of them.”

Dr. Hudson’s voice rings on the other end of the line, “I agree. Keep me updated.”

Abbot’s a good soldier, takes direction without problem. He’s heard your directive loud and clear, the specialist’s agreement is just icing on the cake. 

“You heard them. Let's move.”

You fall beside him in perfect time, meeting his movements quickly as skin is cut, hands move, and a baby—small, pink, and too pure for how he’s born—is introduced to the world. 

The baby is passed to a resident for care, a separate team filling up the connecting OR to secure baby boy before getting him up to NICU. Your attention remains fixed on attempting to stabilize mom, or at least getting her stable enough to be put on life support so that her family can see her and make the call. Jack is by your side, equally intent as you. Grounds his feet to the floor, keeps himself firm as you speak directions to one another, pass steady compliments at performance, grit out expletives of frustration.

Intent to share in the dread of this one. 

It’s not going well. The injuries are so severe, compounding on each other that right when you think you get something halfway resolved, another crash of vitals sounds through incessant beeping. 

He says your name softly, an hour and fifteen minutes into the procedure, after her pulse is lost for the third time and three units of O-Pos have been pumped through her. A gentle echo in the orchestra of chaotic beeps. You look at him, blood staining your forearms, sweat beading on both of your foreheads, the dismay creasing on your face mirrored on his own. 

“Anything else you want to try?” He asks. It’s not a test of knowledge, a sudden pop-quiz from your attending, but true deference. 

You hardly imagine he’s had to do many emergency c-sections on the floor, much less when he was on the field, but seeing the monolith of a man equally lost like you is hard hitting. You shake your head, tired.

“Call it.” He gently issues.

“Time of death, 3:07.” The words heave out of your mouth in a shuddered breath. It’s through shot nerves and sheer adrenaline that your hands shakily pull the bloodied gloves off of them. You toss them to the floor in defeat as the respiratory therapist stops her manually pumping of the bag valve mask and Lisa shuts off the monitors. 

It’s the same punch to the gut every time the words are uttered. You still struggle to get used to it.

“Thank you all for your work on this one.” Jack says to everyone in the room. The team seems to deflate at his words, solemnity a gaseous cloud that poisons the crowd. 

“Let’s take a moment and honor her and the life that was here.”

It’s a tense and desolate moment of silence. They always are. It’s broken by the sound of the sneakers in the hallway and the opening of the operating doors. 

“Dr. Abbot—” Bridget’s whisper stirs the room, “Your patient in two is vomiting.”

That’s all that can be afforded. The room breaks, everyone filtering out as the world continues to revolve beyond this room. As everyone makes out for the doors, he notices you stay. Staring. Reviewing. 

Going through it all over, and over, and over again. 

“We did everything we could.” He calls to you, ritualistically. Because it’s the right thing to say, not necessarily the one he believes.

“I know.” You tell him, because it’s true, but not because you believe it. You stay focused on the girl’s face, childlike features marred with contusions. “I just want a moment.”

“Course.” He offers quietly, “Anything you need.”

Your lips tilt at the shared mantra, a settled phrase that you find each other saying more often these days. You nod, appreciatively at him, your blessing for him to take his leave. Still, he hesitates. Holds. Waits. Staying close in case you voice a need—in case you say you need him. 

He forces himself out of the room before he makes a fool of himself. 

—

Abbot finds you in the aftermath. When a clean blanket is covering the girl's face, and she’s been wiped of the blood and fluids, and moved to an observation room waiting for her family’s arrival. After you both have moved forward through the night in other cases. He finds you outside of the vending machine, your gaze stuck flicking between the number of options.

“You’re supposed to put money into the machine in order to get something out.”

The sound of his voice hardly surprises you, even from behind. Almost like you anticipate him throughout the night, expect to find him somewhere nearby—these days, you practically hear him in the swirl of your own thoughts. Guiding you, teasing you, comforting you. 

“I’m fighting a battle against the urge to gorge on chocolate.” You tell him succinctly, eyeing the trail mix hesitantly.

“How’s that going?”

“I’m losing.”

He huffs a breath then pulls out his card from his wallet. He steps up behind you, close enough where his chest brushes your shoulder as he reaches around and taps it against the machine's card reader. You don’t move from the innocent meeting of your bodies, out of some curious interest in seeing if he will. 

He doesn’t. You shove the desire to lean into his subtle touch with a ten-foot pole, beating it until it's nonexistent. 

He punches in ‘B6’ on the keypad without hesitation and watches as a Snickers bar is dropped from the rack. He bends down, reaching his hand through the slot and raises back up with a grunt, handing the chocolate bar to you.

Your stare is scolding, but you take the bar anyway. Ripping the wrapper and taking a bite of the candy. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Cushion before the blow.” He warns. Your chewing slows, eyes widening in dread at him.

“Our pregnant mom’s parents are here.” Jack explains and you sigh heavily. “She was sixteen.”

Solemnly nodding, your eyes find comfort in fixating on the tile floor. “We have her name?”

“Kerina Jackson.”

“Okay. I’ll head over now.”

“You want me in there?”

“No. I made the call, I can do it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He watches you think for a moment. Weighing the pros and cons of it all, before you meet his gaze. Looking into him as if searching for any insincerity or any indication that he might take your acceptance as weakness. 

Finding nothing, you nod slowly. “Yeah, okay. Please.”

The walk to the observation room is harrowing. Your candy lays half eaten in your hand before you eventually tuck it into your pocket, appetite lost. You both convene one final look at each other at the door—a quick check-in, an agreement to step in before doing so. Jack moves, his hand on the handle of the door and holds it open for you, following in after you. 

You speak first, introducing the both of you to the parents as the doctors responsible for overseeing their daughter. They hang onto your words with fevered worry. You tell them the outcome as softly as you can. Life shatters for them in an instant. 

Through their heaves and sobs, you manage to croak out. “The baby is stable, for now. He’s been sent up to NICU for care. One of our nurses can take you to go see him.”

“And our daughter, where is she?” Her father asks. 

Jack speaks then, “We have her ready for you in an observation room. You can see her whenever you’d like.”

“I speak for Dr. Abbot and I when I say that we are so sorry that this has happened.” You continue. They ask a few questions—what killed her? Severe blood loss. Blunt force trauma. How long were you operating on her? An hour and fifteen minutes. Are you sure you did everything you could? No. But that part stays quiet. 

The room descends in a choked mood. Tempered by the soft sobs to two mourning parents who have no questions to ask but to the God that decided to take their child. 

“We will be here for any other questions you have or help you may need.” Jack speaks amidst the tears. There’s gratitude at his insertion as you find yourself at a loss of what else to say. But Jack knows. He always knows. “If you let one of our nurses know, they’ll come get us.” 

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you both out of the room. It’s a welcome feeling, a steady rock on shaky ground. As soon as the touch is there, it’s gone. He’s rounding on you, staring intently into you. 

“You good?”

“No.” You shrug. “You?”

He crosses his arms, tendons in his forearms stretching for a moment as he opens and closes his palms. For a moment you see the sliver of the man—the one that is becoming more and more familiar to you. That he’s revealing slowly, a new crack into the armor each time you happen to be around when these things happen. Weary and upset in a way that stretches beyond anger at the unfairness of life. Targeted almost in judgement, in disappointment at choices—his and beyond. 

It touches depths of sadness and hurt in ways that he doesn’t often let show. Visible only in the slow nod of his head and the downturn curl of the corner of his lips. 

A slew of questions sits in his mind—What was she doing out on the road so late? What did she run into? Why wasn’t she wearing her seatbelt? Why the fuck was she pregnant at sixteen? Each is more devastating than the last, sticking a knife into his back and drags down, down, down the seam of his skin until he feels like he’s split into two.

His leg aches, loudly, but admitting that is forsaking a life that this young girl doesn’t get to have anymore. 

“Gotta keep going.” He says, plainly. But his lips curl downward and his stare says more than he thinks it does.  

Your fingers itch to grab onto him and hold him tight.

—

The sun rises slowly and with it comes the harrowing end of the shift. It couldn’t have come sooner.

You should run—make for the streets of Pittsburgh and never turn back. Let your heart race in adrenaline from something other than tragic chaos. Run for nonexistent hills that whisper a promise of calm and levied bliss as you leave PTMC and all that it holds. It’s an amusing thought. If you were stronger, more committed, you would. But the clock ticks past your scheduled exit time, your bag slung over your shoulder and yet, your feet remain firmly planted to the ground at the loading bay. Stuck, held, waiting. For something.

A sign, maybe. A reminder of why you’re here. 

“I need a beer.” 

Much like he’s done all night, Jack sidles up beside you. Appearing out of thin air and standing next to you. You’re brows furrow in question, having thought he had made for the rooftop like he usually does after a long shift. 

“Isn’t it too early for that?” You ask. 

“Never too early for a good thing.” He shrugs. “Isn’t that a ‘city that never sleeps’ specialty?” 

“Touché.” You nod in concession. Silence befalls the two of you as the world sounds around you. Cars drive by as people wake up, sirens from an ambulance ring only a hair’s width away. The air is cool on your skin and you take the moment to breathe. The urge to run wanes, slightly. 

“I’ve got some beer at my place.” You offer, casually. “Wanna head that way?”

Jack turns to meet your gaze. It's an innocuous invitation, smeared with exhaustion and nonchalance. Nothing untoward. Like you wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t take you up on it, just as you wouldn’t make it a big deal if he did. Your thumb points south, gesturing to your apartment, the complete opposite direction of his home. 

He tilts his head after a thoughtful moment of consideration. “You take the train?”

“Bus.”

“Fuck that. I’ll drive us.”

— 

Your apartment is deep in the strongarm of the city, right at the crossing between loud and hectic, and just past the Allegheny River. The building is as quaint as it is quiet, which isn’t saying much. A big, tall eyesore and Jack can’t help but scoff. 

City girl staying close to what she knows.

He follows, woefully out of his element, as you guide him past the concierge and through the modern and minimalist decor of the lobby into golden elevators. You press twelve on the buttons and the elevator ascends in a quiet hum—lulled only by the whir of the machine. 

Comfortable silence emphasizes the line that’s been drawn in the sand. Work staying at the steps of the hospital, far from a desirable topic of conversation, even farther from being a worthy disruption of the tranquility. Rehashing the night, wondering what could have been done differently is a task you both save for personal time in the privacy of your spaces when no one else is looking. 

“Bienvenido a mi casita.” You sing, tired and a feeble attempt at jovial, as your keys unlock the apartment door. 1224, he notes. Puts it up on the crowded shelf with everything else about you he pretends he isn’t storing. He steps inside, eyes scanning the home with barely concealed interest. 

It’s a small space, clean—save for the mail you have scattered on the counter and the stray bottle of cleaner that you have yet to put away. The apartment is decorated modestly, color popping in the pillows on your couch, the rug you have in the living room, the dinner mats on your two-chaired dinner table. Photos of friends, family, your nieces hang on every wall in a pleasant array. It’s lived in, alive, warm, yours.

He doesn’t realize he’s studying the place until you call from behind him from the kitchen, your head deep in the pantry. “You still want that beer? I can make some coffee instead?”

“Coffee’s good. Bl—”

“Black. I know.” You look at him over your shoulder, a twinkle somehow emerging in your eyes. From the ash of a smoldering fire that burned all that was sane, you still rise—sparking anew.  He watches, curious. You grab coffee grounds and move through your kitchen, filling the machine and starting a brew. 

“You hungry?” You ask. 

“Are you?”

“I could eat.” 

He didn’t come here to eat breakfast. He’s not sure why he even came in the first place. But he nods despite the uncertainty that makes him feel idiotic. “Sure.”

He wades awkwardly into your apartment. Unsure where to stand, how to take up less space, if he should bid his goodbye now or later. His eyes fall to a box leaning against your living room wall, beside your television that sits pathetically on the floor. 

“What’s going on here?” He asks, gesturing to the cardboard with black lettering that has too many umlauts above them. 

“A TV stand that I’ve been procrastinating building.” You respond, the sound of eggs cracking on the counter and into a bowl ringing throughout the room. 

“How long?”

“‘bout a month.”

“Christ.” He scoffs. “You waiting for God to show up?

“Something like that.” He hums. His eyes narrow for a moment, before deciding resolutely. 

“Got a tool kit?”

The morning unfolds slowly, comfortably. Jack sitting in your living room, building your TV stand to create a reason as to why he’s here. He pauses only when you plate up some breakfast. Eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. He eats in a steady quiet with you, unsure when the last time he had breakfast with someone was.

Conversations are interspersed infrequently. Mostly unimportant; something about this new hot sauce you got from the farmer’s market and the plans you have for redecorating. He tells a stupid story about the billboard outside your apartment window that used to have the picture of the two twin lawyers and their fish man.

(“Their fish man?”

“Shenderovich, Shenderovich, and Fishman. 1-888-98-Twins.”

“Shenderovich to the second power. God, that’s awful.”

“You’re telling me.”)

Quiet things, small delights that bring the slight quirk to his lips and the gentle huff of laughter from you. The small things the diffuse the tension of the night, that force the slow revival into becoming a human again.

You take both plates when you finish, humming at his quiet thanks and returning to the kitchen to clean while he returns his attention to the stand. And it’s normal—so pointedly normal and domestic it’s a wonder this hasn’t been a routine occurrence. Jack is sore thumb in his scrubs sitting on your living room floor, your measly excuse for a toolkit beside him as he fits wooden slabs together and builds. An entirely new sight, certainly not something the version of you a few months ago would’ve thought you’d ever see, but it's a welcome one. 

Weirdly, he fits. His figure, his presence, him. Makes your home feel whole, meaningful.

Time passes with little recognition. It’s a relatively simple stand—easy and mindless to put together. The Swedes are built off of functional efficiency and he sends a quiet hail mary to the Scandinavians. One moment, Jack is scanning the instructions, his eyes glancing to yours as you place a glass of water beside his mug on the coffee table next to him. Then he blinks and the stand is assembled, only the quiet hum of the morning news sounding from your television. 

It’s a welcome thing. He’s never able to fully turn his mind off but in the mundane, the easy turn of the screw and the pleasing click of pieces together, the turmoil dulls to a quiet chatter and he can breathe easily. Zoned in so readily that he lost touch with reality for a second. Forgot where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. 

He pushes the stand into the place where your TV sits on the ground, then lifts the TV onto its surface. Settling the furniture into the place that he supposes you would want—the place he thinks it looks best. 

He’s turning, content at being useful and ready to ask for your approval. Then he realizes that he’s heard very little from you while he was building.

He finds you on the couch behind him. Eyes shut, mouth slightly open as your breaths are softly and evenly exhaled in your sleep. Your hair is released from the tie you had to hold it back throughout the shift, the strands messily framing your face as you lay against the pillow of the couch. Still clad in your scrubs, your face settles peacefully as you rest. Not scrunched in frustration or stony in your focus. 

Under the soft of the morning light, a sharp contrast to the fluorescents he’s always seen you under, exhaustion resounds on your face. Tamed only by the sweetened sighs of your slumber that remedy the ailment. You sleep, sweet and easy.

A stray strand of hair crosses over your nose, moving with the rhythmic rise and falls of your breaths. A twitch aches in his fingers. Spurned by need and the deep rooted ache of loneliness that craves the taste of tenderness. 

He brushes the strand away from your face, eyes focused on the action, watching your face remain peacefully asleep. Relishes in the brief moment of softness he’s been afforded. 

There’s a twinge of guilt as he has to disturb the solitude, yours and his, when he taps your leg gently. You stir in tired confusion.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“You’re going?” You ask, wiping your mouth, sounding disappointed at the notion. 

“Yeah. You need to sleep.”

“You sure? You can stay.”

The excuse is on his tongue fighting against the urge to read into that. There was hardly a reason for him to be here today, much less one for him to linger around. Insist and bore drill into the cracks of his thick skull that this shouldn’t happen again. That this is inappropriate. 

It’s pointedly not, though. He built a stand for you, you made him breakfast. That was all there was to it. That’s all that was being expected by you, because why would you expect anything further?

(You wouldn’t. Because there’s nothing going on. Despite the stares from the nurses, and the whispers of a rumored bet, and the lingering glances that get sent between you two—nothing is going on.

He’s sure of it.)

But, Jack doesn’t do things flippantly, without purpose. And walls don’t get torn down, softened, for just any reason. In the ingrained pattern that Dr. Mott insists is a defense mechanism and that Jack believes is just normal human condition, he feels the walls so carefully erected find their place once more. Fortified to shut out the possibility of some inane want for something burn without restraint within him. 

The armor that’s been slowly cracking back settles onto him and he aims for a neutral expression. Curt, succinct. No room for error. “Thanks for breakfast.” 

“Thanks for the stand, you didn’t have to do that. But it looks great.” You trail behind him slowly as he walks towards your front door. “I’ll be calling you for all of my furniture builds. I’m spoiled now, old man.”

Here’s the chance. Stop it here, smother the budding growth of a tender seed before it takes root and spreads into his lungs. Prevent the tendons from reaching up his throat, crawling into his brain, and mold the perfect image of you into the grey matter. 

He should tell you, firmly, that this will not happen again. Throw in a degrading tease, diffuse the sincerity of the moment. Get you to stop looking at him like he means something.

“Anytime, city girl.” He says, instead. 

You smile— warm, relaxed, gentle and he’s ready to aim gun to temple at the realization of how much he likes it. He can only do what he knows best, what he does with everything else he stupidly seems to notice and grab onto with you, and puts it on the shelf. Half ready to lock it in a chest deep in his mind and toss the key into a cavernous abyss. 

“I’ll hold you to it.” You say, content. And he nods.

He drives back in silence and the promise forged in tired smiles and quiet closeness chokes him all the way home.

a/n: i would like it known, this is the fastest i have ever put out work in a series. im just so bewitched by this middle aged man, i want him inside me.

know this is a quick one and not much happens but i'm a true believer in slow burn being both slow and burning :)

next one will be fun, promise!

[jmliebert]

♡ Nanami in bed ♡

a little extension of what I wrote earlier. read it first, then come back here and… enjoy

Nanami is an exquisite balance of giving and taking. he’s deeply attentive, always making sure you’re satisfied first, but when he takes, he takes (!) with an intensity that leaves you shattered (in the most delicious way)

has a provider’s mindset, and obviously that extends into the bedroom. there’s a certain dominance in the way he touches you, a silent claim in every kiss, every deep thrust. possessive and protective

easily aroused, just you being yourself is enough to make him want you bad. a glance, a soft sigh, the way you stretch after waking up—it all fuels his need, and he needs you endlessly

when it comes to foreplay, oh..he takes his time, making you all nice and ready for him with touching diligence. he’ll lift you effortlessly just to kiss you deeper, hold you close like you’re something precious and it makes you feel fragile in the best way possible

loves giving head, not just as foreplay but as a way to see you unravel beneath him. watching your face hungrily from between your thighs, enjoying the way you shudder under his tongue, supersensitive after orgasm (and he still doesn’t stop, making you scream almost)

loves rough sex—deep, demanding kisses, spanking, biting—but never crosses the line. his sharp eyes are always on you, reading every expression, knowing exactly when to push and when to pull back. you trust him completely because no matter how intense it gets, there’s always a deep undercurrent of care and love

his voice is deep and smooth, laced with filth and appreciation. he’ll whisper how wet you are, how good you feel, how he could fuck you all night. he makes you feel both desired and worshiped in the same breath, and he adores how reactive you all to his little dirty talks

hard, possessive strokes paired with gentle caresses. one hand spanking you, the other cradling your face. he loves positions that let him watch you—pressed against the wall, bent over the mattress, or straddling him while he guides you with firm hands on your hips

confidence in bed, he doesn’t need to prove anything—he just knows what he’s doing. he’s not into extreme kinks or excessive toys, but he’ll have you in every possible position, in every possible place. the bed, the couch, the floor, even the kitchen counter—if he wants you, he’ll have you

also a car sex enthusiast, loves the thrill of it. his hand starts on your knee, then moves up your thigh, teasing you until one of you snaps. either you end up going down on him, or he finds a secluded spot where he can take you properly. he likes having you ride him in the driver’s seat, his mouth on your nipples, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you with a mix of control and need

can be messy in the moment, but clean afterward. he doesn’t mind the mess during sex—sweat, fluids, whatever—but afterward, he’s meticulous. he’ll clean you up himself, maybe even carry you to the shower, washing your body with slow, unhurried care. and yes, he will change the sheets before bed

plus, you’ll never be left cold, hungry, or uncomfortable when Nanami is around. he’ll drape you in his T-shirt, bring you water, make sure you’re completely taken care of. he’ll massage any sore spots, trace over any love bites, and hold you even closer that night (especially if the sex was really rough)

clingy in his own way, won’t let you sleep without touching you. the moment you settle in, he’s pulling you close, inhaling your scent, running his fingers through your hair. he murmurs something soft against your ear—maybe a compliment, maybe something teasing—but the warmth in his voice makes you melt

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hi, you can find more of my works about nanami ♡here♡

[ethnicallymoral]

Reframing Vander as protective, rather than peaceful.

posted this to twitter here, if you’d like to yap about arcane together! I’m a bit more unhinged on it, heads up.

Here’s a case for reframing Vander dropping his gauntlets on the bridge as choosing PROTECTION over violence, instead of peace. And how, contextually, this could work well with his and Silco’s characterizations pre and post-betrayal. I don't see him as a pacifist.

We know Vander as the Hound of the Underground, and he didn’t earn that title lightly. "Be a shame if I had to put them on again. Cast iron's, well, it's hard to clean." Young Silco, on the other hand, is shown with his journal. He was strategic and that trait stays consistent.

Silco isn’t naturally physically violent, but he surrounds himself with people who are strong, capable, and willing to act on the anger he internalizes. And he knows how to foster that well — something we later see with Sevika & Jinx. He channels his revolutionary ideals through people.

What’s compelling about this is we could then easily make a case that Silco respected Vander’s duty to the cause AND his violent nature. Maybe young Silco wanted to specifically channel Vander’s violence toward their cause/Piltover, often by instigating his temper a step too far.

Vander, by contrast, is capable of terrifying violence, but it’s shown to us as reactive: when the people he’s responsible for are threatened. That can suggest he’s more naturally driven by a protective & parental instinct. His default is to be passive, gentle, & voice of reason.

In this same conversation, Silco listens for most of it and contributes by reaffirming his commitment to their cause. “To Zaun, then.” It would be a great way to foreshadow an inevitable divide between them — regardless of Felicias death. An echo to where their true loyalty lies.

Either way, I think Silco would have kept pushing limits that Vander couldn’t reach. And eventually, he would have hit a wall that Vander refused to cross. AKA, I think Felicia’s death may have been the final catalyst for Vander losing his patience with Silco, but it didn’t START there.

“You had my respect—the Lanes’ respect—but that… that was never enough for you.”

The phrasing makes it sound like Vander was already fed up with just how far Silco was willing to go to not be seen as a filthy little thing anymore (and all of Zaun by extension). That wasn’t new.

When Felicia tells them she can’t parent and be a soldier, she says they’re not allowed to fail anymore. Except they did “fail,” with Silco instigating again. The protest led to a massacre, ankle biters orphaned, and that’s where all of it was brought back up to the surface.

Vander reacted by prioritizing safety. He narrowed his scope to what he felt responsible for: protecting The Lanes and those he loves.

Silco dug his heels in further, staying fixated on ALL of Zaun & its cause. He could not let Felicia’s death be in vain.

In Jinx Fixes Everything, Silco praised Felicia’s courage to have kids with admiration and signed the bottom with “Blisters and Bedrock” — a direct call back. It could suggest that her memory as a martyr fueled his resentment and resolve even more.

Silco was always going to keep fighting, no matter what. Whatever it takes. He had to see everything they did up until then as meaningful. The Day of Ash strengthened his conviction and MAYBE caused survivors guilt that he couldn’t shake.

“What is truth but a survivor’s story?”

Vander’s betrayal may have actually pushed Silco into becoming an even bigger zealot than he already was. It turned his love for people into love for ambition. People hurt you. Ideals don’t. And Vander’s choice to give up the fight was like killing Felicia all over again.

But, Vander saw Felicia’s death as a sign that the Nation of Zaun wasn’t possible. His job as her friend was to protect her and he failed to do that. So his ideals shift: now the only thing that matters is his responsibility to protect what’s left of the community they built.

He tells Silco as much and pleads with him to “spare the Lanes.”

Vanders scope: The Lanes and his family

Silcos scope: ALL of Zaun or nothing

Which does say a lot about Vander’s leadership… but I digress. Even then, he doesn’t say he’s against war or violence, just that they won’t win.

I also don’t think Vander is a pacifist because he never tried to eliminate violence in the Lanes — just contain it AWAY from Piltover. When Vi takes the kids to rob a topside apartment, he isn’t angry about the crime itself. He’s scared because it happened in Piltover.

He gives the “violence isn’t the answer” speech, but smiles when Vi says she beat up Deckard. So violence within Zaun is acceptable; what he fears are the consequences that come from provoking Piltover.

The letter shows Vander still blames Silco to some extent after the river: “The dirt is on both our hands.” Vander regretted the way he went about the split, but I don't get the impression that he feels cutting Silco off at the time was a mistake. Since despite the time that’s passed, he still considers Silco an extremely dangerous loose end. A lurking threat to the people he wants to keep safe. Enough so, that even Benzo was convinced. He knew Silco would still burn everything if it meant saving it.

Meanwhile, Silco had already forgiven Vander by time they meet again. He doesn’t even ask why because he’s not hung up on it. He just wants his Hound back. But they can’t coexist in Zaun. Not in the main timeline.

One was always going to either die fighting or protecting.

TLDR: I think Vander realized that Silco would still stop at nothing to pursue Zaun’s independence causing him to snap out of grief, guilt, but also intense fear. Vander’s responsibility to protect The Lanes kicked into high gear, which meant killing what he saw as the #1 threat: Silco.

I also like this because it parallel’s Silco’s arc as his scope narrows in, too. He wouldn’t stop fighting for Zaun, but he does come to understand Vander by choosing to protect (and love) Jinx.

"The greater good."

[meanbossart]

Sorry if you've already answered this question before, but how did DU Drow react when Astarion was finally free from Cazador? Did he try to comfort him, or maybe they celebrated it somehow or never talked about that? Or would the Drow like to strangle Kazador with his own hands instead?

If you mean the immediate aftermath, there isn't much, if anything, that sets it apart from how it goes in-game. I do understand why people wish there were more options in how to react during Astarion's big moment, maybe they have more reactive Tavs - but DU drow would absolutely just let something like that breathe. No words of comfort, no shows of affection- he stands back, he stays quiet, and when Astarion says he wants to go, they go. He's as eager to leave as he is and to put this behind the both of them.

Thing is, that at the end of the day, there is no amount of words that could adequately explain to DU drow what his partner went through. Like, sure, he holds nothing but contempt towards Cazador and understands that what Astarion went through was horrific, but he has to filter all of it through the much, much narrower understanding that he himself has of pain, hopelessness, and most of all, time.

For him, at least in that moment, what is done is done and the important thing is that it happen anymore. It's simple and it's not worth lingering on - his feelings about Astarion's situation become more complex later, but at that point Cazador is just yet another foe whom he met and felled within the same hour, and not his two-hundred-year-spamming tormentor.

The point is, there isn't really any emotional high here besides what we see during the cemetery scene (which in their case, doesn't even end in sex) and there certainly isn't any celebration, either.

That all being said, I still think its sweet. He might be doing it with a degree of aloofness, but DU drow is still choosing to give Astarion space instead of bombarding him with love and comfort right off the bat. He has a lot of moments like these, where despite being borderline overbearing at times he recognizes when he's ill-equipped to address something.

Now, moving a little ahead:

I really like that the game gives you these dialogue options here, and they were kind of formative in DU drow's characterization, especially in regards to their relationship. Discussing Cazador's crimes and the sacrifices Astarion has had to make for his own freedom is just sad. It's uncomfortable. It's quitter talk. On the other hand, immediately setting up a new goal-post, giving Astarion something to look forward to and that certainly he can provide, on the other hand, is so much easier.

PICTURED ABOVE: Sentences that go over DU drow's head faster than you can say "bootstrapper".

And speaking of formative and tone-deafness, here's another dialogue option that truly set in stone for me the type of turbulent emotional journey this character (and Astarion by extension) was about to go through from here on out.

I love that they put that here. That your character can be be tempted with a line that is, on the surface, so sweet, but with this underlying implication that you still think of Astarion as somehow lesser or incapable by default - like he hasn't been around for so much longer and been through so much more than yourself in almost every case.

...OR you just didn't express yourself well.

But in DU drow case, that is exactly what he means. that Astarion doesn't need all that power because he has him now. He wants to be his protector. He wants for Astarion to depend on him.

In his Bhaalist plotline, this devotion takes a very ugly and possessive form. In DU Drow 1.0 storyline, on the other hand, it is just... A perception that has to be slowly and painfully broken down - that Astarion doesn't need to be handled with children's gloves, or constantly protected and provided for - that he in fact doesn't need a partner to look after him, and how that doesn't immediately translate to not wanting companionship.

I can only hope ANE has a lot of moments that get this flip of dynamic across with all its caveats and addendums. After all, this is kind of a bed Astarion has made for himself.

BUT, that comes later. Right now Astarion just has to smile-and-nod while his beloved fresh-faced twunk says some truly goofy shit.

[ominous-horse-noises]

im ab to be annoying ab dimension20 fhjy but im genuinely loving the character arcs for the bad kids this season?

kristen going from self-annihilatingly stupid to trying to build a genuine bridge with the man who not only wielded the religion that traumatised her (bobby dawn), but also was trying to ruin her life, just bc she thought a grieving father ought to be comforted in some way? her genuine distress at being unable to revivify buddy even though the two had only had negative interactions, or her biting her tongue in front of her parents so she could better look after her little siblings? grappling with the fact that she still, on some level, expected practising religion to be easy and convenient for her as a holdover from an entire childhood spent being a Chosen One, and finally putting her nose to the grindstone and committing to working her ass off for a deity that couldn't even benefit her for a hot minute? making an effort to be cordial with tracker's new gf and letting go of that codependency? the kristen applebees from ep20 would NOT do all the same stupid shit as ep1 and i love that.

fabian being humbled by the narrative again and again has been an absolute treat for his character. the whole ivy/mazey situation was great: freshman/sophomore year fabian would've gone for ivy no sweat, i mean her character seemed pretty similar to pre-redemption aelwyn and he had a huge crush on her then. but this time, when he realised he'd hurt a genuinely great person, and intentionally swallowed his pride to make it up to mazey, even though it required him being 'uncool' with the whole twister thing. his general arc of learning that earnestness and humility doesn't make him less of a man felt like a natural extension of fabian defining his own version of masculinity- sure, a 'maximum legend', but also someone deeply involved in the arts, and someone who is less afraid of saying sorry and being vulnerable in front of someone he likes

fig. fig fig fig. what a woman. its been absolutely fascinating watching build her sense of identity over these three seasons. at her core, fig is a character that loves so deeply. in freshman, she was terrified of the depth of her own devotion, so she tried to distance herself emotionally from everyone. in sophomore, she built herself around that love for other people. in junior year, fig's arc has been learning she can do both: that she's defined by her love for others, but not solely by it. ik emily wanted to retire the character before this season but i think fig's paladin arc was the best capstone to her journey possible.

gorgug's arc has been about establishing clear boundaries for himself and i love it. im aware there's been some Discourse ab the mango soda scene but to me that was pretty easily chalked up to teenage insecurity. a big part of gorgug's arc was trying to believe in himself when everyone around him told him he was too dumb to follow his passion- imagine struggling in an area that you have no natural aptitude for, and someone comes along and also trounces you in the one area you thought you were the best in. i'd be petty and reactive too (gorgug follows up calling her a freak with the fact that she beat the shit out of him, so its clearly him just still smarting from a bruised ego and not actual malice). in general, i've really like gorgug learning to put his foot down and say enough is enough without completely losing his gentleness.

adaine hasnt had an obvious arc, but considering she addressed most of her baggage in the first two seasons, i'm not surprised. i would've liked to see the other bad kids address her 'teenage adult' behaviour, but her self-awareness about it and relying on fabian to pull in clutch for the oracool stuff still felt like she'd learned to rely on her friends at least + her reaching out to aelwyn and the two of them healing from their parents together has been rewarding it its own right.

riz is perfect and has learned nothing. his neuroticism is part of his natural swag

[b1asho]

Round one of the species introduction!!!!

Prectikar Master Post:

Here's some info on them, and if you want to see some other drawings I've done of them (albeit some occasionally older n crustier ones), check out my deviantart: https://www.deviantart.com/blasho

Anyway let's get into a terribly long string of paragraphs about some of their info:

Prectikar are a large sentient species, usually standing at around 8-9 feet tall when fully upright and weighing anywhere close to or upwards if 1000 pounds

They are covered in feather-like fur (or is it fur-like feathers? They're occasionally branched like feathers, and all have quills, but some are more hairlike) due to the cold climate they evolved in, though length and thickness of it now varies by region.

They are omnivorous, and while they have many traits to help them hunt and kill, most of their diet tends to be plants.

Originally rush-down predators, they use their considerable strength to move in quick bursts and their specialized tusks to either ram prey to death or gouge into it as they grapple it.

Their jaw strength is also insane,with their skull actually sacrificing brain space in favor of it, which helps them eat pretty much anything they come across. They pay a lot of attention to food and cooking because of their high calorie needs and very sensitive nose/tongue.

They have manganese as an oxygen carrier is a result of the scarcity of other metals in their environment and potentially because of its general affinity for oxygen.

This causes their blood to be an amber/orange brown and shades of pink depending on its exposure to oxygen.

Through a network of cooperative bonding and other adaptations (like better oxygen retention in muscles and the easily carried size and longevity of the molecule) they’ve managed to bring this manganese transport molecule close to hemoglobin in terms of effectiveness, though they can also make use of manganese’s catalyst properties to temporarily push it to bring lots more oxygen to their tissues at a time (used for short bursts of speed and strength that allow them to take down large prey and plants for food).

their large body size (selected by their colder environment) lets them use their own high body heat to keep the O2 fixation and liberation going in their highly effective lungs.

An extensive understanding of their internal chemistry is unknown (aka gatekept by their colonizers/"uplifters" who ill get to later) but it seems like they also have a network of bacteria in their body just to manage the more reactive and damaging oxides that form, and to remove/convert the spent manganese into connective tissue and aid in bone maintenance.

They have higher calorie needs from keeping up the body temp and recycling/removing all that stuff, alongside just being big in general. Alongside a lot of sleeping, they also basically just eat all the time (compared to other species) to compensate, though their mammal-like fat retention and other metabolic adaptations for scarcity mean that they can handle long periods without resources(though this causes increasingly compounded problems for them)

Some other downsides include low tolerance of changes in oxygen levels (particularly low) and temperature levels, and poor adaptation to environments outside of their biosphere/without all the microorganisms since these things upset their delicate balance.

(part of why so many tribes were nomadic was/is to chase temperate and ‘warm’ seasons, even though to us that’s still cold. Prectikar living in human dominated areas often just take a lot of supplements with beneficial bacteria in them to cope with thr lack of that in their environent, and any food printers need an 'ink' cartridge containing these things or else theyre basically useless.),

They also experience faster general wear and tear from having constant complex and intensive chemical reactions(sometimes with dangerous chemicals) going on in their bloodstream and tissues.

( I’m not a biochemist, so if there’s any glaring issues with this then just explain it away to yourself with ‘they have a gland for that’ or ‘just don’t think about it actually’ which is what I did. I just wanted the fun color with a metal that can reversibly bond with oxygen :). )

They have one nasal passageway for smell/air and a second, bigger cavity for just vocalization (which they can’t breathe in from as easily).

This second cavity is between their first set of eyes, and has a phonic lip structure inside to produce higher pitched sounds.

The upper nasal opening has muscled nostrils that act as lips to further help control sound. The noise coming from here sounds very high to them, but to us it sounds like a nasally human voice, broken uobhere and there with squeaks, buzzes, and clicks).

They can pitch this nose voice very high, closer to dolphin-like clicking noises but not quite echolocation level.

Their throat vocal cords by their air sac are very long and thick, used for making very deep noises that carry long distances.

However, the vocal control they have through their mouth is very poor due to this and the inarticulate lips and tongue they have, and due to the more limited air they can bring in and out of it, so when speaking only through their mouth they sound a lot like seals or dogs and can only really go in short bursts before having to refill the sac.

Most of their languages are spoken with the nose and mouth sounds in tandem, where the high and low mix to make a more even sounding voice.

It’s fairly easy to understand them, but nearly impossible for us to truly speak any of their native languages, and if they wanted to they could also just start making sounds we cant hear.

They see it as strange that humans and other species speak with a single tone without difficulty.

The red flaps pictured on the drawing of their mouth and nasal passages can be moved to seal off the passage and direct airflow elsewhere.

The big red one in their throat acts as a “diaphragm” to fill and empty the air sac (which is left over from when their digestive and respiratory tracts were more connected like ours, but time in the water heavily shifted it to a more ‘blowhole’ type outline to help them breathe and vocalize from the surface).

The other flap by the air sac and its vocal cords moves upwards to block off the digestive tract whenever the mouth or nose is opened to allow air to be drawn in by this diaphragm.

The two red flaps making a pinched shape can move independently or with the other red flap, but never at the same time with each other. The main airway is always separate from the digestive tract, though the flap to the middle, non vocal nasal passage can be moved so that it’s a part of either the vocal nasal passage to draw in air or the air sac part to act as another resonance chamber.

Air can be drawn in by the diaphragm via open mouth and through the nose via open top red flap at the same time, and can be released at the same time, resulting in their near continuous double speak sound they use for their own language.

Their characteristic large tusks are retractable and housed in a cone-shaped bony socket on the side of their jaw.

A muscle is attached to the bony root of the tooth, and pushes it out. As it slides towards the front of the mouth, the cone socket narrows and wedges a protrusion on the tooth into a hole in the socket, and then the muscle stiffens, locking it in there.

When the tusk retracts, the muscle quickly jimmies the tooth forward then draws it back to get it out of the hole, and then pulls it back into the wider part of the socket.

This is mainly because their tusks are ever growing (but very slowly) but not great at self sharpening, and are their main weapon in self defense and hunting,so it seems this just happened to keep them safe.

If a tusk is broken, as long as it was not cracked at the root, it can be regrown with extensive time in the socket, but otherwise they stay safely stowed in da socket where the majority of its sharp edge can stay protected from chewing and other mouth stuff. Tusks won't start growing in until their teenage years.

They are primarily bipedal/ quadrupedal and switch between the two occasionally.

Knuckle walking helps distribute their top-heavy weight and give them more balance for long and short distance, while walking upright gives them better visibility, less stress on their neck/upper back, and quicker but unsteadier movement.

Their gallop/sprint utilizes both arms and legs to propel them forward in a gait halfway between a bear and a gorilla (since their big mid arms are set like a bears) to overtake prey after an ambush or drive them into the rest of the pack waiting elsewhere. Quad walking also helps them get around in buildings meant for species half their size.

Their hands are some of their only places without hair, but as they age, they loose it on their arms and face too.

Prectikar have different uses for each of their pairs of limbs, and have for all stages of their evolution.

The front ones specialized for grappling prey and grabbing things, and so have a ‘sprawling’ shoulder position like humans and have hands with relatively nimble fingers, the outer two are angled inwards but can also move in a pamprodactyl ish fashion (which acts as their version of a thumb, and lets them switch from big to little grabbing motions) .

Their mid limbs used to be wings with hands, and still have a basically zygodactyl finger position that was helpful for holding onto branches (with the backwards facing finger), but over time they have been converted into terrestrial knuckle-walking limbs, with the one that swings back and forth being brought forwards to walk or swung back to adjust grip on big things they want to move or for balance on unstable terrain like ice . The fingers on this one are big and clumsy, pretty much only useful for digging, walking, or slashing.

Their back limbs also used to be for grasping but were mainly counterbalances, but have now turned into plantigrade walking limbs (and much like humans, that’s pretty much all they use them for). All have nonretractable claws.

Prectikar are viviparous and usually give birth to litters of up to 8.

They have a specific mating season, where their dimorphic traits will become more pronounced.

Males in rut will shed the feathers on their throat sac region and it will become a bright ambery yellow color, and they will also grow in longer feathers on their butt region (in a fan shape for display purposes. The dont have a true post anal tail like humans).

They will also develop some of that pinkish orange/yellow on their chest skin. Females go throguh estrus cycles and will also grow a more prominent butt feather crest, as well as some very long feathers around their neck, shoulders, and abdomen for babies to hold onto.

Their skin patches turn a much brighter shade of yellow to help direct newborns to where they can feed from. Once they give birth, they will start making an oily and thick secretion across the skin patch which is collected into a divot which the infant licks from. Part of why the babies hold onto them is so they can constantly lick the 'milk'so they can grow.

Newborns come out blind and hairless, but quickly grow in a thick down and open their eyes so they can climb on mom.

Once they're weaned, they'll drop off and use the muscles they gained hanging on and climbing to start moving with the adults. They grow very fast, and canes are a common sight in teens to help deal with the rapid bone and muscle growth.

Usually, it is only during this season where chest/skin related nudity standards change to be more conservative, since showing those colors means youre down to fuck and so doing that is usually restricted to in private with their partner or for bachelors.

They have very strict binaries for sex and gender based on this seasonal divide and religion.

Most tribes show gender identity through a piercing on their lower nose for male or chin for female (so dont worry, the main guy up there is showing some male presenting chest outside of the mating season, so hes fine).

Normally, only some cultures pierce their ears, which are like if owls had a little mobile flap of outer ear to swivel I stead of their whole head. Very little of it is actually flesh, and the sound is mainly captured by the feathers around it.

While they have a reputation otherwise, Prectikar are highly social within their tribal/family groups.

They regularly allogroom, greet each other with hugs, and usually travel in sibling groups. Households are multi generational.

They have a reputation as standoffish or irritable because they take things very differently and have other standards/specific body language truggers. also most other species treat them differently/with fear by default.

their upper pair of eyes is larger and focused on long distance vision while their lower pair is for close up vision, creatign a bifocal effect for them when using both at once.

Aaaaaand that oretty much everything, I think. I'll post some other arts related to them soon, but consider this the Master Post on the things you should know about them!!

[starsifter]

Ford x Reader dating headcanons, some are like POTs specific and trans masc specific

When you first start dating, he has no idea what he's doing really, he starts showing physical affection in very awkward ways like ruffling your hair and just sorta grabbing your arms and giving you random hugs

He's very paranoid about Bill hurting you, so he doesn't let you sleep in his bed with him for the longest time, but he won't tell you why

Once, you fell asleep in his lap and when you woke up he was gone, but you were tucked in nice and neat. When you went looking for him, his bedroom door was locked.

He's insecure about holding your hand, especially in public, worried about what you'll say and what other people will say

His hands are nice and warm to the touch, they feel very soft

He's very insistent that you get up slow so you don't faint or fall, and he keeps you steady when you get dizzy

Normally he doesn't like to be bothered when he's working but he likes it when you sit with him and just exist near him

He's very sensitive to your dysphoria and relates to it, he makes an extra effort to ensure you don't experience it because of him

He likes to read the things he's writing out loud and narrate his research when you're around

Once, you had a very strange dream with him in it, but he won't admit that you'd somehow shared dreams because he has no idea how it happened

He mumbles a lot in his sleep, a lot of sad and confusing things, if you ask about it he just brushes it off, he doesn't want you to worry

He loves hearing about your dreams, he's very invested in whether or not a "triangle guy" features in them

Sometimes, after a rough night of no sleep, he asks you to read to him because he finds your voice very calming

He falls asleep on top of books often, and in your lap or with his head nestled on the crook of your shoulder, he's a very light sleeper

He's up late often, studying and working, you like staying up with him, to which his response is to begrudgingly go to bed just so you'll go

He has very strange hygiene habits, burns his beard off instead of shaving it, he washes his hands and uses hand sanitizer on them before he eats, he wears gloves to cook

Once you asked him to trim your hair and he just kinda burnt the excess off, he took you to a barber afterwards and paid for them to fix it, he was horrifically embarrassed when you explained what happened to the barber

Sometimes you shower together, in a nonsexual way, he helps you clean your back and hair, normally he takes scalding hot showers but he turns the heat down so you don't pass out

He takes you on a date in the alien ship and holds you while he uses the magnet gun to slide you both down

He excitedly shows you everything, including the deactivated security bots, he accidentally reactivates them while knocking on them and assuring you they're "perfectly safe"

He stands in front of you and you hide, he knows you can't control your heart rate, and you both make it out unscathed

If you get into an altercation with any anomalies he immediately jumps to take the hits for you, to his own detriment

He's embarrassed accepting help from you to treat his wounds, but he sits still, biting his tongue if anything hurts and never letting you know

He always has an extensive first aid kit on him when you're around, and he likes to keep track of your meds, but he won't bug you about them if you don't want him to

He tests out pet names on you, recording your responses to them, he called you sugar plum once, never again

He likes to call you dear and dearest (and babe, although a bit awkwardly) in public

He calls you dove, starshine, beloved, honey, and bunny in private, he slipped up once and Stanley never let it go

He teaches you how to shoot, and makes sure you're carrying protection on you whenever you go out, usually his modified bear spray

He refuses to text so you're always receiving random calls from him, they're typically never about anything important, he just likes to hear your voice and know that you're okay

He gives you his coat when you're cold and when you trip and fall or become harmed in any way he worries incessantly, he treats all your wounds very carefully and says everything he's going to do before he does it, always asking if it's okay

He smells like pine needles, smoke, pen ink, and generally has a nice outside-smelling musk about him

He has dozens of coats, turtlenecks, and sweaters, he lets you borrow them whenever you want, they always smell like him

He forgets to take his coat and boots off around the house, he wears socks with cat patterns all over them

When you argue he tends to pace a lot, he's very stubborn and has a hard time seeing when he's wrong

He can get a little possessive and protective at times, and you argue about it, eventually he concedes, knowing you're right

One time you came home very late at night and he was out looking for you, Stanley stayed behind knowing you'd come back, he tells you his brother really cares about you and he's rarely ever seen him so worried

Stan warns you not to break Ford's heart, if you ever tell Ford about this, they argue about it

Stan and Ford argue and fight a lot, but they're very close, and they try to not argue in front of you

Ford is awkward around his grandniece and grandnephew, but you can tell he cares a lot about his family and he makes an effort to make sure they like you too. Mabel is obsessed with your relationship, it gets to be a bit much at times.

The end :D

[multiheadcanons]

TF2 MERCS AND EYES

scout: blue-raspberry blue. artificially blue. matches his energy drinks. uv reactive from the mass amounts of chemicals in his bonk. they glow (quite literally) when he’s planning some nefarious shit. narrow, and upturned. he always looks mischievous. blue like a neon sign. his eyes are probably brighter.

soldier: ��blue like a cloudless american morning babeyy. big fuckin eyeballs. there is not a flaw in the brilliance of the blue in his eyes, not a speck of green, nothing to break the unyielding blue. when his eyes are not wide with crazed bloodlust, he actually looks quite friendly. like a dog. a large dog with an extensive bite history.

pyro: they… are eyes. and they do… work. has an astigmatism. no peripheral vision at all. most everything in the real world is a blur to them and no, they don’t wear glasses, or contacts. their job hasn’t been harder without them, so it’s not something they see as necessary. if you look deep enough into the mask, you can tell the mask is looking back at you.

engineer: i’m gonna stand so tall when i say this. we do not have a canon eye color for engie, so i’m gonna say he is a member of the beautiful brown eyes committee. big doll eyes with dark, murky brown irises, like staring at an oil spill. they almost look out of place when he takes his goggles off. nobody expects to see two large pools of ink on his face, even as the sun hits them it’s just darkness. darkness and whirlpools and popped gas bubbles in the murk.

demo: the chapter president of the beautiful brown eye club. warm, like scotch and spices. has flecks of a bright copper within the iris, and a dark ring around it. got those eye freckles. such unimaginably long lashes, he’s so pretty when he’s looking up at you through them. the other socket is empty. he doesn’t see the point in having a glass eye. that doesn’t give him his sight back, just makes others feel better about themselves. prefers having eyepatches. has one in every color to match anything. the team is always taken aback when he wears a different colored eyepatch. and not to be biased… but they like him in red.

heavy: such a pale blue, it’s stunning. he’s got that husky issue sometimes where his teammates don’t want to approach him because he looks so mad. pale blue like the desperate search for the sky through a mist. pale blue like aquamarine. splashes of a soft, dull green just outside the pupil. downturned. wears reading glasses. they’re so light they generally take color from reflections in his eyes. they can look grey or hazel, even, really just depends on what he’s wearing.

medic: scarily brilliant blue. like electric blue like a lightning strike blue. the only thing that protects you from a horrific stare is his glasses. the glare from his glasses helps so much. has a dark blue ring around his iris that seeps into the main blue; which is icy. it just makes that icy blue brighter. if you look in his eyes too long you will get lost. the blues all start to swirl eventually. he’s got that husky syndrome bad. he always looks mischievous at best and downright terrifying at worst. his glasses don’t fit anymore, so if he gets jostled too much they fall off.

sniper: i will once again invite hardship into my life with this: snipes got hazel eyes. they are mainly, a pale green dominant hazel, with touches of amber near his pupils and the spattering of a dull blue on the outer edge. they almost look blue against the red, because it’s against the red of his uniform that you can tell his eyes aren’t entirely green. and with the blue of the opposing uniform, they look green, because you can tell they’re not entirely blue.

spy: member of the human-looking blue eyes club. dark, dull and flawed, specks of brassy green throughout the irises. normally half lidded because he is exhausted. also usually bloodshot. long, curled eyelashes. his canthal tilt is zero. his face is normally set very neutrally, so his eyes don’t make him look nefarious and distrustful. frankly he can’t hide anything behind his eyes. they’re very expressive when combined with his eyebrows.

[personastrologyhub]

Healing Your Inner Child with the Moon Persona Chart

Much effort has been made to conceptualize planets as symbolic figures or human personalities.

In astrology, the Moon Persona Chart introduces us to the Moon as the eternal child, an archetype of emotions, instinctual needs, and the purest form of our vulnerabilities. Yet a compelling question arises: can the Moon ever truly mature? Is it fated to remain forever in the realm of emotional cycles, trapped in perpetual immaturity or can it grow, evolve, and integrate into our adult selves?

Traditionally, the Moon is viewed as a caretaker, protective in form. It corresponds to the mother figure, and that direct connection with our emotional instincts. But this nurturing nature can trap it in an endless cycle of emotional dependency, preventing it from transcending the patterns of immaturity and fear it has inherited.

It is this tension—between care and growth, between past and potential—that the Moon Persona Chart helps us navigate. Just as tools like therapy and somatic healing play a valuable role in spiritual practices, I think this chart provides a fresh perspective.

This chart is not merely a snapshot of emotional patterns; it is a doorway into our inner child—those parts that form our temper tantrums, and what floods our chest with warmth. That recoils at a hostile and harsh tone, presents playful enthusiasm when we're doing something that lights up our soul.

That tender, raw part of ourselves that still longs for unconditional love and safety. It's also that innocent, curious and imaginative part of ourselves that often gets buried beneath the weight of the world. It illuminates the shape of our heart and how we seek comfort, nurturance and acceptance. Your inner child is either in the present with you or you are frozen in the past with them and so the Moon Persona chart is about understanding the emotional patterns we carry, how we respond to our needs, and how we can find healing by reconnecting with the forgotten parts of ourselves while integrating it into a more stable and evolved self.

The Moon as the Inner Child

In astrology, the Moon governs our emotions, instincts, and unconscious responses. It symbolises our earliest experiences of care and nurturing, shaping how we perceive and seek security, and how we express our feelings. However, these emotional imprints are often tied to the past, rooted in childhood memories—both tender and painful—and these patterns govern our emotional responses. The Moon Persona Chart is not simply an extension of your natal Moon placement; it is an independent chart that embodies just your inner child/ inner emotional world.

A Moon in Cancer, deeply soulful, sensitive, and emotional, might represent an inner child who longs for emotional closeness or/and thrives on nurturing their connections.

A hurt Cancer Moon may retreat into its shell and never fully emerge again, enjoy the comforts of their own space.

On the other hand, a Moon in Aquarius may be more detached, finding it difficult to express emotions freely and building barriers around their heart. This placement could reflect a child who feels detached or struggled to connect emotionally, deep down was yearning for acceptance in their uniqueness but never got it.

A real life example is Kim Kardashian, who, has her Moon in Virgo in her MPC, which reflects feelings of safety related to order and organisation. It's safe to say she is very organised and takes pride in that.

The Moon’s Sign: The Emotional Tone

The first thing we do when we cast our Moon persona chart is look to where our moon placement is.

The moon in the MPC is the ultimate reflection of the inner world/inner child. it's that part of you that never stops yearning for safety, comfort , connection and validation. It's that 6 year old holding up a drawing to every passerby hoping for a smile of acknowledgement. It's tied deeply to our emotional imprint and early life and embodies the raw and reactive parts of ourselves that seek TLC. It carries the undercurrent's unresolved childhood patterns that actively resist exposure and create shadow areas in the unconscious that can influence conscious behavior, sometimes destructively. The moon can show you how you instinctively react to emotional needs, stress, and relationships. The moon in this chart can also be a repository of emotional memories and patterns - and it carries the weight of our first connections which creates a blueprint of our inner emotional blueprint we carry into adulthood.

For example if your Moon is in the 4th House in this chart, it might indicate an emotional connection to home and family but also a burden of unsolved familial expectations

A moon square saturn may reveal emotional suppression, stemming from early experiences of invalidation or excessive responsibility.

A moon conjunction Uranus may reveal sudden unpredictable emotional shifts while Moon trine Jupitar reflects optimism and resilience in difficult times.

The sign offers clues about emotional strengths and vulnerabilities. For example, an Aries Moon might need to learn patience and self-soothing, while a Virgo Moon may need to release the pressure to always "getting it right.

A Pisces moon must learn to anchor its dreams in reality, turning imagination into creation and transcendence into presence and that compassion does not mean losing one self.

The Moon’s House: Where the Inner Child Dwells

The house placement of the Moon in the persona chart reveals the area of life where emotional needs are most pronounced.

I have a Pisces Moon in 11th House, and this reflects a feeling of fulfilment though connections with likeminded individuals. I love to feel part of a community, and this is the primary reason I started this blog. I like to feel connected to social ideals and the collective, all of which the 11th house represents. I’m looking to fulfill my moon by creating a community on here. I feel safe in the embrace of kindred likeminded souls.

Moon in the 4th House: The inner child feels deeply tied to home, family, and roots. Healing might involve addressing unresolved family dynamics.

Moon in the 10th House: The child seeks recognition and emotional fulfillment through achievements or public roles, often feeling pressure to perform.

Understanding the house placement helps pinpoint where emotional nurturing is needed most.

Aspects to the Moon in the persona chart highlight the dynamics that shape emotional responses and needs.

Moon conjunct Venus: A natural ability to find comfort in love and beauty, but with a possible tendency to seek validation through relationships.

Moon square Saturn: Emotional needs may feel restricted or invalidated, there's tension between emotional needs and conscious identity. A child who feels misunderstood or disconnected from their external self leading to feelings of inadequacy or fear of vulnerability.

The ultimate goal of the Moon Persona Chart is to guide the inner child toward emotional maturity. This does not mean losing the innocence or creativity of the childlike self but rather integrating its needs with the wisdom of the adult self.

Acknowledging Vulnerabilities

Healing begins with recognizing where the inner child feels wounded or unseen. I’ve created a FREE journaling prompt to explore the roots of emotional patterns particularly those tied to childhood experience and trauma.

The Moon is also a source of creativity, playfulness, and intuition. By reconnecting with its lighter side, we can rediscover the joys of spontaneity and emotional connection. Channel intense emotions into creative outlets, such as writing, music to give constructive release.

Emotional maturity involves learning to meet our own needs for safety and comfort, rather than relying solely on external sources. The Moon Persona Chart shows us how to nurture ourselves effectively. Allow yourself to express your emotions freely, cry when you need to cry, Acknowledge when you feel overwhelmed and take a break.

The Moon Persona Chart is a powerful tool for emotional healing and self-discovery. It allows us to see our inner child not as a fragile or incomplete part of ourselves but as a vibrant, essential source of creativity and emotional wisdom. By understanding the Moon in this chart, we can embrace our vulnerabilities, heal our wounds, and guide our inner child toward emotional wholeness.

Much like the Moon itself, we go through cycles—sometimes full and bright, sometimes shadowed and hidden. The Moon Persona Chart teaches us that every phase has value and that true healing comes from honoring the journey of becoming whole. If you would like the free worksheet that I made then comment below and I’ll send it to you.

Thanks for reading

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[diejager]

Johnny with a s/o that shy in the streets but a freak in the streets. She loves giving pleasure, doing anything he wanted. (Love your work)

Cw: smut, bdsm, rope, cuckholding, orgasm denial, sensory deprivation, collaring, puppy play, nipple play, rimming, pegging, anal fingering, riding, anal sex, dom!reader, sub!Soap, tell me if I missed any.

“She’s a shy thing,” were the first words Price used to describe you when Soap brought you to the base for a visit. 

You were glued to him on your short visit, yours softer hands locked between his calloused ones, clinging to him like a lost puppy after finding the perfect caretaker. You spoke with a hushed tone, eyes finding interest on the ground or the dirtied boots they wore so often that it felt like second skin, and smiled shyly. It was a small but adorable grin that made Soap’s heart throb with adoration.

You were a shy creature with people you didn’t know, preferring to keep to yourself - he knew that - but he’d gushed so often about his team and how’d you like them as much as he spewed about his lovely life with you in his arms, welcoming him in the best ways possible when he was off. You nodded at everything Gaz said, flashing him a little smile that made Soap so happy that you got along with them despite your insistence of sticking to his side. You listened intensely to everyone talk, small greetings and formalities before they got to the nitty-gritty of knowing each other. Even Ghost, Soap’s stubborn friend, had broke down and shared a bit about himself.

But Price was wrong, he was farthest from the truth about you being a shy thing in a whole. You were - in simplest words - a freak. When he expected you to be as soft and tender as you were in the kitchen, dining room or cuddling in his arms, you were a beast in bed, a wild and dangerous thing that left him panting and wanting without a lick of release if you felt particularly cruel. Truly, you were a bit timid, a loving person and the best he could ask to have as a lover, but you were also the strongest person he’s ever known. 

You could have him on his knees and he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, lapping at your feet with his ass arched up like a birch in heat —he might as well be with how much he listened to you, letting you tie him up and string him however you wanted. You had him at every beck and call, a quick whistle from you and he’d come bouncing around the corner and into bed, stripped and prone for any manhandling from you. You would tie him to the headboard in the softest rope you could find, promising that you’d take care of him and that he was so pretty when he was restrained, his cock hard and angry between his legs, twitching and throbbing with precious pre rolling down his engorge head from the black cock ring. 

Sometimes you’d wrap a soft lace over his eyes, blinding him from seeing your after you strip teased him, leaving him writhing and panting around his ring gag. You denied him his release, testing him with every teasing touch over his sensitive nipples - he always was more reactive when blindfolded, depending on his touch to feel and understand the world around him - pinching and pulling at the piercings he impulsively got. You’d ride him to tears, wetting the blindfold in a darker shade, using his body as a vessel for your pleasure, fondling with his heavy balls or pulling his perky nipples until he milked him dry of cum, leaving his cock spurting thin ropes of water cum.

Other times you had him on a leash, a red collar wrapped around his neck that gave you leverage whenever you pegged him, splitting him in two on the thick strap on you wore to plough into him. All that led up to it was an extensive hour of foreplay that left him needily barking at you. You had him collared, on his knees and elbows, back arched and rutting back against your lube-soaked fingers. He moaned when you rimmed him, circling the wrinkled ring of his ass and feeling it twitch around the tail you plugged him with to ready him for a night of debauchery and pleasure. Foreplay: stretching him with your fingers and tapping his prostrate to loosen him up, and care were important part of your book, you vowed to care about your “cute pup”.

“Aye, ” Soap nodded, throwing an arm around you and pulling you closer by the hip, “Aren’t ye, hen?”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @0alk0msan @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[utilitycaster]

So something you’ve mentioned in a previous ask about how some of the players have decided to play characters that are more go-with-the-flow or designed to specifically take a step back, and I’m curious if you think that the fact that those players (Travis, Marisha, Liam) taking on a sort of sideline role, has also sort of affected the party’s decisiveness and by extension of the campaign because of it? Not to say that they shouldn’t try that different kinds of characters because they should and they have the liberty to try it out for themselves, but with no one else to really step up, it leaves the party in kind of a mess.

From previous campaigns, Travis and Liam have always been hard drivers of decisions and direction, in part of the characters they play having clear goals or strong personalities in knowing what they want (Marisha I think this applies to more for c2 since it was something Keyleth had to grow into as a leader over the course of c1). In contrast, Laura and Ashley tend to be players who tends to be indecisive in the face of a decision because they don’t want to make the wrong one. This has been a through line since Laura as far back as c1 because I distinctly remember a Talks Machina episode where Laura talked about how for a moment she thought she made the “wrong” choice with Saundor, but then later on came to the conclusion that she made the “right” one.

With Laura and Ashley playing characters that are spotlighted so heavily in the plot of this campaign, this indecision weighs as heavily because they play characters are the hard drivers while the others (outside of Ashton) are reactive rather than proactive or for Oyrm’s case, specifically and deliberately by Orym’s own choice, more quiet snd sidelined. I think Travis has had Chetney to try and take center stage to push a couple times throughout the campaign, and I think Travis did it with Grog too in c1 when the party took too long to come to a conclusion and he would decide something to get the party moving, but there’s a lot of empty time and space on that stage in c3 where in previous campaigns someone would pretty consistently take that spotlight.

I think some players are generally more inclined than others to lead or be in the driver’s seat and some players who don’t want that position majority of the time, and that’s perfectly okay. It’s just a matter of experimenting with what works and what doesn’t, and I think for BH, it doesn’t. And I don’t think it should be a requirement from some players to play a specific role all the time, but I think it’s important to at least acknowledge it and comprise, allowing players to play to their stengths and cover others’ weaknesses to make the table and story flow and work

oh definitely. I think you said this well, and I think Keyleth actually did do a lot of pushing the plot in C1 specifically because she was in game terrified of doing the wrong thing and explored that. Keyleth was, even before they officially began dating, someone whose calls Vax trusted, and she in turn supported him, and that led to (for example) Vox Machina choosing not to ally with the Clasp (which a number of party members supported or were neutral towards) and going after Raishan immediately following Thordak, despite the risk. Keyleth was terrified of making the wrong decision, but crucially, she had a very clear idea of what she wanted to do - she just didn't always believe what she wanted was good, and that conflict is what tripped her up. She was extremely willing to go to the mat over such topics as, for example, pragmatic alliances with dubious people (Raishan); it's just that sometimes this resulted in her being overruled and having to put up with said alliance, and struggling with that.

I don't think it's bad to be a player who wants to go with the flow and explore personal relationships without being a major decision maker. I tend towards being a decisive player, but I do not think it's the only way to be. But this does become an issue when the DM assigns you the role of Decider, and it becomes more of an issue when other players, quite reasonably, had chosen to step back. And I will personally admit - I've repeatedly tried to play laid-back/chaotic characters in D&D and it simply fucking fails. I lack the patience to fuck around endlessly. This is also, frankly, why I don't personally dump intelligence: playing as a character who is not curious and constantly trying to learn about the world simply isn't fun for me. If I were at a table that was going through endless debates with zero progress or resolution like Bells Hells, I have to admit I'd have long since said "hey. Is this...fun for anyone? Because I hate it." and I do not presume to know what the CR Cast thinks of it, and I really believe that "it's our game" means "don't make that presumption" but I can say it's been pretty widely panned among viewers, and it is valid to say "you can do what makes you happy in your game but wow this sucks as a story." And so yes the fact that the people who usually cut that kind of discussion short have stepped back, and the people who are reluctant to cut that type of discussion short are the ones who ultimately must make the decisions is, undeniably, a factor here.

Honestly, I and others have called this the third character dip or similar things and I think it's fair to say that a lot of cast members are, or were, in this campaign, either playing to their weak spot or avoiding a party-carrying personal strength. Players like Liam, Travis, or Marisha (or, to give a few other well-known examples, Emily Axford, Aabria Iyengar, and Lou Wilson) are in my experience less common in the same way that DMs are less common than players. It's more work, more responsibility, and people are more likely to blame you if something goes wrong. And I get that it can feel like you are steamrolling quieter players, and I do think talk away from the game table is important to ensure you aren't, but much of the time, when I've talked to people, they've been like "no, I would like to play someone who is a huge dumbass who can go off and goof around [paraphrased, and I mean this affectionately; I am thinking specifically of my brother's sweet summer INT 8 half-orc monk-barbarian] and I appreciate that you are filling a role that I would not pesonally find fun" (I also specifically like playing healers/support and DON'T like playing burst damage).

I do want to note, and I did this elsewhere: this hesitancy is nowhere to be found when I've seen Ashley and Laura (and various other players who are at times less bold - Sam being an obvious example) play in shorter form works. Arlo Black is a standout in Candela; both Tris and Emhira were fantastic. This is part of why I think an extended short-form only break would be good after this campaign ends. I do think it is ultimately a flaw of the campaign for forcing Fearne and Imogen into these positions when I do not think it's what the players really wanted for the characters (again, speculative); but like, they are in those positions, and the time to have said something was a while ago. I mean if that's the theme - that it's unfair and unkind you shouldn't have to be the one who makes the choice - that's fine, but the thematically apt thing to do is to make the choice anyway, with intent.