#soft introspection

[aventurineswife]

I have a request, what if the reader was a shapeshifting creature called a basalisc, she has to eat residual elemental energy in order to use her abilities to change her appearance. She escaped from Dottore and ended up in Natlan, she was using her human appearance when she accidentally got caught in a wire trap and revealed her true appearance, luckily Ororon was nearby, but the reader wasn't able to transform back into her human appearance completely because they hadn't eaten any type of elemental energy for a while. https://youtu.be/1etdx9-BbQU?si=SMQcwZ0JcWZ63VP5

To Be Named, To Be Known

Summary: After escaping from Dottore, you—a shapeshifting basalisc—find yourself in Natlan, struggling to maintain your human form due to a lack of elemental energy. When you accidentally trigger a wire trap, your true form is revealed, leaving you vulnerable. Fortunately, Ororon, a mysterious outcast from the Masters of the Night-Wind tribe, finds you. Instead of reacting with fear or hostility, he offers you his understanding—and the energy you need to regain your form.

Tags: Ororon x Reader, Shapeshifter!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Introspection, Kind Stranger Vibes, Found Family Themes (Implied).

Warnings: Mild Body Horror (Reader's shifting form), Mentions of Past Experimentation & Abuse (Dottore’s involvement), Themes of Identity & Acceptance, Mild Injury (Reader caught in a trap).

[Header credits]

The wire trap snapped around your ankle, its metallic twang cutting through the dense jungle silence. You barely had time to react before you lost your footing, the undergrowth beneath you giving way. Your body twisted midair, instincts screaming, but there was nothing to hold on to—nothing to stop the inevitable. The wind rushed past as you crashed onto the damp earth below, leaves crunching under your weight.

And then, something worse happened.

Your human form flickered.

A shudder ran through your body as the illusion wavered, like ripples on water, before finally breaking apart. Your skin darkened, shifting into the textured scales of your true form. Your limbs lengthened slightly, talons peeking from your fingers, and your pupils turned slit-like, glowing faintly with a residual, hungry energy. The shift was incomplete—stuck between forms—because you hadn’t fed on elemental energy in too long.

Panic shot through you. You reached for the trap, tugging at the wire, but your strength wasn’t what it should have been. If anyone saw you like this—

A rustling sound. Someone was nearby.

You froze, heart pounding. Then, from the thick shadows between the trees, a voice—smooth, even, and laced with something unreadable.

"Ah. A name misplaced in the wind, a shape caught between dreams. How strange. How... fitting."

A figure stepped into the clearing.

He was tall, his presence neither imposing nor soft—just there, like a shadow moving with the night breeze. His navy-blue hair, streaked with pale highlights, shimmered faintly under the filtered sunlight. One magenta eye, one cyan/dark blue. A deep blue marking under his left eye, and capeq—black, bat-like, shifting slightly as if adjusting to some unseen current in the air.

Ororon.

You had heard whispers of him—a recluse from the Masters of the Night-Wind tribe, a man who named things as easily as others breathed. And yet, here he was, watching you with the patience of someone who had seen strange things before and had never feared them.

You struggled again, your breath uneven. “Don’t—” you managed, voice hoarse, but you weren’t sure what you were asking of him. Don’t look? Don’t come closer? Don’t see?

Ororon tilted his head slightly. Then, he crouched down in front of you, one hand resting on his knee, the other tracing a vague shape in the dirt.

"Trapped," he mused, as if testing the word on his tongue. "But not caught. No, not caught at all. The wind still moves, even when tangled in branches."

You blinked, struggling to make sense of his words.

He reached out, and for a moment, you flinched. But he didn’t touch you. Instead, his fingers brushed the wire, inspecting it.

"This is a name, too, in its own way," he murmured. "A thing that calls out, a thing that binds. But it is not your name. No, yours is something else."

Your breathing was still ragged, but you forced yourself to speak. “I—I need elemental energy,” you admitted, ashamed of your weakness. “I can’t… shift back until I get some.”

Ororon’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he closed his eyes, as if listening to something only he could hear. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

"Names need sustenance, just as bodies do."

Then, without another word, he stood and turned, cape shifting as he moved toward the trees.

For a moment, you thought he was leaving, but then he raised a hand. A moment later, a faint pulse of energy flickered in his palm—a harmless wisp of air, but filled with enough residual energy that you felt it hum against your senses.

He turned back to you.

"Eat," he said simply. "Or do you prefer a different kind of offering?"

You hesitated. You weren’t used to kindness. Certainly not from strangers. Certainly not after Dottore.

But Ororon—he wasn’t looking at you with fear. Not with disgust, nor curiosity, nor pity. Just… patience. As if he had already accepted the shape you had taken, the shape you would take, and any you might be in between.

Slowly, you reached for the offered energy. The moment it entered your system, warmth spread through your limbs, and you felt the shift begin again—scales retreating, talons withdrawing, skin smoothing into human form once more.

Ororon watched, expression unreadable.

"Ah," he said finally, once you were fully changed. "And now the wind moves freely again."

You exhaled, steadying yourself, before looking up at him. “…Thank you.”

He gave you a long look, then nodded.

"Your name," he said suddenly, "what is it?"

You hesitated. The name you had once been given by Dottore was not one you wished to keep. The name you had called yourself since your escape was one that still felt foreign on your tongue.

And yet, Ororon asked not with ownership, but with understanding. As if he knew the weight names could carry.

“…I don’t know,” you admitted.

He considered that.

Then, after a moment, he turned his gaze to the sky, as if consulting the wind itself.

"Then perhaps it will find you," he murmured, "when it is ready."

And somehow, that was enough.

[mythboundcal]

When the Ice Answers Yuri on Ice Fanfic by MythboundCal

The music begins. But Yuri doesn’t hear it.

He hears breath. His own—ragged, sharp, then steady. Like wind through glass.

He steps onto the ice like it’s a love letter. As if saying it without words might make it true. That he’s strong. That he’s worthy. That he wants this.

The first glide is everything. It’s not movement. It’s memory.

And just like that— The letter becomes a vow.

He thinks of late nights and early mornings. Of Victor’s hand on his back. Of the sound his blades make when he finally lets go.

The rink becomes a galaxy. The spotlight, his moonlight. And overhead, the flashing of cameras Spirals into stars.

He gives himself to the moment. Every stumble, every sweat-stained failure, Every heartbreak etched into his spine— He offers it all to the ice.

And the ice? The ice answers.

By the final spin, he’s not skating anymore. He’s flying. Not to escape. But to arrive.

When he stops, there’s silence.

And then— Applause.

But none of that matters. Because now he knows:

He was never performing. He was becoming.

[lady-arcane]

The Strongest Man and His War with Sleep :

Sleep is a mercy he cannot afford.

Gojo Satoru has never been good at resting.

It’s not just about the nightmares—the ones that creep in like thieves, whispering names of the dead in his ears. It’s not just about the fear—that if he lets go, if he closes his eyes for too long, the world will crumble without him watching.

No, it’s deeper than that.

Sleep is vulnerability. And vulnerability is something the strongest man alive is not allowed.

So he doesn’t sleep. Not properly. Not often.

Instead, he runs himself ragged, burns his energy down to the wick, pretends exhaustion is something that only happens to other people. He hides behind laughter, behind endless motion, behind the overwhelming force of his own presence.

Because to stop—to be still—means to listen to his own thoughts.

And there is nothing more terrifying than that.

-----

You notice it, of course.

The way he’s always moving, always talking, always shifting from one thing to the next like silence might swallow him whole. The way he rubs at his temples when he thinks no one is looking. The way he leans against doorframes just a little too long, like standing upright is a battle he’s barely winning.

"You don’t sleep, do you?" you ask one night, watching him sprawl out on your couch like he owns it.

He grins, too wide, too easy. "Who needs sleep when you’ve got these?" He gestures vaguely at his eyes, like the sheer force of his existence makes him immune to basic human needs.

You roll your eyes. "That’s not how bodies work, Satoru."

He shrugs, lazy, dramatic. "Maybe yours."

You don’t press the issue. Not yet.

But you see the way his hands still for a fraction of a second. The way his smile flickers, just briefly, like a neon sign struggling to stay lit.

And you know.

You know that beneath all that brightness, beneath the godlike arrogance and the infuriating charm, there is a man running on borrowed time.

A man who is tired.

-----

When Gojo does sleep, it’s not gentle.

It’s not peaceful, like in movies, where lovers rest entangled in soft sheets and morning light. It’s not slow and dreamy, where sleep comes like a lover’s touch, warm and welcome.

No.

When Gojo Satoru sleeps, it’s like something in him collapses.

Like a puppet with cut strings. Like a body giving out after carrying too much for too long.

It doesn’t happen often—not really. But when it does, it’s as if his body is making up for years of neglect in one go. He sleeps like the dead.

No amount of shaking, nudging, or even yelling will wake him. You’ve tried. Once, you even held a mirror under his nose to make sure he was still breathing.

(He was. But it was unnerving, seeing him so still.)

-----

"You should go to bed," you tell him one night, watching as he leans against the counter, eyes half-lidded.

He smirks. "What, you worried about me?"

You don’t bother answering. Instead, you grab his wrist, tugging him toward the bedroom.

"I don’t need—"

"Shut up, Satoru."

Surprisingly, he does.

He lets you drag him, lets you push him onto the bed, lets you pull the covers over him like he’s something fragile, something worth protecting.

And when you card your fingers through his hair—slow, soothing, like a lullaby made of touch—he doesn’t protest.

His breath evens out. His body melts against the mattress. And before you can even make a joke about it, he’s gone.

Fast asleep.

Completely, utterly, unmovable.

-----

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, is impossible to wake up.

You learn this the hard way.

You try shaking him—nothing.

You try calling his name—still nothing.

You even flick his forehead, the way he does to others—but he doesn’t so much as twitch.

It’s honestly a little terrifying.

It’s like he trusts you enough to completely let go.

Like, in this moment, in this space, he believes—just for a little while—that he is safe.

And that realization sits heavy in your chest.

Because Gojo Satoru is not a man who allows himself to feel safe.

Not with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Not with the ghosts of the past clawing at his heels.

Not with the knowledge that the moment he closes his eyes, something else might be taken from him.

But here, now, with you—he sleeps.

And that means something.

-----

In the morning, when he finally stirs, stretching like a cat in the sun, he blinks at you blearily.

"You let me sleep," he murmurs, voice thick with something you don’t quite recognize.

You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his wrist. "You needed it."

A pause.

Then, a quiet chuckle. "You didn’t try to wake me, did you?"

You don’t answer.

Because if you admit how hard you tried—how impossible it was—you might have to admit what that means.

Might have to admit that Gojo Satoru, for all his power, is still just a person.

A person who gets tired.

A person who needs rest.

A person who, in the end, just wants to lay down his burdens—if only for a little while.

And somehow, impossibly, he’s chosen to do that with you.

So instead, you smirk, flicking his forehead in revenge.

"Don’t get used to it, Satoru."

His laughter is bright, easy, filling the room like morning light.

But when he pulls you close again, burying his face in your shoulder, you think—maybe, just maybe—he already has.

-----

[minimujina]

wanderer in his season of healing makes me so happy. i love that he is safe enough to become softer again, that he is regaining some of his previously “weak” attributes and finding peace with them. he is becoming measured and introspective, and thinking before he speaks, perhaps a result of both his healing and his melancholy; i think it’s beautiful that he is finally able to safely feel his sadness and process the things that have happened. he is simultaneously finding peace and feeling all the difficult emotions he previously consumed with anger. it is painful, but right.

his sense of humor is still intact, certainly rough around the edges as you’d expect, though much less biting than before. it’s easy to tell that most anything aggressive he says is a front, a front that he is no longer concerned with presenting as absolute truth. perhaps the front is his sense of humor, and his affection is all thinly veiled behind jabs and sour grumbles—he is not willing to divulge the intimate details of that, however, preferring to leave it up to interpretation.

i just think of him and his healing and i feel like if he were to fall in love, it would be such a sweet and gentle and quiet sort of thing, just like his newfound peace. he ponders over many things, brooding by himself as much as he can, though he occasionally allows space for others to brood with him. that, i think, is something unique he may grow in. there are people who cannot tolerate strong emotions in themselves and certainly not in others—but he is the kind of person who can. he is the kind of person you could sit with and exist in your sadness and just be sad, and that’s okay. he’s not offering words of comfort or anything, but he doesn’t need to. anything he’d say would be useless anyways, he knows what it’s like and knows that a presence is enough and existing in your emotions safely is enough. he can appreciate someone who is straightforward about feeling unwell, who doesn’t seek pity, who is alright with sitting in the mud. he will gladly sit with you, then, as long as you don’t expect him to get all mushy about things.

he would do well falling in love quietly, not having to beat around the bush. naturally, pieces would fall into place, and he’d find himself yearning to be in the presence of another in a way he’d never before experienced. he had never really wanted to be around anyone, had never sought out anyone’s presence. but once he has been treated gently, has fallen softly into the arms of a likened soul who has the patience and understanding to touch his rough edges without recoiling, he finds his third space being with this new safe person.

and despite his reluctance to be anything but mysterious and nonchalant, i believe wanderer in his healing season would become quite the romantic. not in the sappy sense, but in the quiet love sense i’ve been talking about. firm and protective, subtle and gentle, almost gentlemanlike if it weren’t for his falsely rotten attitude he enjoyed projecting. romantic in a princely way, in a reverently respectful way, in a grotesquely wholesome way.

only the most chaste touches and kisses; he’s still getting used to affection, and would abhor pda. in private he’s much more open to being touched, because he is safe. if he is not safe, he is deeply conditioned to be conscious of his vulnerabilities, and it’s something that will take a lot of time to override, if even at all. but it’s a massive and beautiful step that he is even willing to receive affection at all, that he would want it from a partner in any amount.

hates eye contact, likes playing with hands. likes tracing veins and creases in skin and freckles and scars; he finds them fascinating, as he has nothing of the sort on his artificial body. one of his unique ways he shows affection is what could be called “studying” you. he likes to brood (with you there; perhaps it could be called parallel brooding) and take your arm and trace all the splotches, imperfections, veins, tendons he can find. he likes to touch more than he likes to be touched i think. perhaps he becomes amusingly selfish in this way. perhaps he is more averse to receiving than giving the affection because his disgust towards himself still lingers. perhaps he still has harmful core beliefs to unlearn.

i think he is full of a love that is strong and quiet, a love that he gives so sparingly, and only in pieces, never all at once. unless, that is, someone comes along and manages to drag it all out like a magnet—his carefully crafted exterior is in pieces, just like that! but oh, once someone is in possession of his love, he begins to know them so intimately, more intimately than he lets on. he so deeply knows who he loves and he knows how to give and to take action and so he does it, silently, for he is adept at perceiving the needs of his loved ones. reading body language and facial expressions is second nature to him at this point; nothing can get past him.

he studies you wordlessly with the expression of a cat who loves and reveres its human, except it’s the kind of cat who believes it owns the human, not the other way around. you’re his responsibility that he has taken on like an extension of himself because he loves you, and you have loved him, and now he hardly wants you out of his sight. his journey of rediscovery and learning self acceptance has been mentally and emotionally arduous, but ever since you came in and made loving him seem so easy, he’s felt much more at peace, and has had the capacity to reflect and process with much more freedom to sincerely feel.

stupid fictional character i hate him i hate him so much he is not real and i hate him

[miamaimania]

"Nastya Rice" by Gosha Pavlenko ᐧ Black on pink silence

[chthonion]

Hello! It's the shy potato again.

I placed the image on hosting. This is my take on your Annatar ✨

https://ibb.co/JW0TsNzD

Thank you for your work, it saved a ton of my days 👉👈

Shy potato! Hello!!!

For everyone else's benefit, please behold:

I love him. The depth of colors in his hair is so good and so nice to look at! Thank you so much for sharing! I am in the midst of Sudden Life Stuff (subcategory: positive but stressful and a lot of work) and this was an absolutely lovely pick me up.

And also a reminder to go eat lunch no matter how busy I am. Because Annatar, too, needs to eat lunch. XD

[javierduffy]

i wanted to try a digital study

[stanford-photography]

Contemplating in Nature By Jeff Stanford, 2024

Buy prints at: https://jeff-stanford.pixels.com/

[atomicrebelfire]

Still on the Line

quiet melancholy, unspoken connection, gentle ache, muted hope

📞 Read on AO3

Buck doesn’t speak. Tommy doesn’t either. But sometimes a phone call with no words can still say everything.

They just listen. Like silence counts for something. Like maybe it’s enough—for now.

— Why wasn’t he invited to the dinner?? So I did the only rational thing, gave him a quiet couch and a phone call. Let’s make him sadder, I guess.

By the end of 8x13, Buck looked so quiet. So subdued. And of course, I went, what if he called Tommy that night? Not to fix anything. Not to explain. Just… to feel his presence.

So yeah, this one’s about loneliness that doesn’t feel bitter. About being tired, and still reaching out. It's soft. It's simple. And maybe a little sad in the way that still leaves room for hope.

It’s not a fix-it. Not a heartbreak fic. It’s just… a pause. An exhale. A connection that lingers, even when neither of them speaks.

—

✨ For anyone who’s ever felt that ache and didn’t have the words. And for those of us who keep finding comfort in the quiet. 💙

—

~Excerpt ~ The line picks up after two rings. Tommy doesn’t say anything right away. Neither does Buck. Just breathing. Quiet background sounds on both ends. —

💥 Short, introspective, and quietly hopeful. For anyone who needed a little softness today. Not canon, of course—but lovingly imagined.

[aventurineswife]

“Reqs are open and my inbox is empty‼️‼️”

Not for long. (Now I sleep, ehe.)

—I’d absolutely adore you to write a scenario for Dan Heng, Sunday, and Aventurine (Possibly Shadow if you feel real extra tonight.)

How would each character react towards their partner falling asleep against them? Whether it’s late at night, early morning, they’re simply too comfortable to keep themselves awake.. and this would dawn on our dear characters. Feeling a sense of warmth, knowing their presence brings such a high level of comfort n’ security, where we—the reader fall asleep with ease no matter where we are so long as we have them. 💙✨

Anchored in Stillness

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Comfort, Quiet Moments Softness, Vulnerability Gentle Affection, Bonding, Emotional Reflection, Introspection, Slow Burn, Established Relationship.

It was late in the quiet hours of the night, the gentle hum of the Astral Express barely audible as it sailed through the endless expanse of space. Dan Heng sat in a corner of the lounge, eyes scanning a book that had long since lost its grip on his attention. His focus, though steady and disciplined as always, was elsewhere now. The warmth of the room, combined with the soft whirring of the train, created a sense of peace he rarely afforded himself.

It was then that he felt it—soft pressure on his shoulder. His eyes drifted to his side, and he froze for a moment. There, resting against him, was you, your body relaxed in a deep, untroubled sleep. Your presence, warm and quiet, was almost a contrast to his own habitual distance. Dan Heng’s gaze softened slightly, the weight of the moment settling over him.

His lips parted, but no words came. He didn’t want to disturb you. There was something deeply comforting about this—how, even in the quietest, most vulnerable moment, you trusted him to be your anchor. He didn’t feel the need to say anything. The connection was unspoken, but it was real.

Dan Heng shifted subtly, ensuring his posture was just right so you could remain comfortable. He could feel the steady rhythm of your breathing against him, each inhale a small reassurance. It was in these moments, in the quiet stillness of the night, that he allowed himself a brief reprieve from the guilt, from the weight of the past that clung to him so tightly. Here, now, in the silence, he felt something akin to peace. He wasn’t alone—not anymore.

And as you continued to sleep soundly, his own eyes fluttered closed, the faintest trace of a sigh escaping his lips. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t running from something.

The moonlight outside cast a soft glow over the Astral Express, and the cabin was bathed in a tranquil, almost ethereal light. Sunday sat at the edge of the couch, a book forgotten in his lap. His eyes wandered to the window, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. The gentle rhythm of the train’s movement was lulling, but it wasn’t what held his attention tonight.

It was the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing beside him. He turned, and there, curled up against his side, was you, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. Your body was relaxed, the weight of your head resting against his shoulder. For a moment, Sunday merely watched you, his eyes softening as he observed the vulnerability you showed in your sleep.

His wings fluttered slightly, as if subconsciously reacting to the warmth you exuded. He felt an unfamiliar warmth in his chest—a sense of duty, yes, but something deeper, too. A connection that went beyond his usual capacity for empathy. It was the kind of bond that, despite all his doubts and internal struggles, felt undeniably right.

He felt your presence, steady and grounding, and it soothed him in ways he couldn’t quite describe. The idea that he could be someone who provided comfort—that he could be the source of someone else’s peace—was something he had never fully embraced before. Yet, here it was, real and undeniable.

Sunday’s breath caught for a moment as he allowed himself the luxury of simply being in the moment. He was so used to thinking of others, to sacrificing for the collective good, that he often forgot how to simply be for himself. But with you here, asleep and safe, he felt a strange sense of ease. It was a quiet reassurance, like a whisper in his heart that reminded him of the small, beautiful connections that made life worth living.

His hand shifted slightly, resting over your shoulder, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He wasn’t sure if you were aware of his touch, but it didn’t matter. The warmth between you was enough, and with a soft sigh, Sunday closed his eyes for a brief moment. There, in the stillness, he allowed himself the rare indulgence of peace.

Aventurine, ever the master of managing his surroundings, sat in his luxurious chair, surveying the quiet room with a calculated detachment. It was well into the night, and the flickering light of a candle danced across the polished surfaces of the cabin, casting long shadows on the walls. He should have been focusing on the many schemes, the next move in the game, but something about tonight felt different.

He had thought he was alone in the room, but as he shifted slightly in his chair, he felt a warmth at his side. Looking down, he saw you, your head gently resting against his shoulder, your body soft and relaxed as you drifted off to sleep. Your presence was unexpected, yet it wasn’t unwelcome.

Aventurine’s eyes narrowed slightly, the usual hint of calculation in his gaze replaced by something softer. He had never been one to let his guard down, not even for a moment, but here he was, caught off-guard by the intimacy of it all. His mind raced as he quickly calculated the right course of action—should he move? Should he speak?

But then he paused.

Your presence, your comfort, filled the space around him. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the warmth radiating from you—it was an unexpected peace, a momentary break from the endless games of strategy he played with his life. For all his calculated risks and meticulous plans, he hadn’t anticipated something as simple as this.

He allowed himself a rare, almost imperceptible smile, his eyes flickering with a touch of vulnerability—just for a moment. His gloved hand moved almost instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle despite the harshness of his demeanor. He hadn’t realized how much he had longed for this kind of closeness, this kind of warmth.

The silence was heavy with unspoken words, the tension of his past and his ambition swirling just beneath the surface, but for now, Aventurine let it all fade into the background. Your presence grounded him, and for the first time in a long while, the thrill of the gamble didn’t feel so urgent. With a quiet sigh, he allowed his body to relax, his hand resting on the armrest of the chair as he let his thoughts drift, your warmth a silent reminder of the connection he never quite understood but desperately needed.

In the soft silence of the night, Aventurine let the game rest, just for a while.

[mythboundcal]

The Last Person to Say My Name That Way Naruto (Kakashi) Fanfic by MythboundCal

He dreams of her in water.

Not the battlefield. Not the mud and blood and the moment everything went wrong. Just… water. Still. Cool. Quiet.

Rin sits with her feet in the stream. Not smiling, not angry—just there. Like the past didn’t happen. Or maybe it hasn’t yet.

“Kakashi,” she says, and that’s the part that breaks him.

Not her face. Not her voice. But the way she says his name. Like it still means something good.

He doesn’t speak. Not yet. Not in these dreams. He just sits. A little downstream. Close enough to feel the ripples.

“You still think it was your fault,” she says after a while, plucking a petal from the water. “It wasn’t.”

“You died,” he replies. The petal slips through her fingers.

“So did you,” she says.

That part stings. Not because it’s untrue—but because she says it without blame.

Kakashi stares at the water. There’s no reflection. There never is.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” he says.

Rin hums. ��Good. Because I’m not offering it.”

A pause.

“I’m just here.”

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because he wants to be punished. He wants her to scream. To cry. To make him say it out loud. But Rin… is just kind. Like she always was. And it guts him in ways the war never did.

She stands. Water doesn’t cling to her feet. She leaves no footprints on the grass.

He doesn’t look up. But she touches his shoulder. And for a moment, his whole body remembers what it was like to be chosen without effort.

“Try again,” she says gently. “And let someone say your name the way I used to.”

She fades before he can answer. She always does.

But when he wakes up, Kakashi whispers it to the ceiling anyway—

“Rin.”

And the way it echoes in his own voice… almost sounds like hope.

[lady-arcane]

~A Hollow God and His Quiet Devotion~

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

He’s known this for a while.

There’s something about the way a person can laugh while breaking, smile while suffering, pretend while decaying. It’s horrifying, really. The mind’s ability to rationalize its own undoing. To keep existing even when everything inside it is burning down.

Gojo Satoru is no exception

He is the strongest. The untouchable. A divine existence trapped in human skin. A god, they say, though he would laugh at the irony of that title. Because what kind of god is constantly running from his own mind?

He wears a mask, not a literal one—though the blindfold, the sunglasses, the casual grins serve their purpose—but a mask made of distraction. A personality so large it drowns out anything real. Gojo is insufferable, overwhelming, a force of nature that never stops moving because if he does, he might have to listen to himself.

And yet, here, now—alone, in the quiet of his apartment, with you—he is something else entirely

Not a god. Not a teacher. Not a man with the weight of the world on his back.

Just Satoru

-----

The first time you noticed the difference, you almost didn't believe it.

Gojo is affectionate in a way that makes people uncomfortable. He leans too close, speaks too loudly, touches too freely. His love is an inconvenience, a joke, a spectacle.

But in private, it's different.

He doesn’t tell you he loves you. He doesn’t have to

You see it in the way he waits for you to enter a room before he does—an instinctual need to ensure your safety before his own. The way he lets his head drop against your shoulder like he’s finally found something solid enough to rest on. The way his fingers hesitate at your wrist before sliding down to lace between yours, like he still can’t believe he’s allowed this

Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive, loves you in secret.

Not because he’s ashamed. Not because he doesn’t want the world to know.

But because love—true, real, terrifying love—is something he doesn’t know how to perform.

-----

"You’re quiet today," you say, lying beside him.

The lights are dim, the city hum outside muted by distance. His apartment is too big for one person, but not quite big enough to contain everything he refuses to say.

"Mm," he hums in response, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"You’re never quiet."

A beat.

Then, a breath of a laugh. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It’s not bad," you say, shifting closer, feeling the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt. "Just… different."

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers play with the hem of your sleeve, like a nervous habit, like he needs something to anchor him.

"Satoru," you press, softer this time.

He finally looks at you. No blindfold, no glasses. Just bare, unguarded eyes—the kind of blue that makes the ocean look dull in comparison.

"I don’t have to be loud with you," he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

And you understand.

Gojo Satoru exists too loudly, too overwhelmingly, because that’s what the world expects from him. But with you, he doesn’t have to be anything. He can just exist.

No expectations. No performances.

Just silence, and the steady rhythm of your breathing beside him.

-----

Gojo does not know how to need people.

He has spent years pretending otherwise—being the center of attention, the life of the party, the one everyone looks at but no one truly sees.

And yet, in the moments that matter, he is always alone.

He was alone when Geto left.

Alone when he cradled Yuuji’s lifeless body.

Alone when he stood at the top of the world and realized there was no one there with him.

So when he lets himself rest against you, when he presses his forehead to your shoulder and lets out a sigh so deep it shakes something inside of him—he isn’t sure what he’s doing.

Is this what it means to trust someone? To be seen?

He thinks it might be.

And that scares him more than anything else. Because if he lets himself have this—have you—what happens when he loses it?

What happens when he loves you so much it becomes a weakness?

What happens when the world, cruel as it is, takes you away

(He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t want to know.)

So instead, he holds you a little tighter.

As if, for once, he can keep something.

As if, for once, he won’t be left behind.

-----

"You’re thinking too hard," you murmur, running your fingers through his hair.

He huffs, burying his face against your neck. "Maybe I just like your neck."

"Sure, Satoru."

A beat.

A laugh. And then, quieter—"You’re not going anywhere, right?"

The question catches you off guard.

You pull back slightly, just enough to see his face. There’s a lazy smirk there, but his eyes—God, his eyes—betray him.

"I’m not going anywhere," you say, with the kind of certainty he has never allowed himself to believe in.

He watches you for a moment longer, like he’s memorizing your face, like he’s searching for something—some proof that you’re real, that you mean it.

Then, with a sigh that sounds almost like relief, he lets his weight press fully against you.

Gojo Satoru does not pray.

But in that moment, he closes his eyes, exhales, and hopes—hopes that, just this once, the world will be kind.

That, just this once, he won’t have to be strong.

That, just this once, he won’t have to be alone.

And with your heartbeat steady beneath his palm, he almost believes it.

Almost.

-----

Human mind is the scariest thing of all.

Because it can trick you into thinking you’re untouchable.

Because it can make you believe that love is a weakness.

Because it can convince you that no matter how tightly you hold on, you will always end up alone.

But as Gojo Satoru drifts to sleep, his hand tangled with yours, he wonders—just for a moment—if, maybe, he was wrong.

[qsplaylist]

how to handle failure ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

because, with every success, there are 100 failures that came before it

allow yourself to process. it's useless to rush to "fix it." it's also of no use to beat yourself down for what happened. just let yourself sit with the disappointment or the many emotions for a moment. journal about it or something to help you process. it's completely normal to feel disappointed and upset.

detach your worth from the outcome. I often find myself going into that toxic loophole time after time again after I fail: blaming myself for everything, thinking that it's the end of the world, already planning on how to scrap my entire current identity, change my name, and move to Chad. but, failure is something that happens, not who you are. just because you failed at this thing does not mean that you are not smart, capable, or talented.

growth. mindset. I know it's cliché, but there's a good reason why it is repeated so much.

rebuild confidence with small wins. after failure, it's easy to doubt yourself. just like how, after success, it is easy to want to try again or pursue something more difficult. start with something small to regain your confidence in yourself. set mini goals that you can actually achieve. in my case, for example, i could write a tumblr post about failure (now you know what prompted this post...). once you achieve it, in my case sending out the post, you feel much better about yourself because you succeeded at one task!

now, you can finally problem solve. what could you have changed that was in your control? you can't control other's opinions on your performance (like judges' comments, placings, or outcomes), the weather, or anything else that has to do with other people or nature.

what you can control is how prepared you are for each circumstance (including performance-wise and for things like the weather), your own time management, etc. maybe there needed to be a change in approach. either way, focus on what you can do, not how you think things should have gone, or anything that you have zero control over. (calling myself out...)

keep moving. progress isn't linear. setbacks happen. even if it feels like the end of the world right now, it's really not. you are not behind, you are not defined by one moment. keep going, and soon the failure will seem small and insignificant.

failure doesn't mean that your dream is over. it just means that the path is different. you've got this. keep going!

sincerely, q's playlist

[miamaimania]

"As Evening" (from ongoing series) by [Artist Name] ◆ Blue-gloved figure meets gaze across white linen

[gales-tits]

Title: Chronic Wordcount: 3096 Characters: Tav (she/her half elf ranger), Gale Dekarios Synopsis: Gale is still struggling to find his feet again after being yanked into the adventure. The orb doesn't make it easy. Tav makes him face some truths... A soft and fairly warm addressing of Gale having chronic exhaustion and him being hard himself tempered with some Tav gentleness and a bit of Gale being taken care of for once.

There was something unnerving familiar about this.

Gale was curled under his blankets. The noise of everyone getting ready around him drifting in and out of his ears, a floating backdrop to the doze. Dreams intermingling unpleasantly with reality. The ache in his back from resting on the ground, even with his thick bedroll, enemies they had faced, the walls of his tower. Exhaustion wasn’t uncommon for him, admittedly. Ever since he’d been dragged from his home on this adventure, every so often, the time spent in convalescence caught up to him, downed him for a day, sometimes two. The guilt was always the same, though, a metal band around his chest, tightening so that it felt hard to breathe.

He’d been doing so well, too, these last few days. Managed to go with the party, to fight. Yesterday, thankfully right at the end of a particularly tricky battle, ribs aching from a nasty blow, he had cast perhaps more powerfully than he should have. Forgetting in it all the damage that so marred him now, arms swinging, drawing up a wave of fire that reduced their enemies to naught but ash and sent acid burning down his rotting limb. At the back of the group, it seemed nobody had noticed how he had nearly buckled, arms drawing in close to his chest.

After that, they had made the decision to go back to camp, and whilst he’d said nothing about it, he was immensely grateful. Despite retiring not long after dinner, amongst the sore but companionable chatter, now his leaden limbs refused to move properly. The dawn light was illuminating the side of his tent that he was facing, gold diffused along the length of the pale fabric. It was deeply beautiful, he mused, before his eyes slithered shut again and he drifted back into the void.

It must have been snowing, even though he wasn’t all that cold. It laid over him, a snow coat, thick and heavy and crunchy; his chest ached, unable to even lift a limb. It must have frozen his eyelids shut, because it was impossible to even part them. If he wasn’t so tired, the limpness might have frightened him more, but as it was, it didn’t feel like it mattered.

Back in his tower, then. Recently having realised the severity of his foolishness; in between arranging the spells needed to set up a protective barrier, with his ability so vastly limited by the aching hunger in his chest, the throbbing that ran through his arm where that chunk of magic had burrowed it’s way into his terrified flesh; carving, ripping, no trace of gentleness as it settled oh so near his heart, tendrils whipping their way deeper through him, eye screaming as the marking grasped ahold of it too… he had taken to his bed, to recover. The weight of his failure sunk over him, metal compressing him down. If it wasn’t for Tara, her soft and heavy weight a constant companion, he might have rotted away in that bed. Far beyond the current loss of his bulk, he would have become… nothing. Her endless determination had forced him up, made him eat and suffer the most basic acts of self care, although he always crawled back to the sweet embrace of it’s lush fabrics.

It had gone on like this for… months. Patches of blank time broken up by desperate searching for an answer. Books and artefacts and always pain, pain, pain. Tara had insisted it was merely the effect of the orb draining him, but Gale knew more. Even as he looked at the blackness that had encased his fingertips, radiating rings in the centre of his palm, ripples that shimmered, half scar tissue and half necrosis. This was his own mind, his enemy. The longer Mystra ignored him, the more he was reminded of what he’d always known. He was a failure. He would never, ever be good enough. And now he would die of his folly.

“Gale?” an uncertain voice echoed through the door of his tent. Eyes snapped open; she was, of course, behind him, as he was laying facing away. No snow. Of course not, inside his damn tent – it was all in his mind, although the crispy weight of it still made him struggle to try to move. Should he – should he be responding? By the time his mind had dragged itself to the thought that he should probably be speaking – “Are you alright? Everybody’s getting ready to go. You don’t have to come today if you don’t want to.” Tav. Her voice soft, nervous, sweet. His heart had been more drawn to her by the day. The confident leadership, the quiet warmth, the immense skill, and the sheer humanity of her. Perhaps it was all his isolation, but despite his best attempts to not allow himself to feel such things, Gale was being inexorably drawn. Some part of him thought it was only because he was being treated… kindly. Gods only knew.

Oh, fuck, he was meant to be replying -

“Gale?” a little louder, a little stronger now. Worry. Damnit, the last thing he wanted was to make Tav worry. “I’m fine.” he tried to answer, but it came out little more than a raspy croak, taking far too much of his energy just to talk. Louder, come on, fool, you’re a wizard, “Just a little – tired.” okay, that one was audible. Good. Still shaky and warbly, but at least… audible. “Do you want to stay behind today?” she asked, still outside the doorway, giving him his privacy. His heart skipped. He didn’t want to stay behind, he needed to be useful, to help. He was a powerful wizard, he could do this. “No, no, just ah – give me – give me a little time?” he called back, trying to shift his hips up so he could brace on his good elbow and sit up. It felt like sliding a great rock, forcing it over the ground, trying not to pant as he managed to start to adjust his position. “I’ll be with you as soon as I’m able, I promise you.”

There was a long enough pause that he wondered if Tav had left. Then - “Alright, if you’re sure.” her voice drifted in; low, warm, cautious. “You don’t have to force it, Gale. That battle yesterday was… hard. I’ll… I’ll come check back on you in a little bit?” “Yes, yes, thank you greatly,” he chose to ignore the first comment, trying to keep himself from panting to the point where she could hear it. “Shan’t be long!”

He stayed like that until he heard footsteps moving away, finally getting his body so that he was sitting up. Braced on his good arm, knees folded, his head hung, strands of greasy hair drifting around him, loose from their upwards style. How he missed access to regular hot water… he had made a promise, though. He had to uphold it. Looking down at his bandaged arm, he realised with a jolt that it was unravelling. Nobody had seen it – although from the glances, he had a feeling that Astarion knew what was going on underneath. With great effort, he moved until he was sitting cross-legged, feeling the most stable that way. Shoulders hunched as he tried to start re-wrapping them, hiding the black and blistered flesh, but even his good hand was struggling to be responsive today. Movements that were so jerky they undid the previous action. Thank Gods his sensation in that arm was so minimal, or the tugs of fabric against the flesh would have been agony.

Those traitorous, trembling fingers; the grip failed, and the bandages bounced out of his hold. They hit the ground, a graceful arc as they leapt away, once, twice hitting the ground, finally coming to a stop in the entranceway to his tent. The flaps were gently twitched apart, allowing a triangle of the outside light to illuminate the ground. As he braced to turn around and reach for the damnable thing, a shadow blocked it out – eyes jerked upwards, and there was Tav, pushing the fabric aside, but eyes fixed downwards on the roll of now-stained material. Brows furrowed, before she reached down – oh so gingerly picking it up, then her eyes coming up again to settle on Gale. Immediately, the confusion shifted to concern, not quick enough to school her expressions. Brows drawn, mouth slightly open, eyes softening considerably. He could see it all playing out; the bandages, the bared arm with it’s necrosed flesh, the concern would shift to horror and disgust and anger -

“Gale.” her voice was so soft, so gentle, just like her, and now she was kneeling in front of him, uncaring of whatever might be getting on her trousers. “Let me see?” He had done his best to keep the worsening malady from the others’ sight, admittedly. Yes, the skin was tender, undeniably. But more than anything, it usually felt numb; the agonies of magic would burn from the inside out, yet knocking the limb into branches or walls gave him nearly nothing in response. The only thing that truly made it throb was the touch of hands, contact against the blistered and blackened skin a whole new kind of agony. It had been an awful thing to discover, that even his own body was rejecting itself… but Tav, oh, Gods above, he hadn’t wanted her to see. Of any of them, she would be the worst… bar perhaps Lae’zel, who might see it as a sign of ceremorphosis and decide it a great choice to take his head from it’s comfortable place on his shoulders.

She swept her hair from her face in a surprisingly swift motion, wrapping it up, tying a band around it to keep it from her face. Tav had always been practical – maybe that was how she had fallen so quickly into the role of their de facto leader. Keeping everyone from ripping each other’s heads off, corralling them into something light a fighting force, and pushing them all ever onwards towards Baldur’s Gate. He… well, the affections that he’d been feeling were hard to ignore. Even as his mind wandered back towards Mystra again and again, that particular abandonment was starting to feel somewhat dulled. His eyes would linger on Tav as he worked the cookpot, even if she were merely standing and chatting, or polishing and cleaning her armor, or… his eyes lingered on a loose hair that curled around a gently pointed ear, a broad flatness to it that gave away the human side of her heritage.

Drawing a knife from her belt, Tav cut the muddied section of bandage away, sitting in front of him cross-legged. Eyes lingered, trailing down; the sweat that was dripping down his neck from the effort of being upright, the tangled strands that settled around his shoulders, then back to his arm. It hadn’t been so bad at first, of course. The necrosis had started at the spot in his palm that the orb had driven it’s way in – tearing, burning, agonisingly ripping it’s way towards his heart. It was hard to forget it, even if it had left no mark. Yet still it had. The blackness crept it’s way out. When he’d been taken, it covered from fingers to nearly his wrists. But since the tadpole, it had worsened dramatically. The creep seemed to have ratcheted up, alongside the hunger of it – it covered all the way up to his elbow, near enough now. His fingers ached with a constant coldness, making it hard to grip. The black marks were streaked with purple and rotten hints of green. Beyond the pain, the increasing lack of sensation and ability to hold even his textured staff was… frustrating. Limiting.

“How long have you been keeping this bandaged?” Tav asked, voice so soft and gentle. It was funny; if he hadn’t known she wasn’t, he could’ve sworn that she was a cleric, the perfect bedside manner. “Ah -” the noise came out a sharp hiss, instinctively jerking away. She immediately released the touch from his flesh. All she had done was gingerly touch his arm, trying to brace the bandages, but it was like white fire. “Forgive me -” “It’s tender?” she asked, brows drawn in, “I’ll be careful. More careful. Hold nice and still.” looking down again, she began to wind the bandages, taking extreme care that only the fabric touched his skin. He swallowed roughly. “I – when we were first taken,” he murmured, “I realised just how foul the damage looked. I – the bandages do little to heal it, unfortunately. It is – it is more for the comfort of those around us, not to see the state of it.” he allowed a short, self indulgent chuckle. He doubted any of the others would enjoy seeing the evidence of his folly on such display. Let alone not giving anyone else an extra target to see, and, well…

“This is the orb.” Tav said, with such tenderness that his heart skipped a beat. He was so very tired; it weighed on his shoulders, threatening to drag him back down to the ground. To curl into his bedroll… oh, it sounded like it would be bliss… “Right?” “Oh. Yes. Yes, it’s… it’s where I, uh. Made contact, as such.” he admitted, softly. “Whilst it still does it’s best to spread itself from here,” he raised his good hand, tapping two fingers gently against the markings in his chest. He was sure the little electrical flicker that raced through it, following veins into his body where they weren’t visible, were entirely psychosomatic. “It has left a trail of destruction in his wake, alas. My own cost to pay, but…” he trailed off, swallowing hard again. There was that guilt, that band in his chest.

He wanted to sleep.

“Corrupting influence. Yes. Don’t worry, Gale. I understand.” she was working oh so deftly, rapid and clean movements, binding his arm, tucking each corner away, making sure there was nothing to get caught. She reached his palm now; he flexed out his fingers with a grimace, faint cracks appearing in the skin, but Tav said nothing about that as she wound each around the digits. “I’m not surprised that it does such things to your body. You are containing an immensely powerful force.” dark eyes flickered up, lingering on his own, and oh. Oh. It was hard to ignore how his heart skipped. Smart, kind, so gentle and yet – she looked at him. Saw him. Truly, utterly saw him. Perhaps he was pathetic right now, all lank hair and exhaustion, but – for the first time in oh so long – there was a breath where he was free of shame. Mystra was ashamed of him, his family, Gods, everyone he had let down in all this time, and yet Tav looked at him like there was something worth saving.

She finished tucking the bandages, carefully pressing them into place, firm enough he doubted they were going to unravel easily, but with enough flex he could move his limited wrist. Tav sat back, and smiled, eyes warm.

“You know, it’s okay to take a rest.” she said, sitting back, resting her elbows on her legs. “What?” the words caught him by surprise, freezing the breath in his throat. “What do you -” “You pushed yourself too hard, yesterday. I saw it, you know. All that power…” she reached out, and took his good hand, running her soft skin over his. “You know, I think about it. How you were before, y’know? Before all this. Before I met you. I keep imagining this…” she chuckled, and his heart leapt, and he couldn’t explain that either, only he was smiling. “This bright young wizard. Incredibly powerful. Casting all these immense spells without even thinking about it. Swaggering. Mystra’s chosen. Cocky, even. And I keep thinking… I don’t think I would have liked him.”

Oh. Oh, that’s… his heart tightens again, that little leap turning into a rough and tumble sinking towards his stomach. “Well, I, uh… that wouldn’t be an unfair assessment.” he said, with a grimace. Cocky upstart, yes, that was him, without a question – so convinced that he knew everything, that he was going to do the impossible and return that chunk of magic back to Mystra. He would prove himself worthy of being the greatest wizard known to Waterdeep, if not all of Fae’run. “Rather, I was, yes, very impressive. Hardly so now, I’m afraid. One hell of a fall from grace.” “Do you really think that, Gale?” Tav said, a blunt edge. He blinked; mouth opened and then closed again. “Because I think that’s bullshit. Maybe that’s how you see it. I like you. As you are, now. Okay, yes, you fucked it up a bit. Pushed too hard. Made a mistake.” she lifted the hand that wasn’t holding his, and pressed it against his chest, over the orb. She was soft, and warm; he was sure he could feel her pulse through the touch. Despite his expected discomfort at having someone so close to that weapon inside him… the fear didn’t rise.

“I like you when you’re human, Gale.” it shifted from the orb to his cheek, tucking a loose hair behind his ear. “You need to rest. Okay? Take your time. You don’t need to make dinner, either.” she hesitated, he could see it, feel that slight tightening of her hand. “Take a moment to be human.” she shifted away, and despite himself, he leant towards her, the warmth that was dancing away from him as she disentangled. “We’ll get on the road again when we’re all ready.” there it was again, he was sure, hesitating, she was hesitating, and he opened his mouth, not sure what would come out but - Soft, gentle lips rested on his forehead. For just a breath. Just a moment. He hung onto it with every part of memory that he had, then she was drawing back, leaving him with the ghost of a touch that seemed scorched into his skin. “I’ll see you later, Gale of Waterdeep.” and she laughed. Just like Tav. No cruelty, no mocking, but just a gentle teasing. As the curtain to his tent fell back into place in her wake, he looked at the perfect bandages on his arm, and as he curled back into his bedroll, found his mind wandering to rather more human thoughts than his usual Mystra mourning.

[diarryofadoll]

Not all, but some people are a lot less confrontational than they claim to be