#the plot device this would be used for would be to explain

[sgiandubh]

Slap a shipper Friday?

Oh, yes. I was expecting this one:

[Source: Lauren Lyle's IG stories, posted today, July 11 2025]

As I also expected the very tired, very petty 'Slap a Shipper Friday' from the Trolling & Stalker Corner. It was meant to be. It was absolute kismet and, in a way, the perfect storm.

And it was, without a doubt, exactly what was expected to happen, for many reasons I will try to briefly sum up, knowing full well I am about to unleash a very, very bad remake of The Attack of the Clones, in my Inbox. So be it and fuck them.

Because, case in point, such are the rather primitive dynamics of this divided fandom: whenever the circus is back in town, shippers - these #stupid, #stupid creatures, isn't it? - are expected to whine, hide, lie and finally, to much of those wonderful (not!) people across the street's disappointment, resurrect. Conversely, those wonderful (not!) people's reaction is always the same, crude and rather boring: 'Slap a Shipper Friday'. So yes, primitive. But also as unavoidable as death and taxes: after all these years, people are either completely impervious (my case and not only mine), or disoriented. And the reason they are discombobulated is because their own projections and emotions are playing dirty tricks on their perceptions. Just so - yes, I know that irritates many to death.

The nerve. The entitlement. And the ignorance of how things are done, show-biz and PR wise are absolutely laughable.

I have many questions and many thoughts. And I am going to try and sum them up as briefly as I can.

It is not even a thing of wonder McGill was almost not spotted immediately by the harpies across the street. In fact, it took them almost one hour to start reacting, as the news of McGill being in the picture was starting to make the rounds amongst the Instacrowd:

Perhaps the reason is the same that gave me pause when I first saw that pic. Because, excuse me, but between his last, rather prosperously rotund picture from quite some many moons ago (cortisone was mentioned by some, but what do I know, after all?), this one looks like at least ten years later and twenty kilos less. This man looks older and thinner and, I am really sorry to say so, this cannot be a good look. On anyone. And this is exactly why I will stop any speculation on this topic, which does not belong here. Believe what you want, but don't fool yourself. The difference is sizeable, let's hope it's not tragic. Whoever might be on that pic, after all (I still have some residual doubts, because, of course, I am preemptively calling myself an imbecile).

On the other hand, let's consider the wedding event as a simple plot device in a narrative. Is it the first time it is used, to further agendas/plot lines?

The answer is no. It is the third time and every single time, albeit for different reasons, with rather mitigated success.

An event of this kind was used for the first time to consolidate the dwindling Flukenzie Floozy narative, when she and S took a couple of very contrived pics. This was, as Marple uses to say way 'before my time', but I do remember those pics I cannot even be arsed to retrieve, at the moment. Dental surgery ads looked more engaging, for sure, but it was hoped this would stop rising questioning and speculation. And not only from the Shipper side.

Then came The Remarkable Week-end, in August 2019. Enough said. It was also hoped it would miraculously make the entire shipper side disappear, considering the age and the cultural values of our majority . It didn't and I don't think I have to explain for the umpteenth time why it backfired.

And then we have this wedding, attended (unlike Grandma's), by both S and C, in the open. Now just imagine if C came alone. Oh. Ah. The speculation. The unwanted attention. Um, nope. Not exactly the kind of attention they wanted to elicit, in the first place. Plus, it is simply not done. C is, after all, for all intents and purposes, a married woman, no matter how you choose to look at this. And no matter how many times you keep yelling at this page, which sees the fracture between an inglorious sheet of paper and the farcical reality.

It was somehow important, therefore, that McGill would attend this wedding event in the open, unlike all that long, uninterrupted string of other social functions he might/might not have been a part of. After all, Season 8 is still not broadcast, contracts are still enforced, and all that (financially serious) jazz, leaving open the possibility of sequel movies (something that might be on the table). It was also important to show the OL cast's cohesion (remember the howling of 'they cannot stand each other'?), in a very 'nothing to see there, move on' kind of way. And it was, perhaps above anything else, predictible as hell. And this is why you'll see no bride in this picture: this picture taken at a collateral OL event is primarily for the OL's fandom's consumption and posted by one of the most beloved, credible members of the cast. Lauren, of course.

And perhaps it might (just a tiny 'might', here) be some sort of PR retaliation not only for those recent, nosy and lucky fans, but also for last summer's Taylor Swift Saga. No need to elaborate.

Body language, now. Let's take a closer look:

Distance between the Happy Couple (red arrow) looks greater than the distance between C and Rik the Groom. Strange posture, as if she would instinctively lean on Rankin (blue arrow)?

The only sign those two people might have something to share other than a jovial picture pose is C's posessing signature claw on McGill's shoulder. We've seen that before, on an Australian beach, I believe.

Brown shoes paired with a grey suit and Madame Fashionista says nothing? No tie and looking like the devil may care? At a wedding? Wow, the warmth is palpable, here.

Also: what the hell is McGill's hand doing under S's lovely tweed kilt jacket (my yellow, clumsy X marks the spot)? Clumsy as always, I suppose. But then again, where is S's left paw, that - as we can see by comparison with his right one - can, might and probably did reach far and, eh, wide?

I guess we'll never know. Also, not really needed. This staged pic is a comic fail.

Finally, I was expecting the usual 'remarkable week-end' type of charade from S. And I was not disappointed:

[Source: S's Instagram account, posted on July 11, 2025]

Yes, of course, 'wrong theme tune', since this -one more time - is an OL related event, after all. As I wrote not earlier than yesterday, they need all the traction and attention they can get for BoMB. A prequel, not a spin off, mind you.

But Ramin Jawadi's lovely Game of Thrones main theme also coveys another type of message and S is no stranger to a good double entendre, as far as I know.

So yes, these are my long thoughts and comments on yet another nothingburger. With all due respect, this is rather underwhelming. Ship on, ladies. 'tis not even a scratch.

PS: Love that demeanor, by the way. Macbeth tailored 100%.

[sunderwight]

Shen Qingqiu gets hit by a rare wife plot.

And it actually is a rare one because Airplane didn't even write this one down! He toyed with the idea before ultimately dismissing it as being too controversial for the tastes of his readers, and adapting only a few of the same elements for a subsequent chapter of PIDW.

But apparently the System can pull inspiration even from the author's thoughts, especially when there's nothing to contradict the concept and even a few threads of it still to be found in the original, and somehow Shen Qingqiu runs afoul of this previously-unwritten plot bunny.

The core concept was a cuck scenario, of all things. One of the Luo Binghe's wives gets afflicted by a poison that can only be cured by dual cultivation, but specifically can't be cured by by dual cultivation with anyone who has mastery over demonic qi. Something something conflicting energies, something bullshit something. Peerless Cucumber would have ripped the chapter to shreds if it had actually made it to publication, not just for the insult of implying that Luo Binghe should let one of his wives sleep with someone else, but also because why would Luo Binghe -- able to use both kinds of cultivation -- somehow not be able to keep his demonic energies from influencing the situation just in this one case?

Well it turns out that in his specific case it's because sex gets him too worked up to keep things strictly separate, and the degree of control required to treat the affliction whilst dual cultivating is extensive enough that even a little slip-up would be fatal.

Of course, in the actual chapter of PIDW, this same plot device was altered and used to create a harem orgy where Luo Binghe oversaw several of his wives "treating" one another's "afflictions", but Shen Qingqiu just had to go and get a fatal of dose of the more severe version (he didn't realize the risk, because again, this version didn't even make it into the novel).

Anyway, of course this ends up with Shen Qingqiu trying to figure out another way to cheat death, while Luo Binghe goes through the five stages of grief before accepting that he's just going to have to let someone else fuck his husband. This leads to an argument because of course Shen Qingqiu's not going to cheat on Luo Binghe, and he's especially not going to force one of his martial siblings to sleep with him, come on now, and Luo Binghe trying not to cry tears of blood while bringing himself to explain that a fair few of Shen Qingqiu's sect siblings would be happy volunteers for this task.

Shen Qingqiu's just like, well of course you think that, for some bizarre reason you think everyone wants to sleep with me. Bias is what it is. Really it's flattering Binghe but obviously every other person we know is straight, that's just statistics, and everyone in the entire cultivation world knows that Qi Qingqi would sooner chew glass than have sex with a man!

Luo Binghe, weeping now: Shizun please. This is serious. I need you speak words that make sense in the order you're saying them.

They argue, they reach an impasse, the clock is ticking. So Luo Binghe reluctantly turns to the most reliable source of information (outside of himself) on Manipulating Shen Qingqiu to Do Things That Are in His Own Best Interests -- Shang Qinghua.

At first Shang Qinghua is like, well I'm flattered Junshang but I don't think I could shoulder the baggage of fucking Cucumber-bro for you. But then Luo Binghe is like no I need someone who is way hotter and more capable than you, if Shizun is going to fuck someone else at my behest they're going to be TOP TIER so that when I fuck him better afterwards he's really impressed with me. Liu Qingge, obviously.

Not Yue Qingyuan, Shang Qinghua asks? (He'd take the insult a little more personally but honestly he's just relieved that he's not being asked to navigate this social minefield.)

No, Luo Binghe says. He's not 100% sure he could beat Yue Qingyuan in a fight even to this day, which in his mind also translates to not being 100% sure he could do sex better than him either, so Yue Qingyuan is an emergency last resort. He's way more likely to cry on Shizun too and Shen Qingqiu is into that shit, it's too risky.

Alright, says Shang Qinghua, and he thinks about it, and then he comes up with the beautifully simple solution:

Luo Binghe has to fuck Liu Qingge first.

Because of course the crux of the issue is that even with permission, Shen Qingqiu doesn't want to cheat on Luo Binghe. But in the twisted annals of his mind, Luo Binghe himself is still entitled to a harem, even if Luo Binghe is also happily monogamous in this life. So if he shacks up with Liu Qingge first then Liu Qingge essentially joins Luo Binghe's harem, at which point if Shen Qingqiu sleeps with him it's not an affair, it's the gay version of those fanservice-y 3P scenes that the wives in PIDW did. Shang Qinghua translates the concept as best as he can to Luo Binghe, who -- though slightly dubious -- must accept that so far Shang Qinghua's wisdom hasn't steered him wrong with regards to his shizun's eccentricities.

Luo Binghe's mission: seduce Liu Qingge, or at least convince him to have sex, or possibly to lie and (convincingly!) tell Shen Qingqiu that they had sex. That last one is the longest shot so he's probably going to have to just fuck him (Luo Binghe still underestimates how willing his husband is to believe that just about anyone would have sex with him).

Shang Qinghua's mission: convince Shen Qingqiu that he owes his husband steamy threeway gay sex or something so that this plan he pulled out of his ass doesn't backfire and get him killed.

[celeborne]

“it’s not queerbaiting if byler doesn’t happen” uh actually, it is at this point.

before season 4:

there was so much teasing and giggling from the cast about byler during season 4 promotions - they knew exactly what they were doing and the reaction they would get from fans, because people have always had theories about will being queer (and potentially being in love with mike).

these theories actually started when the show started, but got way more popular after season 2 (where byler had a lot of scenes together all season) and season 3 ("it's not my fault you don't like girls").

after season 4 volume 1 aired:

we actually got direct confirmation from the cast (like in actual proper words) that will does in fact 100% love mike. he’s been in love with him since the start. no more arguing or theorising, it's FULLY confirmed now.

the cast CONTINUED teasing (giving people hope that something would happen in volume 2, especially with how much focus there was on will's painting) and obviously the byler fandom became so much bigger.

after season 4 volume 2 aired:

as most of us remember, volume 2 was a mess and we were all so angry and disappointed hearing mike’s monologue to el and watching will once again be heartbroken and alone.

they literally USED HIM as a plot device to push mike into telling his girlfriend he loved her, because he didn’t have strength to do it without will confessing his own feelings for him and giving him the painting he worked so hard on.

they took 2 extremely important things to WILL that were about his love for mike, and they made it about a straight ship who don't even feel like equals in their own relationship. absolutely horrible. it’s so disrespectful, hurtful and insulting in ways i can’t even explain - doing all this to a traumatised, abused, gay character who has barely had any happiness the entire show is just disgusting, and the cast and writers would’ve 100% seen the backlash and how upset people were because it was everywhere all over the internet.

the ONLY way they can fix what they did in season 4 with how they used will as a plot device, is by making byler endgame. that is literally the only way to solve the messy writing and make up for all the lies and misunderstandings, otherwise it's just one big joke.

mike's monologue to el only happened thanks to will's monologue to mike.

mike wants to be loved the way that will loves him. mike wants to be needed the way that will needs him. this is canon and in the script. will's monologue can only be applied to himself, but mike doesn't know that because he lied and pretended he was talking about el. that's the only reason he ended up being able to say he loved el. it's all one big misunderstanding and it absolutely CANNOT stay this way.

now, years later after season 4 aired:

people are STILL talking about byler, and the cast and writers KNOW IT.

the writers themselves (not just the actors sharing their own opinions at conventions, but i mean THE ACTUAL WRITERS) could EASILY directly say “byler is definitely not happening and we’re serious. we made this clear in the season 4 finale when mike confessed his love to el, so please don't say we didn't warn you”, but they did not.

even if they did, this still wouldn’t change the fact that the monologue only happened BECAUSE OF WILL, but whatever. they’ve mentioned the monologue while talking about the scene, but they have not directly denied byler in words.

why? why is it so hard to just deny byler?

at this current moment, EVERYONE, including the characters in the show (even will himself) are meant to think it’s confirmed mike loves el because of the big "i love you" moment, so telling viewers that byler definitely isn’t happening WOULD NOT be a spoiler. they could easily say it, make it 100% clear so that no one has hope for it anymore and moves on, but they’re not.

the only reason they're not denying byler is if:

1. something IS actually gonna happen with byler and they're going to resolve all these lies and misunderstandings (mike will find out about will's painting and monologue and realise it was never about el), so they have to keep quiet about everything to do with ships/love triangles.

OR

2. they’re leading people on. they're making them have hope so they keep talking about the show and hyping it up, attracting more potential fans and then keeping them all as viewers for the final season, just to disappoint everyone by keeping the straight ship together and not letting the gay kid be with his first true love + best friend that he's known longer than anyone. this would also mean that so much of the writing choices would be absolutely horrendous and make no sense from a story perspective.

THAT is queerbaiting and bad writing.

there was absolutely no point in making will in love with mike if he wasn't going to end up with him.

and no, the issue is NOT mike simply being with el. if they wanted to always keep them together, they could've written their story beautifully in a proper way, WITHOUT involving will. they could've made their relationship healthy, made them feel like equals and made them actually be able to have proper heart-to-heart conversations (aka what mike has with will...), but they didn't. they also could've given will a different love interest a long time ago, BUT THEY DIDN'T. they deliberately made all of these choices, so you CANNOT sit there and blame byler shippers for feeling the way they do when the writers and cast have literally pushed and encouraged it and given us hope even more. it's not delusion, IT IS IN THE LITERAL SHOW. mike wheeler would not have gained strength and happiness if it weren't for will byers in that van scene - absolutely NOTHING you say can change this. you cannot argue. it's canon and it's there.

and even if will did develop another crush in season 5, it would not even be CLOSE to the way he’s in love with mike. that love has been developing for years, and they’ve known each other for so long and experienced so much together. they were literally each other's FIRST FRIEND! you can't get anymore powerful and romantic than that. all the upside down stuff is also a huge part of will and mike knows everything, and even helped him and saved him at certain points. a different love interest in the final season wouldn’t have those shared experiences with him AND it would feel so rushed and like such a massive slap in the face to make him fall for someone new that we don't even care about.

[cripplecharacters]

Writing Profoundly Intellectually Disabled Characters

[Plain Text: Writing Profoundly Intellectually Disabled Characters]

While there is a glaring lack of intellectually disabled characters - except maybe big, physically strong, white men who can’t “tell right from wrong” or have a personality - in all sorts of media, specifically profoundly intellectually disabled characters are next to non-existent, with the existing ones being used more often as plot devices rather than portrayed as human beings.

This does make a degree (and not more) of sense considering that 85% of ID people have it mild, 10% moderate, 3.5% severe and only 1.5% has profound ID, the larger group inevitably gets more representation (which doesn’t make it good, but it does exist). However, it hopefully doesn’t need explaining that minorities deserve to be represented too (...and represented well), so this is what this post will be about.

Please don’t treat this as your only source on writing a character like this (even though I’m willing to bet it’s the only one like this, at least on tumblr), do your research and always check other sources.

Also, for clarity: intellectual disability isn't an umberalla term for "mental/brain disability". It's a specific, singular diagnosis that used to be known as "mental [r slur]". It's not the same as brain damage, autism, dementia, dyslexia, and anything else that's not specifically "intellectual disability". It's something that you are either born with or acquire early in life.

How do I Include Them in the Story?

[Plain Text: How do I include them in the story?]

A profoundly ID person will spend the majority of their time either at home or in some sort of care facility since they will require 24/7 help. The easiest role to put them in is probably a family member of another character. I've mentioned on this blog before that the "ID characters always end up as the annoying younger sibling" thing is overdone, but none of these necessarily have to be true for this suggestion to work (especially not the "annoying" part).

A non-ID character could have an intellectually disabled older sibling, twin, cousin, uncle/aunt, the sibling of a grandparent, etc. Seriously - a severely disabled person can be an adult, or even an elder. Just not as a parent, since a profoundly disabled person can't consent (a lot of ID people very much can, but this is the one disability where your level of functioning is baked into the exact diagnosis - profound ID comes with the inability to consent/understand the consequences enough to consent).

"They're a family member" is basically the easiest "excuse" to include a profoundly intellectually disabled in a story (and, as a bonus, you don't have to figure out how the other character would react to meeting them for the first time, since they probably knew each other for a long time already).

If your story isn't about the profoundly disabled character and instead just features them as a character, it would be much easier to not make the other character their primary caregiver. It's simply a ton of work and the character wouldn't have time for fighting dragons and whatnot - it'd be easier to have the abled character spend time with the disabled character at home (or care facility; you can very much visit someone in one) hanging out rather than actually doing the caregiving part.

Outside of a home and a care facility, there are also day care programs that some people might attend. This is the rarest solution out of the three mainly because of financial reasons, but also these resources aren’t as common for people who can’t walk, learn self-care, etc. Going to one takes time (the profoundly disabled person isn’t gonna walk there by themselves) and probably requires a specialized van (that you can bring a wheelchair in, which is incredibly expensive). Most day care programs are focused on people who are moderately or severely ID at most. One made for profoundly ID people would require 1:1 aides, which generally means the programs are much smaller for logistical reasons, but also even more expensive. For most people, too expensive without funding. Basically, this is an option, but you have to consider your character’s financial situation and/or what kind of financial support do disabled people get where they live.

Another way is having the disabled character in some sort of high position - in real life there were quite a few cases of profoundly and severely intellectually disabled royalty. Depending on the place and time there might have been pressure to not let the public see them, but this wasn't always the case. The biggest example of the latter was probably Emperor An of Jin (the first Jin, Eastern one) who was, as his title suggests, crowned at some point. He didn’t actually rule (his uncle did) but yes, you can have a severely disabled person as the head of a monarchy, it’s not without precedent.

In fiction you can do whatever you want anyway when it comes to ableism, you can have it be there, or you can have it not be there - and if it does exist then there are still different kinds of ableism you can portray that aren't the "literally killing-the-disabled-baby/hiding-them-in-some-dungeon level of eugenics" kind. Maybe a rich family who cares about their image would actually be unable to shut up about their kid to show how "saint-like" they are for caring for the disabled - it is unfortunately realistic, and can be a potential way to have the character exist in public, not ignore ableism, and also not go the aforementioned literally-just-murder route that writers usually do to show an ableist family.

Characterization

[Plain Text: Characterization]

Warning; the bar here is somewhere in the Earth's inner core. If your character has a single characteristic beyond aggressive/loud/unmanageable*, they're automatically at the top of most complex fictional representation of severely/profoundly ID characters. Congrats.

* - Some people are those things but, unsurprisingly, they're other things too. A lot of profoundly ID people can actually be completely quiet - you notice people who are loud because they're loud.

As with literally every character, you need to figure out what they like and not like. This can be quite literally anything, but try to think of the basic stuff. Do they have something they really enjoy eating (and conversely - something they refuse to eat)? Do they have some sort of comfort toy or object they don't want anyone touching (and maybe showing them playing with it with a different character could be a way to show how much they trust them)? In more modern settings, do they have a favorite show they always bug everyone to put on? Are they really clingy or do they hate physical contact (again, maybe they only enjoy it from a specific character)?

Another characterization could be comfort objects. A lot of profoundly ID people are autistic (which I'll touch on later) and will have an object that they bring everywhere the same way that non-ID autistic people might. There's nothing really specific here, just another layer of "this character is a Person". Maybe they have a blanket they really enjoy chewing because the texture feels good or some sort of plushie they like to throw around because it makes a sound they find funny. Lots of options. Maybe they have a personal “tell” to let others know they want their comfort object brought to them.

Keep in mind, you have to show this all in non-verbal manner. A profoundly ID person is probably not using any sort of AAC device (the most robust one I remember seeing right now was a low-tech one with "yes" and "no", but there are probably ones who operate on a larger amount of singular words). This is basically another opportunity for characterization - what do they do when they're happy - laugh, flap their arms, make sounds? - and when they're upset - scream, hit themselves, make different sounds? Obviously, you'd have to take other disabilities into account (e.g. many profoundly ID people won't move much, some might not be able to make much audible sound, etc.) but almost anything helps.

This brings us to…

Communication

[Plain Text: Communication]

An important thing (concept?) I'll throw here is "total communication", which can mean different things in different contexts, but here I'll use it to mean "using everything you can to communicate with someone who cannot do so in a ‘traditional’ way".

Communication can be categorized as having two sides; expressive and receptive. For most intellectually disabled people in general, receptive skills tend to be significantly higher than expressive ones, though there are specific disorders where it’s reversed or equal. As mentioned before, most profoundly ID people won’t speak orally, won’t use sign language, and won’t use AAC (though out of all three, AAC is the most likely one). Some might say single words, but that’s about it. It’s not a “physically mute but can write perfectly grammatically correct sentences” situation, it’s more of a “[single noun]” one, if anything. Receptive skills however are pretty decent (in comparison) and they would probably understand their name, the name/title of their carer(s), names of things they see every day, events they have some frame of reference to (e.g. if they grew up Christian, they would probably know what Christmas is), etc. Your other characters could (and should) talk to them like they can understand, even if they don’t catch everything or even most of it. I say a lot of “probably” there, but the people who can’t do so usually have other comorbidities, which I’ll mention later.

To go back to expressive communication, eye pointing can be used to figure out what the character wants. A change in breathing can be used to tell that a character got stressed. Throwing an object can be used as a hint that the character wants to play. Maybe them reaching towards person A means they want to eat, but reaching towards person B means they want them to sing a song for them. Maybe them making a particular face means they just had a seizure and need to be comforted. Whatever their "tells" like this might be, other characters who know them would probably be able to tell more-or-less what's going on - you don't have to go really in-depth, especially if it's a minor character, but figuring out the ways your character communicates with others will make it feel more like a person and not a Disabled Lamp (“if you can replace a disabled character with a lamp or a sick dog, they’re not a character”).

If you read some of these and go "that's a thing that a child would do" then you're not necessarily wrong. A profoundly ID adult might enjoy activities that primarily kids partake in. This is, I can't stress this enough, not the same as "mentally being a child". Otherwise, a whole bunch of adults on this very website would be "mental middle schoolers" based on the shows that they watch - but they're obviously not. A profoundly ID adult doesn't have the "mind of a baby" if their favorite game is throwing a toy, they have the mind of a profoundly intellectually disabled adult. Sometimes people assume that since ID people aren't mentally [incorrect age], they always "act their [actual] age" and essentially end up downplaying how much some people's ID affects them, when the point is that no matter what you do, you are your age. An ID character who is 26 years, incontinent, constantly puts their hand in their mouth, can't speak, whatever, is mentally 26 years old the same way that they would be if they had a wife and a mortgage.

For the last thing from this section I'll circle back to the assumption that all severely/profoundly ID people are loud, aggressive, etc. - as I said, some of them are (just like abled people). The thing is, this is not always an unreasonable response to being unable to communicate with the people who are caring for you. If you had a pressure sore but couldn't explain it to anyone you'd be pissed off and screaming too. That's an extreme example, but still applies. If someone is severely stressed out (for an abled person, this might be inheriting a ton of debt, for a profoundly ID person it can be a change in daily routine), they can lash out. It's an unpleasant but very much human reaction to have, even if what's behind the ID person's behavior is significantly different from what an average abled person might consider "a good reason".

So I guess my advice is, try to show some empathy to the character, even if they genuinely are loud and/or aggressive. Intellectually disabled people - including the profoundly disabled ones - aren't some alien species that is just mean and hates their caregivers for no reason, some just can't process their feelings the way an abled person might because of their disability. That's not to say that caregivers aren't allowed to feel frustrated - because they are - but that very severely disabled people aren't purposefully evil. As mentioned in the earlier parts, all behavior has a cause, just like for literally everyone. So if the character is being "unmanageable": maybe they aren't some cursed burden, maybe they're just stressed out of their mind and now someone they don't know that well is trying to do *something* to them, which they can't figure out because of their disability affecting their receptive language skills.

Resources and What to Keep in Mind

[Plain Text: Resources and What to Keep in Mind]

Some resources you might read about ID can be potentially misleading. Even if you specifically look for causes of the profound severity of intellectual disability, you will get results for mild ID. That's mainly because people with mild ID make up >85% of intellectually disabled people and those with profound ID make like 1%, so they're a minority in a minority.

Basically:

Down syndrome is a very unlikely cause. It's always listed as the main genetic cause of ID, but that's only true for mild and moderate severities. If you choose any of the common causes of ID make sure it actually has the symptoms you're looking for.

Most profoundly ID people will have either severe brain damage early in life (and this can come with cerebral palsy), cephalic disorders (e.g. microcephaly), genetic conditions that you've never heard of (e.g. Pallister-Killian or Emanuel syndromes, 3p deletion), genetic conditions that you've never heard of for a very understandable reason (e.g. X-linked intellectual disability-limb spasticity-retinal dystrophy-arginine vasopressin deficiency… there are hundreds named in this way), or just have it without a known cause. The last one happens much more often than people tend to assume.

For a reason I'll probably discover at some point, most disorders and syndromes that come with ID are said to have "autistic-like features" rather than being "comorbid with autism". In practice, it's the same thing. Your character is probably autistic.

In the same way, a lot of practical resources will assume that ID = moderate ID (since most mildly affected need no or minimal support, and severely/profoundly disabled ones are a small minority) so pay attention if you're looking at the right things. If it's talking about having a job, travelling alone, etc., then you got clickbaited.

Another subsection here will be comorbidities because there are a lot of them. I’ll mention the biggest ones.

Brain damage is the most common one (except autism) and can vary a lot. There is barely anything I can say about this one, it’s an enormous spectrum that for some people causes disability and for others barely affects their symptoms. Cerebral palsy, especially quadriplegic, is seen a lot and might affect the character’s mobility a lot. Some people might be unable to breathe or swallow and need a breathing or feeding tube.

Deafness and blindness are comorbid with a surprising amount of causes of ID. The thing is, you could take advice for deaf/blind characters as-in for a character that has both (e.g.) glaucoma and mild ID and not change much, but this doesn’t really work for a character who’s profoundly disabled like this. The situation that can happen here is that it’s not actually known if the person is or isn’t deaf or blind because they can’t tell you. As mentioned earlier, some people will have absent receptive communication skills. How do you verify if they’re deaf or just not reactive to language? Some people won’t react to even extremely loud sounds, even if they can hear them perfectly well (besides, a lot of deaf people can still hear some). Same for verifying if they are blind - obviously, sometimes there’s something visual going on, but often there isn’t. Especially since the main causes of both blindness and deafness will be brain-based, not ear- or eye-based. Another character not being sure if the disabled character is blind or just very uninterested in visual stimuli is a possibility, especially with less advanced medicine.  This is also why you might see those weird statistics of "between 5-90% of people with [condition] are deaf" kind.

Mobility is almost always severely affected. Some are fully mobile, but that’s simply not common. The average person will be unable to walk independently. It’s not always a muscle or nerve problem (though it absolutely can be), it’s mostly an issue of coordination. Because of this (and understanding physical space), operating a wheelchair (...successfully) might be impossible. This doesn’t mean you should just drop your character in a hospital wheelchair for them to get wheeled around because they will probably need a wheelchair that will actually support them - a headrest, ability to tilt, a harness, all that. This could be done with a powerchair (they can have controls on the back for a second person to operate), a manual wheelchair, or an adaptive stroller.

Now for resources;

One good resource I can recommend is SBSK (which I shared before), to my knowledge this is the only place that interviews severely and profoundly ID people (+their families) and the interviewer is great at actually interacting with many of them. 

Most resources on the practical things only ever talk about caregivers (who are very important) but completely ignore the actual person being cared for which IMO kinda defeats the point.

Good luck writing!

mod Sasza

[player-tag]

what i think got me so hooked on sherlock and co is that john is actually useful. as in, useful for sherlock and not just the audience. 

usually, john is only there as a sort of device for the writers to show the audience what sherlock has deduced, and he doesn't actually usually help that much, and even when he does, its something sherlock could have done himself. 

john, in s&co, is useful. the "no SHIT!!! sherlock!!!", the listening to the golden pince-nez audiobook while sherlock worked out because they were short on time, helping catch baker, explaining pop culture references, catching certain things that sherlock would have taken ages to catch because he simply isnt interested in them (like the football colours and the blue jacket to point out baker), the pointing out the american girls for the noble bachelor, explaining swingers and telling sherlock the thing that probably helped them catch browner, to name a few examples.

in sherlock and co, john isn't a plot device, he's a character.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

The new welcome home update makes my head go burr. Here, have this set of headcanons I wrote while possessed by a tiny wizard. (The tiny wizard that makes me write)

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Julie, Frank, Howdy, Poppy, Sally, Barnaby and Wally & Reader who asked them what they think about death

Julie

★ When you first bring up the topic, her grin widens, clearly unfamiliar with the word. "Death?" she repeats. "Thats a funny word! What kind of game is that?" Her eyes wide and curious. Assuming you wanted to share some new game with her.

★ As you explain its meaning, her grin softens. “So… things just stop? They don’t play anymore? Not ever? That sounds so sad.” For a moment, Julie's playful demeanor faulters. Attempting to wrap her head around such a thing. "Are you sure that's right?" You nod, feeling some guilt for breaking the news to her.

★ But Julie, being Julie, tries to bounce back. She reaches out and places her hands on yours. “Well, maybe it’s not really the end! Maybe it’s like when the flowers take a nap in the winter, and then they wake up all bright and happy in the spring!” She says, trying to comfort both herself and you.

Frank

★ He understands death more than the other neighbors. Life cycles and food chains are critical for any ecosystem to function. That he knows well. Frank even has several books about the topic! But that's different. Animals are not people. When you bring up death, he gives you an impromptu lesson about how life cycles work.

★ Frank begins by saying "death isn’t merely an end” in that factual tone he so often uses. "It's an integral part of the natural cycle!" You already know that, but let him have his fun. Educating you on a topic you're more than familiar with.

★ However, he assumed that human lives were different. You weren't an animal, bug or plant. So why would someone like you die? The thought never crossed his mind. You'll need to break the news to him as gently as possible. Good luck.

Howdy

★ When you ask him, Howdy tilts his head and looks at you for a moment. Trying to figure out if you're being serious. "Well now, usually a question like that would cost a pretty penny." You nod. "But this time" he says, pulling out a chair for you "it's on the house." With a nervous smile, He gestures for you to sit.

★ He explains it to you in the simplest way possible, like you're a child. "Death's kinda like when the store closes for the night. The lights go out, the shelves are empty, and everything goes real quiet." While speaking, he keeps his tone soft. Again, treating you like a child.

Poppy

★ "Oh! What an... Interesting question" she says. Honestly, the topic makes her a bit nervous. Nevertheless she answers you "That's what happens if you aren't careful, and... break." As she speaks, she fidgets with her wings. Showing her discomfort.

★ Her nervousness is understandable, given her tendency to avoid risks and stay in her home. Where its safe. “But, um,” she adds quickly, attempting to lighten the mood. "We just have to take good care of ourselves, and each other. So nothing bad happens to us."

Sally

★ She knows it as a plot device. "Ghosts, ghouls and other terrible monsters come from death!" Sally explains. Waiving her arms around dramatically to emphasize the point. "Why, it's simply perfect for a spooky performance, dear friend!"

★ To her, it’s less of a sad reality and more an opportunity for storytelling. It's a tool for drama. Not something to be feared or mourned. As she goes on, it's clear that Sally doesn’t fully grasp the weight of death.

Barnaby

★ Barnaby doesn't like thinking about death. When you ask him about it, he treats it like a joke. “Death, eh? Well, that’s what they call it when somebody goes to live on a farm.” His tone is light, steering the conversation away from anything too serious. “You don’t need to worry about stuff like that, kid.”

Wally

★ When you ask him what he thinks about death, he tilts his head. Trying to recall where he's heard that word. “Death?” he repeats. "it's when someone goes away, isn’t it?" If you had to guess, Barnaby told him that.

★ He never really dwelled on death before. To Wally, life in Home had always been a continuous loop of joy and games. Death was a word he’d heard in passing, but it never stuck out as something important or relevant to his little world.

★ The more he learns, the more curios he becomes. “Does it happen to everyone?” he asks with a morbid fascination. “Do they know when it’s going to happen? Or is it... a surprise?” Despite how unsettling his questions are, it’s clear he’s genuinely trying to learn.

[fernwehreader]

The Lasting Impression of "A Thing of Secret, Lovely Beauty"

I was thinking more on the “thing of secret, lovely beauty” phrasing and the final words in Azriel’s ACOSF bonus chapter.  For SJM to end the chapter with these words, as a callback to their prior use early on, I believe she is hitting us over the head so we pay close attention to them.  They are literally the last words we get from Azriel’s one-and-only POV so far.  That alone should add an air of gravitas to them.  So, I want to explore why the end of the bonus chapter matters and why it indicates that we’ll see the continued development of Azriel’s relationship with Gwyn in their book (which I believe will be ACOTAR5).  

But, bear with me a bit as I first touch on considerations that lead up to Azriel’s POV and help support the significance of those final words . . . 

I know there is criticism from some readers who claim there is “nothing to Gwynriel”--that there are no developing feelings between Azriel and Gwyn during ACOSF, he never thinks of wanting her like he wants Elain, he wouldn’t even go as far as to call Gwyn a friend, etc.

While I disagree that there is no proof of something shifting between the two of them (and I’ll explain why in more detail below), I would agree that there is nothing overtly romantic established between Azriel and Gwyn by the end of the novel.  However, for me, that’s a moot point.  And it’s also a strong indicator that there is “something to Gwynriel.”  

Although ACOTAR is published in the fantasy genre, it also has a foot planted firmly in the romance genre--and there is an unspoken agreement between author and reader that, for romance arcs, the romantic development happens on the page and is experienced through the POV of at least one, but ideally both, members of the pairing.  This is necessary for readers to understand authentic connection, to allow the relationship space to breathe, and to provide intimacy for emotional investment.  Otherwise, the romance can feel unearned or like a plot device.  

SJM has already been on record that each ACOTAR book moving forward will focus on a different romantic pairing.  So, assuming Azriel’s book is next based on ACOSF and HOFAS in particular, why on earth would SJM lean into an end game romance for Azriel during Nesta and Cassian’s book?  There would then be little room for growth or challenge in Azriel’s own book--no tension.  How incredibly boring.  Plus, I’ve been reading SJM since 2012, and if there is one thing I’ve learned when it comes to analyzing her writing, it’s that she loves giving characters the space to change along with a healthy dose of tension.  Characterization (and to a certain extent plot) is all about tension.  For example: 

what a character WANTS vs. what a character NEEDS 

where a character STARTS vs. where a character ENDS

what a character BELIEVES vs. a character confronting a TRUTH

We can clearly see how Azriel’s tension is being established within each of these examples--to foreshadow both his personal growth and his romantic arc with a potential mate in Gwyn.  When it comes to the developing shift in how Azriel begins to see Gwyn, SJM says everything we need to know in the bonus chapter.  We know he's noticing not just her physical features (ex: her eyes, her “hair shining like molten metal”), but who she is as a person (ex: how much she has changed, her “charming irreverence”).

By the time we reach the bonus chapter/ Solstice in the ACOSF timeline, Azriel is also no longer observing Gwyn from a distance.  There HAS been a change and plenty of indicators that something is beginning to shift between them.  It isn’t romantic, yet; but, it honestly shouldn’t be if we’re playing by the romance genre rules.  What it should be, however, is a clear signal that something natural and genuine is happening between two characters who are slowly beginning to understand each other.

As a reminder, when we first see Azriel and Gwyn interact, it’s during training when Azriel has been brought on board to help Cassian with the increase in new priestess recruits:

“Gwyn had been distracted today--one eye on the other side of the ring.  Cassian could only assume she was watching his brother, who had given Gwyn a small smile of greeting upon arrival.  Gwyn hadn’t returned it. . . . She’d said nothing about it during the lesson.  Only glanced every now and then toward Az, who remained dutifully focused on his charges.”

We have no reason to believe that Azriel and Gwyn have had any interactions since Sangravah (although I guess their book could contradict that).  So, if we’re to assume this is the first time they have seen each other since then, it’s a notable moment.  It establishes a baseline for Azriel and Gwyn so that the reader can begin to measure their developing growth and comfort with one another.  

That first growth measurement takes place during Azriel’s bonus chapter.  We eventually end with the final words of Azriel’s POV, where the image of Gwyn’s joy is “a thing of secret, lovely beauty” to Azriel that he buries “down deep, where it glowed quietly.”  That seems like quite a jump on the measuring stick from the first interaction at training.

So, how does this jump happen?  Well, friends, it happens very gradually and naturally--almost as if there is intentionality behind it.  

Azriel goes from:

→ "dutifully focused on his charges" during their first interaction at training;

→ to turning his attention away from his charges ("Gwyn let out a high-pitched noise that was nothing but pure excitement. Azriel, on the other side of the ring with the rest of the priestesses, half-turned at the sound, brows high.");

→ to moving closer into Gwyn's physical space by training her and Emerie together while Nessian were on their hike:

“Az told me you also started preliminary work with the steel blades while we were gone.”  He nodded to Gwyn and Emerie, the former glancing toward Azriel, who watched in silence.  “So show me what you learned.  Cut the ribbon in two.” “We slice the ribbon in two,” Emerie asked Gwyn warily, “and our training is complete?” Gwyn again glanced to Azriel, who drifted closer.

→ to what we can infer was one-on-one training with Gwyn alone when Azriel "hadn't lingered" when winnowing Nesta and Cassian to the human lands because "Gwyn wanted him to go over dagger handling";

→ to, finally, the bonus chapter in Azriel’s POV where Gwyn catches him by surprise (in more ways than one), and they share a moment of soft laughs and contentment before he envisions her eyes lighting up upon receiving his gift--where the image of Gwyn glows quietly inside his chest as “a thing of secret, lovely beauty.”

So not only are those final words an interesting literary juxtaposition in a bonus chapter filled with incredible juxtapositions, but they hold significant meaning.  They show the reader that this is not coming from left field; nor is it a casual gesture for Azriel in the name of just being kind.  A progression has taken place since that first meeting where Gwyn did not return his smile.  Canon tells us that Azriel is one of our most stoic characters.  So this is intentional, even if he tries to brush off the action to Clotho, our weaver of Fate--who “was smart enough to see through his deflection.”

Now, I mentioned earlier that a romantic arc in the romance genre needs to develop on the page within the characters’ POVs. So we are in luck, then, that we’ve been gifted a tiny sliver of Azriel's own POV.  Therefore, we truly should be paying it close attention since it can act as a sort of prologue to what we can anticipate for his actual book.  

So what does that POV ultimately tell us?  I wrote a bonus chapter analysis to help answer this, so I won’t rehash all of it here.  But the last words of Azriel’s POV are, in my opinion, important enough to warrant an analysis of their own.  If I were SJM, and I knew that it was going to be a long while before we got Azriel’s POV again (with two Crescent City novels and a 5-year gap in between), I’d make those last words count.  That’s our “lasting impression.”

And when we think about the lasting impression that Azriel is leaving us with, it has nothing to do with Elain.  It has nothing to do with his anger at Rhys.  It even has nothing to do with his own self-loathing.  

That lasting impression is entirely, and intentionally, focused on Gwyn.  

And, I don’t think we can truly understand the weight of that without considering everything that leads up to those final words--how the refusal to return a smile turns into gradual awareness of each other, which then leads into personal training sessions and a Solstice encounter that shows Azriel contentedly (and selflessly) thinking about Gwyn.

If Azriel’s POV left us there (thinking about Gwyn as “a thing of secret, lovely beauty”) with no other interactions or acknowledgements of what is shifting between him and Gwyn, I believe that alone would be enough to tether the reader to what’s to come in Azriel’s book.  But that’s not what happens in ACOSF.  As I mentioned before, the bonus chapter is just the first measurement we take in how much growth has happened since that first interaction at training.

We must not forget that after Azriel’s POV and the acknowledgement of what has now settled inside his chest, it doesn’t just end there.  Instead, we get the following:

Cassian glanced over at Az, but his attention was fixed on the young priestess, admiration and quiet encouragement shining from his face.

Azriel went wholly still, as if he, too, had felt the shift.  As if he, too, were aware that far larger forces peered into that training ring as Gwyn moved.

Gwyn asked Az, her teal eyes bright, “What do we get if we finish the course?”  Az’s shadows danced around him.  “Since there’s no chance in hell any of you will finish the course, we didn’t bother to get a prize.”  Boos sounded.  Gwyn lifted her chin in challenge.  “We look forward to proving you wrong.”

Gwyn threw Azriel a withering stare as she strode past him.  “See you tomorrow, Shadowsinger,” she tossed over a shoulder.  Az stared after her, brows high with amusement. . . . "Remember how Gwyn was with the ribbon?"  Nesta winked and clapped the shadowsinger on the shoulder.  "You’re the new ribbon, Az.”

She [Gwyn] wanted to be the first.  Wanted Nesta and Emerie and her to be the ones who wiped the smirks from Azriel’s and Cassian’s faces.  Especially Azriel’s.  

And when Gwyn reached the finish line, bloody and panting and grinning so wildly her teal eyes glowed like a sunlit sea, she only extended her battered hand to Azriel.  “Well?”

“There are plenty of other unspeakable things that could be happening to her,” Cassian said, voice thickening.  “To Emerie and Gwyn.”  The shadows deepened around Azriel, his Siphons gleaming like cobalt fire.

Succeeding in the Blood Rite didn’t mean the training stopped.  No, after she [Nesta] and her friends told Cassian and Azriel most of the details of their ordeal, the two commanders had compiled a long list of mistakes that the three of them had made that needed to be corrected . . . So they would keep training, until they were all well and truly Valkyries.

This is a litany of proof for how much Azriel and Gwyn continue to circle around each other after Azriel’s POV as they observe, interact, and think of one another.  It’s not stagnant.  They are not just sharing the same “charged glances” time after time.  It’s also why I view any “the bonus chapter doesn’t matter” arguments as unserious--to believe so is to discount everything that comes before it, the lasting impression of the bonus chapter itself, and all the moments listed above which come after it.  

In my opinion, there is no denying the gentle arranging of chess pieces within ACOSF in particular, aided in large part by Azriel’s own POV.  There is a direct sense of narrative continuity which can now be picked up immediately after ACOSF in regards to Azriel and Gwyn.  The seeds have been planted and when they begin to bloom in the next book, the reader feels like they were there when everything started.  So, as Azriel goes on his healing journey (in which there is A LOT of healing that needs to happen), the hope is that we also see how he and Gwyn grow together and challenge each other--and it will feel earned as a reader because we will have seen the journey evolve.  

But, none of this can happen without the final moments of that bonus chapter.  Just as important as Azriel noting Gwyn’s “secret, lovely beauty,” we must also note that Azriel “buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly.”  It suggests to us that he isn’t ready to consciously acknowledge the depth of what Gwyn might mean to him.  He lives in shadows (both literally and metaphorically), and we have seen that emotional vulnerability does not come naturally to Azriel.  Burying that image of Gwyn is perhaps a defense mechanism–protecting that fragile, new feeling from scrutiny, rejection, or even his own self-doubt.  And as readers who have spent a great deal of time with Azriel, we know how much he struggles with these things (and will hopefully be working through them in his novel).  

However!  The fact that Azriel treasures the image at all, means that it matters deeply to him.  He hides it away, instead of discarding it altogether.  He is just not ready to look at it head-on yet.  And, honestly, I find that exciting and THAT makes me want to keep reading about Azriel and Gwyn.  It makes me want to scrutinize their shared moments after Solstice, as well as the tiny clues which may be present in HOSAB AND HOFAS (I’m doing a Crescent City re-read now, and trust that I have lots of new thoughts, lol).  

In closing, for the reader, this act of internal burial is a quiet promise: there is something blooming beneath the surface, even if Azriel can’t say it out loud yet.  It keeps us emotionally tethered to his journey, because we know he feels more than he lets on. Once again, it is our lasting impression.  When he eventually does confront what he buried, it will be that much more powerful--not just for his romantic arc with Gwyn, but for his personal growth and healing.  The fact that SJM ends Azriel’s POV with Gwyn’s image and light, even if kept in secret, invites us to hope--and to wait--for the moment he finally lets it rise to the surface.

[shiyorin]

#Thanks @roroco316, your ideas is the best (⁠~⁠￣⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠~

#When Primarchs send dick pic to you

#Rogal Dorn/Perturabo x F!Reader (Reader is Imperial Agent)

#RIP Reader

#NSFW, non-con, many things

The Imperial Palace on Terra hummed with activity, its gilded halls filled with the usual bustle of servitors, tech-priests, and various officials going about their duties. But deep within its labyrinthine structure, in a secluded chamber reserved for one of the Emperor's sons, something decidedly unusual was taking place.

Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists, is very confused. His massive form, usually the picture of stoic control, now radiated an unfamiliar tension. The Primarch's face was flushed, his breathing heavy, and an uncomfortable tightness had taken up residence in his groin.

Dorn growled in frustration, running a hand through his close-cropped white hair. He didn't understand what was happening to him. Was this some new form of xenos attack? An Enemies of the Imperium plot? Whatever it was, it was interfering with his ability to focus on his duties, and that was unacceptable.

As he turned to pace back across the room, Dorn's eyes fell on the data-slate resting on his desk. An idea formed in his mind, one that both excited and confused him. Perhaps if he documented this strange condition, he could better understand and combat it.

With decisive movements, Dorn strode to the desk and picked up the data-slate. He fumbled with the unfamiliar camera function, his large fingers clumsy on the small device. Finally figuring it out, he positioned the slate and began to remove his armor.

As the ceramite plates fell away, Dorn's impressive physique was revealed. Muscles rippled beneath skin marred by countless battle scars, a testament to millennia of warfare. But it was what lay between his legs that truly captured attention.

Dorn's cock stood at full attention, a monument to masculinity that would make even other Primarchs pause. It jutted proudly from a nest of curls, its girth easily as thick as a mortal man's forearm. Veins pulsed along its length, leading to a swollen head that glistened with pre-cum.

The Primarch's face flushed deeper as he aimed the data-slate's camera at his engorged member. He felt ridiculous, like some kind of deviant, but the urge to capture this moment was overwhelming. With a grunt of determination, Dorn snapped the picture.

Staring at the image on the screen, Dorn felt a mix of embarrassment and... pride? Yes, there was definitely a part of him that was pleased with what he saw. But what to do with it now?

Again, an inexplicable urge seized him. Before he could second-guess himself, Dorn's fingers were flying over the data-slate's interface, sending the image to the one person he felt might be able to help him make sense of this situation: you, the Imperial Agent he'd worked with on several classified missions.

As soon as the image was sent, a wave of mortification washed over Dorn. What had he done? This was completely inappropriate behavior for a Primarch! He needed to explain himself, to provide context for this madness.

Dorn began typing out a message to accompany the image:

"Dear Agent,

I find myself experiencing an unusual physiological response. My genitals have become engorged and I feel an overwhelming urge for physical contact. I believe the most efficient course of action would be for us to engage in sexual intercourse. Please prepare yourself, as I will be arriving at your quarters shortly to address this situation.

Regards, Rogal Dorn"

Satisfied that he had explained himself clearly and concisely, Dorn hit send. He then began to reassemble his armor, his movements hurried and clumsy in his eagerness to reach your quarters.

Meanwhile, in another part of the palace, you were reviewing reports when your data-slate chimed with an incoming message. Expecting more mission briefings, you casually glanced at the screen - and nearly dropped the device in shock.

There, filling your entire display, was the most impressive cock you'd ever laid eyes on. Your mouth went dry as you took in its massive size, the way it curved slightly upward, the prominent veins that promised to make you feel every inch when it was buried inside you...

You shook your head, trying to clear the sudden fog of lust that had descended. Who in the Emperor's name would send you such a thing? Your question was answered moments later as a text message popped up.

As you read Rogal Dorn's blunt, matter-of-fact explanation, your eyes widened in disbelief. "???" you muttered, re-reading the message to make sure you weren't hallucinating. Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra, had just sent you a dick pic and was now on his way to fuck you?

Before you could fully process this turn of events, a thunderous knock echoed through your quarters. Your heart leapt into your throat as you realized Dorn hadn't been exaggerating about coming right away.

With trembling hands, you smoothed down your uniform and went to answer the door. It slid open to reveal the towering form of Rogal Dorn, but your eyes were immediately drawn lower, to the massive bulge straining against the Primarch's codpiece.

"Agent," Dorn rumbled, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. "I trust you received my message and are prepared to assist me with this... situation."

You swallowed hard, your gaze alternating between Dorn's intense eyes and the promise of what lay beneath his clothes. "I... yes, my lord. Please, come in."

As Dorn ducked through the doorway, the full impact of his size hit you anew. He was easily twice your height, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the entrance. The thought of taking his cock - that magnificent beast you'd seen in the picture, made you clench in both fear and anticipation.

'Oh Throne,' you thought, a mix of panic and arousal coursing through you. 'If he puts that thing inside me, I might actually die.'

But as Dorn began to remove his clothes once more, revealing inch after glorious inch of sculpted muscle, you found yourself thinking that there were far worse ways to go.

The Primarch's cock sprang free, even more impressive in person than it had been in the picture. Pre-cum beaded at its tip, and you had to resist the fear when you saw it.

Dorn's eyes raked over your form, dark with a feeling he didn't fully understand. "I find myself... eager to proceed," he said, his usual eloquence deserting him in the face of his overwhelming need. "How shall we begin?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was sure to be the ride of your life. "My lord," you said, your voice suppressed the trembling "why don't you start by showing me exactly what that cock of yours can do?"

A rare smile tugged at the corners of Dorn's mouth as he advanced on you, his massive erection leading the way. "With pleasure, Agent."

As Dorn's large hands wrapped around your waist, lifting you effortlessly, you sent up a silent prayer to the Emperor. May the Emperor protect you.

*****

Perturabo, the Primarch of Iron Warriors, was in a foul mood. His massive form paced the confines of his private chambers, tension radiating from every inch of his superhuman body. But this wasn't his usual anger, no, this was something far more primal and embarrassing.

He was horny. Painfully, achingly horny.

The Primarch growled in frustration, his hand unconsciously drifting to the impressive bulge in his armor. He hated this weakness, this base desire that clouded his thoughts and distracted him from his grand designs. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the burning need that consumed him.

With defeat, Perturabo began to remove his armor, piece by piece. As the last ceramite plate clattered to the floor, he stood naked, his massive cock jutting proudly.

Perturabo's dick was a thing of beauty - if one appreciated monstrous, superhuman genitalia. It stood at an impressive 10 inches when fully erect, thick as a mortal man's wrist, with prominent veins running along its length. The head was a deep, angry purple, already glistening with pre-cum.

Despite his self-loathing, Perturabo couldn't resist wrapping a hand around his throbbing member. He stroked himself slowly, a low groan escaping his lips at the sensation. His other hand reached down to cup his heavy balls.

As he pleasured himself, Perturabo's thoughts drifted to you, the Imperial Agent who had been a thorn in his side. Your fierce intelligence, your unwavering loyalty to the Imperium, your lithe body that he longed to break…

Before he could stop himself, Perturabo grabbed his data-slate. With one hand still working his cock, he snapped a picture of his erect member. The image was intimidating, his massive hand wrap around the shaft, veins bulging, pre-cum dripping from the tip.

Without allowing himself to second-guess, Perturabo sent the image to your personal vox channel.

Instant regret flooded him the moment he hit 'send.' What in the name of the Warp was he thinking? He was a Primarch, a demigod of war, not some pervert sending dick pics!

Frantically, Perturabo tried to recall the message. To his immense relief, the system informed him that the image had been successfully retrieved before you could view it. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

'You definitely hadn't seen it,' Perturabo thought, a mix of relief and... disappointment? washing over him. How dare you not witness it? The audacity!

Meanwhile, in your quarters aboard an Imperial vessel, you were having a mild panic attack. You had indeed seen the image before it was retrieved, how could you not notice a message from a Primarch? And now you were sweating bullets.

Your hands shook as you typed out a quick response: "Lord Perturabo, I didn't see anything in your last message. Was there something you needed to communicate?"

You hit send and immediately regretted it. What if he took offense? What if he thought you were lying? Oh Emperor, you were so screwed.

Back in his chambers, Perturabo read your message with growing anger. You had seen it. You must have. And now you dared to lie to him? To a Primarch?

With a growl of frustration, Perturabo typed out a scathing reply: "Do not attempt to deceive me, Agent. I know you saw the image. Your dishonesty only compounds your offense."

And then, driven by a mixture of anger, lust, and wounded pride, he reattached the photo of his erect cock to the message and sent it again.

Your eyes widened in shock as your data-slate pinged with a new message. You opened it, praying to every saint you could think of that it wasn't what you feared.

Your prayers went unanswered.

There, filling your screen, was Perturabo's massive member in all its glory. You felt your mouth go dry as you took in the sheer size of it. How was that even possible? It had to be as thick as your forearm!

Despite your fear, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of arousal. You quickly shook your head, trying to dispel such dangerous thoughts. This was Perturabo, for Terra's sake! He'd crush you like a bug if he ever got his hands on you.

With trembling fingers, you typed out another response: "My Lord, I assure you I didn't see anything in your previous message. I would never lie to you."

You hit send and immediately curled into a ball on your bed, praying for a quick and painless death.

Perturabo read your latest message with growing fury. How dare you continue this charade? Did you think him a fool?

"Enough of your lies!" he typed back, his fingers nearly cracking the data-slate's screen. "You will cease this deception immediately, or I will show you the consequences of toying with a Primarch in person."

As he sent the message, a new idea formed in Perturabo's mind. If you insisted on playing dumb, perhaps it was time for a more... hands-on approach to communication.

With a few quick commands, Perturabo accessed the ship's systems. He located your quarters and activated the emergency teleportation protocols. In a flash of blue light, he materialized in your room, still gloriously naked and fully erect.

You screamed in surprise and terror as the massive form of Perturabo appeared before you. You scrambled backwards on your bed, eyes wide as saucers as you took in the Primarch in all his naked glory.

"L-Lord Perturabo!" you stammered, trying desperately to look anywhere but at his imposing erection. "I-I don't understand-"

"Silence!" Perturabo roared, his voice shaking the walls. He stalked towards the bed, his cock bobbing with each step. "You claim you saw nothing? Then allow me to give you a proper view."

Before you could react, Perturabo grabbed your ankle and dragged you to the edge of the bed. He loomed over you, his massive frame blocking out the light, his cock mere inches from your face.

"Look at it," he growled, his voice a mixture of anger and lust. "Look at what you've done to me, you infuriating woman."

You couldn't help but obey. Your eyes locked onto Perturabo's member, taking in every vein, every twitch, the bead of pre-cum forming at the tip. You swallowed hard, a confusing mix of fear and arousal coursing through you.

"I... I see it, my Lord," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Perturabo's hand shot out, gripping your chin and forcing you to meet his gaze. "And what do you think of it, little agent? Does it please you? Does it terrify you?"

Your mind raced, searching for the right answer. What could you possibly say that wouldn't result in your immediate demise?

"It's... impressive, my Lord," you finally managed, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Truly befitting a Primarch."

A slow smile spread across Perturabo's face. "Good answer," he purred. "Now, since you've finally admitted to seeing it, I think it's time we put it to proper use, don't you?"

As Perturabo's free hand began to tear at your clothes, you realized that your earlier fears had been misplaced. You weren't going to die today….

[httpsserene]

hey can I request something that’s angsty to fluff and then smut for Oscar where reader gets a ton of hate for dating Oscar so she kind of ghosts him for a bit and they figure things out

best i ever had — 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 oscar piastri x fem!black!reader 5.1k words. requested! angst & fluff. happy ending. reader neglects herself and her relationship. reader is exhausted physically and mentally, and she is not nice to herself. bad eating & sleeping habits. self-deprecation. self-sabotage. oscar piastri is a good boyfriend. emotional hurt/comfort. tenderness. intimacy. implied bath sex. appearances made by lando and logan.

synopsis: oscar really just wants to hear you laugh again.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. i apologize for my inability to write a single fic without including lando, he's my favorite plot device < 3. i couldn't stomach writing smut but there's a little something at the end. dedicated to us women in stem!

⌕ join taglist | requests & feedback | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

oscar is worried. you haven’t responded to his texts for a week, he hasn’t seen your face for two weeks, and he hasn’t heard your voice for three weeks. four weeks ago, you told him you wouldn’t be able to fly out to see him at the austin grand prix, like you promised. you sounded exhausted and incredibly guilty when you explained that your course load this semester is extreme, and finals are rapidly approaching. oscar understood; he won’t ask you to sacrifice your education for one of his races, there will be plenty you can come to in the future. what he doesn’t understand is how you’re still functioning. it’s your senior year of university at an american ivy league school, you're pursuing an engineering degree, and you’re also working nearly five days a week as a barista. oscar thinks the last time he’s seen you relaxed is before your fall semester started, you spent your entire summer break with him, making appearances at the only three races you’ve been to this season (silverstone, hungary, and spa). the last time he recalls seeing your smile and hearing your laugh is in august—it’s the end of october now. 

you’ve been ghosting him. oscar wants to believe that it’s unintentional, that it’s just a side effect of the amount of work and pressure on your shoulders—but he can’t accept that. if you were unintentionally missing his calls, facetimes, and texts, you’d spam respond to all of them with a voice message or paragraphs of texts before you went to bed or class. you would send him daily or weekly recap videos of how life is treating you, like you used to do. you would send him stupid videos of you messing around on your shifts during a pause of customers. you would send him thirty reels a day on instagram of brain dead shenanigans with little captions of how you reacted, or if you thought it would make him smile. you would send him fit checks every morning before you went to class, even though your outfit consists of a hoodie and sweatpants. you would send him tiktok edits of himself and tell him that he needs to stop being ‘so hot’ because you almost barked in the middle of class. you would ask him how he’s doing, you would respond to his texts the minute you could even if it's hours late, you would leave him voicemails if he doesn’t pick up, you would make an attempt to communicate. 

except, you haven’t. so, he knows that you ignoring him is intentional, and that your lifestyle right now makes it easier for you to disguise your avoidance of him as accidental. 

you didn’t say ‘i love you’ back. 

“mate, what are you frowning for?” oscar jumps, eyes flying up from the phone screen and meeting lando’s. the brit is staring at him in confusion, the two of them are still in their race suits, tied around their waists. the sprint race ended an hour ago, and they’ve just finished celebrating oscar’s win.

“you’ve won a race, oscar—what could possibly make you sad after that?” lando says teasingly. but, the smile on his face is quick to fade as he must see oscar’s dejected mood.

the australian debates his next move for a moment, before deciding that telling lando isn’t a bad idea; they’ve been getting closer—they’re friends, oscar would say. he sighs, and hands his phone to lando, maybe he’ll tell oscar he’s worrying over nothing.

“oh,” lando says, eyes widening, “i’m sorry, mate.”

oscar brushes off lando’s words, and buries his face in his hands, “she’s pulling away from me. that was five days ago, and she hasn’t answered any of my calls. she’s only responded to my texts since then with one word answers or very dryly. she’s ghosting me.”

oscar feels lando fumbling for words, not needing to look at him to know that the older man has no idea how to go about reassuring oscar.

“look, mate, if it were me i’d go see her anyways.”

oscar huffs, “she literally said she doesn’t have time.”

“oscar,” lando stares at him in disbelief, “she hasn’t seen you in two months. i guarantee she’s probably dying to see you again, fuck whatever time she doesn’t have. she also can’t ghost you, if you see her face to face. you should go and try to fix whatever’s wrong, before you let her slip away.”

“maybe…maybe she’s just burnt out,” oscar suggests shakily, “i’ll go see her after the triple header–i’m probably just overreacting about this. she’ll be back to her usual self in time.”

oscar is enraged. he’s pissed off at his fans for attacking you in a sick twist of ‘defending him,’ ‘protecting him’ and the supposed ‘ownership’ they think they have over him. he’s pissed off at you deciding to ghost him instead of confiding in him about the hate you receive. he’s pissed off that his flight to you has been delayed for four hours. he’s pissed off at his race in brazil, if you can even call what happened a race. he’s pissed off at the fact that you can’t make time to see him before vegas. he’s pissed off that you lied to him about picking up extra shifts at the cafe.

he stalked through your instagram the minute after he was allowed to escape debrief, hunting down your roomates accounts from where you’ve tagged them in an older post. he innocently made a group message to the two girls, figuring it would be kind and proper to inform them of his impending arrival to surprise you. and the two girls you shared an apartment with responded eagerly to his message telling him that you’ve been extremely stressed and almost depressed this semester, and that hopefully his appearance will break through to you in a way they are unable to. oscar asked them if they knew your work schedule for the week, since you never told him when you're working–and learned that you lied. you didn’t accept any extra shifts, matter of fact, you got all of your shifts covered for the next two weeks. apparently, all you have been doing is going to class, working, studying furiously, and crying. when he asks if there’s any reason besides the stress from work and school that has you crying, the girls decline to speak for you, and strongly suggest that he asks you himself when he arrives. 

oscar’s no longer pissed at you for lying to him or for ghosting him–he’s hurt, but, he already understands your motive. you don’t want to worry him, so you bottle it up and distance yourself to not make him aware of how you're struggling. he won’t let you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone anymore, he’s going to see you and he’s going to take care of you, and then he’ll sort out the ignorant people on the internet.

when he’s at your apartment, you’ll be coming home from your last shift before your time off. and then, once he has you in his arms, he can make everything right again.

your hands are shaking; a result from the mix of stress and exhaustion that has been plaguing you for a few weeks. it takes you four and a half attempts to unlock the front door to your apartment—this is an improvement, yesterday it took you six times. a trembling sigh of relief exits your lungs as you shut the front door, triple checking that you lock the door properly. you remove all of your outerwear and slip out of your shoes, half-heartedly making an attempt to neatly place them in the organizer you have by the door. (you fail to register how there’s only two pairs of shoes stored away; yours and a pair of shoes that look too big to be one of the girls you live with—the usual sneakers the girls wear are nowhere to be seen.) you grunt as you tenderly put on your backpack and slowly make your way into the kitchen, off-handedly murmuring a “hi,” in the direction of the living room since you can hear the tv playing, but you don’t even spare a glance to see which roommate it is—you can’t stomach anymore human interaction today.

your walk is more of a waddle; your legs and feet are sore from working nine-hour shifts five days in a row, and also from going to class four out of those five days. you place your backpack on the small island, and continue to gently meander towards the fridge. your stomach aches at the thought of food—which is unfortunate, considering you’ve only had one meal today. regardless, you will shove a sandwich down your throat, you need the energy if you’re going to study for three hours before you go to bed. 

you pause before you open the fridge, a note is stuck on the door with a magnet. your roommates are gone; the two girls have spontaneously decided to go spend the weekend with their boyfriends—you’re not going to complain, you have the apartment to yourself. a brief wave of loneliness washes over you, you were kind of looking forward to venting about the week you had to the girls in the morning, and also, couldn’t they have texted you this earlier today? who leaves old-fashioned notes on the fridge anymore? you pull out your phone to send a text in your group chat wishing them a nice weekend, and see that they did, in fact, text you that they would be gone—three days ago. and, you never responded, because you never saw it. you shrug, and send the text anyways, you’ve been incredibly busy and you’re bound to miss a few texts (especially the eighteen texts from oscar that remain unopened). 

you're just going through a little bit of a slump, and you’ve had a bad day. you accidentally messed up three orders today (out of the hundred you fulfilled, so three isn’t really terrible), your running off of four hours of sleep (you’re more energized when you sleep less, anyways), and a customer accidentally bumped into you as you were walking to bring coffee to a table, causing the hot liquid to spill and burn a little spot on the back of your hand by your thumb. well, you know it wasn’t purely accidental, as the girl giggled to the group of friends she was with after she “bumped” into you. based on the way she was wearing a mclaren hoodie, you can make several guesses as to why she did it—you’re kind of shocked that she noticed you even though you wear a mask at work (you have for about a month, too many fans have noticed who you are), her hate for a relationship that’s not hers should be studied for science. 

incidents like these have made your coworkers start to…dislike you. the decrease in tips when you’re assigned to the register causes you to be forced to be hidden behind coffee machines the entire shift, only making drinks the entire nine hours you’re there. it’s better for you though, at least you can have a physical barrier blocking the prying eyes you feel are judging you the entire time. if anything, the recent atmosphere at work made you want to put in your two weeks—but, you have bills to pay. you’re just glad you managed to find a way to get two weeks off so you can focus on school and prepare for your exams—you can’t afford to fail, it’ll cost your scholarship and then you’ll need more than the job you have right now to finish school.

the buzzing of your phone pulls you back to the present—oscar’s calling. you squeeze your eyes shut for a few seconds, before you blink and silence the ringer. if you speak to him, you won’t be able to hide your troubles from him any longer; he reads you as easily as a kid’s picture book. he definitely doesn’t need to deal with your problems after whatever the hell happened in brazil. the noise of your phone startled you into a new thought, however. if the girls aren’t in the apartment, why the fuck is the tv on? who did you greet when you walked past the main room without a glance?

“i was calling to tell you that i’ve got takeout from the asian restaurant you like, if you’re looking for something to eat,” oscar says gently.

it’s a testament to how extremely exhausted you are: you don’t scream, you don’t fight, you don’t run—you just flinch slightly, and turn around slowly to face your boyfriend…the man you’ve been avoiding for nearly a month. at the sight of him (his fluffy hair, his soft sweater, the confused and concerned glint in his eyes) your lip starts quivering, and your eyes start watering. oscar’s gaze softens into something sweet yet empathic, and he says, “i know it’s been a while since we’ve last talked, but i didn’t think you’d cry at the sight of me.”

you burst into tears with a sob, and in a second oscar’s got you wrapped up in his arms, one hand soothingly massaging your back, while the other cradles your head on his shoulder. your borderline hyperventilating, your tears have started to soak his sweater, and you’re sniffling every two seconds to avoid getting snot on him too. oscar doesn’t try to quiet your tears, he doesn’t ask about what’s making you cry, he doesn’t even try to tell you that everything will be fine—he just holds you as you cry it out and presses kisses into your hair. eventually, the flow of tears dries and you focus on pulling in shaky breaths of air to calm down. oscar switches to holding you to his chest with one arm while he uses the free one to reach across the counter and grab a tissue. wordlessly, he wipes the wetness off your cheeks and under-eyes, he even uses another tissue to wipe your nose, clearing away the snot that managed to escape. you almost start crying again at the tender treatment and the matching look in his eyes, but you muster enough strength to keep the happy tears from falling over the waterline. 

oscar nods once, deeming his cleanup complete, and clears his throat, “i’m going to heat up the food. then, we’ll eat and you’ll tell me what’s wrong and if that has anything to do with why you’re ignoring me.”

there’s no attempt from you to keep the façade up any longer, all you do is nod and step to the side so he can grab the food from the fridge.

oscar has already cleared his plate and you’re still picking through half of yours. the two of you are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, teen wolf is playing on a low volume, and your eyes are tunneled on the screen even though oscar can see that you’re not paying attention at all. one of the characters is screaming about having to get his arm cut off (stiles, probably) and suddenly you start talking to oscar.

“it’s been a shit semester. if i wasn’t graduating in spring, i honestly think i would’ve dropped out or taken a gap-year. and, i knew what i signed up for as an engineering major, and i knew that working was only going to add more on my plate—but, it’s not like i can quit my job, i have bills to pay. so, juggling school and work is difficult, and i was managing fine. but, i guess i made the mistake of scrolling through twitter—which is truly my fault i think—and everyone on the internet was calling me a ‘terrible girlfriend’,” oscar watches you scoff out a choked laugh, “and, i obviously didn’t believe i was. in the beginning, at least. i mean, it’s like they expected me to be at every race by your side, like i’m not working my way through a hellscape of a degree. i watched every practice session, qualifying, and race—they’re literally the only hours i don’t spend studying or working. i brag about you to everybody who would listen, i missed hours of sleep just to speak to you on the phone for five minutes, i work as hard as i can so i can finish this degree early so i can be with you as early as possible, and they say that you deserve a better girlfriend.”

you pause and rub at your eyes furiously, mouth opening and closing as you take time to find the words to continue. oscar quiets the flare of anger at your distress, and stays silent, not wanting to interrupt your speech, this is the most you’ve said to him in a month.

“the thing is: i-i i let their words get to me. i think it’s because i was being kicked while i was down—or whatever the phrase is. i was already mentally exhausted, and i already believe that i’m not doing my best this year, i’m disappointing everybody who knows me, i’m a shit student—and just seeing everybody agree, even though they’re just randoms on the internet, tore me down. i even deleted all of the apps off my phone,” your voice has shifted into something desperate, “so i couldn’t see what they were saying about me anymore, but it’s like once i saw it, it never left my mind. i feel like everybody is staring at me with condescending eyes, like they all think i’m terrible. and, logically, i know that’s probably not true. but, this semester has pushed me past the point of being able to rationalize properly. so as a result, i have become a ‘terrible girlfriend’ to you; like a twisted self-fulfilling prophecy.

“i avoid your calls, i leave you on delivered for days, i respond with one word, i lie to my friends and say i was up all night talking to you on the phone when i was really crying and studying at the same time, i hold back from bursting into tears in the middle of my shifts when one of your ‘fangirls’ spills their drink over me for the third time. and while doing all of this, i was hoping you’d do the hard part and just break up with me,” your voice rings out sharply and you refuse to look at your boyfriend, afraid to see the look on his face.

“because…” you whimper slightly, tongue flicking out to lick at your lips anxiously, “you do deserve a better girlfriend.”

oscar is lost for words at your conclusion; seeing you, one of the strongest women he knows break down, is a sight he never imagined. a sense of guilt builds within him, knowing that he’s added to the deprecating thoughts in your brain by postponing this intervention for weeks. you may think that he deserves someone better, but he hasn’t been the best to you either recently. if oscar was half the man you think he is, he would’ve never allowed you to avoid him in the first place. oscar stands up, collects your plate and his, and places them on the coffee table. he turns and drops to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs, and squeezes them gently to grab your attention. it takes a minute, but eventually you allow your eyes to fall to meet his, and oscar breaks further at the lack of light in your eyes.

“i think,” oscar starts quietly, “that you expect me to break up with you and leave—am i guessing correctly?”

you blink down at him and shrug, biting your lip to prevent it from quivering.

“i also think, that if i flew all this way to see you, and that if i listened to your heartbreaking recollection of how this semester and how the world has been incredibly unkind to you, and that if i sat here and still broke up you—it’s not me that deserves a better girlfriend; it’s you that deserves a better boyfriend.”

stunned, you stumble over your disagreement, but oscar steadfastly continues.

“you did the right thing by deleting your socials—and that would explain why all three hundred of the reels i’ve sent you have gone unseen,” he laughs lightly, “and even if their words took root, you prevented yourself from being able to see more of it every time you used your phone; so even if my pride is not needed, i am proud of you for doing that. i’m even more proud that you sat here and told me that you aren’t doing well, that you didn’t make an attempt to lie, and that i didn’t have to force you to tell me,” oscar says seriously, holding steady eye contact with you to make sure you're hearing him.

“i wish that you would have mentioned the hate you’re receiving as soon as it started, and that you would have told me your mental health was suffering too. you know i do everything in my power to avoid reading anything with my name in it unless it’s a credible article—so imagine my surprise, when i learned about what people were saying about you through a twitter thread logan, of all people texted me about,” you snort out a laugh at the feigned disdain in oscar’s voice when he mentions the american driver. 

“you know i have no issues embarrassing people on the internet for their incorrect claims—and i’d especially tear them to shreds for trying to drag you down. we’ve been together too long for you not to come to me about things like this, even if it’s something that mildly upsets you—i want to know, because then i can make it better, or i can at least try to. you haven’t complained to me about the grueling lifestyle once, as i worked my way up to f1; if anybody could be perfect, it would be you. so, let me try to be as perfect as you, and support you properly and thoroughly as you finish up this degree, baby.

“we’re soulmates, aren’t we?” it’s a question, but oscar states it like a fact, “and i know i can’t magically make the self-loathing disappear with one conversation, but i'll tell you that you’re the best girlfriend i’ve ever had countless times, until you believe me unquestionably.”

oscar watches your nose scrunch cutely as you sniffle, unable to stop the tears that leak from the corners of your eyes. sweetly, he catches them with his thumb before they fall. he stands up and tugs you to your feet, pulling you into a tight, warm hug. 

“i love you, kanga,” oscar coos as he kisses your forehead.

“i love you the most, roo,” you answer back, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“i’ve bought some lavender epsom salt and an embarrassing amount of bath bombs. will you let me take care of you tonight?” oscar asks quietly.

he sees the mix of awed-disbelief and confusion as you stare up at him, like you can’t imagine why he’d want to love you tenderly tonight, and that hurts him more—the words of his ‘fans’ online have done enough damage to cause you to doubt him. maybe he can convince you to come to vegas with him so he can keep you close, but first, he needs to focus on caring for you here and now.

oscar grabs his duffle bag and smiles as you hold his hand to lead him to your room and the attached bathroom (rent is ridiculously expensive, but at least you don’t have to share a bathroom with your roommates.) oscar sends you to grab pajamas while he starts filling the tub, epsom salt already poured in. he fiddles with the temperature for a while before it’s set to the boiling-your-skin-off hot you enjoy. by the time you join him in the bathroom, he’s added the salts and soap in the water and has placed the bath bombs out for you to choose one. oscar can’t help the small smile that rises to his face at the sight of the serious furrow of your brow as you pick out your favorite from the bunch. 

oscar hums as you hand him the jade-infused bath bomb, and asks, “can i wash your hair too? or will it mess up your schedule?”

“i actually really need to wash it,” you murmur with a humorless chuckle, “i’ve been so busy that i haven’t been taking care of my hair properly.”

oscar blinks and continues non-judgmentally, “i’ll give you an extra scalp massage to make up for that—you can start getting undressed now, the water’s nearly ready.”

he turns around awkwardly, he’s seen you naked before but he feels like it would be slightly perverse to watch you while you’re clearly in a more sensitive state tonight. he fumbles with the faucet for a few seconds before turning it off, and drops the bath bomb into the water so it can start dispersing. oscar faces you again carefully making sure he avoids staring at your body and locks eyes with you, he beckons you forward with an outstretched hand and holds your hand as you submerge yourself in the water. once you’re settled comfortably, oscar grabs your hair products (he holds up any bottle he thinks you may not want to use tonight, and you give him a thumbs up or down to decide), and then kneels at your side.

he starts to roll up the sleeves of the hoodie but your hand halts his motions, the water splashing loudly at the quickness of your movement, “you’re not getting in with me?”

“uh,” oscar stutters, “i-i wasn’t planning on it. i just wanted to give you a nice bath.”

oscar pinkens as you stare at him wordlessly and when your unimpressed gaze shifts to a slight glare, he finds himself shedding his clothes and sinking in behind you at an impressive speed. 

his heart began to race as the two of you shifted into as comfortable of a position you could achieve in a too-small tub, but calmed at your pleased hum as you settled between his legs with your back resting on his chest. this may be the most romantic experience oscar has ever indulged in. sure, it’s not a candlelit dinner at an obnoxiously expensive restaurant but, it’s him detangling your hair, it’s him massaging shampoo into your crown, it’s him scratching softly along your scalp as the deep conditioner sits, it’s you playing with the water innocently, it’s you whispering every detail of your life that he’s missed out on, it’s you gently directing him through braiding your hair, and it’s him pressing kisses to your shoulder when he finishes. there isn’t a single moment where the two of you become unsettled during lapses of silence; the intimacy of his actions is loud enough to fill the gaps. oscar can’t imagine ever being this comfortable with anybody besides you, he hates that he almost allowed you to pull completely away from him. moments like these, where you allow yourself to be thoughtlessly vulnerable with him, are exactly why he’s completely enamored with you.

your body has loosened against him, muscles syrupy and lax from the effects of a toe-curling scalp massage, and oscar gently guides you to sit upright while steadying most of your weight with a single hand splayed against your abdomen. the sound of the cap of your body wash clicking open startles you into the present, and you shift around to straddle his lap. it’s amusing; he inaudibly chuckles at the sight of you struggling to complete your change of position without sending water over the edge. you make a triumphant noise when you’ve managed to turn around to face him, and oscar’s hands cradle your hips when you rest on his lap. 

“can i–”

“shouldn’t you–”

oscar bursts into laughter and you into giggles, at the interruption of each other's sentences. it’s definitely not that funny, but oscar’s heart skips a beat at the sound of your laugh–he hasn’t heard that sweet noise in what feels like forever. he motions for you to speak, ever the gentleman, and eagerly awaits for our question with a smile still stretched across his lips.

“shouldn’t you fuck me before we wash up? so we don’t have to clean up twice?”

oscar chokes on his breath, his grip on you tightening in surprise, and he babbles, “what? no-i mean, yes, i mean—wait. i didn’t do all of this just to have sex with you, you know that right? i genuinely just wanted to pamper you–”

“oscar,” you cut him off, intentionally this time around, “after the semester i’ve had, and the less than kind words i’ve heard and thoughts i’ve had describing myself–i really do appreciate the bath, i feel reminded that you love me. however, i really think that having sex would help…solidify your devotion for me.”

oscar blinks up at you, he wasn’t quite expecting you to return to your normal sassy behavior as quickly as you did. but, he is thankful that you’ve opened up to him with no further hesitation–it’s actually incredibly attractive of you, how you’ve resumed complete comfortability in expressing exactly what you want to him. at least, that’s the excuse he’s telling himself to cope with being half-hard already.

“...at least let me take you to bed, then?”

“no,” you whine down at him, your hips sneakily twitching forward, oscar moans lightly at the light grind, “too far! saves time later if we don’t have to come back to shower.”

“you’re right,” oscar hums distractedly, moving his right hand off your waist to slip between your thighs and brush along your cunt, “i’ll fuck you here as long as you let me do all of the work.”

oscar’s blood heats at the sound of your whimpering moan and he takes his other hand off your waist to grab at your chin and he pulls you down for a kiss.

oscar groans when you pause before your lips touch his, and he feels the breath of your giggle ghost over his mouth, “mmm, i’ll never say no to that—and, didn’t i agree to let you take care of me tonight?” 

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[ranunculussy]

enigma | part 07.

ꕥ part 01. | part 02. | part 03. | part 04. | part 05.| part 06. | part 08. | part 09. ꕥ pair: Spencer Reid × BAU!fem!reader ꕥ warnings/tags: canon-typical violence, kinda graphic description of the next crime, swearing, somewhat oblivious Reid and reader, age gap, moderately jealous Spencer, slow-burn, mutual pining, rivals to lovers, english isn't my first language so bear with me pls, if there are other warnings or tags i should add let me know ꕥ small author's note: hey guys, i'm back from the nine hells! i'm honestly really, really sorry that i disappeared for such a long time but i discovered that the ao3 writer's curse is, in fact, real as fuck. i've been sick for 2 months on and off, which resulted in me, ending up in the hospital and even spending my birthday there lmao. anyway, i think i lowkey reached the end of my recovery and i am back!! hope you'll enjoy this chapter and thank you so much if you're still here after so much waiting, i love you with all of my heart <3 ꕥ small author's note 2: i'll be describing a rather weird(?) crime this time that was inspired by a song (i'll attach it at the end of the chapter, i heavily recommend it - check it out on youtube too, it has a nice mv). i was very hesitant at first about whether i should write this or stick to the good old, bit more basic plots but then i was like fuck it, i have creative freedom for a reason and this series is already filled with weird crimes so why not ꕥ small author's note 3: i am also working on the sapphic knight!Emily × princess!reader, so you can expect that very soon ^-^ let me know if you're interested in it and would like to be notified when it's published ꕥ word count: ~2.6k ꕥ summary: Spencer can't quite figure you, his rival out and this annoys him more than it should [this fanfic is also available on AO3 with the same title and username]

wednesday

“We got a case. A bad one. Like really, really bad.” The word ‘anxious’ couldn’t even describe exactly how Garcia speedwalked through the bullpen in her neon pink high heels with her rhinestoned tablet in hand. The rest of the team—except for Hotch, were all gathered around Rossi’s desk since he was showing pictures of his grandson with a puppy that he got for his birthday.

“Dare I say Florida?” you murmured audibly enough for some of them to snort at your comment, which was only half a joke. With the amount of utter bullshit that went down there and resulted in the ‘Florida man’ news nothing was surprising anymore. Let’s just say, you accidentally hit the bull’s eye.

“Brace yourselves, my sweet, sweet crimefighters, because what I’m about to show you is very gory.”

You lowered your gaze to the bright screen of your tablet, where photos of the crime scene popped up. Well… Garcia was right. It was gory.

Not even half an hour ago divers found the second dead woman on one of the beaches in Florida. It looked like she got sewn into a seal’s skin and laid down there, making it look like it was a deceased animal, swept to the land by the stronger waves. Lucky for you, since this exact thing happened a few days ago, people were more cautious and thus, the scene remained in its original, uncompromised state.

“Sarah Moore is the second victim in three days. Today, the Florida Police Force has invited us in officially.” took over the word your unit chief, shifting everyone’s glance from the tablets —and printed out files in a particular doctor’s case—towards him.

“What, they didn’t find this” Derek pointed at the device still displaying the graphic photos of the scene in front of him, “freaky at the first time!?”

“There has been a rather public scandal involving the police in Florida, which resulted in replacing almost every person at command there. I think the new chief wanted to show that he can handle things by himself, since many eyes are on him and his work.” explained the man on your right, gesticulating with his big, slender hands. As your eyes unintentionally traced the line of his fingers, you wondered if he ever played the piano. He had the hands of an artist.

“Great. I wonder how much of an asshole he will be to us. I bet he’ll try to demonstrate his superiority.” your let out a groan at the thought of having to handle a grown man who acts like a demanding child, thinking that he is better and smarter than everyone else there. You had problems with people like him. Swallowing your pride when you knew that you were right was challenging for you.

“I wouldn’t exactly use this wording, but Y/N is right. Chief Miller will do everything to make himself look good in the eye of the public, even if it means undermining us. We will have to be exceptionally careful. Wheels up in 30.”

You sat at the window in one of the lounge seating areas of the jet. Next to you was Emily, Reid sat in front of you, Derek next to him. The laptop—making it possible for Penelope to join in the briefing that took place on the plane—was set up on the table between the four of you. Hotchner, JJ and Rossi gathered around your seats with tablets and case folders in hand.

All of you were reading the detailed police reports, that seemed more like a plot of some series than an actual crime committed by actual humans. None of you have met with things like this before.

Both victims got partially skinned ante-mortem, then sewn into a seal that was cut open from its jaw to its belly. The only skin remaining on Sarah and the other poor woman, named Ruby, were on those parts of their bodies that didn’t get covered by the animal. This meant the area of their stomach, chest and face. Even their scalps got removed.

“Garcia, do we know if the seals were real or a costume?” asked the doctor after looking up from the files.

“What am I, if not the queen of supplying you with all kinds of unsettling information? I already checked, however, and couldn’t find anything on this.”

“They didn’t check?” asked Emily in a dumbfounded tone.

“Well, if they did, there are no records about it anywhere.”

“Wanna bet that Chief Whatever-the-hell-his-name-is—” you started but got interrupted by Reid, chiming in, correcting you with a slight smile on his annoying face, as usual.

“Miller.”

“Yea, that. So, wanna bet that Chief Miller wanted to wrap this case up as quickly as possible by finding a fitting culprit and putting them away, whether they’re the real killer or not? Wouldn’t surprise me if he simply forgot to check this detail.”

The briefing went on for a long time. Ideas from everyone kept popping up the more you thought about the crime, its meaning, what it tells about the UnSub, the mode of display and basically everything regarding to the case. You even debated against each other if you found some holes in the other’s logic, but everything remained civil. Even between the doctor and you. Which was rare, but not impossible. It just so happened that none of your ideas went directly against the other’s so there was no use of wasting your time with bantering.

“We are landing in 15 minutes. JJ, Prentiss and I will set up at the station. Morgan, Rossi, go to the M.E., find out what you can about the victims, C.O.D., and ask for an exam on the seal. Reid, L/N, go to the latest crime scene. We have to find out if this is a ritual or some sort of radical activist statement.”

The warm weather and the smell and sound of the sea would’ve been calming in any other situation, just not when you were squatting next to a blood soaked, dead victim. It was impossible to tell whether the animal that looked like it’s consuming Sarah was real or not. Its size, texture and smell were very lifelike. You couldn’t see the insides, not until the M.E. cuts the poor woman out of the mammal.

“It’s obvious that the UnSub was careful with the sewing, it’s very precise. Can you see the thread from where you stand?” you looked back at the man who was standing a few steps behind you, taking in and analysing the bigger picture. He slightly furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes, trying to spot even a tiny amount of straying yarn with little to no success. From where he stood, it looked like the human and animal were one and the same. Like they were meant to be this way. He shook his head as an answer, then walked right behind you and leaned down, so that your heads could be at the same level.

You felt the warm air leaving his nose as he breathed out near the small of your neck, causing goosebumps to run across your covered skin. Thank fucking God for the long sleeves, I’d look like a fool.

These past few weeks moments like this became a common occurrence. You were convinced he pulled these antics to make you flustered, to make you look like a fool, for his own amusement. You caught him staring, more often than not, but he never looked away, just slightly raised his eyebrows and challenged you to a silent staring contest. His comments or arguments became vague or had double meanings, trying to catch you off guard. He also became more physical, which baffled you the most. Dr Spencer ‘Germaphobe-and-Social-Distancing’ Reid, who he himself said that kissing would be more sanitary and safer than a handshake, was initiating physical contact with you. You didn’t understand this at all. Things were rough between the two of you ever since you started working at the BAU, so you were careful, so fucking careful not to touch him accidentally whenever you handed him anything, since you didn’t want to worsen anything. But now… Now he made a habit of standing closer to you than to anyone else, making his fingertips brush your skin whenever you gave each other something, and so on. These would’ve been small things with anyone else but not with him. You were silently fuming whenever he did something like this. You worked so hard trying to make him comfortable. Yes, you were arguing all the time, but that was strictly professional, you never crossed any personal lines. And now he seemed to take a 180°.

Of course, you saw this as a challenge. You weren’t kidding when you said, “Game on, doctor.” in that hotel room a few weeks ago, when you first noticed how strange he behaved. Did he want to make you less competent than him by making you look like some silly girl that blushes at every small thing a man does? Well yeah, you would never let that happen. Two can play this game, and you held yourself true to your word. You fought fire by fire, acting like he did. You’d never shy away from some teasing, especially when your honour was on the line.

You turned your head towards him. He was so close, your nose almost touched his left cheek. “What are your thoughts, doctor?”

He faced you, so his eyes could find yours. What he foolishly didn’t calculate is how awfully close you two would be. His breath hitched as his gaze flickered between your irises for a few seconds, taking in all the variations of colours that danced around your pupils, then he lowered his eyes to the tip of your nose that almost touched his, finally, he stopped at your lips, barely out of reach, before finding his way back to your eyes. All of this happened in split seconds, but you noticed it all. You would’ve been a hideous profiler if you didn’t. A victorious smirk formed on your face and your confidence was through the roof as the not so collected doctor’s cheeks took up a light shade of pink, barely visible to anyone else. You won this round.

The team got set up at the conference room of the modern police station. A few hours after landing, everyone gathered there. Dave and Derek arrived with crucial information regarding the first and second victim and the seals, while you shared details about the latest scene.

“According to the M.E., the cause of death was exsanguination in both cases.” said Morgan, who was fidgeting with a mustard-coloured pencil.

“Isn’t surprising in cases involving being skinned alive.” Emily’s monotone tone came as a response as she read through the tox screen. “They found a high dosage of ketamine in their system, meaning that they were possibly paralysed and awake during the skinning and sewing, making our UnSub a sadist.”

“Yes, most definitely.” agreed Reid, who was standing in front of the huge screen on the wall of the spacious room. On the screen, an anatomical drawing of the human body was displayed. “And the UnSub must have some degree of medical knowledge, because they avoided all the main arteries during skinning, making the victims suffer much longer.” during his explanation, the doctor pointed at all the pressure points of the body to show where the two women weren’t cut.

“The way of stitching further proves this; it was really precise.” you added with a slight nodding.

“So, are we looking at a doctor maybe? But then what do the scenes mean? This is one hell of an M.O., and way too specific to have no deeper meaning to it.” next to Emily, JJ was swiping between all the photos from both scenes, zooming in on the gory details, hoping she can find something, anything.

“Well, we still can’t rule out radical climate change or animal rights activists, especially since the Caribbean monk seals that were once native to this region gone extinct because of humans. They were overhunted and due to overfishing, the remaining starved to death.” Reid said this as if he was reading it out of a book.

While the others shared their ideas back and forth, your mind wandered to a different direction. Ever since morning, when you first got introduced to this case, you couldn’t shake a thought and after seeing the scenes and becoming more familiar with the details, it just got solidified, but it was a bit too out of reach. That’s why you excused yourself and quickly left the conference room. You didn’t stop until the parking lot, which was empty, to your relief. You quickly dialled the only person who was able to help you out with your dilemma, the one and only Penelope Garcia.

Your conversation was quick, but you got everything you needed and were ready to head back to the team, now confident in your theory, however, as soon as you turned on your heels, you slammed into something rather… familiar. Reid.

“Ah, for fucks sake.” you murmured as you stumbled backwards. “Do you crave physical contact this much, dear doctor? Next time just ask.”

“Why, would you comply?” he raised an eyebrow, his lips formed a somewhat cocky smile, but it was tamed enough to get missed.

“Maybe. If you beg for it.”

“Oh, between the two of us, I’m more than certain that you’d be the one that begs.” he stated confidently, as if his awkward self never existed. “But feel free to try and prove me wrong.”

“I- khm…” no matter how much you fought against the red hotness crawling up on your neck towards your face and ears, you couldn’t shake feeling weird. “You’ll have to do a lot more work to make me want to prove anything to you.” your comeback, if one can call it that, came out weaker than it sounded in your head, so before things could’ve gotten even more embarrassing for you, you decided to change the topic, silently noting that you lost this battle. “Anyway, why did you come after me?”

“For one, to check on you. For two, the others are ordering lunch and wanted to know what you would like to eat.”

“As you can see, I’m perfectly well.” you nodded, trying to solidify your statement after your previous banter, partially for him, partially for yourself.

Before he could ask or say anything else, you decided to head back to the rest of the team, with Reid, sticking close to your back.

“Mmh, I can see. No erubescence at all.” he said in a playful tone as effortlessly caught up with you, thanks to his long legs. You ignored his comment as you pushed the glass doors in and shifted your attention towards the other five people.

“Is everything alright, pretty girl?”

“Yes, I just had to confirm something real quick before presenting my groundbreaking theory to you, guys. So,” you said as you sat down in front of the laptop that was connected to the huge screen, opened Google and typed in one single word to the search bar: selkie.

thank you again for reading my work, hope you're having an awesome day! i hope it isn't a problem that this fic is getting longer, i'm just taking slow burn seriously (only thing i can do lmao) taglist: @halfbloodwriter @starrystormwritings @kspencer34 @maisyyyyyy @theseerbetweenus @throwaway-things @pleasantwitchgarden divider from @cafekitsune gif from @reidgif

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

The Redbull curse - minotaur! Daniel Ricciardo x reader

cw: daniel actually cursing the second seat, body transformation verging on body horror, monster fucking, primal play (chasing reader through the woods), dubcon, dark! Danny, author read greek mythology in her formative years instead of talking to boys, so now we have this

It's September in Singapore, the night after the Grand Prix, and Daniel Ricciardo can't sleep. He lost his race seat. He heard the venomous words from Helmut on Friday. But he held on. He knew he could get the tractor out to Q3, he had the ability, the experience. Just not the pace. The old engine was holding him back, and that P18 was the final nail in the coffin of his career. He still tries, might as well go out in a blaze of glory. He manages the fastest lap, soft tires sparking up against the streets. Daniel brings her home to the garage and sits. He just waits. He's like a petulant child, hiding out in a bathroom, not wanting to face the world. Not wanting to let go of the comfort of the cockpit. Not wanting to face everyone like this. But it's hot, and he's not about to be a frog boiling itself alive. He still had a job to do. He gets out and gives his interview, misty eyed, and broken. His signature smile gone. The mention of Austin doesn't help.

Everyone knows why he stays in the paddock. Lando comes by, and Danny also swears the Netflix people are still lurking in the shadows for him. They should unionize, he thinks, along with the photographer that's waiting for a last shot. Daniel gives it to him. And goes back to his hotel.

Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the sheer nausea from the track. The shock of an icebath after it. Maybe it's months of unprocessed feelings and the week from hell recently in the media. But no matter how hard Daniel tries, he can not sleep. So he sets out with a plan. And thankfully the expensive hotel they are staying in has a receptionist 24/7. One that laughs at his face when he asks for the best place to find a witch.

"Sir, pardon me, but this isn't the White Lotus. I'm not some plot device that will magically bring you everything you need cause you're staying with us. I can help with a faulty AC, a light bulb that doesn't go out, sure. But I can not find you a tarrot reader at 3 in the morning." They say. Daniel sighs and opens his banking app. He hates using his status and money for things. He had a nice personality and good looks he'd rather utilise. He tilts the screen and asks

"How much?" Within an hour, a taxi stops in front of the hotel, and an old woman is knocking on Daniel's hotel room door.

"You must be pretty desperate to seek me out, young man. What is so pressing that you couldn't wait any longer?" She asks, clearly skeptical of him.

"I want to place a curse. And reinforce one I made years ago." He says, dead serious. Daniel explains the infamous second seat at Redbull curse he had actually asked for. How he had the terrible, winless seasons in Renault to repent for it. The worst luck from his stint in McLaren was due to the fact he was wishing evil on Pierre and Alex. It lessened when he had no seat or when he was a reserve. After all, as long as the "energy drink team" had him, there was no need to be despising them. Now Checo was collateral damage. Whatever podiums he'd had in 2023 would be his last. Daniel felt a bit conflicted about that, he and the Mexican driver did have a good time once. He breaks it down, as cohesively as possible. Describes exactly what he knows about the woman from Etsy he hired then. The witch listens intently to what he wants now. The second VCARB seat, too. Daniel Ricciardo could be a petty motherfucker when he wanted to. And Liam Lawson was going to feel that.

"Look, I am capable of it. But it comes with a price. I see your pain, your anger, your resentment. They are built up inside of you. That reserve is not endless. So when you no longer feel them, you will have to change. Shed your old skin and give in to what you want. If you do this, you might become nothing but a raging bull. Is it worth it?" She asks.

"Yes." He says without hesitation. The world of racing wouldn't be the same without him. But he knows that he also wouldn't be the same without racing. Not without a fight, right? Well, this was his fight.

Daniel lets the woman take a lock of his hair. He covers the smoke detector in the room with a trash bag so she can light her candles. Closes his eyes when instructed to. A magician never revealed secrets, huh?

It works, Daniel thinks, watching the rest of the season. Liam fights with Alonso of all people. As if Fernando was going to let a rookie make a fool out of him. The Alpine double podium in Brazil puts the French team up in the constructors and bumps the VCARB down. Meanwhile, Daniel is thriving. Enchanté is selling like hotcakes. He's still got the wines, the Thorne ads. He's dubbed a WAG of Josh and Scotty, he's traveling. He even attends some Redbull things. God ,does he like the bikes better. Maybe he should listen to those fans and stay in motorsport but on two wheelers. He had the ass for MotoGP, that's for sure. Of course, he has to lose something, too. That's how curses work.

The media is still vicious on him. The commentators, the articles, they help feed the datkness sometimes. But honestly, he is less petty than he was years ago. Repeated loss taught him to forgive. There was no use dwelling on the past. He was focused on the present, the future. Unfortunately, that's not how curses worked. It started with the announcement. Liam was moved to Redbull. Now, it was almost solely focused on him. He carried two curses. Which meant the universe had to take double from Daniel. Equivalent exchange and all of that. There was the reel fiasco. Who knew Enchanté would invite a comedian who was also a horrible person. The digital footprint of that wasn't great. Then, the underwhelming collection, where people criticized him for having higher prices and less inclusive sizing. But, as the season started, and he got to Australia, it had stopped. Maybe it was Daniel congratulating the New Zealander for the promotion. Maybe it was the combined bad luck of hometown heroes Doohan and Piastri. Maybe it simply had an expiration date he wasn't aware of? Either way, he had sold out his new drop. What was meant to be a homecoming in Australia for the new season.

Danny reflects on Saturday evening when he gets the message that it's all sold out. He won. Then Sunday, Isack's crash on the formation lap, Liam and Yuki's performance out of the points. It was taunting him. A hat trick of bad luck was coming his way. And he was none the wiser.

Daniel was getting hairier. He'd always been blessed with good genes, his dad's Italian heritage. The thick curls, the bushy eyebrows. But now it was a lot. His beard was out of control, and no amount of shaving cream could let a razor pass through it. He could only attempt to style it, the silver clippers burning slightly, but doing the job. His happy trail was more like a scarry dark road now, not to mention his bush. Danny had to put 4 pimple patches on his ingrown hairs, wincing as he pulled out the curly strands with tweezers. It was almost like he was growing fur, the hair was forming a peach fuzz on him everywhere. It got worse as the season went on. When Max started getting penalties out of nowhere, Danny sighed. But the sound that came out was inhuman, almost like a cow's moo, that terrifying throaty sound. It spooked Heidi so much that she got mad at him for pulling a prank on her. She kept telling him that she knew he played the sound on his phone, an app of some sort. But his trusty iPhone was charging upstairs, and he was as confused as her. Danny guessed it was just something going down the wrong pipe, an accident. But it kept happening, again and again. Sighs, snores, even words turned into that horrifying sound. The Grand Prix weekend ends. Daniel turns to speak to Heidi, but he can't. It's all a demented moo. He pleads for her to listen, to help. She calls an ambulance and tells the paramedics something about a "psychotic break." or an episode of some disorder. They shove the world's thickest needle in Danny's ass. He's out like a light, and when he comes to, it's Monday night. They keep him for tests, just a few days. There's apparently nothing wrong with him. He comes back home, and there's left of Heidi is a note saying she's sorry. That's strike one.

He packs up his stuff too. There's no use. He had moved out of Monaco. He could move out of this one too. Go back to his childhood home, spend some time with his parents. He could run things from there too, couldn't he? Visit some local someliers, work on what's next. Plus the extra money from selling this place would be good. Of course he manages to wrap it up in 4 days, get an initial meeting with his realtor on Monday. Daniel knows he shouldn't tune into the GP. Suzuka is a good track, though. He rations that if the race is boring, he'll just doze off, the sound of the engines putting him to sleep. Right? He watches the whole thing, ears perked up. Yuki, in his home race, first in the Redbull team, isn't doing too hot. And Daniel feels bad for him. Maybe it's camaraderie, for the almost 2 years they had in formerly Alpha Tauri. Maybe it's guilt, because all of the bad luck was only meant for Liam. Not for everyone. But there is no malice in Daniel anymore. He can't really sleep that night, there's a splitting headache that's troubling him. He googles it all - stroke, brain tumors, aneurysms, the lot. But nothing feels like the constant pain he's having at the sides of his skill. It's almost like when he had his wisdom teeth coming in sideways. There was something trying to grow, to pierce through when it couldn't and it was driving him insane. He took advill and paracetamol or ibuprofen, something to ease it. He was skirting on the amount, almost on the verge of actually taking too much when he managed to fall asleep.

Daniel was late. Badly, horrendously late. At the last minute he stormed in the realtor's office, still in the tanktop he had slept in. Curls messy, face red from the pillow, head still throbbing. He didn't stop when the receptionist screamed (she was new, he noted, must be a fan). He sat down and saw the realtor's face turn fifty shades of red. Daniel was dragged out with a "Why you?" and a "Am I some sort of twisted joke to you." and something about hornbearing. The former athlete looks in the mirror in his car and almost thinks he's still dreaming. There are two big straight bull horns coming out of his head. Actual horns, made out of god knows what. Danny googles hornbearer and in some languages it's slang for being cheated on. He remembers his realtors messy divorce. The wife running away with the best friend, the whole affair lasting for years. The fact that Danny shares a first name with his realtor. Daniel is a hornbearer, Ricciardo wants to remind him of that. The complexity of that sentence worsens his headache. He goes to buy a ridiculous fedora. By the time he's home and trying to call someone else, the rumor that he's a horrible client spreads like a wildfire. The house doesn't sell. But right before the next free practice on Friday, the horns are gone. Which is good, because Danny can't really justify them to passport control. That's strike two.

Australian soil seems to do him well. For now. Maybe it's because he doesn't watch the race. Maybe it's the huge time difference. Maybe it's just a bit of luck. But for a few days, nothing bad happened to Daniel Ricciardo.

It's actually just a fluke. Just like the mini break between China and Suzuka, that seemed shorter to everyone. But the third strike and the bad luck from Bahrain 2025 was going to catch up to Danny. No matter how fast he ran from it.

Farm life was his thing. Before, he couldn't even get that close to the animals. They didn't know him. Didn't trust him. He was a stranger. Now he was shearing sheep and alpacas like a pro. Always knowing when the cows need to be milked. He even knew more about them than the farmlands. Daniel could tell which animal was sick. Which cow was fertile. It started to freak him out. It wasn't like he was using a farmer's almanac or something. It just came naturally. Like driving. No, like breathing. Then came the next race. Saudi Arabia. He didn't have the fondest memories of Jeddah. Didn't feel like tuning in. But his dad was somehow now invested in Doohan's performance. Something about a fellow Aussie in the sport. Daniel knew that Joseph saw younger Danny in Jack and Oscar. That hungry, scrappy 20 something battling for points, for a win. Alone, in Europe, missing home, trying to get sponsors, trying to get the people back at home to tune in. So he sits by his dad, and despite all odds, Daniel cheers for the McLarens. He should really pick a team he had no history with, like Ferrari or Aston Martin. Seeing the VCARBs scramble for points is like a punch to the gut. He can't help but wonder what he'd do in the car. Would the upgrades be kind to him? Would he be able to outperform Isack or Liam or Yuki. Could he be even close to them on the SIM, or would he be at a Sauber's pace or in the wall. Danny looks at his hand, the scar still visible. Oscar is on the podium again, being drowned in champagne like his predecessor once was. And Mark Webber before them. And Jack Brabham. Who would come after them? Where was the rookie that would take it home one day? Daniel thinks of all the kids he could visit on the karting tracks. How he's getting old now and should be thinking of making one anytime now. After all, somebody has to give baby Verstappen- Piquet a run for their money.

Dan goes to sleep in his childhood bedroom and wakes up in a barn. He can't see properly. His eyes seem so far apart, and his head feels heavy. He takes a breath and hears a loud "pff" coming out of his nostrils. That can't be right. He tries to get up, but his hair keeps getting in his eyes. The dark curls are entirely too long, almost like bangs now. He looks around, and he can't recognize any of the animals. He sees the brands, the tags, and it clicks. He's in the next property over. The one which got inherited by some distant relatives of the original owners who wanted nothing to do with it. Who turned it into an AirBnB, giving the guest an "authentic experience." And discounted prices due to the animal stench. Daniel recalls listening on the farm hands talking about the trio of friends and how they messed up, thinking they'd be able to travel to Sydney and back every day. How one of them apparently wore his team hat like a uniform, not having any idea, he lived nearby. This was bad. He had to get out of there. He couldn't afford for a fan to see him dazed and confused, post sleep walking and apparently, judging by his bare feet scrambling on the hay, naked. He tried to walk, but he collided head first with a pole. Daniel lets out a groan, and here it is that moo, from months ago. The sound that drove away Heidi was now back. And it was scarring the cattle. He was walking over to them, trying to soothe them, but to no avail. It was only getting worse.

He hears footsteps and tries to hide. But the sudden movement makes him dizzy, and before he realizes what's going on, he's on his ass. All he can do is try to hide his head between his legs, literally. But as soon as he realizes that two protruding horns are on his knees, he knows he's inevitably and irrevocably screwed.

You hate this entire trip. Your Australian friend finally goes back home, and by some miracle, you can send her off before going long distance. Then, at the airport, she gets the text that her friends are no longer welcome in her parents' home. Something about traditions and bad luck. Slight bump on the road, but that just means that you'll have to find a cheap hotel nearby. The only thing in your budget that can accommodate 3 people is hours away. With no other option, you're on a farm in Perth. And now, in the middle of the night, the animals are freaking out. The rest of your friends think that the livestock will calm down on its own. But you see it as an omen. What if there's a snake or a spider that's in the barn? Or an intruder, a drunk teenager, or something. So you go to check it out, classic horror movie trope. Lone girl in the dead of the night, only in her babydoll nightgown. Serial killers were also a possibility you reason with yourself as you use your phone flashlight. George Orwell did not prepare you for this might be one of the last things you think. At least it was iconic.

You walk in and the cacophony starts again. Of course the animals aren't happy, they don't know you. But there's something wrong. There's a statue in the middle of the barn? A perfect replica of a minotaur that wasn't there before. You go to touch it and it moves. You jerk away immediately as if you're scalded by burning water.

"Jesus, what are you? A freaky robot?" You ask and it shakes its head.

"Wait, was that a coincidence? Can you actually understand me?" The creature shakes its head again and then nods. So there was a human in there. An anatomically correct one, judging by the quick glance you make towards it, well him now. You should go. Get back to bed and blame this on whatever moonshine you drank with your friends after finding a bottle in a closet. Call it a sleep paralysis demon or something. But you can't just leave it. Because he looks as confused as you are. His dark brown bull eyes remind you of someone. You ask him if he's seen himself and he shakes his head no. You ask him if it's okay to take a picture with the flash on and show him. He nods. You almost laugh as he poses, a rock on sign next to his horns. You snap the shot and walk over to him. You try to move in such a way he sees himself, but when you're close enough, you get your eureka moment. He has tattoos, ink on his skin that's as familiar as if it was on yours. The American traditional ship on his thigh. The rose on his hand. The of love and life on his collarbone. This creature was your celebrity crush. Daniel Ricciardo was in quite of a pickle. And you'd be in one too if you let on that you knew it was him.

Because Daniel was off the grid, in more than one way. Even the Instagram and Tumblr fan pages were in a drought. Scotty's content was only throwbacks, the man was practically a ghost. Technically a minotaur, you joke in your head. You absent-mindedly hand him the phone, let him see what he looks like. You don't notice the sounds of distress. How both of his hands fly to his crotch, cupping it awkwardly. How he's shaking his head, almost wanting to throw away the bull face with sheer force. You're terrified, but you do something stupid. You start comforting him, as if he's a child. Whispering that it's okay and that he's safe. That this can be fixed. You should leave. You should give him some clothes and snacks, let him sleep in or something. But you can't help it. You touch his head, attempting to brush off the fur out of his eyes. A male highland cow, you thought, fit him better than a honeybadger. He huffs, his dark brown eyes filled with rage.

"I'm sorry, Daniel." You say, entirely to loud. He knows you know. So you do the one thing you know you shouldn't do. You turn your back on him and run.

He's an athlete. Albeit retired, he has his stamina. He can run. And you barely see in the dark. You don't know the layout, just that it looks huge. You somehow have a head start, the bunny slippers having good grip on the grass. But you can hear him behind you. Huffing, mad, a raging bull. You speed out of there, happy that your friends left the door to the wooden fence open. You're in the thick of it now. There's just a dirt road ahead of you and you take it. Twigs snap around you, you scrape your legs on bushes. You feel like Daniel is enjoying this, enjoying how you already sound out of breath. How you occasionally look back to see him dangerously close to you. How a snake darts out and you shriek, backing into him. How he takes the creature and lets it curl around him, seemingly needing the heat. Danny releases it, letting it go in the opposite direction of you. You, who's kneeling, exhausted, trying to catch your breath. Mud is caking the hem of your nightgown and you're just defeated.

Daniel should pick you up and lead you back to safety. He should trust that you won't tell anyone about this. Who would believe you anyway. If you sold the pictures, they'd think you got a little crazy with photoshop. Or that he was into some weird furry sex thing. But there's something about you, looking so vulnerable, caught by him, helpless that makes him feral. So he has to get it out of his system, the anger he just felt posses him earlier.

He kneels, tan legs familiar with the soil. He'd sit here often after a bike ride, knee pads off, just stretching or squatting. And now he was on top of you, elbows on either side of your face, cock heavy, almost brushing against your ass. He can see that you're frozen, eyes wide in fear. Your breathing is irregular and he's scared. He knows what a panic attack feels like, knows how your chest is tight already. So he does what a bull might do to a calf that's in distress. Licks.

The thick bovine tongue smells bad. The texture is almost slimy, but it also feels good? It encompasses your whole chest. He presses it against your left breast, and swirls it. He's trying to feel your heartbeat, you guess but the only thing he's successfully doing is flicking his tongue against your nipple. Again. And again. And again. You scratch at the ground bellow you, caking your nails with dirt.

"Daniel please." You say and he gets the jist. You've calmed down. He pulls away, a thick string of saliva connecting you. You're not sure what you're doing and why. Maybe it's all the adrenaline, scrambling your brain. But you get on your hands and knees and spread your legs for him. You move your panties to the side, exposing your cunt to him. It's an invitation. A peace offering, if you will. He pressed his wet nose against it and attempts a kiss. When it doesn't work, he simply licks a stripe from your clit to your entrance.

It's soaked and sloppy and clumsy, and yet it has you aching for more. You reach your hand behind you, spread your folds open, showing him exactly what you need. His tongue is as thick as regular cock, even worse. It fills you, stretching you out so good. The texture which you thought you'd hate was actually good, foreign yet intriguing. You shift your hips, trying to move, to get more, to fuck yourself on it, on him. Daniel doesn't like your squirming. It's throwing him off, what if you move the wrong way and accidentally scratch yourself on his new horns. So he grabs you around the waist and picks you up, your knees around his shoulders. He thrusts his tongue into your slick cunt as you're upside down, just moaning and catching an eyefull of his monstrous cock.

You're sure your perspective might be off because that thing did not fit with Daniel's human lower half. It was big, bigger than anything you've ever seen (aside on your curious browses of the Bad Dragons site) and definitely way more than anything you've ever taken. The minotaur above you didn't let you be distracted for long, flicking his tongue. He fully grabbed your hips and pulled you towards him, fucking you with his tongue. He's fast and unrelenting and before you know it, you're coming against his face. Danny sets you down gently, but you're still face to face with his cock. Angry, red, the tip decorated with beads of precum on it. Begging to be used, begging to shoot loads into your pussy, to fill you and breed you. Well, when in magical realism, you think. You silently ask that Australia has good gynecologists on speed dial and affordable healthcare before saying.

"Danny, will you sit for me. I think that will be the easiest way for me to try to take this. Rely on good old gravity." He lets out a puff of air from his nostrils, what you take as a chuckle. But he obeys. He holds your hips, giving your thighs a gentle squeeze. Daniel nudges the monster cock around you, trying to gather the slick from his saliva and your orgasm. He can't even get the tip in. You take a deep breath and relax, and just try to move down. It's slow, but it feels good. So, so good. Danny wants to hump you, to shove his dick inside of you, but he knows he can't. He settles for groping you instead, rough, calloused suntan hands against your tits. Squeezing, making you moan. You're so responsive to him, gone is the fear and hesitation. You're running on lust fumes, fucking made for taking his cock. You try to move, to bounce on it, to get something. But you're lucky because your partner is sensitive. Hasn't felt even his own fist around his cock, much less a perfect wet cunt. It doesn't take much for you to be feeling the telltale slowing of his hips, the throb of him inside of you.

Daniel Ricciardo kisses you as he cums. It's sloppy and gross, and you can taste yourself a tenfold of his large tongue. But it's also right. You get off him, legs jelly. You're too tired to move, and you just hope that you're actually able to flee with him. God knows what a farmhand will think if they find the two of you like that. For now you curl against Danny and try to get some sleep.

Daniel still wakes up before you, feeling lighter, like the worst is over. He turns to you and there aren't horns digging into the dirt below him. He looks around and luckily enough, he did manage to drag you far enough for no one to see. You were sleeping peacefully, his fucking cum dried in a puddle beneath you. Your clothes are intact enough, albeit filthy. He nudges you, getting ready for the most unusual morning after conversation. But when you open your eyes and practically cover his face with kisses, he changes his mind. Maybe it would be worth keeping you. Especially after you promise to get him a clean pair of clothes to change into if he points you to the way back.

Of course, his smug laughter echoes when you realize he's fully naked and mutter "that wasn't part of the weird minotaur thing, god does have favorites." He also finds it amusing that your most oversized clothes are the Hugo shirts he "modeled for", you were a bit of a crazy fangirl, huh. He liked to be liked, to be praised, to be worshiped. He dedicated his life to this sport, so why wouldn't he profit from it. Danny likes that you find a loophole in your visa and stay with him in his parents' house. You're constantly encouraging him, making him appreciate life again. Helping him draft his little LinkedIn posts. Just listening to his ideas and showing him the little Tiktoks fans make to support the Enchanté and F1 academy collaboration. Both of you cheer and drink a shit ton of the new wine when Christian Horner gets demoted. Maybe that's why in the morning you're vomiting, head almost in the toilet. The cheeseburger Danny offers as hungover food also doesn't bode well for you. There's something wrong, and you think it's stress. International moves lead to missed periods, right? Somewhere, in Singapore, an old woman is looking into a crystal ball. It's May in Australia, and Daniel Ricciardo can't sleep again.

[jasminerva]

skdy 194: tachypsychia

Basically being "in the zone" in terms of sports - or that spurt of adrenaline or fear that causes things to slow down. Research suggests it's induced by a combination of high levels of dopamine (mood/movement/learning/focus/attention) and norepinephrine (adrenaline). That could lead to heart, blood vessel, and kidney damage - explaining Shin's nosebleed.

We all know pushing your body to its limits is a no-no, but using your brain to do it? A BIG no-no. Shin gained a new power but at a huge cost.

Suzuki through Nagumo did warn us - he's always saying things and showing up when they need it lmao. The ultimate plot device / foreshadower. So this isn't the last time Shin will be driven into a corner. Physically, we know he's at his limit (as confirmed by Kindaka), so all he has left is a gambit move that kills him.

But anywho, too much tachypsychia can probably lead to a mental and physical breakdown. Mental first most likely (seeing how Shin is already in such a fragile state).

This post by @uzurions is highly possible because high d&n can cause hallucinations and psychosis.

Either or is hella emotional.

If Sakamoto is actually there, Shin will be left with so much guilt. He totally could've killed Tenkyu, a literal innocent (in the head), but Sakamoto would be there to tell him he did it for their family (it'd still haunt Shin forever though).

But if it was all in his head? Sakamoto acting like a conscience would be beautiful too. Shin does have it in him to stop himself, but the fact that he went that far...

Either way, I assume tachypsychia can also numb someone. Major flight or fight kinda thing. So it's not Shin's natural affinity to be a cold ruthless killer, but every time he forces that switch in his brain, the easier it'll get.

So basically NO SHIN BABY BOY IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT!

///

Like I just wrote on Twitter under ordertrio and spondaick's tweets, I gotta suspend disbelief lmao. The only guarantee in SKDY's is that Suzuki will pull another fast one on us next week.

Remember, Jas. Remember how Kindaka just woke up and sonic’ed outta bed after 8 years with no physio?

Don't forget that. Just kick back and have fun.

[celeborne]

if byler isn't endgame...

what was the point of making will in love with mike?

why was will used as a plot device to force mike and el back together and "fix" their relationship issues? (the writers literally took his OWN feelings for mike and his OWN painting for mike that was supposed to be something special between them only and made it all about... el? this is genuinely one of the most cruel, ridiculous and unnecessary writing decisions i've ever seen if it doesn't result in will getting the person he loves)

why did they clearly highlight the contrast between byler and m*leven's relationships all season? how mike makes el feel like a monster for being different vs how he does NOT make will feel like a mistake for being different? how mike and el had the biggest fight after mike apologised vs how mike and will made up and ended up closer than before after mike apologised? how mike and el don't have healthy communication and struggle to understand each other vs how mike and will always have genuine heart-to-heart conversations, understand each other so well and sometimes don't even have to say any words? how mike feels insecure in his relationship with el and has his trauma/feelings invalidated vs how will manages to always make him feel special, confident and gives him strength when he's struggling and needs help?

why are there so many parallels and similarities between will and el as individual characters AND also their relationships with mike?

why is mike's relationship with will different from all his other platonic friends? (and don't just say "because will is in love with him", because in some scenes, MIKE is the one who initiates things and goes out of his way for will. which reminds me, you know how everyone says mike does so many romantic things for el? like not giving up on her when she's missing, taking care of her, being protective over her, etc.? he actually did all of those things for will first)

why did mike vent to will about his fight with el (the fight he claims they "can't come back from") without directly saying what the fight was about? all he said was "maybe i should've said something... and if i would've said that thing, then maybe she'd want me there with her." so... you're venting to your friend and you can't even specify that your big fight was about not being able to say "i love you"? why was it kept so secretive if you truly love her and it's no big deal? you've said you love her in front of a group of people before anyways, even when will was there, so why can't you even say the words to him while venting?

why did mike vent to will (again) and say that if he would've explained himself to el, maybe she would've taken him with her? will says he thinks it's scary to open up like that, to say how you really feel, but shouldn't mike and el already know how they both feel about each other at this point? el heard mike say he loved her in season 3, and at the end of the same season, she said "i love you too" before kissing him. they have kissed a lot, sent letters to each other and do lovey dovey things, which should make their feelings quite clear?????

and what was the point of this line from will?

"because... what if... what if they don't like the truth?"

we're supposed to be talking about el here. sure, will was subtly speaking about himself, and we know that as the audience. but mike doesn't. this conversation is about el, so mike still thinks will is talking about her. why on earth would he NOD after will says the part about how she might not like the truth? mike knows that "the truth" she WANTS to hear is "i love you", so why wouldn't she like the truth? why did mike nod at what will said and why did he agree with him? what is actually even happening in this scene??????????????

why did they make all the canon couples stand together in the final shot of season 4, with mike and will standing together too?

what was the point of ANY of this if they weren't planning on making byler endgame?!?!?!?!?!

[angelpuns]

Donnie practically pushed Mikey out of the way to get through the door, squeezing past him just in time to see the fading blue of one of Leo's portals. 

He’d barely had time to grab his bo, head still fuzzy from sleep and pajama pants uncomfortably askew from Being woken suddenly. 

Mikey was in a similar state of disarray, his shirt riding up his shell and his eyes wide and glancing around the room wildly. 

They'd both been woken by Leo's shouting, rushing out of bed to help their brother only to find Raph in a Leo-free train car. 

“Raph? What happened? Why was he yelling?” 

As his brain woke up, he was reminded of their mission for the day: reverse Leo's ‘family-forgetting’ curse or whatever it was. 

So it probably had something to do with that. 

“I dunno! I came ta wake him up like he asked me to yesterday and he just- he started shoutin' at me!” Raph turned, holding his hand to a small cut on his arm. It bled sluggishly, and Donnie quickly opened a drawer in Leo's desk that he knew had band-aids. 

“ He musta had a nightmare or somethin’, I tried to help but I think I only made it worse “ Raph worried, letting Donnie slap the band-aid over the cut, “ he didn't seem ta recognize me or know where he was or anythin' “ 

They were silent for a moment, before Mikey piped up. 

“ But he’s never made a portal during a panic attack before….are you sure it was that, I mean-”

“ oh my banana pancakes,” Donnie slapped a hand to his head. His mind had been running through every possible Leo could have ‘woken up and chosen violence’. 

It could have been a nightmare. But the answer was so obviously related to their current curse-relted predicament. 

“ The curse! It’s not- He didn’t just forget us the one time, “ He explained, starting to pace. An uncomfortably hot feeling pooled in his stomach, anxiety bubbling up from there. He shook his hands out in an attempt to dispel the feeling, the lingering worry about Leo now being somewhere totally random making him nauseous. 

“ It's- its like he resets! He must have forgotten again when he went to sleep- like- like he just got reset overnight!” He rambled, grimacing, “ This complicates everything, how’re we gonna get him to cooperate if he wakes up with a different reaction to three strangers every single day!? How are we gonna fix this is if he forgets the curse even exists!?”

Raph stopped him, hands on shoulders. 

“ Donnie, take a breath,” he sighed, and Donnie reluctantly stopped and shut his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly. 

“We can get him back, no problem,” Raph smiled, “ ya still got that tracker in ‘im, right?” 

Donnie blinked. Right, how could he forget? 

“ of course! TO THE LAB!” he whipped around and hurried for the door, trusting they'd follow him. 

“ I'm sure ‘Nardo can fend for himself, he does have his swords,” He noted, if only to make himself feel a little less anxious, “ but I would rather him not be wandering the streets of NYC without half of his memories.” 

He continues to ramble, even as he stepped into his lab and  whipped out his keyboard, quickly pulling up the tracking device coordinates and corresponding map. 

“What if he doesn't come home before night? Will he just forget us again?” Mikey asked, swiping some stuff off of Donnie's desk and taking a seat on the surface.

Mikey suddenly gasped, grinning, " this is just like that one movie! With Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore!"

Donnie grimaced, but he had bigger concerns right now. Even if those were parts to a pretty important project. He opted to ignore that and just think harder about the actual matter at hand. And the plot of 50 First Dates. Just in case it could actually help them somehow.

“ I assume so, yes. And that amnesia-riddled plot is more medically related, so sort of but not really."

"What's more concerning is that he probably won't remember why he's out there, and that will probably introduce more anxiety to the mix,” Donnie murmured, watching as Leo's indicator moved slowly through the streets of New York. He was on then other side of the river, and seemed to be hopping rooftops for now, “ like I said, he can take care of himself, but we should at least try and convince him to come back to the lair before nightfall. I don't know if his amnesia is progressing or not yet, which is also concerning.” 

Silence again. There was also the obvious concern about Leo being gone. Which, unfortunately, seemed to be one of the more difficult things they'd been collectively working through. 

The first six months or so, Leo was never left alone. Not for lack of trusting him or thinking he wasn't capable of taking care of himself ( although he was fairly injured for most of that time ) but for the fact that none of them seemed to want to let him out of their sight. It was partially why Donnie had upgraded the trackers to track their vital signs down to their blood pressure. He didn't like not knowing. He didn't like remembering the feeling of Leo being gone after- 

Donnie let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. It was gonna be okay. Leo wasn't gone, he just wasn't in the lair. And he couldn't possibly know how anxiety inducing that was due to the aforementioned amnesia-curse. 

But they knew where he was, and they knew he was okay for now. 

The computer suddenly let out a beep. then another. Donnie looked up, watching as Leo's dot stopped moving. His heart rate increased, and the beeping increased with it. 

There was one thing that they hadn't really accounted for, after all. 

The chance of Leo ending up in a fight.

-----

Part 3 to the unnamed fic/au/whatever this is

I don't like this part as much, but I really am just trying to get the idea out of my head and into writing, haha! So I hope the OOC-ness of everybody isn't too bad :)

I think this would def work better as a fic, but I am kinda wanting to explore it as a comic too. Comics just take a lot of time and I can't do all the fun thought-stuff I like to do on fics so :/

Ah well I will simply keep doing whatever I want, so enjoy.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

[spideyjisu]

SQUID GAME SEASON 3 SPOILER RANT

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

whoever was responsible for writing daeho and his fate and the twist this season didn’t know or care about his character at all 😭 they just used him as a plot device to show gihun’s loss of humanity bc daeho would never say the shit he’s saying, the threats and telling gihun it’s his fault everyone’s dead? when would he ever say that? 😭 it just doesn’t make sense to me bc they’re trying to say he was just scared in the rebellion just because, giving no actual reason why (the reason being ptsd made so much sense and had so many signs and would be a much better story. maybe they just don’t gaf about mental health or meaningful character depth idk), but then they have daeho fighting gihun back and provoking him and trying to choke him to death ? if ur saying daeho is a coward how r u gonna try to convince me he’d have the courage to try to kill someone like that? like i could buy it if it was with hesitancy and solely in self defence but no he was shouting things to provoke gihun further and actively choking him, but u just told me he’s just a coward? there’s no consistency. like daeho was one of my favorites and gihun just choked him to death, daeho’s dead and im not crying! im just rolling my eyes and going “huhhh?” 😭 in actuality the character they showed us in season 2 would be overcome by guilt after panicking and not bringing the ammo back and he’d be more likely to die by suicide or self sacrifice, that’s what i thought was gonna happen 😭 he’d never be so hostile like this or try to kill someone especially not someone he obviously looked up to, not bc he’s a coward but because he’s a good person. like they’re trying to tell me his friendliness and caring nature was all an act but i’m really not buying it. i could believe that maybe he lied about being a marine, if they bothered to give a good explanation… like it’d make sense if he pretended and had that tattoo to appease his father but no they didn’t bother to explain that at all and made it seem like he made it all up simply to join gihun’s team which makes no logical sense… god i just hate everything about what they did with daeho. don’t get me started on them wasting hyunju’s potential, i don’t care she should’ve been a finalist, she was the best, most interesting and most worthy character.

[honeyflashbang]

My theory on Sampo's true identity...

(Minor Spoilers for 2.4) (also, I’m no expert in… anything, really, but these are just my ramblings).

So, this has probably been mentioned before, but I have a teeny-tiny theory about Sampo’s true identity, and it relates to Finnish mythology.

So, “Sampo” in and of itself doesn’t have a set meaning, but it has its roots in Finnish mythology, particularly the “Kalevala” which is a 19th-century compilation of epic poetry. In it, a blacksmith god by the name of Seppo Ilmari(nen) forges the mythical device known as “The Sampo”. It’s never quite explained what The Sampo really is; some versions depict it as a mill, others as a cornucopia from which bountiful creations flow from, and some even have it as being a world tree/world pillar, so what The Sampo really is, isn’t entirely known. But, what is known, is that it brought riches and good fortune to its holder (again, the same as the cornucopia from Greek mythology).

But why am I mentioning all of this? Why bring up the Kalevala? It could be that Hoyo just chose the name “Sampo” for some flavour—befitting of a character who magics up relics from seemingly thin air and is trying to create riches—and yeah, it’s a possibility…

Until I saw these two screenshots from the 2.4 story:

You know what this means, right? 

Kalevala is a real planet in Hoyo’s Star Rail universe, and I find it awfully coincidental that they would use this name for a planet and not have it related to a certain blue haired conman, especially since The Sampo is such a pivotal element in the plot of the Kalevala—there is no way this is a coincidence (I refuse to believe it).

This leads me to believe that Kalevala is Sampo’s real home world, and is where he originates from.

Now, this is all well and good, knowing where “The Sampo” hails from, but I want to focus on its creator—Seppo Ilmari(nen)—and his parallels to a certain blue haired conman. For one, Ilmari(nen)’s name is quite interesting as the ‘Ilma’ part is Finnish for ‘air’ or ‘weather’, and as we know, Sampo’s element is that of ‘wind’ (And also the fact that Ilmari(nen) is credited as “Godlike smith-hero and creator of the sky”. I could go into a whole spiel about Ilmari(nen) and Qlipoth swinging their giant hammers in tandem together for all eternity (Go Sampard! Geppie is Qlipoth's true heir, you can't convince me otherwise!), but that’s for another conspiracy theory lol).

So, ‘Ilma’ means ‘air’, and Sampo wields ‘wind’.

Cool.

If the parallels ended there, I’d just say I was being crazy… but there’s more.

Sampo’s 4th (and arguably best) eidolon is called “The Deeper the Love, the Stronger the Hate”. Two out of his six eidolons refer to 'love', whilst the other 4 are to do with wealth and riches. The wealth and richest aspect leans towards The Sampo of mythology, whilst the ‘love’ aspect, well…

According to the story, Seppo Ilmari(nen) is the unluckiest bastard alive when it comes to love. Like, seriously. His whole storyline is that he can’t find a woman. For one, Seppo Ilmari(nen) is double crossed by his so called buddy, Väinämöinen, into creating The Sampo for the evil witch Louhi of Pohjola in exchange for her daughter’s hand in marriage (which, Ilmari didn’t even want in the beginning), but when the poor guy actually sees the daughter and falls in love with her (and subsequently creates the Sampo—after failing miserably a number of times, mind you—he creates a crossbow, a boat, a cow(wtf?) and a plough, all which are somehow either evil or flawed), she ups and just leaves him hanging! (in the original runes, however, he is successful in gaining a wife, as his ‘unlucky in love’ spiel was later added by Lönnrot in compiling the Kalevala).

As with any mythology and re-telling of it, there’s so many different versions of the same event. In “The Maiden of the North”, a 1898 opera written by Oskar Merikanto, both Ilmarinen and Väinämöinen compete for the chance to marry Louhi’s daughter, who is then mentioned as being “Ilmari(nen)’s first wife” and who later dies to Kullervo’s curse (apparently she was a bit of a bitch to Kullervo by taunting and tormenting the poor boy—who was a child slave mind you!). Distraught, Ilmari(nen) forges himself a wife of gold and silver, but he finds her to be too cold and callous—he forges her out of love but only finds hate—so he tries to gift her to Väinämöinen (who doesn’t want her either, lol), and suggests he cast her back into the furnace and to “forge from her a thousand trinkets”.

Here’s the accompanying poem:

Never, youths, however wretched,

Nor in future, upgrown heroes,

Whether you have large possessions,

Or are poor in your possessions,

In the course of all your lifetime,

While the golden moon is shining,

May you woo a golden woman,

Or distress yourselves for silver,

For the gleam of gold is freezing,

Only frost is breathed by silver.

It is apparently your standard Aesop’s fable of “money can’t buy happiness”, which is something else I see in our dear old Sampo Koski. During our time in Belobog, we see how different he acts with the Underworld and Overworlders. To the poor, he actually seems approachable (albeit a bit of a nuisance), going so far as to help the Underworlders (an example being the questline “Survival Wisdom” in which he and Peak set up a business together renting out his tools to help the miners make a decent wage to support their families). In contrast, we actively see Sampo being very hostile towards the Overworlders, scamming them and putting the nobles in their place or setting them up to be caught by the Silvermane Guards (an example being during the museum questline where you discover his identity as “Mr Cold Feet”. Sampo clearly states to who he thinks is his mark that ‘we are not friends’ in a very hostile manner, something which we’ve not seen from Sampo before as he is usually quite amicable). 

For all Sampo’s showboating and flashing his money around, he helps where it counts. He wants to make money, sure, but not at the detriment of the people who need it the most, only to those with excess.

Anyway, back to him being unlucky in love…

In another rune entitled “Kosinta”, Ilmari(nen) goes on a journey to compete for Hiisi’s daughter, and wins by completing various feats, one of them being “ploughing a field full of snakes”:

And as we know, Sampo is very heavy on the snake motifs (the head of the snake on his shoulders, the spine wrapped around him, the daggers are its fangs…etc.)

So that’s another interesting link between Seppo Ilmari(nen) and Sampo Koski.

So, why have I gone on this long winded tangent about Seppo Ilmari(nen) when I’m supposed to be talking about Sampo Koski?

Well, that’s because I think Sampo Koski’s real name is (or a variant of) Ilmarinen.

In the Hoyo universe, I believe Ilmarinen came from the planet Kalevala and ‘created’ the persona of Sampo Koski, much like how in the Kalevala, Seppo Ilmari(nen) forged The Sampo.

As I’ve listed above, there’s so many links between the two:

“Air” as a name and “Wind” as an element.

Seppo Ilmari(nen) ploughed a field of snakes to win Hiisi’s daughter’s hand in marriage, whilst Sampo Koski relies heavily on snake motifs for his attire.

Sampo’s two eidolon names that relate to love (which are completely different from the other 4 eidolon names), whilst Seppo Ilmari(nen) is known to be unlucky in love.

I’m pretty damn sure Sampo creates his own bombs and tinkers with the old relics to bring them back to life, whereas Seppo Ilmari(nen) is a smith who created the dome of the sky! They’re both artificers!

And now the revelation that a planet by the name of “Kalevala” exists is no mere coincidence.

So, either Sampo is Ilmari(nen) - or! - Sampo is a puppet (like Herta) created by someone called Ilmari(nen). 

(I would love if his 5* version is him with this name).

Right, I’m finished rambling. Gonna go huff some copium...