#I Do Not Understand But I Am Very Frustrated
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I understand all of this.
The point I am making is that sometimes something is a disorder - not a "disorder" - because it causes problems that have nothing to do with capitalism or ableism.
To take my personal example, I have had irregular sleep patterns from infancy. As a baby I never slept more than 2-3 hours at a time. This meant that my parents couldn't sleep more than 2-3 hours at a time because I would wake up and cry until settled. Sleep disruption like that, over a period of years, is unhealthy whether or not you have to get up for work in the morning. It wasn't good for them and probably wasn't good for me either.
As an adult I can sleep for 8-9 hours at a stretch but I have a non-24hr circadian rhythm, which means that my sleeping time becomes out of sync with daylight if I don't manage it strictly. For the time being, that isn't a problem for employment; I can work whenever I like. Do you know what I can't do whenever I like? Tend to the garden. Visit a park. Go swimming at the beach. Read or mend clothes or work on anything else by daylight. Spend time with friends and family who naturally fall asleep at night. Get some vitamin D from the sun.
Do you know what else I can't do with an irregular sleep pattern? Confidently book tickets, make plans with friends, or sign up for an activity on the assumption that I will be awake (and well-rested) at the right time.
Now let's consider my HSD. For the time being, it is also not a problem for my employment. Do you know when it is a problem? When I wake up in pain despite having slept in a bed that I find very comfortable. When I can't enjoy sports because the pain is too bad, or because my skills never progress beyond a certain point and I get bored and frustrated. When I can't take up an art or craft hobby because the pain is too bad, or because I can't use the tools properly and I get bored and frustrated. When I want to prepare my own food, or style my own hair, or clip my own toenails and it's painful and frustrating.
Are these problems that can be solved by addressing individual and systemic bias? Please explain.
(You'll probably come back and tell me that in your planned utopia there would be a free toenail-clipping service, but that is not the point. The point is that I want to do that for myself and my hand keeps cramping up.)
one of the most enlightening realizations ive had was finding out that non-24 hour circadian rhythm people were a pretty large group and most of us have oddly similar cycles of usually around 28hr internal "days" and this masquerades as "insomnia" but if allowed to sleep and wake naturally we will just advance forward through time an extra 2-4 hours a day at a relatively stable pace. we can't go to school or jobs or even run errands on normal schedules without massive pharmacological and behavioral intervention. most of the people who have been diagnosed or figured it out themselves will report horrific, life-ruining disruption in their professional lives and terrible health from accrued lack of sleep. this disorder is most common in vision-impaired people which seems to suggest it's related to light cues. anyway just thinking about this as extremely loud yard work woke me up at 8am for the second day in a row
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anyone but you | myg



plot | that time on tour where the popstar would talk with everyone in the tour except her bassist, Yoongi. The one she cannot stop thinking about.
w.c | 6.2k+
pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader
genre | mostly angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, slow burn
note | i love your mind thank you for sending this idea @enfppuff <3 I loved writing this one, I hope y'all will enjoy reading it :)
main masterlist | series masterlist

DAY 93: TOKYO, JAPAN

It took you one song in the rehearsals to notice someone sitting in one of the empty seats of Tokyo Dome. You were specifically singing the bridge for Taste when you spotted a brunette, wearing a baseball cap, on the very back seats in the floor area. It was easy for you to recognize she is not part of your tour staff since everyone has a uniform lanyard for their IDs. She has a neon green lanyard, indicating that she’s somebody’s visitor.
But the brunette woman is not some other woman, you know her. You recognized her. The one from The Late Late Show. The writer who kept bringing up great ideas and witty lines for you during the show. The one who was with your bass guitarist the whole night during the afterparty in December.
“Bea!”
It was during the rehearsal’s end that you fully processed who she is. You were on stage, in the middle of a three-person conversation with Art and your tour director, when you saw Yoongi walk up to Bea with two cups of coffee in his hands.
Why is she here?
The question formed in your head. Watching from a distance, you felt like a hawk, observing how they easily chat and laugh with Bea, unconsciously patting your bassist’s lap every time she giggles. Yoongi seemed comfortable with her, with his arm resting behind her chair. Then, another question made you wanna throw up.
Are they together?
“Hey. YN.” Donny, your tour director, snapped his fingers in front of you, snatching your attention from the couple. “Do you understand?”
“Ye… Yeah,” you nodded, stuttering since anything he said barely registered in your brain.
“Good. So you agree with the neon green lights and balloons?” he asked.
Lines formed between your brows, “Huh?”
The two men chuckled at your confused reaction. Donny simply tapped Art’s shoulder, “I’m just kidding. I’m sure Art understood everything; he can explain if you have questions. Okay? Take a rest for now, YN.”
You just smiled as he walked away, leaving you alone with your tour manager, who can easily tell what’s distracting you. He crossed his arms as he watched you look at Yoongi and his friend.
“In case you’re wondering, Yoongi asked for an extra ticket for her to watch your show tomorrow.” Art shared.
You looked at him, “Are they…”
You cannot even finish the question. Because halfway, you realized how stupid it is to ask about your infamous not-friend’s relationship status with a girl he surely has great chemistry with.
When did she even get here in Tokyo?
You and the whole concert team flew here just yesterday, so that you can fully prepare yourself for the tour’s first show in Asia. Especially since the current weather in Japan is very different from LA. Amidst the awkwardness you have with Yoongi, you thought you could just convert all your frustrations into attention and focus to rehearse for the rest of the tour. But how? How am I suppose to fucking focus—
“Dating? I don’t know. But his asking for a ticket and visitor pass kinda says a lot.” Art shrugged, knowing well that he was stirring something hot. Both he and Cal have already chatted about this weird tension between you and Yoongi. But since neither of you two will say anything might as well just let the whole thing steam. He asked, “Why?”
“Nothing.” You turned your head away and walked away, avoiding Art’s look, to go get yourself something strong to drink. Maybe a shot of espresso.

“My god, this is so bitter.”
After sipping from the coffee he got her, Bea mumbled under her breath. She didn’t say it in a way that meant to offend him, Yoongi knows. So he offered the warm cup in his hand, still unopened.
“You can take mine. Americano, it’s less bitter.”
“Thank you.” Bea smiled, swapping their drinks. “But my god, isn’t it a red flag if a person drinks espresso as their choice of coffee? Like, no water? Creamer?”
Yoongi simply chuckled at that, but because he remembered someone else who did like espresso. He learned that fact about you in his first week being your bassist. You were grumpy for the first rehearsals, and Cal asked him to hand you your coffee after he passed by you in the catering area. She was obviously busy with other stuff, so Yoongi didn’t mind a simple help of giving you your espresso. He remembered seeing how your face brightened the moment that caffeine hit your system. You squirmed and smiled for the first time that day.
“Anyway, enough with the coffee talk here,” Bea tapped his lap, “Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?”
“Yeah, of course. Why?” Yoongi raised a brow.
“Nothing, it’s just that it feels weird. Everyone around me is working, and I’m just sitting here by myself, watching you guys. I’m so used to being a part of the group that’s busy preparing for the upcoming show,” she laughed, referring to her late-night job.
“It’s fine, you’re a visitor of mine. Plus, you’re not really causing any trouble here.” Yoongi assured her. “And don’t stress out on not stressing out right now. That’s why you’re here, right? You needed a break from being busy.”
She agreed, leaning on her chair, “I really do. Fortunately, you guys came here at the same time I am staying here! I can’t wait to watch YN again! I heard that she got new outfits, is that true?”
“Still doing your advanced research?” he teased her.
“It’s in my DNA,” she replied, smiling, before her phone buzzed. “Wait, I’ll just take this one.”
Bea stood up and left to answer the call. Meanwhile, Yoongi looked back on the stage, where he last saw you minutes ago. He sees you talking with Art before walking away, seemingly so out of it since you almost tripped on the stairs. His eyes followed you as you left for the exit way. He wished you would just do the same thing in his head.
Exit.
Because ever since that night after the afterparty, Yoongi wasn’t really able to function well. When you asked him to leave your room that night, he was embarrassed and confused, and it led him to book the earliest flight from New York to LA just so he could avoid you in the planned meeting tomorrow. During that six-hour flight, Yoongi barely slept a wink.
"I-I think we crossed a line that we probably should not have."
You said that night. That kiss was a mistake. That giggling and banter in the middle of your makeout was a mistake. He was a mistake. To you. He apologized before leaving your room that night, since maybe he had crossed the line. Maybe he misunderstood that you two are way past those immature banters you shared for months. But it hit him during that same flight that maybe you two would never really get along well. Yoongi tried to excuse the whole thing as a result of too much drinking, even though he barely tasted the alcohol on your tongue. Hell, he can even taste the sweet strawberry from your lip gloss.
Spending Christmas with his family, Yoongi tried to let go of whatever happened that night. But he was so consumed by the thought of you that he almost forgot that it was his first holiday as a single man after his failed engagement with Sara. If it wasn’t with his aunt accidentally bringing up his ex, Yoongi would have forgotten that he and Sarah were supposed to tie the knot in January of the upcoming year.
Between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, Yoongi tried to distract himself. Then, he got a call from her. Sara wanted to meet up before the year ends. He only agreed when she promised that she would be alone and wouldn’t be accompanied by her fiancé. Then, all the frustration from that afterparty was temporarily taken over by the resentment he felt towards Sara, since seeing her pregnant for the first time didn’t really make him feel better.
But once Yoongi sat in that cafe with her, Sara was nothing but humble and apologetic. She mentioned she didn’t want to end the year without confessing her true remorse for what she had done to him. Yoongi thought that the conversation would end with him still being a bitter man. But it didn’t. Like real mature people, he and Sara talked about everything. She openly answered his questions and heavily pressed on the fact that he was faultless for what happened with their relationship. She took accountability for everything, apologizing for how she had wronged him.
She did cry. A lot. Maybe partly because of hormones. But Yoongi knew that Sara was genuinely guilty. He knew that apologizing had always been hard for her after years of them being together. So he accepted her apologies. Then, to calm her down, they began talking again like friends. Yoongi was mature enough to ask her about her pregnancy, wanting to know how she’s doing after the breakup and with this new phase of her life. She did the same thing, congratulating him for going on tour with a pop star. Something she held him back to during their relationship.
“You seemed really happy on stage with her,” Sara mentioned, something that somehow stayed in his mind until now.
As someone who knows him best, Sara will be the most verified person to say that. But Yoongi tried to shake it off during the chat. When he got home that day, he turned off his phone for the next two days so that he could avoid searching you up ever again. Then the new year came. He celebrated alone at his apartment, not really in the mood to go to a friend’s big party where he had been invited to. Instead, Yoongi got himself an expensive bottle of wine and played with his guitar until the fireworks outside set off. He finally opened his phone to greet his parents and friends. He just finished a call with his mom when he got a call. This time, it’s you. You were drunk and crying. He doesn’t even know if you remember the conversation you two had in that call.
“I hate receiving calls like that!”
Yoongi snapped his head when Bea came back, sitting next to him. He blinked, scolding himself in his head for drifting away.
“What happened?” he asked, trying to stay present.
“Work stuff. Apparently, there are some documents they need from me, and I have them in my apartment back in LA, so…” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll book the earliest flight after tomorrow’s show.”
“Well,” Yoongi stood up, “I guess we have to make the most of your time here?”
Bea smiled, “Yeah, that sounds great.”
The two began walking to the same exit way you had walked on earlier. Since the dome’s main gates, where fans come in and out, are still closed, they have to take the way where crew members go in and out of, which means they came across everyone.
“Hey, lovebugs!” Noah called them as they passed by the band, who were chatting in the catering area. Yoongi and Bea just shake their heads at the nickname, shrugging it off. “Where are you off to?”
“We’ll just go around the city. Maybe eat and visit some nearby spots.” Bea replied.
Yoongi added, “Yeah, but this one has to leave after the show tomorrow. So, we’ll just do it now. You can come with us if you want to.”
“Oh, we will,” Fred said before they all stood up, cleaning up their table.
While waiting for them, Yoongi listened to Bea’s impromptu itinerary. She mentioned something about a nearby garden and various fancy cafes, but all of it became a noise when Yoongi noticed you walked in with Cal and a slight frown on your lips. He felt like a ghost, watching you like he were invisible. Before, you complained about his eyes throwing daggers, but those daggers seemed to fly over your head since you act like you won’t even see him. Then, he sees Noah walk up to you.
“It’s cold, isn’t it?” Bea yanked him back to reality, waving her now-empty coffee cup in his sight.
“Hmm?” Yoongi hummed, not really catching up.
Bea, who has been observant ever since she came here today, simply smiled, “I said, it’s cold outside. We should get thicker coats in Kagurazaka.”
Yoongi nodded quietly, slightly embarrassed that he had been spacing out a lot lately. Noah then walked to them while hooking his arm with yours. You were looking at everyone except Yoongi, who is now in front of you.
“She’s coming with us. YN’s a little bummed out that there’s no espresso left here. We’re getting her that outside.” Your best friend cheered you up like a little kid.
Yoongi noticed you smile, but it did not reach your eyes. He looked down at the still-full coffee cup in his hand. Should he just give it to you? Maybe not. It’s already cold. So cold.

You really have no energy to stroll around the city for some reason. But Noah insists that you join them: “Stop moping around and come with us.”
“I am not moping around. Why would I mop around? It’s my first show after a few weeks for God’s sake,” you replied, denying whatever he was throwing at you. “And I already agreed that I’m joining you guys.”
“Then don’t drag your feet to walk.” Noah teased. “And please. Stop glaring at Yoongi.”
You rolled your eyes at him, “I am not glaring at anyone. I just need my espresso, and I’m gonna be okay.”
Excuses, excuses. You whispered in your head. Walking behind the group, Noah made sure to keep you company since everyone walked in pairs. Fred and Akio. You and Noah. Bea and Yoongi.
You can’t help but watch them. Those two act like they have known each other for the longest time. They seemed pretty comfortable with each other. Why does it look like it’s easy for them to be with each other? You can see Yoongi, who usually gives you blank stares, and his gummy smile from where you stand behind them, while Bea points out something and laughs. They are like sunshine, while you and Yoongi are ice-cold like the weather today in Japan.
Sighing, you looked down at your white boots walking on the pavement.
“You know, if you keep sighing like that, can you at least tell me what’s going on?” Noah mumbled beside you.
You looked up, forcing a smile, “Nothing. Just a little nervous for tomorrow.”
“YN…” your friend paused and tucked a part of your hair behind your ear, “Your nose is saying something else.”
He chuckled as your eyes widened before holding your nose. Everyone who has known you for a while knows that when you say something untrue, your nose flares.
“Whatever. But you know that I am always here for you, right?” he asked, and you nodded, leaning your head on his arm.
It took more minutes of walking until you found the cafe that Bea talked about. She turned around, pointing at it from a distance.
“That is the one! I have seen so many TikTok videos about their matcha latte!”
“Oh, yeah! I’ve been there once too, when I flew here last holiday. I think you guys will love their croffles.” Akio added enthusiastically.
Akio and Bea went in first, excited to see the menu. Yoongi held the door for everyone. You were the last one to walk in, and you tried not to look back as you could feel his eyes on you. Even though you won’t say anything, you can always feel when he’s looking at you.
The moment you got in, you noticed how warm the cafe is. It’s cozy and well-lit, following the beige and white aesthetic for everything. Soft jazz music plays in the background as the soothing aroma of coffee fills the place. Before looking for a spot, everyone came in front of the display case to see what pastries were available. You were quiet while everyone chose.
“Croffles or that tiramisu?”
You heard a voice behind you. But instead of turning around or answering, you stepped away and stood next to Fred, who was already lining up to order for everyone. He was looking at the menu board when he noticed you next to him, unaware of your avoidance of someone.
“How ‘bout you? Still espresso?”
You smiled, wordlessly, nodding your head. As everyone found the perfect spot to sit on, you decided to stay with your drummer. There are still two people ahead of you, so you two get to chat a little.
“My wife would have loved that heart-shaped strawberry mousse. She loves cute pastries like those,” he told you, making you smile with that wholesome thought.
“Lara’s a pastry chef, right?”
He nods, “Yep, she runs her own shop back in LA. Baking has always been her passion ever since we were kids.”
“You two were childhood sweethearts?! That’s really sweet,” you swooned.
He chuckled, “Not really, we knew each other since we were kids. But we only got together in our late 20s. My mom always told me it took us too long to finally be together.”
You smiled at that, looking at the heart-shaped cake in the display case, “Maybe not. Maybe, you two are just like one of those slow burners…”
“Yeah, maybe,” he smiled as he remembered his wife. “It took us almost twenty years and five failed relationships to realize that maybe we’re meant for each other. Great things take time.”
As if on cue, it was your turn to order. Fred did all the talking, and you just stood there. But you can feel that the cashier recognized you, which is fair since you were not really wearing anything that could cover your face. She shyly said hi to you, and you greeted her back with a smile. After ordering, the staff told you that your orders would be served. Walking to the table your friends chose, you quickly noticed the available seats left. One is next to Bea and Akio, and the other is between Noah… and Yoongi. Noah finally noticed you in the middle of their chat, immediately seeing your hesitation on the seating arrangement. He raised his brow as if he were telling you to just come sit next to him. You exhaled before finally walking over to sit between the two.

Who knew that a gentle brush on the knee could make him shiver?
Yoongi shifted from his seat the moment your knee accidentally touched his when you just sat down beside him. He tried to focus on the front of him, where Bea sat, but she was already deep into the chat with the others. Their conversation was bouncing from one topic to another. Noah spoke about the nearby garden they’ll visit later, making Yoongi look at his way. But instead of his eyes landing on his bandmate, he found you scrolling on your phone.
But you barely reacted to whatever your screen showed you. It was like you were mindlessly scrolling just to not look awkward with people around you. But he can tell. He hates that he can tell. Yoongi turned his gaze back to Bea, who was now speaking.
“Oh my god, they are playing your song.” Bea gasped, referring to you. “That’s my favorite from your recent EP.”
“Thank you,” you finally spoke, smiling in a way that Yoongi could tell was forced.
Just as their orders were being served, a familiar song was playing all over the place. It was one of the songs he worked with you during those late nights of last year’s December. He remembered you knocking on his hotel room door just moments after you got back from your shows, showing up in your most casual clothes. Maybe handing him coffee or chips the moment he opened the door for you. You two would exchange opinions on making your song, but never argue about it.
Yoongi was too filled with thoughts of you that he unconsciously reached for the freshly brewed espresso and placed it in front of you. You looked at him, slightly surprised. But he didn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he was already looking at Bea. You wanted to thank him, but opted to just take a sip of your most-awaited espresso.
“Oh, isn’t this pretty?” she swooned over the croffles that were topped with whipped cream and various types of berries.
Akio showed off the different slices of different cakes, ordered by others, too, “Look at these, too!”
“Oh, let me take a picture. I’ll send it to my wife.” Fred stood up and hovered over the table to capture a good picture of the pastries.
After that, Bea unexpectedly placed a slice of strawberry shortcake in front of you, “You should try this one. I don’t know why, but I ordered them for you because it reminded me of your cute outfit today.”
That made you giggle. Genuinely, for the first time today. “Thank you, you’re so sweet, Bea.”
Slight relief washes over Yoongi when he hears that light and soft laugh from you. You picked up your fork and sliced a corner of the shortcake gently before taking a bite. He can tell you liked it as you chewed, nodding your head.
“I love it,” you said mid-chew before offering, “You guys should try it!”
Yoongi quietly watched as you pushed the plate in the center of the table so that everyone could get a taste. He watched you look at everyone’s reactions with delight. Noah’s random moan like he just fell in love with cake made everyone laugh. You laughed so hard, your smile finally reached your eyes, which made Yoongi smile too.

The day went on with you being much more active than you were earlier. You were laughing a lot over Noah’s jokes and telling everyone how beautiful the garden is. You felt much lighter as you walked into the tranquil Korakuen Garden.
“The espresso really helps, huh?” Noah whispered next to you.
You chuckled, “Definitely.”
Looking around, you walked ahead when you saw a koi pond. You took out your phone to take pictures, something you will post on your stories soon. You cannot help but smile at how pretty everything is. But then, when you turned around, your shoulders slowly deflated like popped balloons when you spotted Yoongi taking pictures of Bea candidly under the cherry blossoms. You pursed your lips, trying not to frown. You just looked back at the pond, exhaling whatever you’ve been feeling.
“Hey, YN! Come here.”
Turning around once again, you see Akio motioning her hand for you to come stand next to her and for Noah to take group pictures. And that's what happened for the next few hours, you joined the band to avoid being quiet and alone with your messy feelings. You linked arms with Akio and Noah, talking about anything. Fred joined in, too. You also had quick, short chats with Bea about the weather and your recent experiences while staying here in the foreign country.
You learned that she came to Japan after asking for a two-week break. But it has only been a week, and she told you she has to go back to New York after your show tomorrow.
“That’s unfair, you asked for two weeks!” you protested to her as you two walked side by side while Yoongi stayed behind with Fred. You are now on your way to the nearest shopping district, which is Kagurazuka.
“I know!” Bea exclaimed, matching your energy. “But I think it’s better to just go home early. I miss working in that hectic show anyway.”
“Oh my god, Bea. You’re having Stockholm Syndrome,” you quipped, making her laugh.
“Maybe I am, but I’m making money off it anyway.”
While you two laughed once again, someone watched behind you quietly. Although Yoongi is relieved to see you get more comfortable, he cannot help but notice how you talked with everyone except him. You even got closer to Bea. The moment you two got into your own little chat, Yoongi began thinking that you were avoiding him. He tried reaching out, asking you about pastries, even unconsciously handing you your coffee, and tried to stand next to you when Bea made you and the band take a group photo, but you exchanged spots with Akio.
He tried not to think much of it, making up reasons in his head just to avoid making the distance between you two bigger. Maybe you did not hear him when he asked about croffles and tiramisu, maybe you said thanks for the coffee, he just didn’t hear it, or you just like standing at the end of a group photo instead of the center. But Yoongi got the confirmation on his hunch when he found himself standing a few feet next to you in front of a quirky souvenir shop in the not-so-busy shopping district of Kagurazaka. Your friends were inside buying gifts for their family and friends back home, while you decided to wait outside, and so did Yoongi.
It has been ten minutes since you two have been alone. The sun sets between the small buildings of the district while Yoongi watches you watch everything that walks in front of you. A couple holding hands as they giggle. Another tourist with a couple of shopping bags in each hand. A little boy holding a fish-shaped bread next to his mother. He saw the corner of your lips pull up as you eyed the cute kid.
“He looked like he won the lottery,” he said, trying to break the silence and start a conversation.
But you just smiled wearily, still not looking at him, “He does.”
That type of response is kind of hard to follow for someone who is often quiet like Yoongi. But he’s trying, he’s really trying to make a sensible conversation with you. Something that can assure him that the silent treatment won’t be permanent for the rest of the tour. So he tried once again, keeping his hands in his coat’s pockets.
“This is a really peaceful place for a shopping district, don’t you think?”
You nodded, “Yeah, it is.”
Then, silence joined in again, standing between you two. And Yoongi felt that he could not really do much anymore since you were not really interested in talking with him. He waited for you to say something. Five seconds. Thirty seconds. A minute. Then a few more minutes passed before he pressed his lips together and stared at the cobblestone pavement.
“Am I…” he paused, feeling his chest tighten, “Is me, being here, bothering you?”
Yoongi saw you in his peripheral turning your head in his direction before looking away again. You murmured, “No.”
“I’m starting to feel like I’m not supposed to be here. With you,” he whispered, letting his honest thoughts roll off his tongue.
“You are, Yoongi. You are supposed to be here. You’re my bassist,” you told him, saying the first thing in your head.
You meant good with that, Yoongi knows. But somehow that last line stings. Something snapped in his head, reminding him that maybe he’s just overthinking everything.
So he lets out a dry chuckle, “Ah, yes. That’s right, just you’re bassist.”

After noticing the time, everyone decided to finally go back to the hotel and rest. You were grateful that you and everyone could just take a walk from everything you went to today, then back to your hotel. Except for Bea, who has her booked Airbnb in the other city because she came here earlier.
“Guys, I need to go. My ride’s here,” she smiled sadly as everyone arrived in the hotel lobby. She then began hugging everyone goodbye, including you, “I had so much fun. Thank you so much for letting me tag along with you. I’ll watch you tomorrow.”
You smiled, waving at her, as she walked away with Yoongi, who you assumed walked her to her ride. You watched their backs quietly. He was carrying her shopping bags and opened the door for her. They were still talking as they went out.
“I was thinking of visiting their bar here tonight,” Noah brought up, making you look back at your left group.
You smiled, “Noah, we have a show tomorrow.”
“I know! But Akio and I just want to visit it. I heard they have a jazz band every night, just want to see and listen,” he insisted. “Don’t you want to come?”
“I can’t,” you shook your head. “I think I’m already tired from all the walking we did. And I can’t drink before any show. I do stupid things.”
A lot of stupid shit.
“I’ll go with you!” Fred joined in, moving next to his two younger bandmates. “Don’t worry, YN, I’ll make sure that they won’t get drunk tonight.”
Akio joked, “Okay, Dad.”
Everyone laughed at that. Eventually, you parted with them. They went to the hotel bar while you walked to the elevator. You have to wait for a new one for a few minutes until the doors open. You got in, so ready to get into your room to change into your pajamas and rest. The doors were about to close in a few seconds when a hand slid in, triggering the sensors to open the doors again.
Of course, it’s Yoongi.
You looked away, your hands forming into fists inside your coat’s pockets. Yoongi walked in and stood on the opposite corner of the elevator. You and Yoongi in the elevator seemed to be a dangerous formula based on your last interaction in the same place. Completely opposite from your past closeness in the elevator back when you two got back from the afterparty, the air has completely shifted now. You stared at the mirrored walls in front of you, not wanting to look at him.
“So, is this how it’s gonna be until this tour ends?” he calmly whispered, leaning on the rail.
Yoongi took the initiative to break the silence once again because it’s getting hard. His chest is being filled with an overwhelming amount of words that he cannot let out. His brain is gonna explode with the thoughts filling it. All while his heart beats like crazy underneath his chest.
“What?” you mumbled.
He sighed, “You won’t talk to me or worse, even look at me? Like I’m just a ghost to you.”
Instead of answering, your eyes find comfort in the numbers counting down the floors your elevator passed by. You know you cannot do this forever, but you also know that you cannot do this right now with how messy your head is. So when you hear the familiar ding, you immediately step outside the doors.
Yoongi followed behind you, “Yeah, leave. That’s right.”
“I was not the first one who left,” you bit back without turning around, just walking to your door.
That sentence quickly made his blood boil, yet Yoongi tried to remain calm: “You were the one who asked me to leave that night, YN. You said there was a line we probably shouldn’t have crossed, and I understood. It’s fine. But you called me during New Year’s, and I don’t know what’s happening anymore, YN.”
It’s pointless to fight over that because you know that in the end, you were the one in the wrong. You were the one who made him leave, pointing out how everything is a mistake before it can even happen. You were also the one who called him, drunk, probably crying over him. But still, your head feels like a ransacked office. There are papers everywhere, drawers were all open and disheveled, and you’re just standing in the middle, helplessly not knowing what to do.
You gathered up all of the courage in your system and finally turned around to look at him, “I don’t know what you want from me, Yoongi.”
“Talk, I want to talk with you, YN,” he whispered. He sounds tired yet calm and patient.
“I am talking with you right now.”
He sighed, “You know what the hell I mean. I want us to talk about what happened. About us.”
“There’s no us to begin with,” you replied, and you can see something shift through his eyes. His brows scrunched together. But you went on, “and what’s the point anyway? You’re with someone else alre—”
“Bea’s a friend,” he cuts you off, quickly cleaning up any of your assumptions about his relationships. “Just a friend I invited to come watch. That’s all.”
“Yeah, right.” you chuckled dryly before attempting to open the door, but Yoongi held the knob before you can.
You still don’t believe him a hundred percent, Yoongi can tell. He continued, “She was not here to make you jealous. She saw my story that I’m in Tokyo, asked about the show, and I invited her to watch. I’m sorry that I—”
“Why are you apologizing?!” you snapped, like his apologizing is making everything harder for you. You can feel tears stinging in the corners of your eyes just because of how patient he is with you. “You don’t have to say sorry for that, Yoongi. You don’t owe me that.”
Your voice cracked at the end as you said his name. You looked down, feeling cornered. Yoongi’s shoulders tensed down. He wanted to reach out, hold you in his arms. But before he could step forward, you spoke again.
“Why do you want to talk with me?”
“I,” he sighed. “I just want us to go back the way we were before.’
“Before?” you repeated with your tone showing slight sarcasm. “Yoongi, before that night, we barely talked properly. We’re just co-workers who often disagree on things, flirt on stage, and ignore each other backstage.”
You clenched your fists as you let those lies come out of your mouth. It was untrue because when you look at him, you see someone who wrote and produced songs with him until 2 AM. The one who’s quiet and patient with every gimmick you pull during performance, going along easily. Someone who apologized even though he did not make you cry intentionally and bought you that thick souvenir notebook from Milwaukee, the one she brings with her everywhere to write songs on. And mostly, he is the only one who can easily read your thoughts just by staring at you quietly.
And maybe that's what led you to say those words to him. Yoongi is not just some person or colleague that you will see at work every day. But he’s your bassist. The moment everyone finds out about your messy situation with him, you will be much more than the provocative popstar who flirts. That title will change into the provocative popstar who flirts a lot with her bassists, considering that your last partner was also your past bassist.
The headlines. The gossip. The whispers. You can already imagine the names they will call you if ever you let Yoongi into your world.
“Is that so? That’s all it was to you?” Yoongi asked that calmly, sending a shiver down your spine. But he looked at you like you just slapped him across his face.
Suddenly, he felt like he could not read you anymore. Because he thought he understood everything right. He sensed that you were scared about crossing the professional boundaries you two have in the middle. Hence why you told him that night that you crossed the line you two probably should not have.
He even went so far, to assume that you feel the same thing every time you two end up staring into each other’s eyes.
But maybe he was wrong.
Maybe you are really just a good performer. Someone who can really make people feel the words you were singing through your eyes. Maybe he is just stupid to believe that the jokes, stares, and kisses meant something more than just humor and gimmicks.
So he took a step back, nodding, “Fine, maybe we don’t have anything to talk about anymore.”
There was a finality in his tone when you heard that. Surrender. You didn’t dare to say anything. Instead, you bit your lower lip to avoid it from shaking too much. Yoongi looked at you like he was still waiting for you to say something, but you avoided his gaze and looked down.
Receiving nothing from you, Yoongi took it as a sign and walked away, taking all the strength in him not to look back.

“You won’t talk to me or worse, even look at me? Like I’m just a ghost to you.”
His words repeated in your head as you lay on your bed hours after that conversation. Another tear slipped from your eyes, rolling down to your cheeks. You groaned, reaching for a pen and your favorite notebook. Writing the first words in your head,
You should take it as a compliment that I'm talkin' to everyone here but you

additional note | i was editing this then ot7 live happened!! I'm still over the moon seeing them together again after two years!! anyway, I know this one is *so angsty*. i'll try to post something lighter later haha tysm for reading <3
SERIES TAGLIST
@busanbby-jjk @jimingirl95 @treacherqus @jajabro @marnz1990 @ktownshizzle @notarshia @m00njinnie @thelilbutifulthings @tarahardcore @livisdoingfine @jungshaking @eridanus-lynx @enthralled-bandit @goodnight-n-go-home @ronyiboniyy @jimeg629 @lveegsoi @madussthoughts @jalexad @ryryvna @kiki-zb @kam9404 @rtyuy1346 @chxmachxps @enfppuff
PERMANENT TAGLIST
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#bass guitarist! yoongi#yoongi fluff#yoongi x reader#yoongi imagine#yoongi au#yoongi x y/n#yoongi x you#bts drabble#bts aus#bts fanfic#bts x reader#bts x you#bts x y/n#yoongi fanfic#bts suga#httpknjoon#Spotify#love is... on tour myg
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The Stranger Things writers want byler shippers to feel like Joyce Byers.
(i'm aware this is a long read, but it's worth it i promise! 💔)
- "Joyce, 99 out of 100 times a kid goes missing, the kid is with a parent or relative."
"Well, what about the other time? You said, '99 out of 100', what about the other time, the one? The one!" -
~
since the season 5 release date teaser came out, lot of stranger things fans have made their way back to the fandom!.. delightful! because of that, arguments over certain stranger things topics have gotten more vocal (if that's even possible); like, for example, the wars between byler and mileven and which will be endgame!
mileven shippers, or maybe even just anti-byler shippers, have been mentioning (as they always do) that "byler wont happen", "it makes no sense", and "byler shippers are delusional". as well as that comes a lot of complaints from byler fans; saying mileven shippers have it all wrong, they under analyze, and dont understand the small details Stranger Things writers and directors bring to the table.
with all this being said, as a byler shipper myself, its quite frustrating when some people just dont see what you see and will never believe what you believe, especially on a topic that is pretty important to you.. That sounds a bit familiar, right? 😭 (i'm getting to the point, I swear. stay with me now.)
- "Maybe I am a mess, maybe I’m crazy, maybe I’m out of my mind! But, God help me, I will keep these lights up until the day I die if I think there’s a chance that Will’s still out there!" -
~
this is ALL that Joyce Byers had gone through when trying to find Will in season one. Will communicated to her through the lights, she saw him through the wall, she heard his phone calls.. but because the chances that such supernatural and unrealistic things were happening are very low, nobody believed her.
recently, i saw a comment on tiktok stating something along the lines of, "i have no idea why it feels like everyone is incapable of listening in this fandom. the general audience has a surface level of knowledge on everything that simple analyses can make you feel crazy," and it made me realize something.
maybe, just maybe, that's the entire point. i know that's pretty obvious, but on the topic of byler, it's easy to feel crazy! a lot of people say that the byler evidence we have seen means nothing, and it's all just delusional. a HUGE number of people believe byler won't become endgame and are concerningly very against it, actually. it's like Joyce with the lights. she knew Will was alive, and people argued she was going crazy.
but was she really crazy? nope. she wasn't. after everything, after no one had believed her at first, she was RIGHT. i mean, (this is important) the proof that Will was alive was very obvious to her, she saw it herself! some just didn't agree with her because THEY didn't see it.
~
this sounds oddly familiar to what happens between mileven and byler shippers. we have so much evidence, so much proof, that it almost just feels obvious how the final season is gonna go for Mike and Will, yet we still get called delusional and crazy for it all.
but, this is SUPPOSED to happen. it's no accident. the writers have set this up in such a way that some people will just never accept the fact that Will and Mike could be a potential couple in season 5, the idea almost feels impossible to them: they are basically the people who didnt believe Joyce. they've built it in a way that mirrors Joyce's experience. despite everything, Will was still found alive after he was seen 'dead' and even had his own funeral! sometimes, the impossible IS possible.
in conclusion, byler may feel unrealistic, what are the chances that these male main characters of this show will fall in love? the shows so popular, that just can't happen! well, you know what, people also believed Will wasn't alive, but Joyce did. and she was right.
byler shippers, you may feel crazy. you may feel out of your mind. but maybe we are right, and people will just never believe it until it truly happens.. there will always be the 1 in the 99 out of 100.
~
if youve made it this far thank you so much!
#byler#joyce byers#will byers#mike wheeler#stranger things#byler endgame#i hope this makes sense#byler nation#idk how to use tags#mike wheeler is gay
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I don't know if it's quuuiiite what the prompt asked for, but it seemed like a natural tie-in for the next part/scene of Reignite AU.
x~x~x
Something is wrong.
The feeling pervaded both his dreams and those brief waking moments where he was helped to a chamber pot before more sickly dreamwine was forced down his throat. Daemon could hear his sons’ laughter, would sometimes wake to their small hands pawing at his face as they earnestly told him to heal faster, so he knew that they were safe at least.
And yet something was wrong. It was subtle, insidious—like the warlock’s candle, and that was what at last prompted the realization that forced him to full wakefulness, lungs heaving in panic. His bond with Caraxes felt both raw and muted, weak as fraying thread, and suddenly all he could think about was the candle, the two massive eyes of flame searing into him, digging at his very soul, tugging at his bond until he could not breathe, and everything burned.
A hand closed around his shoulder. “My prince, you are safe. We are amongst allies.”
It was Ser Willam’s voice, but the candle visions had lied to him before. Daemon tugged his shoulder free, grasping wildly for a weapon, but his hands closed around nothing but fabric.
“My prince—”
“Stay back,” Daemon said, but the command emerged a croak, small and frightened.
He became aware of a throbbing pain in one thigh, and a strange warmth pressing into another, and he flung the blankets back on that side, uncovering a small red hatchling who peered at him with golden eyes. Where did another hatchling come from?
But the longer he stared into its eyes, the more he became aware of his bond, and as he concentrated on it, that distant feeling subsided, at least partly. What had been threadbare was still delicate, but enough for him to cling to in shuddering relief.
“Caraxes?” he called.
The hatchling rumbled in response, the noise deeper and throatier than his sons’ hatchlings would be capable of, and he moved to Daemon’s lap, his long neck rising to peer at him. Daemon reached an unsteady hand toward him, feeling each spike and horn nub on the hatchling’s face, every one of them a tiny mirror of his own dragon’s. Concern traveled through their bond, along with a sense of impatience, and something like frustration.
“I do not understand,” Daemon said.
Though he had felt pain before while trapped within the candle’s light, it had been a deeper pain, one that afflicted the spirit. The throb in his leg ebbed and waned and itched. It felt real. Tangible.
“This is no warlock trick,” Willam said, drawing close once more. “I swear it. Or—” The knight hesitated. “Not one of the senses. It is difficult to explain. What do you remember?”
Daemon stared at him, seeking signs of a candle vision, but the ache in his leg continued to pound, low and insistent in a way that no magic could imitate. “We were fleeing.”
In the chaos of the raid upon their caravan, they had been able to recover their weapons. He had taken Rhaegar, and Willam had taken Baelon, and they had cut down two Volantenes to claim their horses. He remembered the roar of Caraxes overhead and the sudden flare of light as dragonflame spewed down upon the clusters of men fighting. And an answering light as the candle had flared bright, causing dread to lance through his chest.
There had been a sharp, sudden pain. And then—nothing.
“It was the dead of night,” Willam said with a nod. “And then we were in bright daylight, no more than a few miles distant from Braavos. Your dragon was gone, and you were senseless on the ground, bleeding, while that little spitfire,” the knight jerked his head at Caraxes, “kept trying to snap at me until he finally came to realize that I was trying to help you.”
“I do not understand,” Daemon repeated.
“I have been awake for five days while you slept,” Willam said dryly, “and I am not sure that I wholly understand either.” He nodded toward the hatchling. “That is Caraxes, is it not?”
Daemon had been stroking him almost absently, the comfort of it bleeding through their bond. “Yes,” he said after a moment. That was impossible to deny. He could feel his dragon, just as he could feel that their bond had weakened somehow. Due to his size? Or was this done to us?
“My sons,” Daemon said then. “Where are they?”
“In the nursery. You woke during their naptime.”
The nursery. Daemon looked about, the room utterly unfamiliar, the furnishings not of Westerosi make. “We are in Braavos?” He straightened, ignoring the twinge in his leg as he did so. “Have you sent word to my brother?”
If Volantis has spies in Gulltown, they could have spies anywhere.
Willam grimaced, his hand rubbing at the stubble on his cheek. “I have not, my prince. I fear it is—complicated.”
Daemon frowned. “What is complicated about sending a raven?” If there was one Free City in all of Essos that would spit upon the offer of an alliance with Volantis, it was Braavos.
“According to everyone I have spoken to, we have been dead for nearly two centuries.”
Daemon could only stare at the knight, blank-faced, as he launched into an account of the five days that Daemon had lain in a dreamwine-fueled stupor. Of riding into the city for aid, only to find himself mocked and ignored, save for an old knight who rode with him the short distance to where Willam had hidden Daemon and the children. Of being led to a stately house with a red door, to find a woman within who claimed to be Rhaella Targaryen, queen in exile, along with her two children.
Daemon shook his head, mind rejecting the words as fast as Willam could speak them. Rhaenyra is waiting yet in Gulltown. My brother will send Rhaenys and Laenor, and we shall bear the children back to King’s Landing.
The door creaked open, and Caraxes turned a suspicious gaze toward it, only to relax upon seeming to recognize the woman who entered, carrying a child in each arm. Daemon’s heart leapt.
“Baelon,” he gasped. “Rhaegar.”
“Kepa!” They began squirming in the woman’s arms, and she carefully set them down so that they could run to his bedside and demand to be lifted up onto it. Daemon obliged, and after a sharp word from Willam to be mindful of his leg, they moved more gingerly to nestle into his side.
“Are you better now?” Baelon asked, seizing a handful of Daemon’s sweat-soaked shirt to stare at him with anxious grey eyes.
“I feel almost better,” Daemon said, brushing the locks from his forehead, then leaning forward to kiss it. “All the more so now that you and your brother are here.”
“Willam said you needed lots of sleep,” Rhaegar said, eyeing him critically. “Did you sleep?”
“I did,” Daemon affirmed.
His son nodded in satisfaction. “I sang you lullabies.” He turned toward the woman who had brought them in. “Muña helped!”
Muña. Daemon’s gaze snapped to the woman, who he had ignored at first, thinking her a nurse. Her hair was gathered up beneath a cloth wrap, but her garb was that of a Braavosi noblewoman. She gazed back at him with violet eyes no more than a shade or two lighter than his own. Rhaenyra, he thought for a moment, but she had to be twice his niece’s age.
The differences piled up over the length of his study. The shape of her face was different, for one; more oval, her cheekbones more pronounced. She had the same bow-shaped lips, but rather than the upward tilt at the edges that lent Rhaenyra an air of mischief, they were turned slightly downward, hinting at a melancholy instead.
The woman studied him back, her eyes at time seeming to flicker with a recognition of her own, and when they had both finished, she tugged at the tie that secured her hair wrap in place to send silver-blond hair tumbling down past her chest.
His son’s words rose from the depths of memory. My muña. She’s pretty and sad and she looks like me and you.
“I am Rhaella Targaryen,” she said. “And we have much to discuss.”
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(NOTE: unfinished post that is probably going to remain so, but i liked the thoughts here so i wanted to publish this from my drafts finally. not gonna edit or polish, haven't touched this in half a year, enjoy ♥️)
some thoughts about jean vs. kim as narrative contrasts, through their self-comparisons to harry.... and what their approaches to harry tell us about their class consciousness.
this post is 9 paragraphs long. please clap.
So. Jean compares himself to Harry, and he doesn't seem to understand why neither he nor Harry can get better. While Harry is the focus of his ire, he draws a comparison between them by calling them both garbage. He calls his own 7-year depression a medical anomaly, despite the fact that depression isn't really something you can cure, and not exactly a mystery given their socioeconomic circumstances. If he's dismissive of his own 7 years of suffering, of course he's derisive about Harry's disability and mental illness. He sees Harry fail over and over, and he frames it as deliberate. As though Harry just isn't trying hard enough, just doesn't want to be a healthy, functioning member of society. If Jean's inability to get better is a personal failing, Harry's inability is that 100 times. Any time Harry is sick or relapses or struggles, it's just another personal failing Jean sees reflected that he should deride him for.... How else will he change? Why can't he just overcome himself?
I think there's this fear/hatred of their similarities because Jean doesn't want that to be his inescapable future, doesn't want to think he could be crushed under capitalism the same way (one) (two). So he refuses to look at their issues within that context, and instead frames them as perplexing anomalies. "Why can't Harry and I get better despite the fact we live in poverty and are addicted to drugs just to function in our job that sees us brutalizing other human beings daily? A mystery! I am going to ascribe this as an inherent failure in both our persons and fuel my hatred of us both." He sneers at Trant even suggesting that Harry's (/their) struggles are reinforced by the system they are trapped within.
When Jean expresses views like "no one gets married in Revachol" or being frustrated with sensitivity training... He's clearly bitter about the state of society, but his comments seem more targeted towards personal, moral degradation, rather than injustice or inequality under the Moralintern. I think Jean being 10 years younger might contribute to this. He's only ever lived in a world run by the MI, and perhaps he can't imagine anything besides their benevolence. It's the RCM and the MI who brought the about the wealth and stability of the '30s, after all. It's not the same anymore. It's too late for us. He's garbage, Harry's garbage, everyone's garbage.
Kim compares himself to Harry, sees Harry's struggles, and... He isn't perfect at first either! Initially, he almost refuses to acknowledge Harry's amnesia and withdrawal, but he does try to meet Harry with understanding. In your very first conversation with Kim, you can tell him that you're not really a cop, and his response is to tell you that he feels that way sometimes, too (but there's still a job to do, officer). Perhaps Kim is understanding to a fault, at times. He understands why other cops take bribes, to survive. When you find speed in Klaasje's bathroom, he's curious about it, to the point of considering using it himself. Kim understands why people do these things, because it's a fucking hard life out there.
Now, something that sets Kim apart from Jean, is that Kim is intimately familiar with the fact that his circumstances go beyond him as individual. He is constantly faced with the context of anti-Seolite racism, and how it colors others' view of him. He started from one of the harshest beginnings, with both parents dead and growing up an impoverished, bullied orphan. I think this is where so much of his kindness comes from, empathy gained from his own obstacles he has had to struggle through.
Yet, Kim still thinks that if he can prove himself as an individual, that will somehow exempt him. He's desperate to be such a good cop and Vacholiere that it eclipses that fact that he is Seolite, a binoclard, a poor little orphan, the many things that have isolated him. Like Jean, there's this fallacial logic on individual versus system, but here seems to be more learned helplessness rather than reactionary self-hatred (though Kim has that too, with the internalized racism). Kim doesn't like to have opinions on "facts" like the MI, so perhaps his logic is something like "You can't change 'facts' (the overwhelming power of the system), but you can change yourself." Fixing the system seems insurmountable, like asking the laws of physics themselves to change. All he believes in is the RCM, where he can bring his little grain of sand to the anthill every day, where it's swept over by a boot heel every evening.
Kim is at a point of consciousness where he is empathetic of the actions others take to survive in their flawed system, but paralyzed to take that logic any farther. Now, others have written excellent analysis about how partnering with and loving Harry is going to radicalize Kim. He looks between himself and Harry, and if this white, Double-Yefreitor, fucking detective god can be thrown to the gutter.... Will Kim and his hard work ever actually matter to the RCM or to Revachol? Honestly, I can imagine Kim going through a period of depression and apathy after this disillusionment with the RCM, because if changing yourself/individual action doesn't help, and changing the system is impossible, what can you even do?
And that comes to Kim's other obstacle towards radicalization... Being deeply lonely and isolated. He's always been cast as the outsider, and he's created this guarded and curated persona in reaction. The man has no class consciousness/solidarity for exactly the same reason. He's had so few allies in his life, how can he imagine power in solidarity? How can he imagine it when it has not been offered to him? Of course he can only turn to individual action, which will always be meager and demoralizing before the weight of the world's problems.
Despite Jean and Kim's differing approaches towards Harry and society at large, I think they make the same fundamental mistake... Focus on individual actions or failings invariably loops back into hatred, for others and yourself. I think Harry's friendship and respect is a step towards healing this for Kim, but I'm not sure it's the salve for the part of him that will still think "Ah, he sees beyond the fact that I'm a bino Seolite!" I don't think Kim can truly believe in opposing the MI and capitalism, until he stops thinking of himself as something to be overcome.
Bibliography of posts linked here, as well as posts that influenced this one <3 Thank u for your beautiful thoughts, mwah mwah:
Linked:
@renmorris (one) (two)
@convoloutedinjoke (one)
me <3
Inspiration:
@lastwave (one) (two)
@smokedgastropod (one)
@kryaaas (one)
#disco elysium#de tag#unfortunately my interest in DE has smoked out a little bit. perhaps i will return to all these posts in my drafts one day#or maybe i'll just publish them all as is#im not even gonna reread this i hope it's coherent since i last looked at it lol#PLEASE CLAP
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i noticed i've never really talked about my takes on rafayel's myths on here. since i have based the kraken raf fic on the forgotten sea continuation with inspiration from tears of romirro, if you read between the lines a little you'll realize i don't really like god of tides rafayel as a character (GASP)
i know, yeah yeah, i know. get it out. yes. boo. how could i?
it's that i'm aware he was written a certain way to set up "irresponsible, arrogant youth comes to lose everything and matures into his role and everything that follows becomes bittersweet" storyline. i get it, i understand. i know he grows, and all he does becomes for the sake of his people and it's sad, the appeal comes from that. let me explain.
my frustration with him really comes down to how he flippant he has been with mc. this isn't about babying her or wanting all the guys to kiss her feet like immediately and have no conflict with her or whatever the hell. i believe she finds no sympathy from the fandom sometimes, and even in this myth the focus is "oh he betrayed the entire ocean for her !!!!" people really fail to fully look at the situation she was in.
this girl was brought up as a sacrifice, basically LIVESTOCK BEING FED TO BE FATTENED UP HER ENTIRE LIFE so she could be SACRIFICED TO HIM. THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NOWHERE TO RUN TO. SHE LIVED ON AN ISLAND. her entire life mc has been making plans to run away like every single day she gets closer to her death and lives in a metaphorical cage, i don't think people understand or comprehend what this means. we don't talk about this enough.
and immediately rafayel plays with that. not only is her struggling not to drown funny to him as he laughs in her face, but when she, rightfully, wants to leave after being saved, he straight up pulls the breath out of her lungs like an airbender and goes "okay give me back the life i saved then."
mc is being forced to stay there at the very beginning of the myth because she's afraid to die. i don't know what to tell you. "find a way your heart becomes smitten with me" MAYBE DONT FUCKING THREATEN ME WITH MY LIFE, HOW ABOUT THAT?
she's being forced to become the "the most devouted follower" to the god who she was being groomed to be sacrificed to, and in her pov, did not hear her prayers no matter how much she wanted to be saved
do you see how dissatisfied i am with the myth's writing that these issues weren't resolved/addressed/processed organically? they did a lot of timeskips to make mc get over these issues
yes, these tell a lot about rafayel's character in this myth. he's very coldly mischievous and out of touch, also because he was very sheltered in his upbringing and is very unaware of his privilege and power. the responsibility he has doesn't register to him, despite the love and care he has for his people. but what gets me. what made me want to like. strangle him the most. is when he dared to compare himself to mc by going "our childhoods weren't all that different".
are you. are you JOKING.
i get it. i love it when characters are parallels of each other. it's a trope i enjoy. but what you DONT DO. is liken your significantly privileged status AS A GOD who had to grow up underneath the heavy responsibility of being the last of your line and save your people to a poor girl who was essentially a pig in a kennel that had her agency completely taken away from her.
and before you say anything, i understand the angle of "both of them weren't able to run away from their situations" i get it. I GET IT. this is a particular thing that annoyed me immensely, and there's nothing you can do to change it.
and it makes me so sad that mc basically comes to become so devoted to him because he was the first one to give her a choice and basically look out fo her. it's so sad to me. like at that point, i don't think rafayel deserves her. she just makes me so fucking depressed like here is this traumatized girl who has never felt safe in her entire life and a guy who wanted to essentially use that girl for his own gain (at first)
this is why i really like the ending of forgotten sea, it really forces rafayel to change and act . in tears of romirro he's an entirely different person i love the way he has been developed . and even in fragrant dream which was originally thought to be post-fs god of tides there's a certain charm to him that comes from the tragedy he's faced and the sacrifice he's willing to make . abysswalker is MY BELOVED because of the character development he's obviously gone through
but all of this really makes me love rafayel more because it's layers and flaws. it really adds so much context to the person he currently is in the main story. there's a certain grit and heaviness that people don't see because he's extremely calculated about how he appears as. god of tides rafayel is significantly more infuriating than current timeline rafayel who people go around complaining is too whiny and dramatic and feminine or whatever. but they aren't ready for that talk.
but don't put god of tides rafayel and me in the same room i hate that bitch
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Title: What We Leave Behind
A contribution for the Nanami Week prompt 'Papamin'.
Rating/CW: Post-Shibuya Nanami, Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Papamin, Mentions of Character Death, References to Past Violence.
WC: ~6.2K
Summary: When a mission goes wrong, old grief surfaces alongside new understanding, and a single word spoken in vulnerability reshapes a bond forever.
A/n: Maybe it's the fact that we have an entire week dedicated to my pookie that my fingers have allowed me to create once more. Here is a little oneshot dedicated to Day 1 of Nanami Week: Papamin! I am not well-versed in the intricacies of cursed techniques and cursed energy. Please go easy on me.
JJK Masterlist | Ao3 | Divider: @strangergraphics
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“Do you believe in reincarnation, Nanami?”
Unwanted and uninvited, the whisper of the memory hits Nanami like a physical blow, pain so sharp in his stomach that he almost bows over. His hand grips his cane harshly, scarred fingers white at the knuckle, and frustration rising up his chest like a tidal wave. In the depths of his mind, he chastises his psyche because how dare that memory sift through the dirt in his mind, brimming to the surface unapologetically.
Despite his best efforts, the dull hallway lighting does nothing to help his vision as he blinks quickly, willing the memories to fade just for today. Just for right now.
In this vast school haunted by too many ghosts, this hallway carries an uneasy intimacy—dark and silent, holding the voices of the dead who fought until there was nothing left in them. Only one set of doors line the corridor, steel and tall, and the last time he was here and held any semblance of joy in his budding life of misfortune, he was a teenager with fringe.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Because I want to know! Don’t tell me you’re boring even in philosophical discussion?”
Nanami sighs, tucking a stray lock of blonde behind his ear as he throws the black paneling of the basement walls a pensive look.
“It’s a comforting thought, but there is no evidence for it. When we die, we die. That’s it.”
Looking back through that foggy lens, Nanami remembers just how fiercely he believed that at the time. In their world, when they sacrifice every ounce of their being for the people who know nothing about them, there is no comforting notion of the afterlife. Their world is too grim to believe that something is brighter on the other side. The same cycle of rinse and repeat, generation after generation, only reaffirmed this belief he held.
In the cruel grand scheme of things, he wishes more than anything that the memory could be mundane, irrelevant in the face of now. Perhaps it’s what followed that is responsible for why Nanami is forced to feel things with an unrelenting ferocity. Perhaps it was the look of mild disappointment on Haibara’s face, a sight so very rare, those large brown eyes shadowed with apprehension rather than enthusiasm.
Perhaps it was the feeling that flooded Nanami right after, a sense of shame for upsetting his friend, a fear of a conversation he would probably have to have. Or perhaps it was the fact that he promised himself to apologize later that day at their usual friendly dinners.
A dinner that was cancelled because they were called on a mission. A mission that was too intense to warrant a serious conversation because Haibara was trying to focus. A level of focus that resulted in Nanami in this very hallway, angry with burning tears in his eyes that he shrouded beneath a washcloth while his dear friend lay dead on a slab.
After many years of denial that molded into careful management, he’s gotten better, turning his grief into something tangible, taking the bad and creating something good. The frequent nightmare that was that mission that jolts him awake in a cold sweat, converted into an intentionally peaceful day. A lightning strike of sadness during his morning read turned into a decompressing walk to stretch his burned muscles.
But it’s that last conversation that he never got to fix, that “I could never be mad at you Nanami!” that he never got to hear.
Just as it had years ago, that guilt manifests in the shake of his hands, the precarious gallop of his heart, the trickle of sweat sliding down his neck when he overheard Panda whispering to Nobara about how Yuta’s mission had gone wrong.
It settled heavy in his gut like he’d indulged too much, that same sensation of dread weighed him down as he walked as fast as his tired left side would allow, pushing through the familiar but still unpleasant ache between his joints as he rushed down the steps to the very corridor that’s wrapped around him like an awful embrace.
So maybe that is why this memory surfaces now, reminding him of that paralyzing fear that held him down as a teenager, now rendering his fingers stiff as they space over the ‘Infirmary’ sign on the steel doors.
His heart hammers, a quiet, almost desperate ‘please’ slipping past his lips as he begs to anyone, anything that will listen before he pushes the doors open.
The smell of antiseptic burns the back of his throat, mixing with something heavier—the metallic tang of blood and exhaustion. The hair on the back of his neck rises, collecting dew drops of cold sweat, his body tense and poised, ready for the inevitable sadness and madness that grief brings.
Thankfully, the sight brings a rush of relief so overpowering that he almost falls to his knees.
Shoko is hard at work once again, her chestnut hair falling over her shoulders in shining waves, healthier than years before when their lives were nothing but grief and misery, the thought of self-care a distant dream. One of her hands rests against a tanned chest, her fingers glowing a luminescent purple that ebbs and flows over the sweaty skin. Her other hand moves in practiced ease, weaving with two fingers that are pinched around surgical needle and thread.
It’s second nature to her, the ability to heal. A gift weaved into her bones like cursed silk the very moment she took a breath, and harnessed as she grew to only provide for others while her own existence went unnoticed. Like Nanami and his journey with undoing the bad, Shoko is better now. Still weathered in the eyes, still smoking, but better.
Now she teaches other young students how to hone their RCT, mindful to show them they are more than just their power. Now she sleeps. Now she smokes one pack a day instead of three. Now, those tired eyes are filled with determination rather than the resignation that comes with an autopsy on someone she once shared a class with, and for Nanami, that sight kills what remaining dread he had sitting like an anvil on his chest.
“Looks like your cover’s blown,” Shoko mumbles, a hint of amusement coloring her otherwise monotone cadence.
Across the sterile slab table, Yuta stands, looking as uneasy as ever. His posture is stiff, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders drawn up tight to his ears as a means to protect himself from his own criticism.
“Nanami-san,” he croaks in acknowledgement, offering a shaky bow before looking back to the patient on the table.
Against everything Nanami feared, Yuji lies there—equally as quiet, equally as uneasy, but flushed with fever-warm color, albeit sweaty, his chest rising steadily, and Nanami can breathe. Because he’s alive, and that memory can sift back into the recesses of his mind, forgotten until the next time Haibara decides to show his presence.
In the cold, heavy silence that follows, that usual “Nanamin!” is absent, the owner of those words staring up at the ceiling with glossy eyes. A laceration decorates Yuji’s side, deep and flaring an angry red, the skin around it slightly tinted cherry with blood that was hastily wiped away.
From years of experience, Nanami knows the application of Shoko’s technique allows the wound to heal slowly, and he can see the jagged edges shrinking while she seals the wound shut.
Despite the inhuman level of strength that he possessed even before Sukuna’s demise, Yuji isn’t resilient. Five years of calculated observation—from that pink-haired fifteen-year-old to the young man sitting before him now—Nanami has always been able to see through that invincible veneer.
The way Yuji would flash a jovial smile even with scratched cheeks and bandaged limbs, trying to convince everyone he was fine when he clearly wasn’t; trying to show his sensei that he valued life transactionally like the rest of the sorcery world, so he could get the job done.
But in this moment, there’s no curve to his lips now, his jaw set in stone, eyes fixed stubbornly above, shame sitting leaden on his shoulders.
It’s with this quick assessment that Nanami decides on his next course of action.
With a modest hitch in his step from years of arduous physical therapy, he strides calmly across the room, resting his cane against the mahogany counters before opening the cabinets above.
“What happened?” He maintains a steady voice even though his heart is thrashing in his chest, the expectation of a deep conversation hanging just beyond the horizon.
A brief silence, long enough to pick up the steady hum of Shoko’s RCT, the drip of a faucet, the thick pierce of Yuji’s skin as she stitches.
“A rogue curse,” Yuta finally squeaks. “W-we…we had already cleared out the entire church, and I was about to break the veil when one snuck up behind me. I’m not sure how I missed it. I’m not…Yuji, of course, pushed me out of the way. I didn’t sense it in time….I’m so sorry Nanami-sensei.”
Internally, Nanami blanches at the formality. Yuta was more of Gojo’s student than Nanami’s and quickly stepped into the role of teacher not long after his death. There’s a weight of respect to the title that Nanami still has not gotten used to, the weight of expectation that those younger than him hold for him. He’s held in such high regard in this big school filled with few people.
He thinks of Ino's unwavering faith in him, the way the younger sorcerer hangs on his every word during training sessions like they're gospel, seeking approval that Nanami isn't sure he deserves to give. It feels odd to be seen as someone to look up to when he feels like he’s barely getting through each day, stumbling through his early thirties, but still learning.
“There’s no need for an apology,” Nanami supplies simply, pushing aside a few plastic boxes to wrap his hands around a small tin.
It’s no bigger than his palm, rusted along the seam but shining back the fluorescent lights and his blurred reflection. He does not need a smooth surface to know what reflects back at him—the black eyepatch that cuts across the left side of his face, blonde hair that is now shorter on that same side, growing slower, with flecks of grey at his temples, the lattice of now pale scars that trail down his neck and disappear beneath the collar of his navy button up.
“A sorcerer of your calibre was unable to sense the curse—”
“I know, and that’s why—”
“That only shows there was something we did not anticipate upon our initial assessment before you and Yuji were sent out. There will always be a level of error, no matter how powerful you are.”
Nanami won’t allow Yuta’s usual self-depreciation to show in this moment. Not when he’s pulled off the impossible in this life they cradle—coming back from a mission alive. Mentally devoured, scratched up, and emotionally drained, but alive.
How quickly Nanami has learned to clutch that term with such care since being given a second chance.
Nanami grips his cane with measured pressure as he makes his way back to the table where Yuji rests, the young man still willfully ambivalent to the atmosphere around him.
“What did you learn, Yuta-kun? Could you sense something vaguely? Vestiges in cursed energy?”
“A little, right before it…” he trails off, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.
“Then that means you know that feeling. Focus on grasping it during your training. Creating a better awareness of it will allow you to recognize it quickly in battle.”
Yuta’s eyes widen in recognition before he nods incessantly, wrapping his hand around Rika’s ring that rests on his collarbone
“Yes, Nanami-sensei.”
Nanami uses Yuta’s self-reflection to peer down at Yuji. Without his usual cheerful chatter, Yuji looks impossibly young. His eyelashes slightly dewy and dark against tan cheeks, the planes of his face soft and vulnerable. But it’s the look in his eyes that makes Nanami’s heart thump pitifully in his chest.
That same tortured fear he’d probably felt in Shibuya’s wreckage, when Sukuna had relinquished control and left Yuji to stare at the devastation he’d caused. To finally meet Nanami’s eyes in the bowels of that subway, riddled with rotting curses, could he see his past and present so clearly.
The fear of what he’d done, of so many of his friends wounded and dead. The fear of not knowing how to fix it. The fear of not being in control.
Is this how he truly feels right now? That he should have been in control of every aspect of the mission? That he should know everything all at once, just like Gojo had the unfortunate talent of having?
In the aftermath of Shibuya’s devastation, Yuji has thrown himself into becoming better with a willpower that has both impressed and worried Nanami.
More vigilant in training, refusing to stop until he understands every technique, every counterattack, every strategy. Always asking questions, always pushing himself harder with a jovial disposition that a younger Nanami would have envied. That a younger Nanami had seen so much before in Haibara—that same eager devotion, that same need to protect everyone around him, and still love life at the end of the day.
“Shoko, once you’re done, would you and Yuta mind giving us a moment alone?”
“Yep. Just about done.”
Nanami gives Yuji his space, retreating his gaze to focus on opening the tin in his hands with the limited dexterity he has. It’s a slight struggle, the way his marred fingers grip the seam, the weakened sensation along his fingertips as the lid gives and finally twists open. From his peripheral he notices Shoko straighten, the glow of her hand ebbing away, the clatter of utensils echoing in the room as she finishes up her stitching.
“You know the deal,” she recites, tossing the used utensils into a sharps container that rests on the wall. “Take it easy for the next few days.”
She offers a light hum to Yuji’s mumbled thanks, snapping off her gloves before digging into her white lab coat. She fishes out a pack of cigarettes, throwing one between her lips before catching Nanami’s eye. For a beat, something passes between them—the recognized weight of what they carry, watching the youth hurt themselves for a world that will never notice. The fear that one day, the outcome won’t be so favorable. But that beat passes, and with a familiar nod in his direction, she brushes out of the room, Yuta following close behind.
The double doors drift shut behind them, their pace slowing with each lingering second until they settle together with a muted thud, leaving only the hum of the fluorescent lights, the distant tick of a wall clock, and the evasive roar of Yuji’s thoughts.
Nanami waits, hoping dimly that the silence will be enough of an awkward push for Yuji to begin some sort of conversation. But the seconds drag into a full minute with no result, Yuji’s eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, cheeks slowly taking on a ruddy complexion from rising embarrassment.
Nanami ambles closer, resting his cane against the lip of the table Yuji rests on, throwing the tin lid on the steel side table next to him.
It’s a salve, a greasy concoction of oils and herbs his mother had pressed into his hands the night before he left for Jujutsu Tech, her worried and shaky fingers smoothing over his arm as she instructed him how to use it.
“For the small injuries,” she had whispered, as if she already knew the larger ones would be well beyond her reach.
It soothes the smallest of cuts in ways that have nothing to do with cursed ability and everything to do with a mother’s love distilled into something tangible. It’s practically useless, but to Nanami, it’s a step in a routine he’s repeated for years, a bridge between who he was and who he has become. A soothing reminder that care doesn’t have to be specific to be profound. And it's remained untouched in the infirmary cabinets unless it’s his hands reaching for it.
He dips his fingertips into the salve—cool and slightly gritty between his fingers as he rubs them together, smelling faintly of eucalyptus and something medicinal. When he glides a generous amount along the edge of Yuji’s wound, the boy flinches slightly, muscles twitching from the cool temperature, a hiss escaping his lips.
But still he says nothing.
Still, he says nothing as Nanami rubs the salve along the top of his wound, careful to avoid the sutures.
Still, he says nothing as calloused fingers brush along the raised sides, the skin already blooming red with inflammation.
Still, Nanami waits patiently, the silence like pressure on his eardrums, until Yuji’s throat clicks when he opens his mouth.
“It was careless.”
Sharp as Nanami’s dull knife, Yuji’s words slice through the tension in the air, his voice layered with so much admonishment that Nanami can practically taste acidity.
“I was so careless.”
“You made a mistake.”
Yuji doesn’t offer a retort, his gaze narrowing, the whites of his eyes glossing over with unshed tears. The unspoken response is clear: there is no room for mistakes in their job. A mistake is a guarantee of death, no matter how small. For Yuji, that mistake doesn’t threaten his own life—it threatens everyone he’s sworn to protect.
Nanami recognizes it so clearly, and watching Yuji embody the same fatal nobility that once consumed him is nauseating, bile rising, burning, and sour in the back of his throat.
“There are days when I feel helpless because I’m unable to be on missions like you.” Nanami swallows the horrid taste, the desire to mold this trait into something palpable that he has no choice but to continue. “I can…but I have grown to value my life and the things I would leave behind if I held onto that weight as I did before.”
Yuji huffs a watery laugh of disbelief, blinking away the haziness in his vision but still refusing to look in Nanami’s direction.
“That sense of duty. The need to protect the youth at all costs and accepting that my life was expendable as long as I fulfilled that purpose. That came with the understanding that any mistake I made was unforgivable but clouded my real conviction, the real reason I was actually fighting.”
Nanami’s fingers pause in their gentle ministrations as he sighs, resting his hand on the table. “While it is commendable to have the same idealism as I once had, that kind of thinking will not make you a better sorcerer, Yuji. It will make you carry burdens that aren’t yours to carry.”
Yuji finally flickers his gaze to rest on Nanami, a wave of that fear he calculated earlier washing over him with the force of a tsunami. He sits up, wincing through the pain and cupping his stitched side gingerly as he throws his legs over the side of the table.
“But you told me to take it from here,” Yuji’s voice cracks slightly, honeyed emotion sloshing inside of him and seeping through the cracks of formidable walls. “That duty you gave me. I want to carry it. I want to be worthy of it.”
And oh, does Nanami’s chest constrict to a painful degree at the raw honesty in his voice, at the way he’s looking at him like he’s afraid of disappointing him.
The recollection of that day is as clear as any memory he’s ever had, no matter how much he tries to suppress it. The ache in his bones as he sliced through curse after curse with his dull knife, voice shaking with fury and desperation. The persistent thoughts that threatened to obliterate his focus.
“Will Ijichi be okay?”
Keep fighting. Keep slicing. Calculate the chances of survival for Shibuya’s innocent if you allow a curse to escape the subway—
“Gojo is sealed, but where is he?”
Push through the pain. Push through the blackened vision on your left side. Push through the despair of your dreams that may never come to fruition.
“Is Megumi-kun okay against his father?”
Megumi doesn’t know about Toji. He should have known the part Gojo played. But he’s just a boy—
“Please, please let Nobara-kun not act in bravery without thinking it through.”
But loudest of them all, repeating like a broken tape over and over, louder and louder until he could hardly tell his own thoughts from hallucination to compensate for the blinding pain or reality—
“Yuji. Where is Yuji?”
And Nanami remembers all too vividly that look of hopelessness on Yuji’s face when he finally saw him. When he hallucinated Haibara, he accepted the task of saying what he hoped to have a little more time for.
“You take it from here.”
How proud he had been, even in that moment, on the brink of death, to entrust something so important but burdensome to someone he believed in so completely.
Now, slightly incapacitated but alive, watching Yuji carry that weight with honor but the same self-destructive determination Nanami once had, he realizes application of this measure requires more than just responsibility.
“I should have sensed it,” Yuji whispers, shame lacing his words with an intensity that doesn’t shock Nanami. “I should have been faster. Should have been better prepared. I train every day until I have nothing else left to give, and I study every technique because I can’t—I won’t let anyone else get hurt because I was not good enough.”
Nanami can sense the spiral, can practically see its vines wrapping around Yuji’s neck, thorned and digging as he struggles to get out every word in his tirade of untethered emotion.
“Itadori-kun—”
“You trusted me with something important. This life, these missions, the ideals I have. And I can’t mess it up. I can’t be the reason someone else dies. I can’t be the reason you or Yuta or anyone else gets hurt because I was too slow to see what was coming.”
“Itadori-kun—”
It’s not enough to stop him, because still Yuji persists.
“You’ve given me so much responsibility…taught me so much and believed in me when no one else did, and I just…I need to be better. I need to be worthy of what you’ve given me.”
His cheeks red from exertion, his eyes welling with tears, his knuckles bleach bone-white as he grips the edge of the table. His shoulders are tense, drawn up to his ears as if a child being scolded, his body shaking with a vibrating anxiety Nanami once had after his very first mission as a first-year.
The sight of it all kicks some instinct, some dormant feeling in Nanami’s gut that makes him want to reach out, to rest his hand on his shoulder, to tell him everything he needs to hear that he probably never received as a child.
So he does.
Nanami grabs a rough-textured rag from the side table and wipes the remaining salve from his fingers before casting it aside. He wastes no time with his next action, resting his hand on Yuji’s shoulder, warm and sweaty, absorbing the impact of his flinch from the touch. He watches those shoulders relax slightly, feels the shakes in his body subside with every breath he takes. As if the touch is soothing.
“You have taken on this task in ways I never could have imagined. But I want you to do better in ways I lacked. I want you to carry that duty while still thinking about yourself. While still valuing your own life. Because Yuji…”
The next words curl up his throat, the pressure enough to make the corners of his eyes sting with their severity. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more vulnerable in ways he hardly allows than outside the privacy of his own home and those he renders important to him.
“I would rather see you sitting here with stitches, frustrated and alive, than dead on a slab.”
Yuji’s breath hitches, and for one devastating moment, he looks so young, childlike and cherub, but so overwhelmed by the burden he’s been carrying.
“And furthermore...if you have ever carried an ounce of doubt about my pride in you, please know those feelings are false.”
Yuji furrows his brows, the skin between his eyebrows pinching slightly as he takes in his sensei’s words, disbelief painting his features minutely.
Nanami sighs, the weight of what he wants to say sitting on his chest, gripping him in a fear that once they leave, they’ll turn into another self-imposed curse he carried from keeping Haibara so close.
He pats the side of Yuji’s neck affectionately, the corners of his lips curling just so.
“I am proud. Of who you were when we first met. Of the strong sorcerer and man that you are now. My pride in you knows no bounds. Please never think otherwise.”
Once the words finally slip past his lips, he feels lighter than he’s ever been. The anxiety of the possibility of that pride taking root into a curse still lingers, resting on his shoulders like a phantom weight, but for the first time in a long time, he takes comfort in knowing he had the strength to still act despite it all.
As for Yuji, the tears that have been budding on his lower lashes finally spill over, rushing like rivulets down his cheeks, and suddenly he’s moving—launching himself forward and into Nanami’s arms with the kind of desperate need that bypasses all thought.
He’s heavier than he looks, and it takes Nanami aback, a grunt of surprise leaving him as he wobbles precariously on his weakened side, his arms flailing as he tries to regain his balance.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Unexpected. That’s the only way he can describe how the words hit him. Their weight substantial enough to force him to the floor if he allowed it. Their connotation equally as devastating. His breath catches in his throat, his arms now freezing mid-air as the words continue to echo in the sterile room. In his ears like a persistent ringing.
Dad.
A myriad of emotions flood through him.
Surprise, because this is a term of endearment Yuji has never expelled into the air, even if a Freudian slip. Nanami has long ago forgone the insistence to correct Yuji when he calls him ‘Nanamin’, choosing instead to look the other way with a faux air of dismissal, even as something akin to fondness swells within him every time he hears it.
While unpleasant given the moment, dread wiggles like a maggot in his stomach, threatening to devour the good inside of him. Dread from that unspoken role Nanami has taken on with his students. Protector, advisor, confidant in battle, someone to look up to. Someone to strive to be. He’s come a long way in accepting that the sensation he feels will always be present, but never strong enough to overpower him. The unexpectedness of life carries some degree of dread, and he applies that mentality to the sorcery world as well.
But there is something deeper. Something more visceral in magnitude, a fierce protectiveness, a warmth that spreads from his belly up to the cavity in his chest. A warmth that floods him at the thought of knowing there is a sorcerer like Yuji in this world. Someone who, beneath the bloodshed and misery of the life they live, has a heart filled with so much hope and love for the world that there is nothing that could blacken it. Not even the grips of mangled fingers of Sukuna’s soul could deter him.
His mind slows from its frantic pace, thoughts finally finding their rhythm, and his arms settle around Yuji’s shoulders, one hand coming up to rest against the back of peach pink hair. The embrace is tentative at first, almost awkward, then firmer as he allows himself to accept what Yuji has just offered him.
Dad.
Before his second chance at life, Nanami had never given too much thought to having a family. But lately, he’s begun to ponder. To wonder what it feels like to be paternal. To hope that every day is filled with happiness and joy. But perhaps that’s not all it is.
Perhaps it is that festering wrongness that filled him when he first met Yuji, to see someone so young cursed with a strong entity like Sukuna and forced to prove to those older and more ignorant that his life had value.
Perhaps it is that shock when he first saw Yuji’s conviction, his drive to be better.
Perhaps it is the fright that rushed through his veins like ice water when Yuji fainted after intruding on Mahito’s domain.
Or the profuse feeling of desperation of wanting Yuji to just stay away when Mahito placed those puppet-stitched hands on Nanami’s chest in the subway, ready to wipe him from existence.
It is the way Nanami wishes he could have been that person for Yuji growing up, instead of alone, without a mother and father, and left under the care of a grandfather who was still grieving the loss of his son.
It is the way he brims with barely restrained excitement at the realization that he has someone to teach, to watch grow and smile, to watch laugh and love the world when it only shows its evil underbelly.
If Yuji realizes his own slip of words, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Nanami can feel the pool of moisture on his shoulder, can feel the slight hiccup where his hand rests on Yuji’s trembling back.
He realizes quickly, with a damning sense of clarity, that he would rather experience the pain of being burned again than to correct Yuji.
There’s nothing more to say.
He can feel the trust and appreciation in the air around him that bloomed to life from that single word. He understands something he’d never been able to name.
This boy—this young man—has become precious to him in ways that transcend duty or mentorship. Manifesting instead in the satisfaction that if the word were to slip again, Nanami would never say a thing unless Yuji looked to him for acknowledgement.
But he knows how awkward Yuji is going to feel once this delicate moment ends, so Nanami does it for him. He pulls away softly, patting his shoulder once more to drive the moment home to a gentle conclusion that doesn’t require more conversation.
“Reapply once more.” Nanami presses the sealed tin into Yuji’s open palms, tapping the lid three times. “I prefer applications twice a day, once in the morning and once before bed. An additional application is also best after training.”
Yuji’s hands curl slowly over the tin, trapping it inside his large hands, cradling it as if it were something fragile. He snorts quietly, shaking his head. “You got it. I’ll bring it back once Shoko gives me the all clear.”
Nanami hums in dismissal, already turning his attention to cleaning off the side table with a distracted efficiency. “You need it far more than I. Salve and RCTs will do nothing for my wounds.”
There’s an unspoken agreement in the air, resting on the heaviness of the gravity of Nanami’s wounds. But Nanami peers at him quickly as he tosses the threadbare rag into the trash, taking in the way Yuji’s smile grows slowly, his grip tightening on the can. He’s not sure what he’s thinking, but Nanami feels nothing but pride regardless. Perhaps when Yuji has taken on the role of sensei in the future, there will be that one student who excels in a way he deems worthy to dedicate the care of this salve.
Nanami hopes he’s still around to see who that student may be.
The infirmary doors burst open, steel metal swaying rhythmically as a shorter man with platinum blonde hair walks through. Inumaki, his mouth free of the protection of his high collar, his cursed markings glowing with importance in the bright lights. His purple eyes dart between Nanami and Yuji, taking in the situation in that quiet way he’s had to learn growing up.
“Mustard Leaf?”
Nanami has never been able to discern what Inumaki says in his clipped vernacular. Truthfully, he feels as if the students make up their own dialogue, and Inumaki crafts his words given the situation. It brings a faint sense of fondness to his chest, their behavior echoing many inside jokes he had with Ijichi and Gojo in their youth.
Yuji hops down from the table, eyes dry and slightly red, smile bright as always. “I’m good! Shoko and Nanami cleaned me up.”
“Tuna,” Inumaki parrots in response, flashing his phone in a question that Nanami quickly gives up on trying to decode.
“No way? You got the tickets!” Yuji rushes over to his friend, snatching his discarded shirt from the bottom of the table and slowly sliding it on.
“Salmon Roe.”
“The bad special effects are the best part!” Yuji laughs, a bit watery but still genuine, the sound finally painting the room in something other than discomfort and death. “Nanami, you should come watch Human Earthworm 7 with us.”
Nanami huffs a slightly affronted noise, blinking rapidly at the invitation. “Thank you for the offer, but I think I will pass.”
He watches as Yuji bustles around the room, wiping down the table with sanitation wipes, closing the cabinets before automatically reaching for Nanami’s cane that rests on the table. He offers it to him with the same unconscious care he always shows in everything he does.
“Here you go.”
Nanami collects it with a simple nod, his throat tight as he finds that groove in the wooden head he’s grown comfortable with.
They make their way out of the infirmary together, Yuji chatting excitedly in between Inumaki’s one-worded responses. There’s pitched laughter and a rush of words about movie monsters and plot holes, their voices echoing down the hallway. Nanami follows silently behind them, refusing to correct the way they automatically adjust their pace to ensure he is not left behind.
He watches with a newfound fascination and profound grief. These students have managed to form bonds with each other even though their lives are constantly on the brink of death. But Yuji, once a pariah, now flourishes with every relationship he makes, every handshake he creates, every grimace Megumi throws his way that holds no heat, every bag of Nobara’s that he carries with fake complaint.
It’s almost like a flash into the past. No longer Inumaki and Yuji, but now himself and Haibara, and that conversation comes back once more.
“Do you believe in reincarnation, Nanami?”
His previous assessment of the question remains the same.
“It’s a comforting thought, but there is no evidence for it.”
But his sentiments feel shaky as he watches Yuji now—the way he gestures animately with his hands, the bright curiosity in his voice that pulls laughter from Inumaki, the unconscious kindness in everything he does—Nanami feels something knot harshly in his chest.
It’s not reincarnation, he tries to reaffirm. Souls don’t return in new bodies with the same generous hearts.
And yet.
And yet Yuji carries that same unshakeable optimism, that same fierce determination to protect everyone around him. The same way of finding joy in small things—awful movies, shared meals, quiet moments between battles. The same ability to make those around him want to be better, to hope for something beyond the darkness of their world.
Just like Haibara.
“When we die, we die. That’s it.”
But maybe there are other ways for them to live on. In the lessons they leave behind, in the love they instill, in the way their spirit finds new homes in unexpected places. In this school, constantly floating around a good-natured young man with peach-pink hair and a tenacity for never giving up.
In a way, Haibara has never left. Nanami simply feels his presence so much more.
It’s not reincarnation. But it is in the way he sees vestiges of Haibara in the glow of Yuji’s smile, in the way that long-ago conversation about hope and second chances has led him to here, to this hallway, following two young men who have become something he never thought he’d have.
A family. Or more specifically, a son who shares no blood with him, but trusts him enough to call him ‘Dad.’ It’s a weight of responsibility—not a burden of mentorship or duty he once held, but a privilege of being someone Yuji looks to for guidance, for comfort, for protection—and that settles in his chest like something warm and permanent, rooting on his veins that lead to the thankful thrum of his heart that has given him life again.
It’s a challenge Nanami is more than happy to accept, a role he never expected to fill, but he cannot possibly imagine living without.
Thanks for reading!
#nnweek25sfw#papamin#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#nanami kento#jjk nanami#kento nanami#jujutsu kaisen nanami#jjk kento#nanamiweek#nanami#nanami kento angst#kento#nanamin#jjk comfort#itadori yuji#jjk itadori#jjk yuji#post-shibuya nanami#nanamiweek2025
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Drew with his girlfriend who is a very vocal feminist and activist and he is just so supportive because the world can still let you down :'((
In her light.
Pairing: Drew Starkey x fem!reader.
Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
Genre: Fluff
Warnings: none
Word count: 0.8k



There were many things you knew before you ever met Drew Starkey.
You knew how the world worked and how it would praise you for being beautiful and punish you for being loud. You soon learned that speaking up meant being called difficult, too emotional, too much but you learned to sharpen your voice anyway, to speak even when your hands trembled. You found power in knowing what you stood for and built something out of that.
And then you met him.
It would’ve been easy for someone like him, famous, tall, charming and handsome in the way magazines loved, to want to dim that fire…to feel threatened by it, even. You’d met men like that before, men who said all the right things in front of you and mocked the fight behind your back but Drew was never like that.
From the very start, he listened, really listened.
He didn’t interrupt when you got heated talking about reproductive rights or street harassment and he didn’t try to explain anything to you that you already knew. When you first told him about being followed home or about freezing up during a panel because a man on the board made a joke about your looks before your work, he didn’t minimize it, he didn’t laugh and he didn’t rush in to make it about himself. He just… sat there and listened. His jaw clenched, brows furrowed and then he said, “I’m so sorry you’ve had to carry that.”
There were times when you were tired, too tired to go on another panel, post another carousel of resources or correct another ignorant comment online. When that exhaustion settled behind your eyes and you were too drained to even talk about it, Drew knew just by looking at you and you’d find a glass of water beside you, your phone tucked away and his arms already open.
“It’s okay to rest,” he’d whisper. “You don’t owe the world all of you, all the time.”
Sometimes, he’d sit in the front row of your panels, baseball cap low but his eyes never leaving you. You always found him in the crowd and when your voice cracked, when a question caught you off-guard or your chest burned with frustration, you’d look at him and he’d nod, just once and just enough for you to notice. You got this, it said.
Once, after a fundraiser where you had to explain for the third time that no, feminism wasn’t about hating men, you stood behind the venue shaking with rage. He didn’t say anything right away, he just stepped up, wrapped his arms around you from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder.
“I hate how much you have to explain things people should already know,” he said softly. “But I love the way you still show up anyway.”
Drew never tried to perform his support either. He didn’t post half-hearted instagram posts or wear t-shirts for clout. He didn’t want credit for standing beside you and that’s exactly why it meant everything. When trolls filled your comments after a post about the gender pay gap, he was the first to block them. When your organization needed an anonymous donor, one quietly appeared and you never had to ask.
But what moved you the most weren’t the grand gestures, it was the quiet consistency. The way he referred to your work like it was the most important thing in the world, the way he corrected his friends when they crossed a line, not when you were watching, but when you weren’t and especially, the way he asked questions not to debate, but to understand.
He made you feel safe, not because he protected you from the world, but because he never stood in your way as you faced it.
One night, curled up in bed after a long event, you laid your head on his chest and listened to the steady rhythm of his heart. It always calmed you like a lighthouse in a storm.
“I worry sometimes,” you said quietly. “That I’m too much.”
He looked down at you, brows drawn. “Too much for who?”
You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “The world. Even you, maybe. I just... carry a lot.”
He tilted your chin up gently so your eyes met. “You don’t scare me,” he said. “Your anger doesn’t scare me. Your passion doesn’t scare me. Nothing about you has ever felt like too much.”
You blinked, throat tightening. “You really mean that?”
He smiled, soft and sure. “I love every single part of you. Especially the parts the world tells you to shrink.”
That was Drew.
Not a savior, just a man who understood what real love looked like, showing up, staying soft in a hard world and choosing every day to be the quiet shelter for someone who was never given one.
You didn’t believe in fairytales, but this? This was something better, because the world could still let you down, but Drew never did.
#drew starkey imagine#drew starkey one shot#drew starkey fluff#drew starkey x female reader#drew starkey x y/n#drew starkey x you#drew starkey x reader#drew starkey#rafe cameron x reader#rafe x reader#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron fic#rafe outer banks#outerbanks rafe#drew starkey fanfiction#rafe cameron fluff#obx cast
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I’m neurodivergent, so please do accept my apologies in advance if I don’t get the tone of my message right:
I’ve been a long time follower, and I’m always interested in reading your perspective on everyone’s comments.
I do agree that as protagonists go, the NM is (so far) one of the more passive I’ve encountered. I think that, in part, this can be chalked up to their initial circumstances, and the focus on establishing other characters, but there is definitely some fatigue on the side of IF/ VN players when it comes to blank slate MCs, which I do sympathise with. So often their sole purpose seems to serve as a passive, forgiving, and empathetic lens through which we explore other characters, and I myself am very wary of MCs that are “soft-feminine” coded, especially when there is no recourse to express your anger or be cold, tactical, assertive etc. As a female player, having your options stripped down like this can get tiresome very quickly, and at its worst, those types of characters can have an unpleasant, conservative/ misogynistic flavour to them. I’d sooner rip my own skin off than read one more game in which I’m forced into the role of another emotionally unguarded, awestruck MC who forgives all transgressions with a smile.
Although understandable, it’s also unfortunate that many authors tend to shy away from assigning traits that they fear will make MCs “unlikeable���, unknowingly stripping them of what, in my mind, often makes a living, breathing, loveable individual.
I’m not a fan of destined heroes or easy wins, the most memorable protagonists imo tend to be those that struggle, those who are in possession of a “spark” that they use to their advantage - an unhealthy obsession, cutting intelligence, dogged determination, an odd perspective - something that makes their personality compelling and uniquely suited to being the protagonist in a specific setting, whether they’re aware of it or not.
The NM in human form is such a unique concept, and I am very curious about what their character development will look like, and what their “spark” will turn out to be. That’s partly why I’m compelled to stick it out until the end, because this is their beginning, because they have so much potential, and because I have faith in the author.
Finally, I think the nature of game development is to constantly be in the unenviable position of seeking out feedback as you go, but I just wanted to give you props for engaging with people so readily, I know it can’t be easy - I myself would be a trembling ball of a raw nerve if I had to trawl through comments about my own writing. I want you to know that it is truly appreciated, and I hope you’ve drawn some value out of the miasma of voices on the internet.
So I think it is really interesting what you bring up which kind of goes back to what I've been saying before, that a lot of this is based on experience. You don't want to read more wide-eyed, passive and empathetic characters because of what you feel has dominated that market. I, on the other hand, would love to have more than that as opposed to the characters that are the over the top "I don't need anyone" kind of characters because I feel like the market has been oversaturated with that. And the idea that the ones that are empathetic and soft are 'feminine coded' is kind of something I would like to step away from because I think it does do a disservice to men who would like to see the world through those eyes. I love my big burly, romances with men but I also think that there is a lot of value to softer men. MC is a choosable gender and to say that things are feminine coded feels more like a social construct of our society than anything else.
In the end, I think we are both actually right on the oversaturation of different tropes so I can see where your frustration comes from. I think it all depends on what you've read and what your available books or media are.
Now, personally, I don't think I'm going in either direction with the MC. And I would love to assign more traits to the MC. I really really would. But, that's also something that is hard to code. What people do seem to forget when it comes to IF's is that we are solo developers having to write and code everything on our own. And for me, I do not work for Hosted or Choice of Games where they have an entire program set up to help with this. I actually have to teach myself coding through twine which if you are going in with no previous experience, is a difficult process. Each new path that is formed. Each new option that needs to come back later. Each personality trait. All of that is a different code to keep track of. A different box that has to be written in. And sometimes, a completely different chapter to write. So what might have been a 20k chapter suddenly turns into a 60k one because of all the choices and coding options. If I had a team working with me, I would LOVE to do this. It frustrates me that I can't. But, I am just one woman, working in between raising children, keeping a house, and having my own social life. It's not in the cards. But maybe one day. Fingers crossed that eventually, money and time will no longer be an issue.
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girl in danger - 6
a/n: long time no see— successfully moved across the country, started my new job this week, and am settling in enough to write. i’ll be wrapping this up pretty soon. (idk when that’ll be though)
Y/n watched in horror as Matt leaned Gene’s unconscious body against the wall of her office. The older man slumped slowly, leaving a faint streak of blood across the wall. Matt fumbled through the room looking for something and with a frustrated sigh ripped the cord from the desk phone from the wall. He tucked the gun into his waistband and made a beeline for the security guard. “No one was supposed to be here,” He huffed as he wrapped the cord around Gene’s wrists. His movements seemed to get more frantic and unsteady as he went. Matt was spiraling and Y/n was starting to realize that if she didn’t think of something soon, this was going to get way worse.
Once satisfied with his makeshift hog tie, Matt rounded on the professor with crazed eyes. “Who is this?” He almost pleaded, eyes going from Y/n to Gene. “What is he doing here? No one was supposed to be here.” He repeated, voice dripping with regret.
“That’s Gene, the night shift officer. He’s been working here for almost 20 years, Matt.” Y/n answered cautiously. There was no way Matt was graduating and didn’t know Gene, all the students loved him. Y/n knew that and she’d only been working at the college for a year. She watched Matt closely, looking for any sort of recognition on the boy's face. But her words only seemed to agitate him more.
“No! You’re lying. Why are you lying to me? Who is he?” Matt inched closer, hands waving wildly in his haste.
“Come on Matt, you’ve gotta recognize Gene. Look at his badge.” Y/n urged, eyes trained on the young man’s hands.
“Why was he looking for you? Shouldn’t he have been patrolling the rest of campus.” Matt looked at the clock on the wall and pulled at his hair in frustration. “He’s never been over here right now. No one is ever here right now.”
Y/n nodded tentatively, “You’re right. Everybody’s normally gone home by now. But my car is still parked in the faculty lot. That’s probably why he came to find me. To see if I needed any help. I’m not normally here this late. Like you said, nobody is. And we shouldn’t be here now.”
It seemed this rather large wrinkle in Matt’s plan had sent him into some kind of catatonic state. His grip on his hair only tightened the more Y/n spoke and when he caught sight of Gene. It was clear that he hadn’t accounted for anyone being around for the next two weeks and Gene had thrown him all the way off. And with his original plan in the balance, Y/n had a real chance of making it out of this faster than she originally anticipated. She just needed to get the younger man out of the office at the very least.
“Look Matt, I know this wasn’t part of the plan was it?” Y/n spoke softly, almost understanding. Her tone had the desired effect when Matt peaked around his hands at her and nodded sheepishly. “Gene, ruined your…” Y/n swallowed around the nausea still lingering. “romantic evening, right?” Y/n had been known for her acting in the past but this must’ve been the performance of a lifetime with the way Matt fell to his knees and looked up at her. He hovered around her chair with that lovesick look in his eyes but didn’t touch her. “You know, he said he saw my car out in the lot. That’s what made him come in.” She steadied her voice as much as possible before trying to put her plan in motion. “Why don’t you take my keys, and move my car? That way no one else stops by. Will that help?”
Matt’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, “No one will stop by? If they don’t see your car?”
Y/n tried not to nod too desperately, “Yeah hun, that’s the only reason Gene stopped by. You wouldn’t want anybody else ruining our night, huh?” She watched carefully, as Matt seemed to take in her words. There was a brief moment of silence where Y/n didn’t know if he’d fall for it but when she flexed her bound hand to lightly graze Matt where she could reach, he nodded in understanding and rose to search the room for her keys.
Once he had the key ring swinging from his fingers he turned to address her, “I’ll fix this. I’ll be right back and then I’ll deal with him.” He pointed at Gene in disgust but smiled. “Don’t you worry, Prof. Y/Ln. This won’t take long at all.” And he was out the door.
Y/n didn’t let herself sigh in relief until she heard the distant echo of the music building doors close. But she didn’t dwell in that relief for long. She started searching the mess on the floor for her cellphone or anything that might help get her out of the zip ties cutting into her wrists. She used her toes to sift through the knocked over books and papers until she saw something shiny poking out from under the desk. With a glimmer of hope, she contorted her toes free of the slippers she’d changed into and pulled the object further toward her.
“Oh thank God!” Y/n closed her eyes on a sigh as she felt the cool metal of her cellphone. She shimmied around as much as possible to bring the phone closer and focused as much of her energy on moving the phone as possible. “Oh Gene, we might just have a shot of getting out of here.”
-
The jet creaked to a stop in DC around 11pm and JJ and Emily were first up and out of their seats. Nevada was hot and tiring and there was a bed with their names on it. And they were hopeful their girlfriend wasn’t too far gone to come snuggle with them. Emily slid behind the wheel of their car and turned to face JJ expectantly.
“Did she answer?” Emily asked, pulling out of the parking lot. “I’m not that hungry but if she wants something we can stop on the way in.”
JJ pulled the phone away from her ear with a frown, “No she didn’t answer. I haven’t gotten anything from here since her last message before the recital started.”
Emily humphed in confusion, “That’s weird. The recital should be over by now right?”
“I’d hope so. It started around 7:30.” JJ replied. There was a part of her that thought their girlfriend might be tucked away in bed, sound asleep, but something was amiss. And JJ could see the same unease working its way over Emily’s face. The youngest of the trio was known to turn in early, a self-proclaimed grandma, but as their relationship became more serious she’d developed a bit of a habit. One she’d never admit, but a habit nonetheless. Y/n couldn’t truly settle in for a good night’s sleep if she didn’t hear JJ and Emily’s voices. They’d been dating officially for 7 months and no matter where the women were they’d been downright conditioned to call the younger woman when they had the time. Or she’d call them when she got home. So the lack of notifications in calls and texts was cause for alarm.
“The schools on the way home, why don’t we swing by just in case the recital is still going?” Emily suggested, signalling the lane switch toward the college.
“Sounds good.” JJ nodded, and pulled up a new text message to Y/n to warn her.
-
Just as Y/n had managed to open the phone, she heard the slam of the door and hurried footsteps. With her heart in her ass and her head swimming, she slid her foot back into the shoe and tried to cover the phone as quickly as possible before Matthew could burst back into the room. She straightened up in anticipation and watched as the office door flew back open. “Someone else is here!” He boomed, crossing the room quickly. Rage and panic clear in his eyes.
#emily prentiss x reader#jennifer jareau x reader#jemily x reader#gnd series universe#gnd series masterlist#gnd fanfic universe
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"Please, do forgive my intrusion."
No. She doesn't understand anything about what's going on. She doesn't even know any of these people. She recognizes a name because it's used. The man who was giving her googly eyes for a moment, clearly he was referred to as Miroku. It's not like she isn't used to it. Her beauty is what people recognize. A princess is to be seen. She is to be flawlessly beautiful. The way he looked at her, that's what's familiar.
One other name she was familiar with, though she didn't know who it was. One of these women was Kagome. Someone who must have held a very special place in Inuyasha's heart. The sheer fact his favor had been to kill him should he raise a claw to her, that spoke volumes. All that mattered, was showing kindness and gentility in all that she did.
A princess was to be benevolent. To raise the morale of her people. While none of them even from her kingdom, the same rules applied. Positivity. Displays of constant support. And that meant Inuyasha, too, though when it came to him, it was a bit different. She knew he needed it more than anyone. She'd seen it all for herself. But that was also something she'd keep to herself.
After all, she wouldn't want her own secrets just spilled out in the open. That was a respect he deserved just as much as anyone. No matter how frustrated and angry he'd made her feel. There was also a danger. He'd seen a side of her that no one else in the world had seen. Not even Impa.

"I must confess, it is truly my honor to make acquaintance with each of you."
Pulling her dress to the side, she gave a proper bow.
"I am Zelda. Princess of Hyrule. You could say I was rescued by this dashing man here. Truly, I am in your debt. Though..."
Now was when, out of the pouch around her waist, came the shimmering silver shard.
"I do believe, Miss Kagome would like to hold onto this? Might I ask which of you I present this to?"

That was certainly not what he had been expecting and was probably obvious by the HONEST wide eyed look she received. But while she was lecturing him, while her anger was honestly pretty scary, he was a little preoccupied trying to figure out why his heart had slammed into his throat for a few short moments.
She stepped past him, the scent of crisp leaves and fresh water following her---he wondered if she knew that was what she smelled like.
Stunned for a moment, he reached up and sort of rubbed the back of his head and scratched at his ear before shaking his head and following her without saying a word.
It didn't take long to find their camp. The scent of burning wood as well as the weapons that Sango carried around with her, some made with remains of demons, easy enough for him to identify. It was Miroku that noticed him first.

"Oh? You're back? Did you find To--" The Monk's eyes found Zelda.
Oh no.

"Give it a rest, Miroku. She'll burn yer hand off if ya even try, ya hear me?" InuYasha huffed--and honestly while it would have been amusing seeing how Zelda would react to Miroku, he realized he honestly didn't want to sick her on him considering he had just pissed her off to high heaven.

"It'd honestly be pretty good for the rest of us if she did. Go ahead. You have my full approval."

"...No protests from me."

"...You guys..."
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the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again
#yeehaw#1k#5k#10k#posts that got cursed. blasted. im making these tag updates after... 19 hours?#also i have been told it should say speech loss bc nonverbal specifically refers to the permanent state. did not know that!#unfortunately i fear it is so far past containment that even if i edited it now it would do very little. but noted for future reference#edit 2: nvm enough ppl have come to rb it from me directly that i changed the wording a bit. hopefully this makes sense#also. in case anyone is curious. though i doubt anyone who is commenting these things will check the original tags#1) my friend did not do this on purpose in any way. it was not intended to distract me or to hit on me. im a lesbian hes a gay man. cmon now#he felt very bad about it afterwards. i thought it was hilarious but it was very embarrassed and apologetic#2) “why didn't he use 🫵🏼?” didn't exist yet. “why didn't he use 🆗?” dunno! we'd been using a lot of hand emojis. 👌🏼 is an ok sign#like it makes sense. it was just a silly mixup. also No i did not invent 👉🏼👌🏼 as a gesture meaning sex. do you live under a rock#3) nonspeaking episodes are a recurring thing in my life and have been since i was born. this is not a quirky one-time thing#it is a pervasive issue that is very frustrating to both myself and the people i am trying to communicate with. in which trying to speak is#extremely distressing and causes very genuine anguish. this post is not me making light of it it's just a funny thing that happened once#it's no different than if i post about a funny thing that happened in conjunction w a physical disability. it's just me talking abt my life#i don't mind character tags tho. those can be entertaining. i don't know what any of you are talking about#Except the ppl who have said this is pego/ryu or wang/xian. those people i understand and respect#if you use it as a writing prompt that's fine but send it to me. i want to see it#aaaand i think that's it. everyday im tempted to turn off rbs on it. it hasn't even been a week
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i don't know how to explain it but the way that some gurathin fans frame him as the only serious or competent human character on the presaux team while everyone else is "naive" is. very grating to me
#the murderbot diaries#presaux team#ratthi knows where he's needed and where he would be less helpful and murderbot is very protective of him but i dont think hes as naive#as people make him out to be#sorry i saw a. frustrating post that implied gurathin was the only one who accepted murderbot leaving in ASR. as if mensah didn't#openly accept it leaving and read its letter and understand. even if she was kind of sad at first#also not to be the 'friend whos too woke' but gurathin IS the only character who is presented most consistently as a white man#mensah is not STUPID she is kind she is by NO definition STUPID#(except maybe murderbot's definition. in ASR. who thinks gurathin is stupid too anyways)#pin-lee is. MASSIVELY competent. she's SCARILY competent.#bharadwaj is fantastically supportive and EXTREMELY essential to murderbot's development as she helps it process what it's been through#i. do not dislike gurathin. but lowkey i am Tired of the fandom pedestal he gets#putting minimal fandom/categorizing tags on this post i am still fairly new to this fandom
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books read in 2025 🤍
books read so far: 89 reading goal: 100
as always, askbox + dms are open if have any questions or would like to chat about books! you can find me on goodreads here, and on bookstagram here. 🤍
♡ indicates any new favorites; ⊹ indicates a reread.
january ⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚
1. writers & lovers by lily king 2. the art of memory collecting: 15 scrapbook, collage, trinket and zine projects for crafting treasured moments by martina calvi 3. tom lake by ann patchett (audiobook) ♡ 4. our town by thornton wilder ⊹ 5. beloved by toni morrisson 6. promise me sunshine by cara bastone (arc) ♡ 7. days at the morisaki bookshop by satoshi yagisawa & translated by eric ozawa ♡ 8. small things like these by claire keegan (audiobook) 9. beartown by fredrik backman ♡
february ⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚
1. the fellowship of the ring by j.r.r. tolkien (audiobook) 2. i'll pretend you're mine by tashie bhuiyan (arc) 3. sense and sensibility by jane austen ⊹ (audiobook) 4. the lonely city: adventures in the art of being alone by olivia laing (audiobook) 5. everything i learned, i learned in a chinese restaurant by curtis chin (audiobook) 6. tiny moons: a year of eating in shanghai by nina mingya powles 7. sorcery of thorns by margaret rogerson (audiobook) ♡ 8. more days at the morisaki bookshop by satoshi yagisawa ♡ 9. mysteries of thorn manor by margaret rogerson
march ⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚
1. an enchantment of ravens by margaret rogerson (audiobook) 2. white ice: race and the making of atlanta hockey by thomas aiello 3. lost and lassoed by lyla sage 4. holy terrors by margaret owen (arc) 5. swift and saddled by lyla sage 6. circe by madeline miller (audiobook) 7. a dark and drowning tide by allison saft (audiobook) 8. intermezzo by sally rooney (audiobook) ⊹ 9. my side of the river by elizabeth camarillo gutierrez (audiobook) 10. four weekends and a funeral by ellie palmer ♡ 11. the bell jar by sylvia plath (audiobook) 12. the break-up pact by emma lord 13. love lettering by kate clayborn 14. the partner plot by kristina forest 15. the rom-commers by katherine center 16. emily wilde's compendium of lost tales by heather fawcett (audiobook) 17. dolls of our lives: why we can't quit american girl by mary mahoney & allison horrocks (audiobook)
april ⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚
1. you between the lines by katie naymon 2. my not so perfect life by sophie kinsella 3. a quantum love story by mike chen (audiobook) 4. the siren of sussex by mimi matthews 5. the love wager by lynn painter (audiobook) 6. you belong with me by mhairi mcfarlane (audiobook) 7. puck and prejudice by lia riley 8. swept away by beth o'leary 9. great big beautiful life by emily henry (arc) 10. second first impressions by sally thorne (audiobook) 11. i who have never known men by jacqueline harpman ♡ 12. the belle of belgrave square by mimi matthews 13. the kiss countdown by etta easton 14. lovelight farms by b.k. borison 15. the wedding people by alison espach (audiobook) 16. the ex vows by jessica joyce 17. deep cuts by holly brickley 18. remember me? by sophie kinsella 19. here we go again by alison cochrun (audiobook) 20. the most wonderful crime of the year by ally carter (audiobook) 21. mistakes we never made by hannah brown 22. when you least expect it by haley cass (audiobook) 23. pitcher perfect by tessa bailey (arc) 24. the next chapters: an on the same page novella by haley cass (audiobook) 25. on the same page by haley cass 26. it happened one fight by maureen lee lenker 27. hello stranger by katherine center 28. ps: i hate you by lauren connolly 29. the rose bargain by sasha peyton smith (audiobook) 30. out on a limb by hannah bonam-young 31. make the season bright by ashley herring blake (audiobook) 32. flirting with disaster by naina kumar 33. first-time caller by b.k. borison 34. welcome to the hyunam-dong bookshop by hwang bo-reum, shanna tan (translator) 35. funny story by emily henry ⊹ 36. the guest cat by takashi hiraide, eric selland (translator)
may ⋆ ˚。⋆౨ৎ˚
1. evenings and weekends by oisín mckenna (audiobook) 2. the dragon's promise by elizabeth lim (audiobook) 3. the examiner by janice hallett 4. i want to die but i want to eat tteokbokki by baek se-hee, anton hur (translator) 5. the manor of dreams by christina li (arc) 6. lonely castle in the mirror by mizuki tsujimura (audiobook) ♡ 7. john proctor is the villain by kimberly belflower ♡ 8. the crucible by arthur miller, christopher w.e. bigsby (audiobook) ⊹ 9. in a not so perfect world by neely tubati alexander (audiobook) 10. the vanished birds by simon jimenez 11. time is a mother by ocean vuong 12. promise me sunshine by cara bastone ⊹ 13. straight white men / untitled feminist show by young jean lee 14. before we forget kindness by toshikazu kawaguchi, geoffrey trousselot 15. passion project by london sperry 16. the killer question by janice hallett (arc) 17. the cat who saved books by sōsuke natsukawa, louise heal kawai 18. bibliophobia: a memoir by sarah chihaya (audiobook)
#post: 2025 reading thread#hello coconation i am trying to get back into the swing of things!!#i have knocked off 3/25 books on my 25 in 2025 list so far <3#i can see why people love writers & lovers! and i think the way lily king wrote about grief really resonated with me#i really liked casey as a character but sometimes i was very frustrated with her i'm not going to lie!#the art of memory collecting ... unfortunately i fell victim to craftok's influences ... and i do not think it really taught me anything ne#but it is very pretty and i'm sure i'll look at it if i need inspo or something ... in the future ... at some point. ... maybe.#tom lake. wow oh my. my first ann patchett and i adored it; a beautifully written book made even better by meryl streep's audio narration#slower paced than what i'd normally enjoy but i never lost interest + honestly felt like one of the girls themselves#just sitting and listening to a story of my mom's past + trying to figure out what was next and trying to get a better understanding of her#and her choices it was just so brilliant and i loved it so#and then of course i had to reread our town <333333#(and also watch the 1940 film after that but that is not the point here)#i also want to say that it is very clear that ann patchett loves our town + molded tom lake around it in a very careful + tender way#and then i read beloved by toni morrison and i had chills the entire time and it was brilliant & i will be thinking about it for a long tim
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today's hot take for dog people: management is not the same thing as training.
#dogblr#unpopular opinion: a lot of the current flavour of dog 'training' is actually just management#does your dog know how to make a good decision? does your dog know what a good decision even is?#or is your dog under such heavy management that they never ever have to make a decision on their own?#YES set your dog and yourself up for success!!!! absolutely!!!!#but (unpopular take) errorless learning is detrimental to overall wellbeing#stress is a part of life and of your dog crumples when they experience A Stress then you have a serious problem#teach resilience as a skill#dont misunderstand this on purpose#im not saying let your dog run wild unruly unmanaged#im saying train your skills and then trust your training#when it is safe to do so let your dog make a decision#(this is not in response to anyone on here#i am casual irl acquaintances with a service dog handler and i do not respect her handling/training/management#i am very frustrated with the lack of nuance between training vs management#and the beautiful space where they overlap#people who are here from Not The Dog World#management is setting up your environment so your dog makes the decision you want#eg using a long line so your dog has no choice but to come when called#training is teaching your dog to make the decision you want them to make#ideally you would use both (management while training) but the current flavour of dog training#tends to put all responsibility on you as the person#to manage your environment so the dog never has the opportunity to make a mistake#instead of training your dog so they understand what the 'right' choice is and WANT to choose that most of the time#i am braced for the deliberate misunderstandings that are likely to come out of this post#THERE IS NUANCE PEOPLE
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can’t tell if you like the sonic fan dubs by snapcube or not with that post LOL
i do! they’re fun and a little overhyped but ultimately harmless - i think they’re most interesting if people take a healthy step back and realize they’re just a group of friends having fun making art together. ive been occasionally rewatching them while working recently so that post is really just a joking tip of the iceberg that are my thoughts on how their comedic stylings have changed over time and in response to the unexpected popularity
#there’s an equally amount of people unhealthily putting them on a pedestal AND hating on them#such is the way of the sonic fandom :(#i think anyone who’s only seen the sonic ones can’t judge them as a whole though like you NEED to understand the context that this is just#a thing they all enjoy doing long before it got popular. watch sly cooper dub. watch until dawn. this is a source of joy and im happy for#them. all this being said i am very frustrated with certain characterizations escaping the fandub context and becoming part of fanon#you win some you lose some
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