#I might need to expand on this

[an6elic-d3vil]

The way some of y’all talk about reeses feces (RhySAnd) like you know him is beyond wild to me. Like when you guys attempt to defend him you just sound like Feyre throwing a tantrum because nobody likes her mate.

Tamlin Stan: Feyre and Rhysand are toxic for each other and they both suck ass at communicating. The only reason they’re better at it than Feyre and Tam is because they can read each other’s minds. They rarely ever ‘talk’ about things….

Feces Stan: Nuh uh how dare you disrespect my beautiful, black haired, so blue they look violet(tf does that even mean???) eyed god that realistically would discard me so quick! 👹👹

No because you want to live in the night court??? You, a women, in the night court?? Rightttt. Your totally not gonna get abused👍🏾

The thing you claim to hate so much when someone else does it but when Rhysand someone in the inner circle does it there’s hundreds of explanations, reasons, and theories. Make it make fucking sense.

[juuuulez]

carmy and his girlfriend who’s a celebrity chef

maybe you won one of those reality cooking shows and skyrocketed in popularity. a steady social media following, featuring on ads, before eventually getting your own daytime television show. it’s something cute, where you where a nice little outfit and apron, showing the viewers how to make restaurant quality dishes from home.

of course carmy knows who you are. it’s his job to know the local talent, and yeah, maybe you being so fucking pretty certainly helps. it’s a stupid crush, really. just someone attractive on his instagram feed, someone who also happens to be an amazing chef, and just has the sweetest, most welcoming smile.

your face has been printed out and taped next to a list of names to be aware of, different people of importance who’s opinion of the bear would be crucial. all the wait staff has been heavily trained for such an occasion.

but that doesn’t mean they’ll behave.

because when richie spots you? it’s over. he knows about carmy’s little crush, thinks it’s fucking adorable. plus, eva likes watching those cooking shows, you’re pretty good.

you’ve had a lovely meal, some wine, and find the conversation with him to be pleasant. it’s always flattering when the staff knows who you are, makes you feel a little less weird for dining alone. but richie being richie invites you back into the kitchen, and you being you, absolutely fucking loved that idea.

and you do try to stay out of the way, coat wrapped tight around your body as you step through the pass, making sure to look over the staff’s shoulders and not distract them. but carmen? oh, he has lost it. any sense of coherence has gone out the window, because what? you’re in his restaurant, in HIS kitchen?

you be polite and introduce yourself, offering out a nicely manicured hand for a handshake. carmen stares at it for a moment, before kicking into action, frantically wiping his palm on his apron to accept it.

and when you tell him your name? he says:

“i know.”

it takes you aback for a moment, brows raised in surprise at how blunt he’d been. carmy has enough sense to clock that his reply was strange, for he’s backtracking, trying to save the interaction.

“no, no, i mean— i mean, yeah, i know. you’re on, um, those ads, yeah? for the fucking.. the fuckin’, uh, french cookware.” he practically rambles.

it’s cute, so, so utterly cute. you save the conversation by complimenting the meal and how lovely the experience here has been, which has carmy flustered and red in the face. you decide not to torment him anymore, allowing him to get back to work and the kitchen return to its usual pace.

which, for the record, does not happen. carmy’s flow has been ruined for the night, unable to stop thinking about his embarrassing word-vomit.

it’s okay, though.

on the bill you leave a generous tip.. and your phone number, addressed to “that cute chef.”

[landwriter]

Hi! I hope you feel better soon!

This is a great prompt by @academicblorbo about Hob Gadling being the landlord of the Dead Boys. It has a wonderful fill already by @omgcinnamoncakes but I’d love to see what you come up with for it!

Alternative prompt from me if that doesn’t work for your brain: remember the date between Jenny and Maxine? How about one between Jenny and Esther? Poor Jenny is going to really question her taste in beautiful blonde women 😭

Thank you! I saw ‘landlord’ and ‘decades’ and blacked out. I love Hob having them as tenants. Maybe even before the modern day meeting in Sandman.

The Sandman/Dead Boy Detectives, 2.4k, G Dream/Hob, pre-slash, alternating/outsider POV, found family, a reunion and revelations etc.

---

Hob did not, strictly speaking, have tenants. It was more of a minor haunting. Pun intended.

The small room above the pub and below his flat wasn’t worth charging anyone rent for; when he first bought the building he had put a handsome oak desk in there and some bookshelves before wondering who he was possibly keeping up appearances for. Who was he going to take back upstairs that would stop and say, Wait, can I see your office? So he’d left it as more or less an abandoned room.

When he realized a pair of boys were using it as their clubhouse, he didn’t do anything at first. He saw them quietly coming and going a couple times, disappearing around the corner of the first landing. Brazen things. He meant to call after them, but the shout had died in his throat. He’d been young once. He still remembered the need to get away from it all. It was only when he went to check if they’d been making a mess of the room that he discovered it was still locked.

He’d crouched down and inspected the latch and found no marks at all. Huh, he’d said, and jiggled it again, and been a little more interested in whatever clever way they were getting into it after they disappeared up his stairs. Then he didn’t see them for weeks, and assumed they had gotten bored and stopped.

Until they came back. In the middle of an argument, striding through the pub like they owned it. Hob straightened up as they passed him.

“I cannot believe you broke the mirror.”

“I was in a rush! It’s not my fault you forgot you needed Arcana Incantatum after we arrived at the church. And found the demon.”

“I hardly forgot, I only made the mistake of assuming you would know to pack it by now.”

Hob raised his eyebrows. The boys disappeared into the back hallway. He followed them as they went upstairs, too preoccupied with their drama to notice Hob. They turned onto the landing, still carrying on. Even as they walked through the door. The locked, closed door.

Hob blinked. Then he drew his keys from his pocket and opened the door. The boys were still inside. One of them was pulling a mirror out of a backpack that was several times too small for it. They didn’t even look up, and Hob wondered how he couldn’t possibly have put it together earlier. He cleared his throat.

“Hello, boys.” That caught their attention. Hob grinned. “Seems we’re neighbours.”

---

Edwin abhorred getting involved with the living. He and Charles got along perfectly well on their own. They were a duo. An intrepid pair. Best mates, like Charles often stressed whenever he was about to ask something particularly ridiculous of Edwin. They were solid together. As solid as two ghost boys could be. The living, though, were messy and unpredictable.

Perhaps the most salient fact at present: Charles invariably became attached to them.

“He’s sad, mate. I can see it in his eyes.”

“You said those exact words in ‘94 about a dog. At least ask Hob himself.”

Before you decide to adopt him too.

Hob Gadling, irritatingly, was unobjectionable on every ground Edwin could think of. He had made no imposition upon them. When he found them, he only asked them their business, and then told them he was usually downstairs, or upstairs, if they needed anything they couldn’t procure themselves. He had an interest in rare and old books, as it happened. In explaining this, he had also hinted at being far older than his looks would suggest, which vexed Edwin twice over. He knew his curiosity would not be slaked until he talked to Hob, but then he would be the one getting involved with the living, and Charles would hardly let him forget it.

“Do you think he’s really immortal? Mate’s far too calm. Last week I saw him stop a fight downstairs by stepping right between these huge blokes. He just said something and smiled and they backed right off.” Charles lit up. “Do you reckon he’d teach me how to do that? Conflict de-escalation, innit? I could show him some moves with the cricket bat, I bet. Oh, do you think he’s a cricket fan?”

It was obviously a hopeless case, and since the Dead Boy Detectives never took on hopeless cases, there was only one course of action that remained. Edwin had long since disabused himself of the notion he needed to breathe. He had no beating heart, yet when he was startled, he would find himself clutching his chest. Now, he exhaled slowly through his nose in an entirely superfluous sigh of resignation. “Well, Charles, shall we go talk to him?”

---

When the millennium came around, Hob found himself celebrating it with his accidental tenants. There was something gloriously satisfying about being able to make a toast to the next one and have it taken seriously. He’d asked them if they had something better to do - spectral trouble to get into et cetera - and they both looked at him with almost identical put-upon and incredulous expressions.

Hob had a terrible suspicion they thought they were taking care of him as much as he thought he was taking care of them.

Edwin, with his insatiable curiosity and, deep underneath it, something Hob thought he recognized from himself: a sharp animal ferocity and a refusal to go until he’s good and done, natural laws be damned. Charles, still brightly, painfully alive for a ghost - who should be alive still, by all rights, but nothing of this life was fair - who joked to cover up hurt in a way Hob knew too, and glowed any time Hob turned so much as a kind word to him.

He wondered what they saw when they looked at him.

The year ticked over, and technology kept working. Charles grinned innocently and said he could probably possess the telly and break it that way if Hob wanted?

Hob’s heart twinged. He knew they weren’t his, not to keep, but it seemed that teenagers didn’t change at all over the centuries, even if the boys were only sort of teenagers in the way Hob was only sort of in his thirties. It didn’t change that they’d been punted from the mortal coil before having a chance to grow up, and figure out the kind of men they were, and make their own choices and fuck up and try to be better than their fathers, and everything everyone deserved. Hob had made more than his share of mistakes. They hadn’t been given the chance to make nearly any at all.

So they made toasts to the new millennium, to the detective agency, to themselves, all stuck out of time in different ways and refusing to move on for different reasons, and Hob allowed himself to think of Robyn and privately pretend that they were his all the same.

---

A week later, Hob was reminded of the other universal traits of teenagers when he mentioned his stranger and both boys began to grill him with terrifying alacrity. Before turning to his dating life, like ravening bloody wolves. When Edwin had asked, in a specifically nineteenth century manner that Hob remembered all too well, if Hob had always been unmarried, he’d nearly put his head in his hands.

“It can be hard for me to associate with the living too, you know. For obvious reasons.”

Charles had turned to Edwin and hissed “See? I told you.”

Right in front of him. Nobody had taught them manners.

“Manners, Charles,” replied Edwin loftily. “We will, of course, respect your privacy. A man is entitled to his secrets.”

“You’ll go upstairs and rifle through my personal things, is what you’ll do,” said Hob.

Charles coughed to hide his laugh. Edwin flushed and looked away. Hob snorted, and told them about Eleanor and Robyn. Properly. It was a strange relief. He’d told the story wrong for plausibility’s sake so many times he had been worried he’d forget the truth of it one day.

They had listened, and been remarkably quiet until Charles piped up and offered to set him up with a ‘really fit’ ghost. Hob had roundly shut that down. Woefully, not all explanations were satisfying enough. Charles cornered him again the next morning while he was cleaning the bar.

“No, mate, I still don’t get it.” Hob was about to say he no more wanted to be with someone who couldn’t feel pleasure from his touch than someone who would grow old and be taken from him while he stayed the same, when Charles went on, bafflingly, to ask, “Why don’t you meet your mysterious friend more often than once a century?”

Hob sighed. “Adults are often busy, Charles.” Nevermind that he had begun to wonder the same since the eighteenth century. He’d always just assumed time passed differently for his stranger.

Charles just laughed and perched himself on the bar top. “Ooh, low blow. We’re busy too, you know. Plenty of cases to solve.”

“Really,” said Hob. “You’re busy. Right now.”

Charles waggled his eyebrows.

“Charles, I am not a case,” said Hob, sternly as possible. “I’m not even a ghost. He’s not a ghost. No ghosts.”

“We could investigate. Maybe ghosts are involved. What even is he? Why every hundred years? Is it some sort of Persephone situation?”

Hob bit his lip against shouting I don’t know! I don’t know anything about him! Instead, he tried to smile, and felt it come out as a wince instead. “He’s very private.”

Charles scowled. “Yeah, obviously. You don’t even know his name. He can’t be that good of a friend if he’s too busy to see you more than once a century.”

Hob couldn’t see the expression on his own face, but he saw Charles’ shocked reaction well enough. It was so long ago for him, and still Hob knew at once what Charles saw now: that first time you manage to visibly hurt a grown-up’s feelings, people who seemed too old and too stern to actually feel pain, when you’d been going around kicking at them like a new foal, just to stretch your legs.

“Sorry,” said Charles, instant regret chasing his surprise. He was a good kid.

“It’s alright,” said Hob. He meant it. He looked down at the shining bartop. His hands were restless with the urge to light a cigarette. He gave in. It wasn’t like Charles would be dying of lung cancer any time soon if he decided to follow Hob’s example. “I don’t think he would say he’s very good at being a friend either. Truth is, I’d love to see him more often. But we had an awful fight the last time we met. If he forgives me, I’ll have to ask.”

“Mates always make up,” said Charles earnestly. He was such a good kid.

“I suppose they do.” Charles still looked sorry, and Hob clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey. Thanks for looking out for me, Charles.”

Charles beamed at him. “Always. We’ve got your back, me and Edwin.”

---

Charles couldn’t bloody believe it. Hob’s friend was here. There was nobody else it could be. He and Edwin were watching from a nearby table, pretending to be absorbed in their own conversation. Neither man noticed them. They were too busy looking at each other.

He couldn’t imagine spending more than a century apart from Edwin. The way Hob had talked about him and his stranger over the years, it sometimes seemed like they were best mates too, no matter how little they saw each other. He was dead sure that’s what had Hob looking so gutted when he thought nobody was looking. He had known they would make up, though. Maybe now Hob would be happier.

“Charles, we really ought not eavesdrop,” hissed Edwin. Right as he scooted his chair closer, the cheeky hypocrite. Hob and his friend were talking too quietly to properly hear, their heads bent together. Lots to catch up on, Charles reckoned. A hundred years. He couldn’t stop thinking about the number. It seemed impossible. Funny, he couldn’t imagine that long away from Edwin, but he could imagine spending that long being best mates. There was nobody he’d rather hide from Death with.

Hob’s face was doing something strange as his long-lost friend talked. Then Hob moved and grasped him by the shoulders, so tight that his knuckles stood out in relief. The man said something in low tones and Hob shook his head, and then pulled him in for a hug. The man stiffened and then relaxed, and his arms came up around Hob’s.

Their cheeks both looked wet.

Charles swallowed and it felt suddenly a little like he was choking. He should look away, only he couldn’t.

“They must be great friends,” said Edwin softly.

“Yeah,” he managed to croak. We won’t ever need to have a reunion like this because I’m never going to lose you, mate. I won’t let them take you. It was stuck behind the phantom lump in his phantom throat. His hand, without him telling it to, reached out and grabbed hold of Edwin’s. Edwin squeezed it hard, and Charles knew he didn’t have to make his voice work after all.

Then the man pushed Hob away, but only far enough to grab his face and pull him back again, thumbing over Hob’s cheeks, and beside him, Edwin honest-to-god gasped, and then Charles momentarily forgot how thoughts worked too.

---

It happens thus: in the New Inn, just next door to the White Horse, some 639 years after they first met, Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless share their first kiss. Neither, if they had bothered to think about it, would have intended to have an audience, but it’s a well-known fact that some kisses cannot wait, and theirs was chief among them, being that it had so much to say, and was so very long overdue.

I missed you, it said, and I came back, it said, and Please don’t go away from me again, and I could not.

And atop them, like blankets, were laid invisible the daydreams of those who saw them, including two long-dead boys, whose dreams were woven from the fresh and unaccounted-for possibilities of Hob kissing his mysterious stranger. Another man, thought Edwin. His best friend, thought Charles. Dream was the only one who could have heeded this, but he did not, because Hob Gadling was holding him tight and daydreaming loudly of this kiss and more, of this today and tonight and tomorrow, ever greedy and ever easily pleased, and Dream could hear nothing at all over their clamouring and comingled joy; the bright gold daydream between the scant space of their bodies that sounded so much like at last.

[spaghoffee]

What if I. Miles Chainsawctopus Spaghoffee. Wanted to upload my Victor Jenkins Stardew Valley Expanded Portraits to NexusMods. But my brain said. REDRAW IT!!!!!!!! AGAIN!!!!! Anyway here's a sheet of my Victor portraits + seasonal outfits that I drew months ago, it's actually V2 cause he wasn't chubby enough in the original (and now I'm looking at this again and he's still not chubby enough so maybe I should do a V3, O U G H —)

Would anyone want this version as it is though? If so then I could try and upload the actual individual outfit sheets on NexusMods one day, you'd need to use Portraiture to use it though cause I can't code for the life of me lol XP

[puppyeared]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[sysig]

It’ll all go fine if you’d just don’t worry about it, probably (Patreon)

[sgt-tombstone]

Dance You Off My Mind

Civilian AU where Soap got broken up with by his long-term boyfriend and his best friend Gaz tells him to come visit in London for a week or two (both as distraction and to make sure that Soap isn't alone). Soap mopes for the first few days, and Gaz understands, but by the fourth day, he's over it and he drags Soap out to the nightclub around the corner to get smashed (hopefully in several ways).

Soap is hesitant at first. He hasn't been dancing in a long time; his boyfriend (ex-boyfriend, he has to remind himself) never enjoyed the club scene, so he had stopped going out. For a while, he sticks to the wall, nursing his drink, watched Gaz on the dance floor. When he finishes his first drink, though, Gaz presses another into his hand, and that's how he finds himself three drinks deep and in the middle of the crowd, whirling like he owns the dance floor, not a care in the world.

Simon is ex-military and picked up a job as a security guard/bouncer at the nearest gay club just to keep himself sane. He has a strict, self-imposed (and possibly club-imposed, he's not really sure but it's never mattered) rule not to even flirt with customers. He's gotten more propositions than he can count in the years he's been here, and he's turned them all down. He might look good (he makes sure to keep himself in shape because it helps to both look like he could throw London's largest bear out and also have the actual strength to back it up), but he's working, and his job is to keep an eye out, to keep everyone safe.

The man with the mohawk, however, has caught Simon's eye several times. He's there with someone, but that hasn't stopped him from giving Simon a once-over so salacious that it should be illegal. He has to stop himself from falling into the man's magnetic allure, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his jaw against the temptation. The pair leave just before the club closes, stumbling against each other as they exit, and Simon tries his best to push them from his mind as he helps clean and close.

When he steps out into the chilled night air, he's shocked to find a mohawk waiting for him, the man leaning against the brick wall nonchalantly, and this time, he doesn't resist the pull. He pulls out a fag and offers one to the other man, exchanging names over twin glowing tips and exhales of smoke. As the other man, Soap (weird fuckin' name, but who is he to judge? He went by Ghost for almost his entire adult life), is obviously less drunk than he had been when he had left the club the first time; either time and cold air have sobered him, or he's a damn good actor. Either way, Simon has absolutely no qualms about tilting his head up to press a soft kiss to his lips, especially when Soap whines and presses impossibly closer, his mouth tasting of smoke and ash instead of liquor. His eyes are bright, clear, and eager when they part, and Simon can't wait to get this beautifully responsive man into his bed.

He ends up putting a ring on his finger, in the end, and all of their friends graciously pretend to be shocked by the news (though Gaz does roll his eyes and mutter "it's about damn time" when he thinks that Soap can't hear him)

[snackugaki]

[ Michael Jackson's Thriller in the distance ]

[becauseplot]

anyway spiderbit "as the world caves in" by matt maltese except they're separated. roier screaming at the edge of the boat being held back by three different people, cellbit standing calm on the cliffside staring at the boat (it's too far). roier clutching his comm to his chest with cellbit's final message to him. cellbit's comm dangling in his limp grasp. lyrics reflecting what their ending should have been: the two of them together as the world crashes down around them because oh god it's you. it's always been you. i don't care if the world ends so long as i am with you. i don't care if i die so long as my bones rest with yours. i don't care if i burn so long as my ash is carried off by the same breeze as yours. but here we are. 100 blocks away from each other. so close.

and yet.

it's not fair. it's not fucking fair. this isn't how it was supposed to happen. why aren't you here.

it's not fair.

[lambmotifz]

sam can control dean emotionally by pleading & using submissive puppy dog eyes while dean has physical control over sam. you understand

[alizalayne]

little goblin god with a tear or a tooth

[flyingwargle]

“coach! i brought my sister with me today!”

natsu squeaks and hides behind her brother as his teammates approach. she feels small against such professional players, but relaxes when bokuto catches her eye with a grin and raises his fists in the air. “hey, hey, hey, natsu-chan! long time no see!”

she gives a timid nod. miya leans forward, a finger wrapped around his chin. “followin’ in yer brother’s footsteps, eh? i bet ya also have an impressive spring in yer step.”

hinata grins. “of course, but her jump isn’t as high as mine!”

“given that she’s almost the same height as you despite being younger,” sakusa comments, “i wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.”

“omi-san, you don’t have to be so blunt!”

coach joins them, his voice is warm. “it’s nice to meet you, natsu. we always welcome friends and family to our court.” when his eyes cut to meian and barnes, they turn away, whistling innocently. “your brother mentioned that you also play volleyball?”

“yes! i’m a wing spiker at niiyama girls’ high school.”

“natsu-chan,” miya pipes up, “lemme toss to ya later!”

meian claps his hands together. “let’s get back to work. natsu, feel free to watch from the sidelines. if you have questions, i’m sure our coaches can help.”

she nods and bows. “thank you for letting me watch!”

the players return to their warm-ups, and hinata leads her to the bench. foster calls for a huddle, and hinata pats her shoulder on his way over. “watch what your brother is made of!”

she barely has time to relax before a manager slides next to her, eyes shining. “we’ve seen a few family members come by, but you’re the first that also plays volleyball. are you here to get the inside scoop?”

“oh…i just wanted to visit and…” natsu trails off. “i guess i do want to see what it’s like, and if it’s something that i want to do.” despite being in her second year, the future remains at the forefront of her mind. she enjoys volleyball, the thrill of competition, the results of hard work, but she can’t help but wonder: what if her future lies beyond the court?

her brother knew that volleyball would remain central to his life when he was her age. natsu, though, doesn’t feel the same, although her coaches said she has a future as a pro. she likes studying too, and has briefly looked at universities with a good volleyball team. she knows some of hinata’s teammates went to university first, like sakusa and bokuto. some entered the v. league straightaway, like miya and kageyama. either way, they’ve gathered here at the top, wholeheartedly dedicated to the sport.

the players practice their serves. miya works on his jump floater-spike serve combo, and hinata also works on his jump floaters, along with meian. barnes, bokuto, sakusa, and adriah stick with jump serves, the ball traveling across the court with frightening speed. it’s impressive that inunaki can pick them up at all.

afterwards, they move to spikes. natsu has always been enraptured by spikers seemingly able to float in mid-air. when it’s her brother’s turn, he makes his approach and jumps, easily reaching the top of the net. his ball lands just before the end line.

practice ends all too soon, and as some players shuffle toward the locker room, her brother bounces toward her, ball in hand. “natsu! let’s play together! that’s okay, right, coach?”

he nods, warning not to overdo it. hinata grins at her, and she smiles back, taking her jacket off, reaching into her bag for kneepads and a hair tie. she joins him, along with miya, sakusa, and bokuto.

“natsu-chan!” miya calls out. “lemme toss to ya! if yer better than shoyo, i’m gonna ask coach to replace him with ya.”

“atsumu-san!” hinata yells indignantly. natsu laughs, squeezes the ball tighter in her hands. she stands away from him, already positioned at the net. does one of the best setters in japan really want to set for her?

“go for it, natsu-chan!” bokuto cheers.

she lets out her breath and focuses. tossing the ball in the air, she makes her approach. miya raises his hands, watches her out of the corner of his eye. then, he sets it. she jumps.

it’s not too high, nor too low. not too far from the net, not too close. it’s just…perfect. her arm swings down, the ball slamming to the floor. she lands with thundering applause from behind. “yep, both ya and yer brother are monsters,” miya comments, shaking his head.

“natsu! nice kill!” hinata has his hands up for a high-five. she slams her palms against his. “let’s play some 2-on-2! team hinata is here to beat all of you!”

“i’d like to see you try.” sakusa slinks under the net, along with bokuto. “miya, you can sit out first.”

“fine, but don’t cry ta me when ya get smoked by the sibs,” miya scoffs, moving off the court. natsu glances at her brother, who only gives her a reassuring thumbs-up.

for the rest of the afternoon, she feels like she’s in a daze. her brother sets to her, and although they aren’t like miya’s, it’s enough to get the ball from one side of the court to the other. her receives aren’t great, so sakusa often targets her, and hinata berates him for it. she manages to receive one of miya’s jump floaters though, but his spike serves go untouched, except when hinata receives them.

by the end of the session, they’re all drenched in sweat, heaving for air. natsu braces her hands on her knees, feels an arm slide around her. “how was it?” hinata asks.

“it was fun.” natsu straightens, watching miya stop bokuto from taking his shirt off, sakusa already halfway toward the locker room. “i could tell they were all holding back.”

“just a bit! atsumu-san never holds back with his serves though, and omi-san is always serious about his spikes. bokuto-san, though…you’re too young to receive his spikes at full power. your arms might fall off,” hinata says, half-serious. natsu still remembers the story of an unfortunate opponent that got hit in the face with one of his spikes. it dislocated his nose. “natsu, it’s okay if you don’t continue with volleyball.”

she jumps, caught by surprise by his words. her brother’s eyes are soft, hunched over slightly so they’re eye level with each other. “mom told me that you weren’t sure what to do after high school. you don’t have to go pro; there’re lots of teams you can join and play for fun! you could do what omi-san or bokuto-san did and go to university first and play there. or you could be like me and go halfway across the world. i’ll support you!”

“thanks, nii-chan.” natsu lifts her head, eyes scanning the stands that line the gym. if she retires her court shoes, would she miss the roar of applause, the sweet thrill of victory? if she surrenders her books, would she regret not having gone to university, not having something to fall back on? “i guess i’ll need to think about it more. but…”

her eyes drift to miya and bokuto, closer to the locker room entrance now. miya turns and shouts at them, telling them to hurry so they can get dinner. “i’m happy that you picked the jackals. everyone is so nice.”

“right? i’m sure wherever you go, you’ll also have people that’ll support you.” he points a thumb to himself. “that includes me, too!”

she laughs, turning to give him a hug. no matter what path she picks, she knows that volleyball will always connect them.

[ordordordordord]

Okay so hear me out. You know how Sanji is supposed to be French, right? And Zoros last name comes from a French Pirate???

Historical AU, French prince Sanji runs away with French pirate Zoro

[fooltofancy]

bets on how long it takes for me to uh. start over for the thirtieth time.

[the-mononoke-facade]

Thinking about Kayo's fear in Umi Bozu again and what it means for her character

How the fear of missing out she rattled off was an idealized version of the general life path that's open to her as a young peasant woman of her time, and that she is probably scared of missing out on that ideal, but not in the sense of not getting married at all, but in the sense of doing that whole song and dance but ending up trapped in a marriage to a terrible man, or giving birth to children who are going to get caught up in the cycles of violence she was abruptly made aware of with the fall of the Sakai clan (either as the one doing the violence or the one suffering under it, or both, creating a monster regardless)

How, if Kayo's meant to be taken as a character with her eyes to the future, that the bakeneko incident shook her certainty in it in a way that she had never had a reason to question before, having her beliefs of being a fairly ordinary person rattled to see what atrocities the "ordinary people" around her helped to commit, atrocities that very well might never have come to light without the divine intervention that was the mononoke and the medicine vendor coming to slay it

Anyway, just contemplating Kayo tonight

[kiwisandpearls]

is it just me or does anyone feel that Gus was just straight up the token black guy of hexside squad?

he barely gets any development, and any development he does get is overshadowed by the non-black characters (lumity cheek kiss, Hunter, Willow, Amity), out of everyone in the hexside squad he seems to be used the most for comedy, and if you wrote him out of the series completely, you’d lose nothing and probably just have a few plot holes on your hands, which could be easily written around.