#Pear is the one I make suffer the most if you can tell

[originallymarysue]

I just love making my au struggle. I love making everyone miserable and sad. Everyone's struggling and not having a good time. It's just peak enjoyment for me.

[wolfstarmie]

Character Thoughts

Since my fic is a year old, I figured it'd be fun to just ramble about my silly fish, their origins in the story and how they have changed from initial ideas.

Stroganoff

When I first thought about this fic, I knew I wanted to make the main character/salmonid parent be a Big Shot. Big Shots are just my favourite salmonid boss (they’re hug shaped!) so I figured it’d be fun to write from that perspective.

Originally he wasn’t related to Sprout, but with time it was something that just made sense, as with the rest of the backstory that got out of control real fast.

When it comes to his design, parts of his unique charm are purely because I designed him before I fully understood how salmonid anatomy worked. Hence his adorable OwO face. Then there’s his red hair. This is because I suffer from having amazing taste in men, and most (if not all) my fanfics feature ginger men in some form or another, and so… well I gotta carry tradition >:U

Cookie

Poor Cookie. When I first posted the fic to AO3, folks were already alarmed at the major character death tag. I’m not sure how early her death was planned, but I believe it was about as soon as the concept of the fic itself. The official lore that salmonids don't fear death is super fascinating to me, and it felt natural to explore it by contrasting two extremes: A lack of care about death itself, and the grief one feels for a parent.

As for Cookie herself, she was always a motherly figure, though I can’t recall when I made her a goldie. Though out of all the salmonids, the special boss that hoards a billion eggs would make the most sense as a mother figure. 

Another point of contrast Cookie brought with her was her justified hatred of inklings. In many ways, she's the very opposite of Sprout: They both share aggressive views on inklings, but where Sprout embodies the negatives of those views, Cookie learned to overcome her own pain at what inklings did to her, and love Ravioli for just being herself.

While Cookie and Horn were destined to never meet, I did have thoughts of how Horn would learn of the previous owner of her home. One idea was that of Cookie’s ghost protecting the young woman during spawning, though that never came to be.

Speaking of Cookie in spirit, one little fun thing that I think is worth sharing is Cookie’s full title. The Great Kind Mother, Cookie Of a Thousand Winds. I personally hate the wind, but it sure does come up a bit during the fic…

Vanilla

Vanilla was not always planned on being an important character! In fact, while he was the first choice in the fic for where Stroganoff got ink; in the first draft, Stroganoff fought an inkling for ink before realising it wasn’t good enough for his new baby. 

A cut joke from that forbidden draft had Stroganoff eating some ink (for the greater good), and Vanilla having some great advice: “Why is your mouth blue?”

“I ate some ink. Will you help me?” “Have you tried not eating ink?”

In earlier plans, he was just a one sided villain, who potentially helped Sprout and maybe grew a conscience afterwards. I can tell you the exact chapter where this all changed, however: Chapter 12. In the original draft, he was downright mean to Cookie. In an attempt to tone it down and still have him be a bastard, I gave Cookie a way to fight back: being his mom. And then everything went pear shaped after that. I got attached to him, and he started turning out WAY different than originally planned.

(Still a lovable bastard though)

He’s also a manlet. I forget when this was decided, but he’s in the ballpark between 4 foot and 5 foot. One day Ravioli will be taller than him, and it will not be a good day for him.

Horn

Ah, Horn. She was always destined to be a punching bag for Ravioli after Cookie’s passing, but was wildly different for a while. The original plan had Horn be a male scrapper, bond with Stroganoff over machinery, and build a scrapper car with him.

There’s a very deep and meaningful reason for why I chose a scrapper and not any other boss: Whenever I’m playing salmon run and going over to the big shot cannon, there's always a scrapper there. Always. I can’t murder giant fish in peace without nearly being the victim of vehicular manslaughter.

Horn’s original name was Oepsie (a very sweet skewer made with bacon, and yes it does just mean ‘Oops’), and Ravioli would have been more than happy to call this poor salmon a mistake for living in Cookie’s house.

Continuing on the theme of names, another name Horn had for a while before I settled on ‘Caramel Horn’ was Cherry! I forget why the name (probably another terrible joke), but I eventually decided I didn’t like Cherry, and instead went with Horn (which IS another terrible joke).

She didn’t have a damaged tail originally, though there was a point in which she did have both the prosthetic and a desire to make her own scrapper car. At some point I just didn’t like the idea and scrapped (heh) it.

Unlike a few other characters, the first bit of designs for Horn were done digitally, so I can actually share 'em

Sprout

He’s always been a bastard. Much like milk, he got worse the more I thought about him. If there was ever a person to say “the world would be a better place without you,” it’d be Sprout. 

I cannot recall when I made Sprout and Stroganoff brothers, as it was not the original plan, but it's one of those things where the more you figure out characters, the more things slide into place.

Sadly all the information that would be worth sharing is better revealed in the fic, but please know Sprout is the type of person who’d have an overly dramatic villain song in a musical, and takes childish insults way too seriously.

The first drawing I did of this bastard was of him wielding a zweihander. Whether or not he should have a zweihander is up for debate.

Potato

He’s trying his best. While a very minor character, he’s definitely the kind of person Ravioli needs in her life: A friend. Maybe not the highest quality friend, his own ideas clashing with Ravioli’s sheltered upbringing, but at least it's someone Ravioli’s age.

His heart’s in the right place, but he’s a very unlucky kid when it comes to showing Ravioli cool stuff.

Fun fact! I named my palafin in pokemon violet after him, and he was my lead for most of the game. Maybe not the most thrilling fact, but I figured it was worth sharing how, in another life, Potato got to be a dolphin.

Ravioli

Ravioli… poor girl. There’s so much to say and at the same time, there isn’t much to say at all. There’s no secret about her on the cutting room floor, no devious plans that had to go to the wayside. She’s just a young girl (perhaps not the naturally brightest) trying to figure things out in a chaotic world trying so hard not to put her on a dinner plate.

All I can really share is that there have been many thoughts on how Ravioli would one day come into contact with other inklings, or at the very least octolings, and none of them have worked out in a way that makes sense for the story.

She yearns to learn about her own kind, but is destined to be alone. 

Also anytime I reread my own writing and get reminded of this child's... suboptimal choices, I just sigh.

[chuuyasfanboy]

Hi ! I Hope you’re doing well and I’m not bothering you too much with my random request, I’m here for a Genshin impact and bungo stray dogs romantic matchup with a male character

Sexuality : Straight

In my free time I enjoy reading, playing video games, listening to music, doing crochet, drawing, learning new languages, dancing and swimming.

Apparence : Long wavy/almost curly light brown hair and almond shaped brown eyes. I’m pretty tanned. 5’4,so I’m kinda short and normal weight though on the curvy side(I have a pear shaped body). My fashion sense is a mix of vintage clothes from the European 50s and kfashion.

So about my personality: I’m a Virgo, my mbti is intj, enneagram 5w6 I’m mostly withdrawn, individualistic, introverted and very honest even blunt at times. I need a lot of alone time.When im with people i’m close with, I tend to be more cheerful and energetic, I like to joke around too and tease people. One of the thing that stands out the most about me is that I’m extremely determined, ambitious and eager to learn new things. However, I do have some very specific subjects/ hobbies I tend to get hyper focused on.I’m also very observant and notices a lot of small details and I try my best to be attentive to my friends which makes me a good listener, especially for my friends who I value very much and try my best to be considerate with( for example by avoiding being too blunt).

I can be very anxious at times and I’m extremely cautious with people I don’t and sometimes do know, I have a hard time opening up and I’m an over thinker.

I have a hard time with small talk, the one where you talk just to be polite, although I don’t mind joking around with my friends and telling nonsense. I dislike noisy and crowded places, it stress me out.

I like funny/teasing and intelligent people who can give me a lot of personal space.

I suffer from insomnia and probably a bit of social anxiety too, my love language is physical touch and act of services.

Thank you very much and have a nice day !!!

Never a bother to get a request! I picked two fairly different characters for you just to keep them from being repetitive, but I hope you'll still like em!

For Genshin, I match you with...

Wanderer

Wanderer doesn't really tend to care about appearances. Or, physical ones. All he's looking for a partner is someone who's note entirely unsufferable, he does NOT have high standards. Though, he does find your fashion a little amusing. Those are two completely different styles and he thinks its hilarious watching you try to mix them in a comprehensive way. Just poke fun at his hat, he'll stop real quick.

He finds a specific interest in you learning new languages. A hobby? Really? Not something he considers a hobby, it took him a while to even understand the common slang in Sumeru let alone in nations he doesn't interract with much. Definitely asks you for tips every once in a while. He only goes to you and if you point it out he get's all defensive. He finds it really embarassing to have to rely on someone else, but if you don't point it out then…

Thankfully, Wanderer is pretty similar! He's introverted, and needs a lot of time alone to recharge his battery. That battery goes out QUICK too. Its a wonder how the two of you even met (probably Nahida's doing) because he practically ignores everybody. Most people are just really infuriating, especially when they're trying to make him like them. It's obvious, and annoying. When you got to the point you were comfortable enough to be cheerful around him, he almost did a double take. Because, really, he always figrued you were all sassy and cold. Then you just turn around and give him a bubbly smile and he's SO CONFUSED.

He wont ever rant to you, not on purpose. But with you paying so much attention to all his little trauma responses, it's hard for him not to be dragged out of his shell a bit. And oh boy, he has a lot to vent about. Mostly complaining about Ei, or Childe, or Sumeru, or this and that. He doesn't actually tell you a lot about his history, and certainly not about his time in the Fatui. Even with little hints, he's a mystery. It's frustraing, because he just wont open up to anybody, and is intent to never do so. He bottles up a lot, which leads to outbursts sometimes. Which, in turn triggers your overthinking, then triggers HIS overthinking and wow it's just a whole mess. Sometimes Nahida has to step in, because you two cannot function during arguments. Just a side effect of Wanderer, really.

You and Wanderer are both pretty similar when it comes to socialization. You both dislike small talk, and both hate crowded places. Thankfully, it means he doesn't find you annoying, not as much as everyone else. And he's more open to friendly teasing because of it, he knows you wont take offense. The two of you can stay in bed together at 3am and talk about whatever gossip he can think up. It's real sweet, he enjoys you a lot more than he lets on!

For BSD, I match you with...

Kunikida

Falling for you was a NIGHTMARE for Kunikida. I mean, you hardly met any of his 58 requirements. But I guess you cant stop your heart…

He really respects your fashion, finds it interesting. I definitely see him as the type to research random things, so he might actually dedicate a few free hours to reading up on your inspiration. It's bad, because he ends up knowing more about it then you do, which is- embarassing to say the least. Depending on what you want to put him in, you MIGHT be able to convince him to match with you. Maybe.

As long as you do hobbies only during free-time, he doesnt find any issues with them. Don't try to pull a sketchbook out a work, though. The furthest you'll get is passivey listening to music while doing paperwork. He's very serious about your responsibilities! He doesn't get free time a lot, but if he ever does, he doesn't mind spending it with you doing unscheduled home dates. It gives him a chance to finish up any last documents to sign and you'll get to spend time with him. Read out a book to him, he LOVES it.

He tends to akin you to a less annoying Dazai, especially when you're getting more energetic. Seeing as you don't go out of your way to ruin his day, though, he doesn't mind it. He's willing to indulge you as long as it fits within his schedule, just be mindful of any spontanious plans! He doesn't mind your bluntness, in fact, he actually appreciates it! Everybodys white lies in critiquing him makes it difficult to actually improve. If you're brutally honest, it's all the better for him. Though- he might start to take it personally, especially if it's something particularly important. Not that he'd ever change, buuuut it does bother him for a few hours and he'll busy himself to forget about it.

Kunikida doesn't mind your aversion to social outings, and is more than happy to take the conversation for the both of you. He does have a bad habit of planning things out to a T though, and if your social battery gets in the way he's just a TAD upset. He'll get over it, though!

Kunikida's not particularly funny or teasing, but he is fairly smart. Especially book wise. Now, he can't recite out the whole dictionary to you, but he can definitely help with spellchecking any essays or reports. He also doesn't mind beating up somebody for you if you may happen to ask. As long as it's deserved, he has a very short fuse with people who feel the need to insult you for any reason.

[buffalojournal]

Two Poems by Morgan L. Ventura

A Brief Synesthetic History

When I look around it could be said we are living in dark times, the walls & skies & sea & clouds & spaces within me, obsidian smoke, pitch tar, pooled oil. It tastes of ash & petrol & mould & the edge of a boiled knife & I hear the whooshing whooping of distant stars – black holes – ebony arias bending, twisting vibrations. What’s true is I want brighter times, amber & magenta times, spirals of smiling roses & giddy peonies, & detonations of laughing citrine. Times that carry the blush of wisteria, caramel popcorn, earnest eucalyptus. I was born in green times – aventurine smiles & verdant yards blooming viridian jewels, emerald & jade hanging from low branches, wistful and content. The 80s rainforest transmutes blue. Periwinkle times, the 90s breathed cornflower winds and bluebell gales, husked sapphire on metal plates, glimmering robin eggs on cedar porch chirping an unearthly jingle piercing aquamarine eyes of my father who knew only sadness. The sky only spoke rain, it was falling sea, shredded wave, lacerated labradorite, cascades of troubled cerulean. Shocked like glaciers arguing, raging because all’s spilled into red. A time of crimson, furls of fuchsia in the tide of blood after flames across New York, after strikes in Chicago, after death in the family. The 2000s were carnelian, lay the bead beneath my tongue, the rubies on my eyes, enshrine me in magma, encrust me in this livid tomb. Vitrine of vermillion, what is a body but stained glass, medieval sun never modern. The next era’s violet, arched, mutilated candy blossoming from irises in the back. In the evening light it all shivers purple, bruised lilacs yammer & portend a luminous love. Amethyst troves in the attic squirm & emit warmth, simmering with snapdragon & grapes, pisco vineyard from a decade ago, time punctured by lazy lost lagoons. Take me now into what seems like blank times, off-shades of pale peeling into crystal pears & glass shards as we wait, & the iridescent soul in the body of the future, the cloud high above spitting quartz & splitting mirrors, declares these are rainbow times, & I have to tell you, I love all the colours, I want all the colours. World, let me bathe in your prisms & drink your light. This marbled soil, this striated sky. I’d be no one & nowhere without.

 Internal Monologue of an Anthropologist in Paris

i.

My mother said if I fail on my new adventure I can live in her closet.

My French roommate has shit in my bed after having a midlife crisis at 29.

On television I look like an idiot. Even smart, floral blazers from the 10th Arrondissement make me look like a cartoon character because I’m very small.

They want to hire me as a curatorial fellow at the Musée du Quai Branly but then I have to stay here and oh, how I know the Parisians suffer.

Every Thursday there is a voracious vacuuming in the flat above me at 6am and I am suddenly murderous. I strike the ceiling with my broom and the ceiling strikes back.

ii.

My life is an Antonioni film. At the Sorbonne, I’m asked to describe my unwritten doctoral thesis in front of four medieval historians and a self-proclaimed spiritualist who spends most of his time at Père Lachaise by the grave of some important figure whose name I can’t remember. I whirl around in my seat and quip, “It is about nothing with precision.”

iii.

The community in Oaxaca wants me to ask the Mexican government to return the collection it stole but I’m merely an anthropologist, when did we ever hold power?

Margaret Mead was barely 5’0” and carried a walking stick taller than herself, which she’d use to intimidate men. That’s power.

I’m invited by the History Channel to appear on Ancient Aliens after my undergraduate advisor, a certain Mayanist, declines and thinks it would be hilarious to give them my personal email. “We will pay you $300,” they tell me. I think seriously about it.

Pseudoscience is absurd but my life is absurd. My next-door neighbour smokes cigarettes naked while his parrot shits on the patio. A colleague informs me they irrationally hate my surname.

“Would you like a career in anthropology?” my PhD advisor asks me after I tell him about the invite. This, coming from a man whose faculty headshot features him sacrificing a chicken.

Anthropologists don’t deserve careers, I think. But I sure enjoy all the grant and fellowship money, society’s conviction that we are worth something because “we are scientists.”

I don’t want a career, I conclude.

iv.

Over lunch in the EHESS cafeteria, my friend says everyone here complains too much and that the Parisians are insane and create their own chaos.

My brother texts me because my mother is in jail. She should stay there.

I go for coffee with an artist in Le Marais. The owner comes out to scream at all of us who dare to use their laptops and take up too much time – or space.

Claude Lévi-Strauss helped found UNESCO. Franz Boas died in his arms. Claude’s a structuralist and I despise structure. Will I die in the arms of anyone?

When Bronislaw Malinowski died, we all found out that he was a pervert. His field notebooks were festooned with scribbles of his interlocutor’s boobs.

“Anthropologists are very interesting, no?” asks the barista I’ve befriended at perhaps the most hipster café I could find.

I don’t know, are we?

Am I?

[nehswritesstuffs]

Over

So I’ve been going through the series again (this time doing a thorough watch of the anime, as my anime intake has been spotty until now, making me a majorly manga-only) and I was reminded of a niche ship I really enjoy the concept of but hardly ever see, and since I’m now a member of the One Piece Rare Pears Discord server I would be absolutely remiss if I didn’t dust these two off for the first time since… erm… *checks notes* …oh… 2007. Before the English names were solidified by releasing the official manga translations. Well… fuck.

1827 words; Skypiea is one of the best arcs/sagas in the series and you can fight me (and probably also Vegapunk) on this; just a shippy minor rewrite; contains mild descriptions of wounds so if you ain’t cool with that then hey you were warned; I am very excited for when this arc/saga is going to whip back around in the mainline series because it’s high time it does considering most everything else has lol; one of these days I’ll write something big and AUish for them but for now have this; this month also marks twenty years for me on FFN, which is when I started posting fan fiction online, and dang I’ve come a long way lol

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He truly doesn’t remember much when he first wakes up. It’s mostly bits and pieces, but enough to parse together what happened in Upper Yard with the Blue Sea dwellers and Gan Fall. Enough to even be confused when he wakes up to find the former Skypiean god sitting with the chief and an Angel Islander with her arm stretched out towards him, as though readying to change his compress.

“Oh!” the Angel Islander gasped, her hand jerking back. “You’re awake!”

“We were worried,” Gan Fall said. “The Reject Dial did a number on your body…”

“That’s my business, old man,” Wyper spat. He tried to sit up, only for the Angel Islander to push his shoulders back down. “Don’t touch me.”

“You can’t get up now,” she said, her voice softer than her words required. “If you don’t, then you won’t get better.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

“You are not,” the chief corrected. “If she can keep you pinned like that, you’re nowhere near fine.” Wyper watched as blush crept across the Angel Islander’s cheeks. “Keep your head, Wyper. It’s over.”

Over.

“Stay there until I send for you,” the chief ordered. “These old men need more pumpkin juice. We will be back soon.” Wyper could barely see as the chief left, the former god headed with him. From what he could tell, neither man was walking steadily, which meant that neither of them were getting just pumpkin juice in those mugs.

Over.

How was it over? Why share drinks with the man they fought against for so long that Wyper couldn’t remember? It couldn’t be over… not like this...

Part of him didn’t know what to think; none of them knew anything else. All any of the warriors, the elders and knowledge-keepers, the children… war was the only thing they knew. How could it just be over? Like that? So simply? He did not believe it…

He reached his goals, and yet he felt so empty.

It was over.

“Thank you.” He glanced over and saw the Angel Islander staring at him. Her entire face was red in embarrassment; good. He felt no empathy for her shame. “You freed us.”

“I freed my people,” he scoffed. “You benefited from us. Again.”

“That is why I must thank you, and apologize,” the Angel Islander replied. “You’ve suffered so much due to us. If we had only learned to cooperate from the beginning…”

“Shut up,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“We’ve done enough ignoring one another, don’t you think?” she snapped back. There was a ferocity in her voice that took Wyper by surprise—he didn’t take her as one with guts. She then realized what her tone must have been and shrank back again. “I think… I think we need to get on the right foot now, or else we will regret it later.”

“I don’t even know which foot is the right one if this is supposed to be done with,” he admitted sourly. “All I want to do is take my revenge for my people’s suffering by yours.”

“…and if you feel that way when you’re better, then go ahead,” the Angel Islander said, “but until then, I’m the one who is going to help take care of you. I insist.”

Wyper didn’t like it—not one bit. He didn’t like it any more than he liked working alongside the Blue Seas pirates. Even with all that, he couldn’t deny how much he ached from every muscle in his body. Not a single training session or skirmish with Eneru’s forces had prepared him for this type of pain or how deep it went. Part of him believed that Calgara himself felt it, his ancestor’s spirit finally able to rest.

Silently, the Angel Islander went back to her duties while Wyper watched. She took the now-fallen compress from the floor and wet it in a basin and placed it back on his forehead. It was cool to the touch and helped soothe at least the throbbing of his head. After she checked the bandages on his torso and arms to make sure they weren’t disturbed, she moved down towards his legs. He felt the bandages on his left leg get gently pulled away and the air hit his skin. Flexing his muscles brought a stinging sensation as varied scabs and cuts threatened to break open.

“Don’t do that; you’ll make it worse,” the Angel Islander chided, no force behind her words. She procured another cloth from the basin and used it to wipe off the fresh blood from his leg. Once that was done, she began to place a cool salve over the wounds, one that he recognized soon as he could smell it.

“Where did you get that?” he wondered. She looked at him and saw that he was staring at the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“Raki made it for me,” she replied. “She was here until about an hour ago… they needed her help making a stew.”

That sounded about right, Wyper thought. Although Raki was as proud and strong a warrior as any of them, she had a gift for cooking. Braham too, if his fuzzy brain was remembering things correctly… but Raki was the only one of them who was ever really encouraged. With the medicine going straight to his head, he wondered why that was… hmm…

“What am I going to do?” he wondered aloud. “This has been going on for so long…”

“We’re all going to need to figure that out,” the Angel Islander said. Did she sound… sad…? “There is nothing left but the vearth.”

He furrowed his brow. “Then… who survived…?”

“Everyone,” she claimed. “I was able to warn Angel Island in time, and they were able to get the word to the Shandians. The only ones who died were the ones who g—Eneru and his priests killed directly.”

“You saved your own people first?”

“They were the ones who needed more convincing.”

That much he could not argue—trying to change an Angel Islander’s mind was like trying to change the weather. It was why he had never trusted Gan Fall’s acts of supposed peace, as they had all been burned before. The Angel Islander in front of him, however, seemed… there was an air about her that had been unlike the old god back then. What was it?

“Where did you learn to dress wounds?” he wondered. She shrugged.

“We learn it in school.” She held up a small jar that Wyper immediately recognized—it contained the salve she was using. “This medicine is a lot like something we have on Angel Island…” Blush crossed her face and she looked away again. “Had; we had medicine like this. Do your people have any records of someone sharing information between us when the vearth was first brought here?”

“No—far as I know, it is a Shandian medicine going back to before the war.” He then turned his head and saw two Burn Bazookas sitting along the wall. One was his and the other… “Where did that come from?”

“Hmm…?” The Angel Islander turned away from replacing his other leg’s bandages to see where his attention was. “Yours; the other one I found.”

“You do not look like a warrior.”

“…which is why I brought it with me when I went to convince Angel Island to evacuate. They knew I wasn’t joking when I showed up with it, though it did take a bit to realize that it was not because I went insane.”

“I see.”

Not a warrior? Yet she used a Burn Bazooka to convince her people to flee. She knew how to care for wounds and knew of a traditional medicine, seemingly holding it in at least some regard. He had never thought in his wildest dreams that he would ever be having this kind of conversation with an Angel Islander… let alone one like her… as she cared for his wounds…

Now it was Wyper’s turn to blush, glad his tanned skin hid it well. He never would have let this woman near him under normal circumstances… she never would have approached him under normal circumstances…

Maybe… it truly was over.

“What will we do now…?” he wondered. The Angel Islander took the compress and replaced it again, this one feeling colder.

“Your chief told me that all the warriors have had reasons for fighting until now,” she replied, “but maybe it might be time to think about what else you want to do? What did you never have time for because you were so busy training and practicing?”

He thought about that for a moment before replying, “I had been hoping that one day I could become a knowledge-keeper.”

“…a… historian…?”

“No, much more than that.” Wyper lifted his hand towards the sky, staring at the bandages covering his skin. “I never thought I’d live to see that day before now. Children that haven’t been born need to learn the stories of their people… need to know why we grow pumpkins and go to war…”

“…then it’s a good thing that no one here wants war anymore,” the Angel Islander said. She took the compress off his forehead and sat him up. “Do you think you can stand?” He nodded and allowed her to help him to his feet. She slung his arm over her shoulders and he accepted her help as she led him wobbling through the forest.

Eventually, Wyper heard far-off shouting and could see a distant glow. The Angel Islander brought him through the ruins of Old Shandora to where a large bonfire was taking place. Other Angel Islanders were there dancing and drinking with the others from his village. The pirates from the Blue Seas were there as well, enjoying a party so infectious that even the animals were dancing.

“We can build a new nation together, one where we both have vearth beneath our feet,” the Angel Islander said. “Eneru is gone. His priests are gone. We are free to do as we wish.” The sight of the former god and the village chief sharing spiked pumpkin juice caught the injured warrior’s attention; it was almost like a dream. “My name is Conis, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Uh… I…” He cleared his throat, having forgotten how they were standing. “I am Wyper, Heir of Calgara.”

“Wyper…” she repeated, trying out the name on her tongue. Was it still the medicinal salve, or did her saying his name truly sound that wonderful? “It’s nice to meet you. I wish the circumstances were better.”

“Better than this?”

“Something that involved a lot fewer near-death experiences.” She offered him a smile that was bright against the light of both the moon and bonfire. “I hope we can at least be friends after all this.”

Friends. Yeah. He thought that he could possibly be friends.

Now that it was all over.

[leonawriter]

For that meme: Romani! and also Genesis!

First impression

Romani: I was going to say something about when I started playing, but then I remembered my first impression was actually you guys telling me about him and Merlin, along with a bunch of spoilers, and... some of those are a big part of why I knew I'd love him XD

Genesis: wow it's been ages now, but, I think my first impression was probably "who is this" and "what an asshole" haha.

Impression now

Romani: I'm still in the middle of Babylonia but! He's so!!!! look he introduces himself as "just a doctor on staff" and then he gets promoted to the Director of Chaldea/effectively the Leader of the last remnants of humanity. Just a normal doctor. And then he's mission control, and no matter that the Servants are saying mean things a lot he's always there for you, works so hard for you, clearly knows damn good battle strategy going by America, Camelot, and Babylonia... there's so many hints about who he is but he just reads as someone who cares. A lot. I love him.

Genesis: Skrunkly cat man who both suffered too much and also didn't get hit with enough at the same time. I still need to know more about him. I want to put him through the pear wriggler. I love him and he's a dumb(apple).

Favorite moment

Romani: It's gotta be when they're in America, and he's just casually becoming the team's go-to battle strategist. I kept screaming about it because dude your mask.

Genesis: I... is it weird if I say I find it hard to think of really great canon moments? I think that maybe actually him walking past Angeal in his Banora home and going "you don't fit in with them anymore" basically. The actual line is so much better. Reason I find it hard to think of good moments is that a lot of the time in canon he's desperate and freaking out; in fanworks we're able to portray an idea of what he might be when not degrading or anything, and that's what I want to see out of any future appearance.

Idea for a story

Romani: Hm... I haven't been reading any FGO fic at all yet, really, so I don't know what has or hasn't been done already. But if I had to say what I'd like to see, it'd be something set between the Singularities that isn't an event, and therefore not likely to be so silly.

Genesis: I still need to finish TCASM at some point. But I guess I'd love to see more gen-fic/non-romantic fics based in either the original timeline, or the Remake one. Remake Aerith meeting Genesis would be fun.

Unpopular opinion

Romani: I don't know enough about FGO fandom perception and I'm not reaallly far through enough to know what opinions I'd hold would or wouldn't be unpopular, so. Pass.

Genesis: In many ways the fact that he's one of my actual unironic faves in VII is an unpopular opinion in and of itself. I... also don't like any of the popular ships for him, I think. I tend to see him and Angeal as like brothers (partly because of them growing up, partly because of the experiments giving me some fun ideas) and there's other things that disqualify most other ideas. Which would be a petty little thing if not for how 90% of all fandom material is shipping, and it makes it hard to find content I can enjoy.

Favorite relationship

Romani: Romantically, Merlin. Platonically, Mash. With Merlin he's just so unapologetically forward about himself, and they're both... they're equals. You know I'm weak for that. And Mash is just an entire daughter to him. And all three are kind of weirdos when it comes to humanity, if I'm reading things right.

Genesis: Zack, because he's kind but takes no shit, and has seen him at his worst and still believed he could be helped. I've also always loved seeing him bounce off against Aerith and Cloud too.

Favorite headcanon

Romani: I feel like I don't know enough about him yet to come up with anything that's not going to get thrown out of the window in time, but... I do like to believe that mask or not, he really does care. A lot of the things we see from him simply don't make any sense otherwise.

Genesis: Other than that he's an autistic bisexual disaster? It's the popular "he ends up with the Seventh Heaven/AVALANCHE group after failing to handle whatever he's got himself involved in on his own." He has to work with others, and find out that people can, actually, handle him just being himself.

[bexria]

bexstevie

stevie's never been good with tears. most times, he cries too-- the emotions too much for stevie, who's finding he has a lot more empathy than he realizes. on top of that, the guilt and the public humiliation at being the obvious reason for a girl's tears has him frazzled that he might start crying too. and that wouldn't be good, not at all! she mumbling stuff through her crying, and stevie strains his ears to hear as if she's regarding him. he can't really make out most of it, just a few words, but he hears the didn't even get to taste it part, and kicks into overdrive. "banana and pear? okay, okay." he says, head snapping towards the counter. he's not sure if the frazzled energy or the panicked expression on his face as he makes eye contact with the staff behind the counter, but they seem just as quick to try and replace the drink. at least they're on the same page. "i don't mind, really-- i haven't even ordered mine yet, i can just tack it on mine!" it takes him probably longer than he wants to clean up the mess, a pile of used napkins growing bigger and bigger. he probably should have just let the staff mop it up, but he's so pre-occupied with calming down the girl that he doesn't mind grinding through paper products. stevie's done as much as he can, so he'll leave the real scrub to the workers-- but he ushers the girl to the side carefully, sticking one hand into his pocket to dig out his wallet. "is that all you want? need? what about a uh, snack?" he shoots rapidfire question after question towards the girl, trying his best to rectify the tears as best as he can.

sometimes ria wishes she didn’t cry so easily, but she just can’t help it. it’s not on purpose, not at all, and she can’t even control it. most people can tell when they’re about to cry, attempt to distract themselves before they cry, with ria, she barely gets to realize she’s about to cry before she cries. her friends and family have gotten used to it, it doesn’t bother them anymore, they know crying is just a part of ria, and they know how to handle it. but every now and then it’s a stranger who suffers from ria’s crying, who doesn’t know how to get her quickly to stop like her friends and family does.

she gives a nod, wiping away her tears, “banana and pear”, “because i like strawberry, but i’m allergic to it”... wait…. wait… wait… “why am i allergic to something so delicious?” she says as the tears start once again, she was already emotional, so crying came even easier now. “are you sure you can pay for it? i don’t want to be a bother” she pouts, wipes away her tears once again, and hopefully this time she won’t say something to make herself cry again.

“a new smoothie is more than enough, thank you”.

[oumakokichi]

I don't want to be a prickly pear (once again) but when you say people are 'making more of something than there is' that's frustrating and kinda presumptuous? I know you see Saihara one way and that's fine, but remember this is a catbox mystery situation and others might have cause to believe something else that's also based in the text. Personally I do not trust Saihara's character, and that won't change just because of some impassioned speech. I have my reasons just as Anon likely had theirs.

We're quite literally in Saihara's head, hearing his innermost thoughts and narration for literally the majority of the game. And while unreliable narrators are certainly nothing new to the mystery genre, those have to be foreshadowed appropriately in order to not feel like a cheap shot at the readers trying to piece together the narrative.

For example, Kaede is an unreliable narrator. Her desire to end the killing game no matter what methods she needs to use, her perusal of the warehouse, and her slipping the shotput ball are all foreshadowed well in advance, enough to allow players/readers the opportunity to piece things together as the ch1 trial progresses.

But there's nothing in the actual text itself to suggest that she or Saihara didn't care about people. That is the issue the other anon seemed to raise, i.e. "does he listen to his friends or care about them or their interests."

Not even the audition videos that Tsumugi shows in ch6 suggest this, considering that the main two possibilities with those are either that 1) they were real but Saihara and his classmates have no memories of anything that happened in them and are therefore very different people now from when they started, as a result of their lived experiences, or 2) that Tsumugi somehow faked or exaggerated the tapes and that they therefore don't accurately reflect the feelings or intentions of the people in them.

Ndrv3 is indeed a catbox mystery, as you said, but if you can't take certain sentiments at face value when they're presented as one of the core themes of the game—i.e. Saihara giving a heartfelt speech about the importance of his and everyone else's lives, and the importance of "fiction" in shaping the world in general—then surely nothing I say is going to change your mind either. No one is obligated to like Saihara or even "trust him," but the fact remains that the game's text shows a protagonist who is deeply saddened by the loss of so many of his friends, who chooses to keep the pain of that loss alive in his heart as proof that everything they suffered meant something, rather than buy into the cycle of hope vs. despair that Tsumugi uses as a way to keep the game going forever while giving the audience what they want.

Whether anyone believes this was actually well-written or not is a matter of personal, subjective opinion—I can say all day long that I personally believe Saihara's a great character and an excellent choice for a protagonist, but someone else may disagree with me and think the writing was terrible or that he was a boring protagonist, and that's simply a difference of opinion.

However, saying something like Saihara "didn't care about his friends" without providing a shred of evidence beyond speculation is absolutely making more of something than what there is, in my opinion. The fact of the matter is that the game itself shows us a character who repeatedly attempts to use his talent to save everyone else in the trials (something that's even addressed directly in ch4), who grieves for his friends openly whenever they die, and who chooses to keep their memories in his heart and vouch for the meaning their lives held at the end of the game, even if the rest of the world tells them that they're meaningless fictional characters.

And it's totally fine to speculate about ulterior motives, or whether a character might be putting on some kind of façade, but in this case, where we quite literally hear Saihara's thoughts and feelings directly for most of the game, that sort of interpretation means discounting a lot of textual evidence from the game, which is something I don't really agree with.

I enjoy speculating on the nature of catbox mysteries as well, but I also personally think that at least some of the events as we're presented them in the text have to matter or else the themes and message of the story itself may become sort of lost in the process. That's my own personal opinion, and other people are free to disagree, but I don't understand the need of coming to my blog and asking me for my opinion in the first place if me giving it is "presumptuous." That's sort of the entire reason that I tag those kinds of posts with "#my opinion" in the first place.

In any case, again, I'm not expecting or aiming to change your or anyone else's mind here. I was asked a question, which I answered with my opinion along with bits from the text itself, and I honestly don't understand what the need is to make that into a further issue.

[chubbology]

Overindulged

prompt: feeder boyfriend quits his job and balloons as fat as his feedee/feeder girlfriend

He drove his sleek BMW up his driveway and into the middle garage just as dusk settled into night. He’d stayed overtime at work again, and to make it up to his girlfriend, three dozen fresh assorted donuts sat in the passenger seat.

Sure enough, immediately upon opening the back door with his stack of boxes, he heard her voice: “Late.”

“It’s the end of the month,” he said. “What do you expect? Brought you something though, so don’t be mad. Come in here.”

He set the boxes down on the granite island, then waited, sucking in a breath. His pupils dilated as his favorite person in the world waddled through the wide archway leading into the kitchen. After giving him a pout, she pulled the boxes toward her with arms that hung, at their heaviest, over half a foot with fat.

She was a beautiful, enormous woman. He had met her on a plane three years ago on a business trip to Paris. She’d pulled him into conversation like a warm whirlpool, and he’d listened in awe to her life story: miserable wife of a banker to a happily divorced entrepreneur, flying first class on her own dime.

With a smug, knowing smile, she talked about how she used to be skinny for her ex’s sake and now was free. He couldn’t help but let his gaze roam over her blatantly overweight body. Thighs pressing firm on either armrest of the wide seat, bust prominent and heavy, belly button deep and visible through her dress.

Bad news is, she’d concluded, I just settled a messy lawsuit that lost me my career and nearly bankrupted me. But she shrugged, as if such was life. I’m taking my last-hurrah vacation until I have no choice but to eat tiny, unsatisfying meals again.

He decided that couldn’t come to pass, so he spent as much time with her outside his business obligations as he could, taking her to meal after meal, falling in love as she ate to her heart’s content and shamelessly talked about how she’d rather fallen in love with gaining weight. It titillated and empowered her. By the end of their two week stay in Paris, she was twelve pounds bigger and he had invited her to live with him for a while as she looked for a new career path. She accepted.

Three years later, she’d found her calling without having to leave his luxurious, spacious home. Doing what she loved.

She was almost four hundred and fifty pounds now, last he was updated. She always wore leggings that clung to every lump and bulge of cellulite, and she liked to tease him by wearing crop tops, letting her massive belly and side rolls hang out and wobble as they pleased.

He watched with soft eyes as she stuffed herself with four jelly-filled doughnuts. Between bites she said, “These long hours at your soulless job are no good. My fans want to see more of you.” More eating. “The last time you fed me on camera was weeks ago!”

She gave him an imploring look as she ate a fifth doughnut. Boston creme. Her face, once conventionally pretty, now had a sexy overindulged look. She’d lost her jawline to additional chins and neck fat, and her round, fatty cheeks quivered as she chewed. Even before she finished the fifth doughnut, she picked up a sixth. “And don’t think they haven’t noticed that little tummy you have now.”

“What?” He looked down at himself, blushing at how his tie sat out a bit on slightly stretched white buttons.

Before he could say anything, she pushed a chocolate doughnut in his hand. “I know people willing to pay a pretty petty to see you chunk out.” She smirked. “Pop a couple of those buttons.”

He laughed dismissively, but as he ate the doughnut, he contemplated the press of his new chub against his shirt. His pants felt a little tight in the ass, too, now that he thought about it. What if? he thought.

Suddenly, he found himself admitting: “I’ve been thinking of quitting.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I want to spend more time with you,” he explained. He hadn’t meant to talk about it now, but here he was. Out of nervousness, he pulled one of the boxes toward himself and picked another doughnut, this one caving in under its sprinkles. He took a heavenly bite. “I have plenty of money saved and invested to take care of both of us for a long time. I just don’t see why I…”

She waddled over to his side of the island and took his free hand. “You know I’d support you.” Then she pulled him closer, into a smiling kiss. “I’ll support you real good.”

*

Before his two week notice even ended, he was eight pounds heavier, and he relished how his coworkers’ eyes lingered on his burgeoning waistline. Soon, his tummy was pushing over his pants. His chest felt thicker. He felt his ass spread wider when he sat down. He ate desserts all the time, and his girlfriend lavished him with attention (food) at every opportunity when he was home, encouraging him to eat in amounts he’d never let himself eat before. She started filming - with his consent, as always - the development of his chubbing up. Her fans loved him even more than they already did, compliments coming in faster than he could read them.

One month into being an unemployed man, she stuffed him on camera until one of his shirt buttons popped off. The experience was more of a revelation for him than even becoming officially overweight; that night, after she went to sleep, he got out of bed, squeezed into an old pair of slacks that barely fit him, then gorged himself in the kitchen until he gasped at the relief of his ass seam tearing open, unable to accommodate his butt, which everyone online said was growing gorgeously fat. His heart fluttered just thinking about it, and he hoped his ass kept growing.

It did.

“I admit, I never thought you’d be this much of a pear,” his girlfriend told him, six months into his steady ballooning. They were admiring his progress in the large bathroom mirror. He may have looked small relative to his partner’s morbid obesity, but somehow, they were both more fascinated with his growth at the moment. She outlined his bottom heavy figure with her hands. Fat had indeed stored most eagerly in his ass, thighs, and hips. His belly drooped soft and wide.

“I love it,” she said. “Love everything about you.” But then something else came into her expression. “Except how you’ve stopped picking up after yourself.”

He swallowed, and said honestly, “Sorry. I know I’m getting lazier.”

“We’ll have to hire a maid.” She grinned wickedly. “Or do two pigs deserve to roll in their sty?”

*

A year into living on his passive income and her subscribers, the couple had not yet hired any cleaning services, and his country club house was...well. Not trashed, but messy and disorganized. She blamed the five pounds she’d lost over the past month on having to constantly throw his trash away. She punished him by making him stand while drinking a whole liter of full-sugar soda. Since he’d developed a strong distaste for any physical effort as he sunk deeper into obesity, he grumbled the whole time. When he finally fell back on the couch, she sat too. Together, they took up most of it. But while she looked perfectly composed, he was panting raggedly, slightly sweaty, a food stain on his pants.

“Look.” She reached out and held his chubby wrist. “I can tell that the fatter you get, the more your natural inclination is to be a pig.” She spoke with total matter-of-factness. As if the emergence of his inner pig was unsurprising and inevitable. “It’s not uncommon in men - that urge to oink and eat as a way of life. But we share this space. I help pay off this house. Please throw away your take out containers.”

Then she added, at his long-suffering sigh, “I’ll reward you.”

He met her gaze. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

*

This time, there were no cameras. There was just her, sitting on one side of their king bed and him on the other, breathing heavy, taking her reward one bite at a time.

Everywhere in their bed were containers and packages and napkins and soda bottles. He had eaten mexican and noodles and burgers and fries. He’d eaten candy bars and sundaes and milkshakes and chunky cookies. He was so full he could feel the skin of his belly stretching. He could practically feel the skin of his thighs stretching, as if they were filling up heavier with fat right then, as he was determinedly overfed. He swallowed another bite of greasy cheeseburger.

“Keep going. I can tell you're slowing down, but I’ll have none of that yet. I want to see progress from you.”

“I don’t know…”

“Do you want to feel the ecstasy of squeezing through a doorframe or are you going to plateau at being just fat?”

He let out a breathy moan as he ate another bite of the cheeseburger. His girlfriend knew him too well. She knew he liked the new challenges being big was causing him. She knew it turned him on that he sat so much fatter in his own car, belly pressing against everything, ass barely fitting at all. She knew his hands had begun cupping his hips as a half-unconscious habit, admiring his own width.

He liked how his thighs had to push past each other, jiggling every time. He even liked when he accidentally bumped into things, because it was a hot reminder that he wasn’t the same. He was like her now. He was fat. He was a pig. He wanted to eat and get so big he could barely even waddle. He wanted to squeeze through doorways. He wanted to get stuck.

“I want everything,” he said. And she smiled, temporarily pleased.

*

Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

I'd love to write more. Check me out <3 etsy.com/shop/Chubbology

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

for @bend-me-shape-me's spn advent calendar 2020. prompt: christmas curse.

"It could be worse." Sam repeats, and Cas nods.

A killing spree, loss of memory, hallucinations — take your pick. Relative to the scale of havoc they'd seen witches wreak in their day, this was mild. Harmless.

Funny.

"Dashing through the snow." Dean lets out morosely, as if in reluctant agreement, while Sam's restraint suffers a little more. That seems to annoy Dean further, and he glares at his brother. "I'm dreaming of a White Christmas!"

That's probably supposed to be a profanity, but Sam doubles over laughing.

Dean flips him off, and chooses to ignore Sam by turning to Cas with a look in his eyes tragic enough to invoke real compassion in the angel's heart. He wishes he could help, of course, but spells either wear off, or are reversed by the witch (arguably more often, the murder of the witch). And he knows Dean knows he can't help either, so a sympathetic nod has to suffice.

And in any case, even in all his billions of years, Cas has never seen a curse like this.

Dean can only speak in carols.

Trust the Winchesters to irk the most creative witches into hexing them with the most obscure curses for Christmas.

"On the first day of Christmas," Dean starts, voice questioning. Cas squints, paying even closer attention than usual — although, to be fair, conversations with Dean usually involve more focus on intonation than words, in regards to things he means and often doesn't say. "My true love sent to me?"

"A partridge in a pear tree." Sam completes immediately, looking extremely pleased with himself. In his defense, had their positions been swapped, Dean would almost certainly have been more obnoxious about it.

"I think," Cas interrupts, right before Dean could start to curse at Sam inevitably in another carol. "He means what do we do now?"

Dean nods, focus snapped back to Cas. "Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer!"

Cas narrows his eyes. "He's saying I'm right."

"What, you speak caroltongue now?" Sam blinks, surprised.

"No, Sam. I speak Dean." Cas answers sincerely, before turning his eyes to Dean again. "And I'm an angel. I may not be able to read minds anymore, but maybe it's enough for me to still translate for him."

"Here comes Santa Claus?"

"Yeah." Cas nods, earnest. And turning to Sam, "That was just a 'yeah?'"

Sam looks like he wants to say something but then he changes his mind. "Okay. Okay, fine. So Dean speaks in carols, and you translate. Cool. Now," he bites his lip, as if it pains him that they're inching closer to the end of this ordeal, and turns to Dean. "Who did this to you?" They'd been in the middle of taking down a coven.

"Make the Yule-tide gay."

"The greyhaired witch." Cas says, not missing a beat.

Sam looks like he might not be done laughing yet. "The one in the sequins dress who called you, and I quote, a choirboy Scrooge?"

"Joy to the World."

"Sam, he's calling you a bitch."

"Say, Cas, what's carolspeak for jerk?" Sam snickers, and Cas tilts his head because he'd only just specified he couldn't translate like that.

"Here comes Santa Claus." Dean grouses, crossing his arms on his chest.

"Yeah, again?" Sam looks at Cas.

"No, I believe this time it means go to hell." Cas tells him thoughtfully, and Sam rolls his eyes, leaving him wondering how the same phrase could mean such different things in this strange language, but then that certainly isn't the only thing not making sense right now, so he decides to let it go.

*

Hunting down the witch is easy enough, and they nab a chance to confront her after less than three hours of stakeout — where once, in between, they almost got caught because Sam couldn't stop laughing at Dean's remorseful "Santa Baby" when he spilled cheese on his shirt — but everything works out in the end, and Sam's made to swear he won't laugh, and Dean's made to promise that he won't call Sam names in disguised carols, and then they're off to take down Greta, the greyhaired witch.

(Dean nudges Cas to stay behind him when they're about to barge in. At least, he vaguely pieces together that that's what Dean meant to say.

"All I Want for Christmas is You." Is what he ends up saying though, slapping a hand over his mouth the moment the words have come out, flushing red.

Cas falters, and while he wouldn't have listened to Dean's (ridiculous) instruction anyway, he isn't even sure it registers.

"Get a room." Sam mutters eventually, either minutes or aeons later, and they're pulled back to reality with Dean snapping a, "Silent Night!" At Sam, vicious enough to not need Cas's participation to be understood.)

Ultimately, the witch is easy to deal with.

As expected, because Cas has finally learned to anticipate moral greyness in even the villains the Winchesters come up against, she asks for a pass to leave in return of returning Dean's speaking abilities, but she promises to not cause harm (just as she never has before, she swears, and Sam and Dean eye her suspiciously but finally believe her) and stay out of covens of the sort, and that's that.

Dean's vocabulary is restored, which he chooses to test by swearing under his breath, and sagging when it comes out as it should, instead of a verse from Twelve Days Of Christmas.

And since Cas agrees that "6 Geese a Laying" doesn't quite have the same impact as "Son of a bitch", he squeezes Dean's shoulder in reassurance when the latter sighs.

They're okay.

*

On their way back to the Impala, the church bells ring, reminding them of Christmas once more.

Cas turns to find Dean looking at him, a strange swell of emotions in his eyes, which he hasn't pieced together yet when Dean leans in to kiss him on the cheek.

It's just a brush of lips, chaste, almost traditional, but Cas can feel his face heating up uncharacteristically, and Dean's turning red again when he whispers, "Merry Christmas, Cas," so maybe there's more to it than it looks like, like with most things between them.

"Don't you mean," Sam grins, hands shoved in his pockets and eyes dancing. "We wish you a Merry Christmas?"

And just like that, Dean's snapping out of the almost-trance, and taking off after his brother with curses on his lips that finally don't come worded as carols anymore, although Sam laughs as gleefully as if they still are, easily keeping ahead of Dean to the latter's extreme annoyance, and Cas shakes his head, because they're ridiculous —

But they're his family.

And that means everything, he knows now, and knows that he wouldn't change any of it for the world, so it's a merry Christmas after all.

[teddy06writes]

Greek Myth Series: Hades And Persephone

Woo! Woo! It's finally here, the moment you've been waiting for, the kick off of the greek myth series!

We are starting out with Hades And Persephone because on the poll they beat out Psyche and Eros by like, 12 or 13 votes. So lets go:

Wilbur Soot x reader (slightly implied female)

Trigger warnings: yelling, some swearing

premise: if you know the story of Hades and Persephone then you know what it is. If not, well you'll see. This is me putting an mcyt twist on my take of the story.

Just a line up {subject to change from part to part of this series} :

Wilbur- Hades

Tommy- Thanatos

Dream- Zeus

Ranboo- Hermes

Hannah- Demeter

Tubbo- Askalaphos (the dude who tells Persephone to eat the pomegranate)

Sapnap- Apollo

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Long, long ago, when monsters and mortals still clashed over land, and when Gods still ruled the Earth, there lived a woman.

No, not just a woman, a goddess, one of the 12 major gods, housed in the Greek Pantheon.

Hannah, they called her, who hailed over crops and the growing season. Most would have known her as passive, but in one flick of her wrist you may find your fields dead, and her wrath growing.

Now, Hannah, had but one godly child, who presided over spring growth, called (y/n).

(y/n), though they loved to walk the earth, to see fields full of flowers, and orchards full of trees, longed for something more. As they grew, Hannah bound them more and more to the growing season, nearly forbidding them to have their freedom.

And, during those fleeting moments, where (y/n) was able to roam free, not giving their energy to blessing crops, they didn't know that someone had been watching.

Wilbur Soot, the king of the underworld, could sense their despair, and their suffering. Of the things he wished he could change, this was the one he could not.

At least, until one day.

It was one of the few days that (y/n) was able to escape what seemed to be a prison with their mother. They had picnicked, in a lovely valley, with a few of the friendlier Nymphs, Niki, George, Foolish and Puffy.

The sun was just starting to sink in the sky when (y/n) slipped away from their friends, wandering through the flower field.

They sighed, twirling the stem of a cut rose in their fingers, if only they could get away like this everyday.

It wasn't until they were a considerable distance from the Nymphs that Wilbur made his move. Chariot beginning to long trek to the surface.

(y/n) turned suddenly, as a crack formed in the ground, the chariot pulled by huge black stallions emerging.

"Who- who are you?" They asked cautiously, already backing away.

Wilbur stepped down from the chariot, "I am Wilbur Soot, king of the Underworld. I- love you, join me, to rule by my side."

(y/n) let out a nervous giggle, "Ummm..."

"I know that you've been longing to get away. If you come with me you won't have to be a slave to your mother's passions any longer."

They looked at him for a long moment, at his outstretched hand, and then back they way they had come. Could he really free them?

Wilbur couldn't help but squeeze his eyes shut, worried for their response, only to feel a hand grip his own. Opening his eyes, he looked down at them, "Truly?"

They nodded, "We should go, before my mother catches word."

~~

The underworld, (y/n) quickly realized, was nothing like the world above. There was no sky, only a dark cavernous ceiling, and there seemed to be no blues, no yellows or greens, only the dark dismal blues, greys, and reds.

The first days that they had spent there, were spent exploring, the palace, the grounds, and anywhere else they were allowed.

Usually, Tommy, the young god of death accompanied them, having appointed himself as their personal tour guide.

It frightened them, to be so far away from the surface, so far from their mother, and so close to the dead.

Though, they did suppose that it was freedom, they couldn't trust this foreign place, minding to never eat anything, for fear of becoming stuck in that place, never allowed to visit the surface again.

On the seventh day of their stay in the underworld, (y/n) managed to shake Tommy long enough to wander into a set of gardens they had never seen before.

With a gasp, they realized that all of the fruits, all of the plants that though abundant on the surface never grew there, were all thriving in that garden. Rows and rows of apple trees, cherry trees, pear trees and- Pomegranate trees.

As soon as the gasp escaped their lips, a small form appeared from behind one of the trees, "Oh- hello there!"

"Hello- what is all this? If I'm allowed to ask." They edged forward into the garden.

"Oh- Lord Wilbur ordered all this to be planted, to make you feel at home. I'm Tubbo, the gardener."

They blinked, processing his words, "He did all this- for me?"

Tubbo nodded, already moving to put down his watering can, and beginning to pluck some of the pomegranates from the nearest tree, "He cares for you very much."

(y/n) continued to look around in amazement as they sat at the small table.

"You look famished," he commented, "Do you want any?"

"Oh no, I couldn't." They shook their head.

"Not even a few pomegranate seeds?"

~~

It was at the same time, that Hannah's quest to find her missing child, found her standing in the Olympian throne room, threatening to worsen the state she had put the world in.

While (y/n) had explored the underworld, the overworld had withered, Hannah's wrath once again coming to the surface.

Sapnap shifted in his throne, "Well, Hannah, I may have some information, on the where abouts of your kid."

She turned on him, "What did you see?"

"It was a bit ago, they were out wandering, big hole opened in the ground, and they got in one lord of the Dead's chariot." He shrugged.

Wilbur swallowed as Hannah whirled on him, and slowly he held up his hands, "In my defense they agreed to come with me."

"Did they?" Hannah questioned.

"They did. (y/n) wanted to get away from you!"

The throne room was thrown into chaos as various gods and goddess shouted their opinions on the matter.

"Silence!" Dream yelled, "Wilbur, is what you say true?"

He nodded, "Yes M'lord."

Dream frowned, "This is a predicament indeed."

~~ When Wilbur finally returned to the underworld, it was with Ranboo trailing behind, both trying to formulate a plan where (y/n) could truly get a say in what happened.

They found (y/n) in the garden, sitting with Tubbo, and laughing candidly.

"(y/n) Are you aware that your mother has been looking for you?" Ranboo asked.

They jumped up, hiding there hands behind their back, "Well, I had assumed so, yes."

"Are you aware of the trouble that this has been causing the mortals? Hannah has begun a decay, and thousands of them starve everyday." Ranboo reported, "I am to asses the situation here and report back to Dream. So, allow me to ask a few questions before we prepare to decide your fate, have you permanently installed yourself here?"

"Well not permanently, but some of my things are here." They answered.

"Mhhhm, and you haven't done anything to effect the lives of the dead? er- afterlives of the dead?"

"Smooth one boss man." Tubbo muttered.

"Gods no." They shook their head.

Ranboo nodded, "Okay, and last one, hove you eaten anything during your stay here?"

The ichor seemed to drain from (y/n)s face, "Well..."

"Well what? (y/n) this could decide whether or not you'll be forced to stay here or not!" WIlbur exclaimed.

Tubbo grabbed one of their hands, holding it out for the gods to see the pomegranate juice that still stained the flesh, "One third of a pomegranate."

"Oh dear."

~~ It was decided that (y/n) would be brought in front of the council of gods, to advocate where they would like to stay.

After long hours of arguing, it was decided, that because they had only eaten one third of the pomegranate, they would remain in the underworld for one third of the year, and for the rest they would stay above.

However, after Wilbur advocated for it, the Gods agreed that (y/n)'s time above could be spent however they chose, and not in the slavery of Hannah.

Perhaps it was then, that they fell.

For in time, (y/n) grew to love Wilbur, and they married, becoming the king and queen of the Underworld,

[lunasalix]

Really annoyed by the satanic panic around Astroworld. Y'all are really reaching. Like, I get the psychology for those who were present and suffered severe trauma looking for an explanation and order to the chaos. Everyone else needs to chill, though. Blaming it on your imaginary supervillain isn't going to solve the very real structural issues with the capitalist approach to entertainment.

Like, when a similar incident happened during Pear Jam's set at a European festival years ago, most of the continent reviewed their policies and added additional safety measures for all future events. This is not the first time this has happened in the US, and it won't be the last if we keep playing the blame game.

Also, everyone saying this doesn't happen at rock shows, fuck off. I've been in that scene for 15 years. I've been knocked out, concussed, punched in the ear so hard it bled in a pit, suffered dehydration and heat exhaustion, had a friend wind up with a broken rib from a pit, and watched countless people leave on stretchers. Festivals are dangerous. Certain artists encourage additional chaos and violence from their fans *looking at you Korn & Slipknot* which is when injuries are most likely. Other artists take personal responsibility for their fans' safety and use tactics like playing slower songs, pausing to talk, or commanding the crowd to look out for one another when things get out of hand.

But responsibility does not lie solely on the artists either. Careful planning and coordination between staffed security and paramedics, city emergency services, local leaders, and those designing the sites are the biggest factors in prevention. It's also the responsibility of concertgoers to learn etiquette and personal safety measures. This tragedy was not the failure of any single person or group, but a series of small missteps that compounded into the perfect storm.

That said, if you're attending a concert or festival with others:

1. Have a meeting place designated before the show in case you are separated. Tell someone who is not in attendance that you will text them when you leave so someone knows to look out for your communication and can check in if you don't reach out.

2. Drink lots of water. Twice what you think you'll need. Bring some with you into the crowd so you can rehydrate as you inevitably sweat in the heat of thousands of bodies packed together. Avoid drinking more than a couple glasses of alcohol. You need your wits about you.

3. Eat something. You may get trapped in the crowd and don't want cramping or exhaustion to set in while everyone else is dancing/moshing around you.

4. Have an exit plan. Try to position yourself near a barrier, but not against it.

5. Don't be afraid to ask someone to lift you and crowd surf you out to safety. This is the quickest and easiest way out.

6. If you get caught in a crowd surge, do not push back against the influx of bodies, this only intensifies the crush; just go with the flow. Stay calm, panicking makes you more likely to pass out from asphyxiation. Keep your arms at chest level to protect your ribs and stabilize yourself against others, if needed. If you are able to help others without putting yourself in danger, do it, but don't feel bad if all you can do is survive.

Stay safe. Concerts are meant to be fun, not traumatic.

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (16) || atz

The three of you are walking along in town.

Unsurprisingly, after the crazy celebration the night before, majority of the crew had woken up with massive hangovers, most retching over the side of the ship or trying to nurse pounding headaches. To be honest, the only ones who weren’t drunk were you, Seonghwa and Mingi.

Technically, Yeosang hadn’t been drunk either, but he had left for town earlier in the morning to go search for Wooyoung, who still hadn’t returned to the ship. When you had started to worry, Yeosang had simply reassured you that this was normal Wooyoung behavior, and he’d have their head gunner back on board before the ship set sail.

The biggest problem was, however, the fact that the ship’s resident healer was also suffering from a hangover.

“You’re such a lightweight, master.” You had chided him this morning as he groaned in his bed, half buried in a mountain of stuffed plushies. “Everybody needs you to cure their hangovers, you know?”

“You can do it, apprentice.” San mumbled weakly from beneath a pig stuffed toy. “You have a good master.”

“Red ginseng, lemon and ginger tea and prickly pear cactus.” You recalled diligently from your studies, glancing at the lump that was your master. “Am I right?”

The only answer you got was a snore in response.

So, that explains why you, Seonghwa and Mingi are together, walking along the town’s marketplace, searching for a hangover cure for your poor crew mates. Seonghwa had offered his services to help you carry the groceries back, while Mingi simply didn’t want to get in the way of his crewmates’ projectile vomiting.

You don’t blame him. The stench was absolutely awful.

“So, what are you looking for?” Seonghwa asks as you make your way through the crowd. There’s a soft buzz in the air, a little subdued, but you chalk it up to being early in the morning and that nobody is quite awake yet.

“Opuntia, or prickly pear cactus.” You tell him as you weave through the throng of people selling their wares at every corner of the long street. “Its fruit helps to ease hangovers, so that’s what I’m looking for.”

“Anything else?” Mingi asks, checking through his coin pouch. As the quartermaster and also the treasurer, all funds go through him before being spent.

“Lemon, honey and ginger.” Bending over to check out some of the fruits, you study a lemon carefully for any defects and put them in your basket. “I’m also looking for red ginseng to reduce hangover severity, but it’s an eastern root herb, so it may be a little difficult to find here.”

“We are in the Caribbean, after all.” Seonghwa remarks, using his superior height to his advantage as his eyes scan the multitude of stalls selling every sort of exotic plant, fruit, and even animal. “I do recall seeing a shop selling eastern herbs the last time I was here, though.”

“Ah, Master did tell me to make sure we stock up on eastern herbs if I found any!” You chatter excitedly, turning to Seonghwa. “Did you see any worm grass (cordyceps) or fish bladders (fish maw)?”

Seonghwa nods, a smile blossoming on his face. “Yes! I can’t believe I even found some dried black mountain ants there!”

Mingi stares at the two of you with a weirded out look on his face. “I’m not even going to ask any questions. None at all.”

“There, I see it!” Seonghwa points over the heads of the crowd at a stall tucked all the way at the end of the street, his grin widening. “We did it, Chin Hae!”

The two of you exchange high fives and dash for the stall faster than Mingi can blink. He simply sighs, following the pair of you at a more sedately pace, shaking his head dryly. “Are all cooks like this…?”

When he finally does catch up with the two of you, you’re gushing over the different herbs and spices with Seonghwa, picking up a piece of black root that looks suspiciously like a thin, black stick. You hold it to Mingi’s nose.

“Hey, Mingi-hyung, look what I found!” Mingi frowns as he stares down his nose at it, going a little crossed eyed. It’s black, thin and looks rather boring. Mingi doesn’t understand why you’re so excited over it at all.

“A stick?” He answers, a little befuddled to what it could be to get you so excited about it. Seonghwa clucks his tongue disapprovingly, reaching to take the stick from you and waving it in front of Mingi’s face.

“No, Mingi.” The cook shakes his head dramatically, brandishing the stick as if it is the cure to all the world’s troubles. “This wonderful, powerful herb is the cordycep!”

Silence.

“It looks like a stick to me.” Mingi grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. Honestly, he’s never been one for herbs and medicines like San is, but that’s why they have San and Seonghwa and now you, right?

“Yes, but you don’t get it!” You cry in horror, waving the black stick at him. “The cordycep is a worm-”

The quartermaster freezes, his eyes widening as he takes in the black thing so close to his face.

Then he screams like a ten year old girl and dives behind a stack of barrels, as if you’ve just pulled a musket at him.

“Uhh, Seonghwa-hyung?” You turn to the cook, who’s simply shaking his head in amusement.

“He’s afraid of insects and the like.” Seonghwa nods at the too tall shape that is Mingi crouching behind a cask of alcohol, his eyes peering over at the worm in your hand like a cat staring down a bath of water.

You can’t help but laugh at the sight as you turn to the shopkeeper and order a tael of cordyceps, red ginseng and ginger. Honestly, you would have never thought that the silent, strong quartermaster was afraid of insects.

The shopkeeper smiles at you. “Know your herbs, do you, dear?” She packages the dried herbs into paper and ties each up with a red string, before passing them to you. Each package is worth its weight in silver or more. “A gold coin and three silvers.”

Mingi carefully counts out the money before diving back into the relative safety of his barrel fort.

“Honestly, Mingi-hyung.” You say, going over to him. He doesn’t look at you, eyes fixated on the paper package that he knows has the cordyceps inside of it. “These are dead worms. The cordyceps are actually just fungi that grow on the worms.”

“Dead, alive, stuffed with mushrooms, worth a thousand golds, I don’t care.” Mingi hisses, eyes still trained on the bag like he’s ready to fight them. “I hate insects.”

You and Seonghwa burst out laughing at his hostile tone.

“Alright, alright.” Seonghwa steps towards the quartermaster. “Let’s get back to the ship and brew up a nice lemon honey ginger tea for the rest, shall we-”

Suddenly, a small boy shoves into you, knocking you to the side abruptly before dashing off. To your horror, you feel the package of herbs being torn from your fingers, the force leaving rope marks on your skin as you stumble to the ground, hands barely saving you from a nasty fall.

“Hey!” Mingi shouts, but the boy is already fleeing. He glances at Seonghwa. “Hyung, you and Chin Hae take the other way from the square, I’ll cut him off.” Then he pauses for a moment, staring at the cook, his gaze softening in worry. “Will you be alright, hyung?”

That seems like a strange question to ask, but Seonghwa must understand what he’s talking about because he nods, already pulling you in the opposite direction towards the town square. “Don’t worry about me!”

The two of you dash through the street, where people are filing out of their houses. It’s rather easy to move, considering that everyone is moving towards the town square, the same direction the two of you are. You simply move with the flow, following the crowd to the main square.

“There must be quite some commotion happening.” Your crewmate huffs for breath as the two of you tear along the town, bumping into several other people and apologising furiously. You’re sure one of them even curses you rather creatively in his native tongue.

“There are a lot of people today.” You pant, glancing around you as the pair of you finally emerge in the square. There weren’t this many people the last time you and Jongho had come to town, so you’re a little puzzled. “Why-”

Suddenly, the ringing of the town bells fills the air.

You’re instantly jerked back by the hand on your wrist and you nearly stumble to the ground. You turn back to stare at him urgently. “Seonghwa-hyung, we need to hurry!”

But Seonghwa merely stands still, face bloodless, lips moving without sound. You’ve never seen him like this, so afraid, so petrified with fear.

He looks so emotionally raw, bloody, haunted by the ghosts of his past.

You turn to look at Seonghwa in worry. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. “Hyung? We should be going.” But he doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are wide and unfocused, dark pupils dilated with fear, his breathing erratic and irregular. You tug at his hand once more, only to jerk back in shock, it’s slick with cold sweat. Your blood turns to ice inside you as you take Seonghwa’s face, cradling his cheeks with your hands. Your voice is gentle, afraid of pushing him over the edge into whatever abyss he’s dangling over.

You’re terrified.

“Hyung

? What’s wrong?”

His breath comes out in shallow pants, chest heaving. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are fixed on something behind you, and you turn to see what could have possibly caused him to react in such a manner.

“-and I hereby declare the sentence will be carried out now.”

There’s the sound of a lever being turned, the squeak as the trap doors swing open.

And the noose jerks taut.

A soft whimper leaves Seonghwa’s mouth, and suddenly he squats on the ground like a small child, hands over his ears, shaking his head desperately as he whispers the same words again and again under his breath.

“Hyung!” You cry out in horror and panic, kneeling next to him to wrap your arms around him. What do you do? What’s happening to Seonghwa-hyung? He barely seems to be aware of your presence anymore.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers between soft, quiet sobs, raw and hoarse, from somewhere deep in his chest. You’re completely confused to why he’s apologising to you for a moment, until he begins to mumble names you’ve never heard under your breath. “I’m so sorry, mother, father, Hyunjung, Ha Rin.”

The last word is a wail, a cry of utter torment, so desperate that it yanks at your heartstrings, demanding you to do something, anything! But you don’t know what to do besides embracing him, watching him rock back and forth on his haunches like a deranged man.

There are tears winding down his face and you raise your hands to wipe them away as fast as you can. The sleeve of your shirt soaks with warm wetness, and suddenly, that same, tight agony wells up in you as well.

A single tear spills down your cheek.

“Seonghwa-hyung-” You manage to croak, your throat thick from unshed tears, but the older man merely stands as if in a daze, hands still over his ears as if that can stop him from hearing the sounds of the man at the noose slowly fading from this world.

Then he runs, tearing away from you without looking back.

[bedlamsbard]

Some Loki thoughts under the cut! Not explicitly spoilery for this week’s episode except for one comment, but some of what I’ve been dwelling on for the past few weeks, especially as I go through my MCU watch.  This is sort of negative, for those who are avoiding negative comments.

I think for me what I'm increasingly missing is context -- Marvel could have run most if not all of this story line with almost ANY character with very few changes; it doesn't feel deeply rooted in Loki himself.  At this point (next week’s finale could obviously prove otherwise) you could run this exact same story line with Natasha or Tony or Thor or Steve or Wanda or etc and end up with pretty similar results.

Obviously some of the decontextualization is deliberate depersonalization; what happens when you remove Loki from everything familiar and put him in this beige office monstrosity?  But even depending where you fall on the was-influenced-or-tortured-by-Thanos scale, that...already...happened to him...when he fell at the end of Thor, it just all happened offscreen, and then it happened again in the beginning of Thor: Ragnarok when he falls off the Bifrost and ends up on Sakaar -- it just all, again, happens offscreen, and both times results in Loki going “yeah, I could be anyone but I’m going to be Loki of Asgard, good or bad.”  Which isn’t to say that there’s not value in telling that story onscreen but I don’t love how they’ve been doing it.  And like, I love alternate universes and multiverses and alternate versions of the same character, I was absolutely onboard for episodes 1-3.

What’s key for me in that kind of thing is still keeping the character very firmly rooted in their own context even when everything else is stripped away from me, and that’s where the show started losing me after ep 1 and to a lesser extent ep 2 really dug into it.  Like, this guy is not human, he’s a thousand years old, he may or may not be a literal god (every Thor and Avengers movie has a different answer for the “are Asgardians gods or not?” question and Ragnarok commits to it; because I love the larger-than-life scale of divine storytelling that’s where I fall on that scale, but the show sort of elides it), and he just had the Battle of New York go pear-shaped on him.  And then there’s his family and...yeah, previously he’s only been presented in context of Thor (and to a lesser extent Odin and Frigga), but like, so has Thor himself -- Thor’s most stripped of context in Age of Ultron, tbh (which is a whole ‘nother issue because of like...the rest of AoU). But that’s a huge part of Loki and his identity issues and the fact that because, for whatever reason, the show can’t/won’t bring in movie characters rings hollow.  (The reasons are probably torn between a very practical “budget + pandemic made it impossible” and a thematic “who’s Loki without his family?”)  I like Loki a lot as a character, but for me a huge part of what makes him that character is his context and not having it is jarring.  (And I like his dynamic with Thor.)  Most of what I find really appealing about Loki has just not been there these past few eps and it’s not there even in its absence, which is the key part for me; with the family bit you can feel around the edges of it because it’s been highlighted a few times, but the “absolutely not human” part is just...lacking.  Like, you can have the magic and all the rest of it too, you know?

And for me the fact that this is supposed to be post-Avengers 2012 Loki -- which is a Loki who’s glaring in his brittleness -- is...lacking?  You can argue that one reason he’s so unsettled is because he’s smarting from what happened there, but I’m just not feeling it.  And yeah, he’s a chameleon who can blend into new contexts pretty easily, even coming immediately out of trauma (the Sakaar episode in Ragnarok shows that), but that’s such a specific context that we’re so familiar with that it feels off to me.  (And also, this is is a me issue, Tom Hiddleston, while very handsome, is very clearly ten years older in the face than he was as 2012 Loki, so I don’t even have the visual cues to say “this is 2012 Loki.”  That is obviously a me issue, again, I want to reiterate that.)

and to switch gears off the decontextualization

I’m also feeling some resentment on behalf of Loki Prime back in the films because the whole argument that a Loki is only allowed to do bad things and won't be allowed to change falls apart in the face of TDW/Ragnarok/IW? and like, he was presumably a pretty decent dude the preceding millennium? there’s a reason his psychotic break in Thor was such a shock to everyone?  (I guess to get back to context, he’s a thousand years old and the fact that none of that history feels like it’s there.  Like, the DB Cooper thing is ultimately pretty harmless, and also like...only forty years prior.)  I've seen people talking about Show Loki having to speedrun Film Loki's character arc but by the whole argument of the show, if we're taking it at face value, that character arc NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO HAPPEN. So it sits weirdly with me.

Obviously there’s no reason to take “you were born to cause pain and suffering and death” at face value, except there’s also Kid Loki’s comment in the last ep about “whenever one of us dares try to fix themselves, they’re sent here to die.”  It’s been a while since I read the comics (I think I went through Journey into Mystery around when Thor or maybe Avengers came out, but that was the last time), but IIRC that feels like much more a comics thing than an MCU thing and because they’re so very, very different it’s jarring.  This felt like a lot of “we’re going to stuff comics stuff in here despite the fact that the MCU is only very loosely connected to the comics,” which on the one hand could be fun (and obviously a lot of people found it fun!) but on the other hand threw me very badly.  I love a multiverse but one reason I mentally can't cope with most comics is that I need the multiverse to be very, very logical about its divergence points and that went out the window here. This is 100% about how my brain works, not a quality issue; it’s an issue that’s shown up elsewhere and not specifically a Loki thing here.  (I can kind of look past it for Into the Spider-Verse but tbh I think a lot of the reason I can is because that film’s animated.  again, like, 100% about how my brain works.)

also the recurring “glorious purpose” line makes zero sense considering that Loki never utters it again after Avengers. :/  I know it was exciting back in 2012 but y’all.

okay I’m going back to dealing with all of these problems in fanfic again

[jinkicake]

He is 6′3...

How will the great Ushijima Wakatoshi handle rejection?

Ushijima x Reader 

I have been wanting to post more but I’ve been watching Naruto all day because I had the genius idea to rewatch the series from the very beginning... My plan to post more will have to wait until later. Anyways this was in my drafts, I have so much fun writing Ushijima because he’s just so unique. LOL idk what this is.

WC- 1,841

~~~

“Oikawa is going to look so good out there.” Mei sighs pleasantly, grabbing your arm tightly as the two of you walk into the city gym. You roll your eyes at her tiny crush before grabbing one of the programs from the vendors.

“Save those noises for him stupid.” You tease and hand the clerk three hundred yen for the magazine. Mei gasps and slaps your arm out of embarrassment and you laugh hard as you try to get away from her. “It’s going to be fun to cheer for them.”

“(Y/N) you have to be here, you don’t even get a choice.” Mei narrows her eyes at you playfully, knowing fully well you wouldn’t be here to support her in the conquest that is Oikawa Toru’s love had it not been for student government obligations.

“Honestly Mei, Oikawa is cute but let's be real all the third years are hot.” You thumb through the magazine before landing on your own school's page. “Like Hanamaki and Matsukawa and Iwaizumi could all get it as well as Oikawa.” The comment comes out so nonchalant that Mei doesn’t even have time to process what you’re saying. Quietly you continue to flip through the pages when your friend’s hand slaps your arm. The program falls to the floor and you let out a yelp as you stinging clutch your bicep.

“You’re gross!” Mei squeals innocently and you roll your eyes once again as you bend down to reach for the paper. “Should a student council president speak like that?”

“You can’t tell me you wouldn’t fuck them if you didn’t know them.” You deadpan and your friend turns red at the question, vigoursly shaking her head. “Hush, I know you would.” Letting out a huff you look at the page you were on, nodding in approval at the ace of Karasuno. “Let’s play fuck or not fuck, but only with the third years.” Your eyes land on the Shiratorizawa page and you let out a disgusted sound before flipping the page to DateTech.

“Wait you missed the purple school.” Mei points out and you shake your head.

“Fuck the purple school.” You mutter childishly and Mei tilts her head in confusion. “Those stupid kids always think they’re better than everyone just because they go to Shiratorizawa. Like news flash, their school is no better than ours.” Your eyes narrow out of irritation and Mei’s eyes light up in realization.

“Is this because of that boy-“

“Yes, it is because of that boy and their student council! They can all choke!” Your voice raises and you grip the magazine tighter. Mei looks at you and then freezes when she notices the team standing behind you. “What- ah shit.” You curse lowly when you turn around and face the entire Shiratorizawa team who no doubt heard everything you’d just said.

With the confidence only a bitch such as yourself could have you stare at them, daring any of them to say anything to you. The following moments are silent and tense as you continue to wait, cocking your head intimidatingly. You refuse to break eye contact with any of them as your eyes narrow but when you realize they aren’t going to say anything you simply roll your eyes and turn back around.

“Let’s go I wanna go say hi to Oikawa before the game starts.” You announce childishly, turning your nose into the air.

“Oikawa!” Mei squeals and happily allows you to drag her towards the bleachers.

Tendou clasps his hands behind his back and innocently pears up at his friend as another wave of silence falls over the team.

“Wakatoshi-kun isn’t that the girl that you bumped into the other day causing her to fall on her ass in front of our student council which then lead them to laugh at her and ask her why a middle schooler was trying to enter a high school student council meeting?” Tendou asks with wide eyes and Semi visibly flinches, the cringe due to the lack of gracefulness his captain has. “And then she turned out to be the student body president of Seijoh and as she was cussing you out she had no idea who you were so then she got her ass handed to her by our student body president and he threatened to sue her?” Semi did not think the story could get any worse and it in fact did. Reon’s jaw drops as he stares at the two who look like they are simply discussing the weather.

“Yes that would be her.” Ushijima answers truthfully and Tendou nods his head in confimration before sighing and throwing his hands into the air.

“She has a right to be mad.” The red head defends and the two start to walk away leaving a very confused Reon and Semi behind as the rest of the team trails behind the other third years.

“Okay, fuck.” You point to the ace from Karasuno and Mei nods her head in agreement as she pulls out her phone.

“My friend down in Tokyo has a really hot third year at her school.” The picture you’re looking at causes your jaw to drop, his messy black hair and large build almost has you melting into your seat. “Fuck.” Mei giggles and confirms for you. “Fuck.” She points to the wing spiker of Wakutani and you have to think for a moment before nodding your head. “Obviously Oikawa belongs in the category too.” She blushes deeply as she stares at the captain of your school’s volleyball team.

“Defenitely and he’s a nice guy too so that is bonus points.” You continue to flip through your own pamphlet, not noticing the group of boys walk past you. More especially the boy who stops in front of you. The eyesore of maroon glaring down at you causes you to raise an eyebrow as distaste to fills your mouth. “Yes?” You barley give him the time of day, glancing at the tall boy once before looking back down at the paper in front of you.

“I need to talk to you in private.” The almost sounding command causes a noise of confusion to leave your lips as you scowl up at him. You almost start to laugh. However, your eyes drag up his body and you narrow your eyes to try to hide any interest. A tracksuit should not look so good on an asshole. With an irritated sigh, you place the magazine down in your seat after you stand up beside him, your glare hardening as you wait for him to move. He only blinks, his face stotic, before the two of you walk down the stairs to one of the abandoned hallways.

“I am Ushijima Wakatoshi.” He introduces and you continue to stare at him blankly, most of the time your stare would cause any sane person to look away but with your luck, olive eyes simply stare back at you. “I want to apologize, it seems I have offended you.” His apology has your eye twitching, your hands bunch into fists as you refrain from poking his chest.

“I had to write an apology letter to you snotty assholes when you were the one who bumped into me!” You seethe, subconsciously feeling guilty for taking your anger out on him. Ushijima stares down at you, your teeth gritted together like a small dog, he tilts his head slightly to get a better look at you.

“I was distracted by you, I apologize.” He restates and you look up at him as if he was sporting three heads.

“Why are you even apologizing to me, why do you even care?” You bite, crossing your arms over your chest pettily and Ushijima starts to look elsewhere to refrain from looking at your chest.

“I noticed that I upset you and I wanted to say I was sorry.” His answer causes your heart to skip a beat and you feel like your world is slowing down, a rose tint covering the boy in front of you. This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.

“Oh, umm,” You bite the inside of your cheek in thought as you stare down at your feet, unsure of what to say. “Thank you for apologizing. I am also sorry for calling you the names that I did. I wasn’t even really mad at you, moreso your student government.” You mumble, unable to look him in the eyes.

“I accept your apology.” Ushijima acknowledges and you feel your eye twitch again at his bluntness. “I will take you to lunch one day as an apology for the embarassmnet you suffered from.” Before you can quite literally tear his head off at that comment, Ushijima places his hand on the small of your back. “After you.” He nudges you towards the stairs and you clench your fists by your hips.

“Alright.” You refrain from snapping as you walk back towards your seat, the intimidating Ushijima Wakatoshi on your heels standing over you protectively. Not that you could see it anyway. When you finally get to your seat, you pratically throw yourself into the chair. Ushijima is still standing in front of you and you can feel the irritation bubblign in yoru chest. “What?”

“I will give you my contact information later so we can discuss a meeting point for lunch.” He gives you a slight bow before walkign back to where his team is and you can only watch as he walks away, your eyes burnign holes in his back.

“What the fuck.” You gasp out loud as you turn back to face Mei, who has an equal expression of horror written on her face.

“He asked you out?!” She squeals so loud you’re sure half of the gym had just heard her.

“No! Are you insane? You think I would say yes to him?!” You spit and Mei shrugs while glancing at the magazine in her lap.

“I mean he is 6′3.” Her eyes are filling with mischeif at your weakness for height and you try to hold your stubborn glare.

“I am stronger than this, I don’t care.” A lie straight through your teeth and you turn your nose at her.

“And his thighs are so-” Your eye twitches as she continues to go on, staring down at his picture on the page.

“Mei.” You call out calmly.

“Yes”

“Keep talking and I’ll make sure that you have no chance with Oikawa.” You threaten and Mei’s eyes widen.

“You wouldn’t.” She gasps in horror and you hold your stare, her hand clutches at her chest dramatically. “You would! (Y/N)!” Sadly you can’t keep up the facade for too long and your face falls as you fall into a fit of laughter. Mei only slaps your arm and flicks through the magazine pettily.

“That’s an interesting person for your affections.” Tendou teases Ushijima, his red eyes watching you from afar. “Did your apology work?”

“No.” The ace responds, his face hard like he didn’t take a slap of rejection across the face.

“Don’t worry Wakatoshi-kun, there’s always tomorrow!”

[circlique]

Hey! Could you do a short story about America and Young-soo in the Korean War? Ethier that or Korea finally admitting the pain he suffered under 2p Japan?

Yong Soo stared absently into the flickering flames in the shallow pit in front of him. The fire, started hurriedly from a hastily cobbled together pile of rubble from what used to be a nearby village, wasn’t doing much to make him feel better.

Then again, what could? He felt as if all warmth had been drained out of him the day his brother crossed the 38th parallel. All he could feel was a dull ache throughout his body. His heart, his mind...everything else just felt numb.

He felt eyes on him, and managed to glance up.

Alfred smiled at him.

“This will all be over by Christmas!” the bright-eyed American assured him.

Yong Soo could only stare back at him blankly. How could the American be so positive at a time like this? Yong Soo’s entire country...not even his country at this point. Ninety percent of it was in the hands of the communists now. Yong Soo’s men were backed up into the last remaining corner of this peninsula, huddled around this tiny fire in the ruins of the last village to have fallen—staked out trying to hold the “Pusan Perimeter,” as they called it.

It was so bleak, but Alfred still found some way to smile.

“K...keuriseumaseu?” Yong Soo asked in his still heavily accented English. He had been working on it, and his time spent with Alfred had helped, but studying simply was not on his list of priorities right now.

“Yeah! You know what Christmas is right?”

Yong Soo’s eyes drifted toward the ground. A Christian holiday, celebrating the birth of their savior...but he couldn’t remember the details.

“Yeah...” he muttered, more to get Alfred to shut up than anything.

Of course, Alfred could never take a hint.

“Yeah!” the American continued, leaning in and stooping down so that he could look into Yong Soo’s downcast eyes. “I promise! This will be over by Christmas! We can have a celebration at my place! We can make cookies, decorate a tree—oh! Do you know any Christmas carols, Yong Soo?”

Yong Soo’s blank expression slowly grew more perplexed. He was still trying to register all the strange words and make sense of them in his head. Carols?

“Uhh...” he started, but Alfred, sensing Yong Soo’s hesitance, continued before he could answer.

“Oh! I bet you know this one right?” Alfred said before turning to one of the American soldiers near him. “On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...!”

“A partridge in a pear tree!” the soldiers answered, their voices elevating in unison.

“On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me...!” Alfred continued with the next verse.

“Two turtle doves—and a partridge in a pear tree!”

“On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me...!” Alfred sang again, this time looking to Yong Soo and giving him a little nudge with his elbow.

His heart leapt. He didn’t know this song! But he couldn’t afford to look foolish in front of his American allies now, could he?

“Three French hens, two turtle doves—“ sang the Americans.

“—And...a par-teuridge in a pear tree,” Yong Soo managed to add in a faltering voice, as the rest of them sang with him.

The song continued through the rest of its dozen or so verses, each time Yong Soo managing to pick up a few more words than the last. By the end, he was confident in the first half of the strange, but somehow endearing gifts the song’s protagonist kept bestowing upon his lover, and he sang loudly along with the rest.

At the end of the twelfth verse, he waited with baited breath to see how this hapless, lovesick man could possibly best himself on the thirteenth day, only to see the rest of the soldiers clapping and congratulating each other for finishing. Oh...so it was only twelve verses then...

Yong Soo looked back to Alfred expectantly...and then realized he wasn’t really sure what he was expecting. Alfred simply smiled back at him as always. Always smiling...even as they were backed up against a wall like this.

Then Yong Soo realized—he was smiling too.

He felt a few tears stinging at his eyes and quickly wiped at his face with his sleeve, trying to pretend it was just the dust and smoke making his nose run or something. He couldn’t explain...how much it meant to him that Alfred had tried to make him smile even at a time like this, and in a way that genuinely made him feel included and a part of the group when he felt like he had lost the only other person who mattered. Normally it would have been his brother doing such things, but, well—

“Alfred—“ he said, pausing for a long time, trying to sort out the English words in his head. What was he trying to say? That he admired the American’s unwavering positivity, his warm heart, his kindness? How could he express that he wished he could be those same things in such a bleak situation?

“I...I like you!” he proclaimed after some thought, watching Alfred for his reaction.

Some of the Americans around them chuckled in amusement, and slowly, though it was hard to tell in the flickering light of the fire, Yong Soo was sure he saw Alfred’s cheeks flush red.

Oh—oh god. His heart leapt again and he felt a deep burning of embarrassment in his own cheeks. Yong Soo ran back through the English words in his head. How did it go? Subject verb object... Wait, he was missing some words! He had meant to say ‘I want to be like you!’ But in the rush of thoughts and emotions whirling in his brain, he had simply missed a few words, boiling the sentence down to the most important parts instead.

“I—well, I’m glad! I mean—I think you’re pretty cool too!” Alfred said after what felt like an eternity—which was saying a lot for a semi-immortal nation like Yong Soo!

He let out an unconscious sigh of relief. The soldiers seemed to have gone back about their business, dividing up rations and lighting cigarettes, oblivious now to the two nations. Yong Soo looked back up at Alfred feeling a little calmer now. With Alfred here, he could almost forget the aches, the war, the emptiness in his heart. After all, now he had someone else who could make him smile.

“Alfred...” Yong Soo managed to ask. “Can teach me...that song again?”