#all can get fast food after

[shadelorde]

okay so I saw someone say celiac disease isn’t a disability because ‘all you have to do is avoid gluten’ and I. I’m about to lose my shit.

are you not fucking aware of how much gluten is present in everyday life? Are you not aware how mild cross-contamination can KILL people with celiac? Are you not aware how some kids are raised EATING GLUTEN, IRREVERSIBLY destroying their immune system and the lining of their stomach because their parents didn’t know or didn’t bother to find out what was wrong?

You can help mitigate the effects of some disabilities by doing certain things, but that doesn’t make them NOT disabilities.

Celiac disease is an autoimmune disorder. It is not the same as a mild intolerance. It can and will destroy your stomach and intestines.

Jesus fucking Christ.

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[thepandalion]

not to be annoying or anything but it's been 9 years since the release of indie game undertale

[accipitae]

Suddenly stressing out so so so much because farrier school starts march 31st and i still need to find an apartment near the school and also buy all my tools and also buy new work boots and also more jeans because i only have like 2 pairs left (???) and also need to get a trailer hitch installed on my car so i can even drive my stuff up to Minnesota in the first place and also-

[books-coffee-and-the-woods]

on the drive to the park today I passed the library and thought "I haven't been reading as many library books as I hoped to this year, when I get home I should go through my For Later list and just choose 5 or so that look interesting!"

and uh

as usual my holds-requesting exceeds expectations.

[cinemacrypt]

Weeping sobbing shitting my dick WHY DID I MOVE IN WITH A FUCKING PROFESSIONAL THERAPIST

[e-m-p-error]

Which of your muses is the best at cooking?

Which of them is the worst at cooking?

Which of your muses is more likely to burn their food, whether or not they can cook?

Which of your muses is more likely to eat something even if it has fallen on a dirty floor?

Which of your muses is more likely to talk in their sleep?

Which of your muses sleeps the most?

Which of them is more likely to suffer from insomnia?

Which of your muses is more likely to have sleepwalking episodes? {{ Pick whichever muses. <3 }}

𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 !

Which of your muses is the best at cooking?

Vick is really good at cooking! He makes cozy cooking Voxtube videos and it is a way that he relaxes!

Valentino is a surprisingly good cook but it takes a lot for him to cook for someone. He only sees cooking for someone as a sign of love and he will not do it for you if he does not love you dearly.

Velvette is a lover of all things food and enjoys cooking and making potions. She can heal you with her food or kill you with it depending on what she wants to do!

Bee is a fantastic cook and she prides herself on her food conjuring!

Which of them is the worst at cooking?

Ostello cannot cook very well at all. He could probably burn water and has made mistakes while trying to cook. Usually he orders food in.

Fizzarolli is an awful cook, he can burn cereal and nobody knows how he's done it.

Cash is a good cook if and only if you count preparing frozen meals and boxed dinners as cooking.

Which of your muses is more likely to burn their food, whether or not they can cook?

Fizzarolli, hands down. He can burn anything even if he doesn't cook. Don't let him get involved with food preparation.

Which of your muses is more likely to eat something even if it has fallen on a dirty floor?

Cash will eat anything even if iit's off the floor or in the dirt. Food is food.

Barbie is the same way, she learned from her daddy.

Mammon will scoop food off the floor to eat it if he likes it enouogh.

Which of your muses is more likely to talk in their sleep?

Valentino murmurs a lot in his sleep when he's dreaming. He doesn't speak very clearly, however.

Bee talks in her sleep but her words never make much sense.

Athan talks a lot in his sleep and is very forthcoming with information when sleepy.

Which of your muses sleeps the most?

Already answered here!

Which of them is more likely to suffer from insomnia?

Vick suffers from insomnia like nobody's business. It was a problem when he was alive, too, and is the reason why he died.

Which of your muses is more likely to have sleepwalking episodes?

Fizzarolli has them from time to time.

[trauma-trove]

I hate that I'm held at social gunpoint to never EVER be anything but picture perfect niceness while doctors and nurses bully me and treat me like shit. It drives me insane. I tried being transparent with my last nurse about how my dietary problems, thyroid probpems, and chronic pain treatment was really going to interfere with a procedure and that I wanted to schedule it AFTER my other appointments and procedures. She told me "well, I can't do anything about that. The doctor wants it done." I tore the instructions she gave me right in front of her. They were salvageable. I could tape them together. But she looked at me like I called her a fucking slur.

"Oh but think of the doctor/nurse/receptionist you're doing that to! Every time a patient loses it, more medical practitioners leave the field!"

I.

Don't.

Care.

You're DOING this TO ME. I have the right of being the victim here. If someone is pushed and forced and coerced and bullied and assaulted enough times, they have a right to treat their offenders like shit.

I'm fucking sick of it.

[nobodybetterlookatme]

My mom told me the other day that it was gonna seem like I was trying to date my friend if I payed for her ticket to a show, so maybe you should try and pay for his food and that’ll indicate your intentions lol 😅

LMAO fuck maybe I could try that 😂

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP - Death and Taxes

Broke college student but also the Ghost King Danny looking at the stack of complaint forms in his inbox about people cheating death. In a stroke of sleep deprived inspiration, he issues a royal decree that anyone who has properly died before (I.e biologically dead, not just clinically dead) is still a citizen of the Infinite Realms, even if they were resurrected. And have to pay income tax to the Crown.

He establishes the Infinite Realms Revenue Service, recruits the ghosts of some meticulous accountants and sends them after all the assholes who think they can escape Death and Taxes. Starting with the worst offenders (ie those who have escaped death the longest/most often). Your tax bracket scales with how many times you died.

Just picture Ra's al-Ghul, in the middle of giving some speech to his assassin cult when this Phil Coulson looking ghost dude shows up behind him to "discuss the back taxes he owes to the Crown".

Every magic user worth their salt is suddenly swamped with messages from panicked villains and heroes who are trying to figure out wtf is going on and how to get out of this. Constantine is sweating bullets.

Danny hires Valerie to do mortal side "casework", because a, she's just as saddled with student debt as he is b, has worked fast food and knows how to handle asshole customers c, doesn't take shit from anybody.

Imagine Vandal Savage, Felix Faust and Red Hood awkwardly sitting in a waiting room with a stack of documents each, ready for their number to be called so they can dispute their claims. Being called in and utterly flummoxed at the unflappable, bored young woman at the desk who somehow has files on everything about you - birth record, death record(s), who you killed and when records... now declare your income as a crime lord/dictator/sorcerer, sir.

Meanwhile Danny is planning on how he can allocate the taxes to open a soup kitchen for Lunch Lady to work at and similar shit. He is determined to be a good king, dammit!

[weaselle]

it was too much i had to make my own post

line cook here. ACCURATE

if you don't get the hate, here's what you don't understand.

it takes up to 2 hours to close down the kitchen.

The last 60-90 minutes before closing time you do almost no cooking because the restaurant doesn't have many people in it and you've already cooked most of their diners.

So if someone walks in during, like, the last hour, the cook is in the middle of an industrial deep clean of the kitchen.

(these numbers can vary quite a bit from place to place but i have worked several restaurants with these actual times and the concept remains the same)

Say the place closes at 10. If you wait til the restaurant is already closed to start all your cleaning duties, you'll be there until at least midnight.

More than that your boss knows that on an average night you can start your clean up as soon as the last rush ends and get out of there around 10:45, even 10:15 on a slow night if you get lucky. That means there are plenty of restaurants where if you do take until midnight the manager is going to come up to you at some point that week and ask you what went wrong that night, and you'd better have an answer.

So this example restaurant closes at 10 pm. The dinner rush ends around 8:30, and shortly after that the cook is going to start getting every single dish possible over to the dishwasher because the dishwasher always gets hit hard and late, and the machine runs for 2 full minutes and only holds so many dishes, so the way that works out is if you wait an extra 30 minutes to give the dishwasher all your stuff it can mean adding like 60 minutes to the end of his shift. And you're gonna KEEP finding shit to send to the dishpit right up until you leave probably.

all these little square and rectangle containers in this cold table have to be pulled out and changed over into new containers, replaced by new full ones, or in some cases filled from larger containers in the back, which can result in even more empty containers to send to the dishwasher.

while it's all pulled apart to do this, you have to clean up all the spilled food and sauce and juices and stuff from the joints and ledges and shelves and drip trays

Once you get your line changed over in this way, and fully stocked, anytime someone orders something that makes use of a bunch of that stuff, you have to restock and re-clean it some. It might already be covered in plastic. Some of it might already be stuck in the back to make room to take apart your cutting board counter to clean. To cook a dish isn't TOO much of a problem at this point, but you're really hoping for zero orders because you still have so much other cleaning to do.

Meanwhile the salad bar and appetizer section and server station and everybody are all doing the same thing. Even the bartenders are stocking olives and lemons and sending back whisks and stir spoons and shakers and empty 4quart storage containers that used to hold the back-up lemons and olives and things. Every section is dumping their must-be-cleaneds to the dishpit as fast as possible because early and fast is the only thing they can do to to help that dishpit not absolutely drown into overtime.

The poor dishwasher is always the last to clock out, soaking wet and exhausted.

Around this time you probably scrub the flat top, which has turned black from cooked on grease and is still about 500 degrees. Line cooks are divided in opinion on water-based or oil based cleaning methods for this, but they all involve scrubbing with (usually) a brick of pumice stone using every ounce of your strength while you try not to burn yourself

you scrub it from fully blackened to gleaming silver and now if somebody orders something that needs the flat top to cook, you can either fuck up your cleaning job or fake it in a couple frying pans and pass that tiny fuck you down to your dishwasher (who usually understands, especially if you help them take the garbage out or clean your own floor drain later)

If there's deep fried stuff on the menu then the fryers have to be cleaned out, which includes straining the oil out into enormous and super-heavy pots full of oil so hot that if you spill on yourself then it's probably a hospital visit and if you slip and fall face first into it it'll be the last thing you ever do.

Then you gotta scrub out the fryer. Like you gotta take the (hot) screen out and reach your arm down into the weird rounded pipes and curved areas (so hot, burn you if you brush against them hot) and scrub off whatever is down there

Depending on your kitchen you might have to do up to four of these. Then you'll have to pour the (dangerously hot) oil back in

oh, and if you didn't dry the pipes and get ALL the water out of the trap and tank?

water reacts with hot oil in a sort of mentos and coke way that can send a tidal wave of oil past the open flame of the pilot light ...HUGE dangerous mess and/or burn down the kitchen if the oil lights up.

Unless! If the oil has been used too hard and needs to be changed, it's time to carry those open topped super heavy pots full of will-kill-you-hot oil and dump them in the barrel outside by the dumpsters so you can put room temp fresh oil in the fryers. whew!

The clean up is not just some light wiping down that can be easily interrupted, is what i'm saying.

You might have to do some kind of walk-in duty (moving around 50lb cases of lettuce and 50lb bags of onions to get to the stacks of five gallon buckets full of salad dressings and sauces to move so you can reach the giant metal pots and bus tubs full of prep and get it all organized and make sure it's all labeled and i have to stop now i'm having flashbacks)

THE POINT IS

by 15 or however many minutes to close, the line cook is doing an intense deep clean and probably has the whole stove taken apart to detail.

For some industrial stoves this means lifting off large cast iron plates that weigh like 20 lbs each and are still quite hot. Whatever metal burners are on there, you gotta take off and clean, you can see here the lines that indicate the large thick cast iron rectangles that sit on top of the burners to allow heavy pots to rest on. Those five (each has one front burner hole and one back burner hole, see?) have to be lifted off and cleaned with soap and a wire brush usually, and then the underneath area also has to be cleaned because a lot of shit falls through the burner holes on a busy night.

if you didn't do it when you did the flat top you have to do the grease trap (which can be like a full five minutes and is always disgusting).. You gotta clean out all the little gas jets in each burner with a wire or something so the burners all flame evenly, and sometimes you have to remove some of the natural gas piping that connects the burners to access where you have to clean.

you gotta clean out the bottom of the oven and the wire racks, and, oh gods, you gotta take down the filter vents from the hood fans above the stove.

See all the lined parts along the top of the wall?

those are hood vents, and as they pull air up they also pull a lot of grease and they have to be taken down and cleaned, then you gotta climb up there and scrub where they go before you put them back...

And then there's the mopping and floor drains and...

Anyway, that's what the line cook is doing when you walk in fifteen minutes before closing and order something that needs to be cooked on that stove. They are doing an entire industrial cleaning of a professional kitchen.

In some restaurants maybe one or two of these jobs will be every other night or even only twice a week, but in many, possibly most kitchens, ALL of these things happen EVERY night. You don't want to leave any food mess that might attract insects or rodents for one thing, so a really good kitchen is as close to brand new as you can get it every night.

IF YOU ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO ORDER SOMETHING ANYWAY, HERE IS WHAT TO DO

open with an apology and ask the server to go ask what the cook would prefer you to order.

Any good server will already know what the cook is hoping for and what will make their line cook go into the walk in and scream. If it's significantly less than an hour to close and they say some variant of "oh anything is fine" they are either telling the lie their boss wants them to say, or they actually do not know what their line cook wants, and you can either use human connection and a conspiratorial just-between-us tone to get them to drop the customer-is-always-right act, or get them to actually go ask the cook.

It might be as specific as "the lasagna is easiest on the kitchen" or it might be a simple guideline like "nothing that requires the flat top" or "any of the sautés are easy" but a good line cook will probably have a system for if they have to make a couple of the most popular items after they start their close, so the answer is likely to include something most people like and you should be good to order that.

but for the love of all that's holy, please only do so at great need. Leave that last 30-60 minutes to the truly desperate and the crew's duties.

[eraserbread]

you and your husband, nanami, have endured your fair share of struggles but, nothing held a flame to postpartum

week three of being a mother was the hardest.

all those sleepness nights between you and kento have finally caught up to you, and your body is fully, finally spent. minds are on a limb, and most days with you and your husband are spent transactionally.

it doesn't help that you woke up this morning with the worst, most painful lump in your breast. you noticed it and decided to feed baby girl on your freezer stash. going about the fast-paced morning with it in the back of your mind, deciding not to burden your husband.

he's already completely out of his element when he's cleaning up after the night shift and nursing breakfast on the stove so you can get your daughter situated. you couldn't bother him—not now.

not until you're kicked back up in bed, nursing pillow around your waist as your newborn suckles helplessly at your reddened, bruised nipple. research you've been scrolling through tells you to keep feeding from it - that the clog will come out with force, but your baby is just too gentle. gumming and suckling at your nipple did nothing but make fires erupt in your breast, face twisted up in agony as you toss your head back to the headboard.

"don't mean to interrupt." kento pushes into the bedroom with a sprawling breakfast tray in his hands. he's carrying a burp cloth on his shoulder, shirtless as he approaches you. "what's wrong?"

"think my milk duct is clogged," you reply, breathless. you've had enough of the pain, so you sit up just enough to switch your daughter to the other nipple - the nipple running on fumes, trying to keep up with the exclusive use.

kento leans over the bed, tracing his finger across his daughter's soft, suckling cheek. she has a tendency to fall asleep while nursing, letting dribbles of milk spill from her little lips. kento loves this, never understanding why you get so flustered about it. when she's asleep like this, the face she stole from him starts to fade into something reminiscent of yours.

"ju- just take her," you whine, trying to gather your composure as you massage the throbbing lump.

kento does whatever you say, now. he immediately takes your daughter into his safe, strong hands, turning and placing her at the bedside bassinet. It's a seamless maneuver; she doesn't even stir.

"i'm going to go crazy. i feel like i'm scrambling and drowning." you're starting to bead sweat at your hairline, deciding to stop in the meantime and pull your bra back up. "thank you for the food. love you so much."

"hey." kento sits down at your propped legs, massaging his hands across the covered skin. "you have me, and I know it's not very comforting to hear when you feel like this, but I will do everything I can... I love you, too."

"no, you're perfect. you're so patient and understanding - dealing with so much of my shit and still working full-time."

"you just birthed a human, give yourself some grace."

"but it's impossible when my body repeatedly fails me."

kento's seen you in many states, but the way you act regarding your daughter is a new kind of monster—a beautiful, passionate monster clawing at your skin that he can't feel; he can only see it.

so, he reaches for his safeword. "what can I do to help?"

"okay." you're shuffling in bed, sheets bunched around your body. against your propped knees he leans, giving you a reassuring kiss over your jaw. "just... just suck, please. you don't have to swallow, I'm sure a lot of milk won't come out."

"it's okay," he nods, helping you push your strap over your shoulder. you're clutching your breast, fingers ghosting over the rock-hard clog just above the nipple. he leans forward and takes it between his lips, warm lips covering the expanse as he starts sucking gently.

even his gentleness is 10x stronger than his daughters, and it makes you throw your head back in a hiss. "Ow, ow, ow, ow—keep going."

so he does. he's holding you, running his hand over your side for some comfort as he works your nipple over. you peek down to look at him, mesmerized by the hollows in his cheeks. you tangle your hand in his hair, swollen with admiration for him as his throat bobs down your milk.

he's flushed and enjoying this, and if it didn't feel like you were being branded by a hot iron, you'd enjoy it, too.

you're crying by the time you feel a pop, then instant relief. it makes you shudder out a thankful moan. "ah, keep going..." you rush, hand massaging back over the softening lump until it's fully dissipated. "ugh, iloveyousomuch, you got it."

kento pulls away with flushed lips, licking over them to bring some moisture back. you pull him into a thankful kiss, trying so hard to hold back hormonal tears when you look at him.

every time you think he cannot get any closer, he's helping you change out your postpartum underwear, standing behind you when you can't see your birth stitches and clean properly. he never mentions more than what he knows you need to hear, and that quiet, thoughtful stoicness is exactly what you need.

his unwavering patience and love were formed in the darkest of times, only to shine light on the happiest.

you two sit side by side and share a cold breakfast, no words breaking the sanctuary you created. he just wants to bite pieces of fruit between your teeth and kiss your sweetness away.

whispering as your daughter starts to stir with hunger,

"you amaze me."

[kisssukuna33]

Thinking about your Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always uses you as his personal food critic whenever he experiments with a new dish. You are the first to taste it before it goes into the restaurant menu. When you question him about it one time he said you're his personal lucky charm because whenever you taste a new dish first it instantly becomes a hit in the menu.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who has a whole wall dedicated to you and the pics of you two together in his restaurant. Oh but did I mention about the big wall art next to those pics? A wall art of you smiling that he painted himself. He still talks about that art piece proudly to this day.

Chef HusbandSukuna! who has no problem attracting customers. His restaurant is widely known in the town as one of the best spots but the only problem he faces is when people come into his restaurant being attracted to something other than his food. You can only imagine the amount of thirsty comments from both men and women under his restaurant reviews.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who HATES it when people flirt with him even after clearly seeing the wedding ring he wears daily. That's why he lets his co-workers do all the serving and he rarely comes out of the kitchen until someone ask for his presence.

And whenever a customer flirt with him or ask for his number he straight up points to the wall art of you displayed in the restaurant and murmur "my wife" as he go back into the kitchen unbothered.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who never lets you cook anything in the kitchen. He always prepare you food and snacks whenever you ask him without complaining and you slowly came to realize that's his way of showing his love for you. And when he prepares food for you it's never anything simple either,he makes sure his wife eats a 5 star meal everyday.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who takes it as personal offense whenever you recommend take out for dinner. He doesn't understand why you want to eat that unhealthy junk shit when you have a whole chef as your husband.

"Just say you don't love me anymore"

"Kuna.. You are being dramatic I asked it for a change not because I don't love your cooking"

"Then marry a fast food worker that way you can eat junk shit everyday"

"Sukuna!!"

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always decorate your bento box so cutely when you go to work. He doesn't miss with the hello kitty shaped rice balls and the heart shaped vegetables everytime. One time you remember your coworker asking if you're married to a woman because they refuse to believe a bento box that cute was a work of a man.

Safe to say your coworker was even more suprised after seeing the intimidating 6'4 tatted man who came to pick you up later.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always knows to prioritize you over his beloved restaurant. You are sick? Yeah he closes the restaurant and stay by your side all day taking care of you. You want to go on a date? Say no more restaurant is closed within a minute. You took a day off ? yeah the restaurant is closed that day. You wonder how he even keep up the popularity of this restaurant like this.

Chef HusbandSukuna! Who always loves telling people the story about how you two met and how his restaurant took off after he started dating you. In his eyes you were a blessing given to him. He always wonder how his life started getting better and better after meeting you. A cold heart that was completely untouched by everyone started melting at the presence of yours.

But one thing he knows is that he's going to cherish the blessing given to him for the rest of his life.

[jackass-jones]

My dad asked me if there were any places I’d like to go to on a trip this summer and I had a mini crisis cuz this sorta horrible reality hit me like. Oh god what if I’m still here when the summer comes what if these people are still in my life what if I haven’t escaped? So that’s fun

[oepionie]

— "HE'S THE OTHER MAN!" . the corpse groom

SYNOPSIS: A ghost groom has claimed MC as his unwilling bride. Unfortunately for him, she's already got a lover

⊹ [ c.w ] — violence, possessive behavior, malleus blows a fucking green laser down ramshackle, mentions of blood, yuu is poor but we alrdy knew that, papa crewel crumbs

⊹ [ w.c ] — 1.6k opening post with malleus! if this gets enough attention, I might do more :P

"You what?" Crewel seethed, eyes wide as an unsettling smile stretched across the red of his cheeks.

"Repeat that."

"I…I accidentally released that ghost from the spellbook," Grim sobbed, his glossy eyes reflecting both fear and guilt as he looked up at the imposing figure of the professor. "And he's taken my henchhuman as his bride!"

Oh, Great Sevens. Not again.

Crewel groaned, his hands reaching up to frantically rub at his burning eyes. The flickering candlelight cast erratic shadows across his face.

"Please, do tell. How in Wonderland did someone with your lackluster skills manage to—" The professor was abruptly cut off by a loud, almost obnoxious cry that echoed from the doorway. Turning sharply, Crewel saw Crowley hunched against the entrance frame, hysterically sobbing into his palms. Fat tears dripped beneath his ornate mask, glistening in the low light. "They grow up so fast! My dear child is already getting married!"

Crewel's eye twitched as he took in the scene: Grim shaking like a leaf, and Crowley, dramatically weeping, pathetically looking to him for a solution.

"Fools," Crewel snarled, striding out of the room as he fished his phone from his coat pocket. "If you two won't be of use, then I'll have to enlist the help of those mutts instead."

The day had started like any other in Ramshackle, but you certainly didn't expect it to end with a wedding. Surrounded by the ghostly residents of the dorm, you stood dressed in all white, a bouquet clutched in your hand. Curling in yourself, you sighed and rested your head in your hands, avoiding everyone's gazes which felt like icy needles on your skin.

Ramshackle's old lounge, with its worn-out floorboards and faded wallpaper, was the chosen venue for your ceremony. Whispers rustled through the gathering, carried on a faint breeze that stirred the dust motes in the dim light. Somewhere in the background, the somber notes of an organ piano echoed. You didn't even know you had a piano…

"Dear?"

Jumping with a shriek, you whipped your head around. A ghostly visage, bathed in a deathly pale blue glow, hovered inches from your face, an unnaturally wide grin stretched across their blue lips. Bony fingers gently traced up your cheeks, sending tingles down your spine.

With sunken eyes and high, sharp cheekbones, Elizan—a "visiting" friend of one of Ramshackle's ghosts—was truly a sight to behold. His complexion had a pallor that matched the moonlight filtering through the decrepit windows of the form. Wisps of long, flowing indigo hair framed his face, swept back as if caught in a breeze that only he could feel.

"You look wonderful," he cooed, pressing a featherlight kiss to your forehead, leaving your cheeks burning.

"Ah. Thank you," you stammered, averting your gaze and gently pulling away. You could hardly focus on the words being spoken to you, your mind spinning with the surrealness of it all.

"You look... Good as well," you forced out with a cough, tugging at your hair nervously. "But... Listen... I—"

Before you could finish, the door to the entrance slammed open, nearly breaking off the hinges with a sound that could wake the dead, sending cracks spider-webbing through the already dilapidated walls.

On the inside, you screamed louder than the hinges.

You had painstakingly patched up the door after Grim's recent screw-up—a feat that had tested your patience and carpentry skills to their limit. Unless you wanted to survive on a diet of stale canned food and cafeteria leftovers for another year, you couldn't afford any more repairs.

While you were busy mourning the loss of having decent meals, heaving and leaning against the door for support, your friends called out your name in a panic, their bleary and furious gazes zeroing in on your figure. Clad in white, you stood there, the perfect picture of a pretty blushing bride.

The uninvited guests didn't go unnoticed by your "groom," and in seconds, you were pulled into a suffocating grip. Elizan's usually serene demeanor shattered like fragile glass. His deathly pale features contorted into a snarl, veins pulsing ominously beneath translucent skin. His typically gentle eyes blazed with an unsettling fire, icy whites now narrowed and piercing.

"Mutt!" Crewel seethed, his foot slamming into the floor and shattering the newly installed tiles. Your soul nearly left your body as you screamed inside again. There go a thousand thaumarks…

"What in the Sevens is this!?" Crewel shrieked, running a gloved hand through his tousled hair. With sharp movements, he pointed a finger at Elizan. "I'll have you know I can have you arrested for trespassing, unlawful detention, and violating the sanctity of this academy!"

"How... How dare you? Barging into this sacred ceremony—Who even are you?!" Elizan snapped back, his arms coiling tightly around your torso. The crowd erupted in a haze of shouts and muddled answers. Unable to understand anything, Elizan's intense gaze shifted and bore into yours, demanding answers. You gulped nervously, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable in his grasp.

"Who is he?! Who are they?!" he barked like a dog, flashing his sharp fangs at you.

"Uh… That's my professor—uh, Crewel," you stammered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "And those are… They're my… friends?" Your gaze flickered to the group of men who had entered, their expressions ranging from confusion to anger.

Elizan's wide eyes now filled with shock, white orbs glossed over with luminescent blue tears. He pushed you away as if you had burnt him, recoiling from your touch as though it pained him physically.

"You know other men?!" the ghost cried out, his hands clenching into fists, his midnight blue hair cascading wildly around his face like a tempestuous sea. The tortured cries of the groom echoed through the room, sending a shiver down your spine as you awkwardly shifted on your feet, feeling like a character caught in an soap drama.

"…Yes?" you replied, unsure.

"How could you do this to me?!" He sobbed, a dark shadow covering his face. "Running off on an affair the DAY of our marriage?!"

"Well, that's a rather dramatic accusation—" you started, but Elizan shook his head in anguish.

"Answer me! Do you have another man?!" His voice shook the room, and you took a few cautious steps back.

"Elizan, please," you uttered gently, your eyes darting nervously toward one of the men in the room.

Your lover didn't meet your gaze; instead, his eyes were locked onto the ghost, a storm of emotions brewing beneath his features. As you jumped down from the makeshift podium, you shot an apologetic frown at the ghost, hoping to diffuse the escalating situation. "Don't you understand? You're the other man."

"No! You're married to me!" Elizan shrieked, lunging forward in a frenzy, his nails clawing at the air as if trying to grasp something intangible. "Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

MALLEUS DRACONIA

"Whoever he is—He's the other man!"

Lilia raised an eyebrow with a chuckle, his form reclined against a fogged-up window of the room. The weather was gloomy and stormy, the skies tinted green outside, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The window pane, streaked with raindrops and mist, blurred the view of the turbulent skies beyond. Lilia hummed a tune under his breath, a calm figure amidst the brewing storm.

With a sidelong glance, his eyes locked onto Malleus, whose entire figure shook with a barely contained wrath that threatened to engulf the very air around him. The young prince's chest heaved in violent, choked breaths as smoke wisped from his mouth and nose—tendrils of flames flickering amidst the swirling dust and ash.

A deafening crack tore through the air as a vivid surge of green emerald lightning erupted from the heavens, descending upon the roof of the venue with explosive force. The blast of energy painted the sky with a blinding flash of green as it crashed into the building, sending broken glass and wood raining down upon the venue.

Cursing, Elizan moved you both aside, a large chunk of debris hurtling past, narrowly missing your startled form. As more debris crashed down, he shielded you with an outstretched arm, a shimmering barrier briefly forming to deflect a particularly large piece of wood.

"Spectral pest," Malleus seethed, his eyes aglow with an eerie green hue as his nails elongated into sharp claws. With a click of his tongue, he raised his hands, summoning thorns that spiraled towards Elizan, ensnaring the ghost in their sharp embrace. Simultaneously, from the floorboards below, vines emerged like serpents, their tendrils gently but firmly pulling you away from Elizan's protective embrace and guiding you into the safety of Malleus's arms.

"How—?! Ngh!" Elizan writhed against the thorny vines. The prickly tendrils twisted around him like serpents, their sharp points digging into his ghostly flesh.

Malleus paid no mind to the struggling spirit, keeping his gaze fixed on you as he checked for any signs of harm. His expression softened with relief upon finding you unscathed, albeit a bit dusty.

"Beloved," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm amidst the lingering chaos. His gloved hand moved delicately, sweeping away the clinging dust from your shoulders and arms. Pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingered there briefly, conveying a warmth that contrasted starkly with the raw power he had displayed moments ago.

"Are you alright?"

Blinking up at him with wide eyes and frazzled hair shooting up in every direction, you nodded dumbly. Turning away from him, you nearly gasped aloud to see the room in shambles, debris scattered everywhere, and the eerie green glow of energy still lingering in the air. The ghostly residents were in a state of panic, their translucent forms flickering as they moved frantically.

"My dorm," you whimpered, your mind racing as you calculated the cost of the damage.

With a chuckle, Malleus adjusted his grip on you, his muscles flexing as he gently set you down. Your legs felt shaky as you tried to steady yourself.

"I will handle the cost of repair, my dearest," Malleus assured you, bending down to your height, his voice dropping to a whisper. Green eyes bore into yours, strands of his midnight hair falling over his face. "You will not need to worry about such things once we are formally betrothed."

You froze, your face suddenly warming and burning.

"What?!"

Malleus reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek, claws dragging across your supple cheeks. "Yes, my dear," he murmured, chest rumbling as his lips curved into a sharp smile. "You heard me correctly."

"I… I don't know what to say," you whispered, feeling dizzy with emotion.

"Will you consider it?" he asked softly, a faint hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Please?"

Caught in the depth of his gaze, you felt your resolve melting away. "I-I guess?" you breathed, your voice trembling. "I'll… consider it."

A smug smile spread across his face, and he tenderly pressed his lips against yours. "That's all I ask, my dearest."

After ensuring you were alright one last time, Malleus redirected his focus to Elizan. With a flick of his wrist, the thorns under his control tightened around the ghost. Elizan shrieked and thrashed about, his translucent form writhing in pain as the thorns dug deeper.

"Do try to exercise some restraint, my boy," Lilia drawled, tapping his sharp fingers idly against his crossed arms. "We do not want Ramshackle to be bathed in blood. It would be very unsanitary."

not too sure if i am continuing but feel free to suggest some peepl bookies

[escapenightmare]

sae itoshi was not a nonchalant boyfriend or a chill guy, despite how much he tried to seem like he was. you don’t ask him for his opinion on your outfit? do you not want him (to compliment you and ask you to do a small twirl so he could see the ensemble properly and then pepper your cute face with kisses)? you don’t want him to share his food with you? okay, so basically you’re saying you want him to go to hell.

you tell him to quit liking flirty comments from random people under your posts? what’s wrong with that, he agrees with them— you’re absolutely stunning. and no, he isn’t doing it just so those randoms get a notification that saeitoshi, with a silly picture of you and him with your cheeks smushed together as his profile picture, has liked their comment so that they now know you aren’t single and looking for some sleazy jackass who thinks they can get your undivided attention just by commenting ‘🔥🔥’. seriously, how dare you accuse him of such pettiness?

but really, none of that is compareable to how he feels right now; damp hair sticking to his forehead, towel over his shoulder, one hand buttoning up his loose shirt while he’s looking at his phone, fresh out of the shower after the usual training. his teammates are yapping about something like they always do but it’s all silent in his head as he takes in what feels like utter blasphemy on the screen.

zero notifications.

well, actually, he had a shit ton of texts messages from his teammates and people he considered somewhat his friends but none of them really matter— only you do.

and you hadn’t texted him since yesterday (almost 24 hours ago!), when he was on his way home and asked you if you wanted him to bring you extra snacks or something.

do you hate him?

he clicked out of the messages app and checked instagram, where you’d usually have flooded his dms with chronically online shit that he had no idea how you found funny. seriously, what the heck is all that about divers going into small spaces and eye of dih? he visibly deflates when he sees you hadn’t sent anything on there either (the last text was from him, when he’d said ‘???’ to your text that read ‘what is a father?’).

Sae [16:43pm]: Do you hate me

nah. scoffing to himself, he deleted the words, exited the app and pocketted his phone. since when was he such an attention deprived, needy little shit? whatever.

by the time he opens the front door to your shared home, there’s still no text, no call, no reel, nothing from you. “angel?” he calls out in his usual, casual tone, nudging the door shut with his boot. “’m home.”

“in here, sae,” you call out from the bedroom and he quickly takes off his shoes, drops his duffel bag onto the couch and trudges into the bedroom, feeling as if if he were a puppy, his tail would be wagging harshly behind him. “i was just about to text you.” you tell him with a small smile from where you’re sitting on the office chair behind the desk, your laptop in front of you and notes strewn all over the desk. you were.. studying.

ah, right. no wonder you hadn’t texted him.

you barely register his silent footsteps and fast pace until he’s right behind you within the time it took for you to blink, one hand on the arm of the chair to turn it around before he’s half hunched over you, his other hand pressing on your back to tug you into a hug. “missed you,” his voice is muffled as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, the soft tufts of his moist hair tickling your chin and neck. “thought you hated me.”

“what?” it was said so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it, but you do and now you’re pulling back a bit to look at him properly. “what gave you that idea?”

“forget about it,” he tries to avoid the question in a painfully untactful manner, attempting to hug you again, but faltering as he sees the look on your face. god, this was so humiliating. “y‘didn't text me today— or call, or send me stupid reels,” he points out with an embarrassed grunt, standing up to his full height and running a hand through his hair. “thought you were pissed at me for beating you in monopoly or something.”

huffing, you grin up at him. “you didn’t have to bring that up, jerk. but no, as you can see,” you gesture to your table and he notices the splotches and lines of dried ink on your fingers from your pen. “i’ve been studying. or trying to, at least.”

“huh.” he lets out, grasping your hand in his and intertwining your fingers before untangling them again so he could toy around with them. his brows furrow and he scoffs when you continue, saying something along the lines of ‘i didn’t think you’d notice.’ “yeah, well, i noticed. i dunno. kinda hard to miss the zero texts from the only person i reply to, yeah?”

your eyes brighten at that, but you tease, “ohh, yeah, right. sorry, i forgot you’re a friendless loser.”

“look who’s talking,” he shoots back, and you’d almost be offended if it wasn’t for the playful look in his eyes. he sighs and dips his head to press a kiss to your temple before walking over to the closet.

“were you really sad that i didn’t send you stupid reels?” you ask him with a curious look while watching him pick out a random t-shirt and sweats, not making fun of him like you’d usually do, just genuine curiousity in your tone.

he hums in response, undoing a few buttons of his shirt before tugging it off his head and glancing at you, with his teal eyes narrowed in contemplation, shirt still hanging around his elbows. “guess so. ’s stupid, huh?”

“nah,” is your immediate reply, followed by a small shrug. “i think it’s sweet, actually. in a pathetic sort of way. you’re kinda sweet.”

during his 10-minute break from training the next day, he finds himself on the bench of the locker room, resting his aching legs with his half empty water bottle next to him as he’s scrolling through your dms with a soft smile. a shit ton of reels and one ‘good luck at practice!!’ message stares back at him.

yeah. he thinks you’re (kinda) sweet too.