#and the students simply would not know what to do

[blackforestbride]

dp x dc PLUS!!!! battle of the bands

So imagine, Gotham Academy is hosting a battle of the bands to fundraise for a debilitating rogue attack (even though the Wayne money could easily cover it all, but the academy wants to show its city spirit or smth anyways)

and normally, Jon would just shrug it off, rich people stuff you know. but there's this new kid at school. he's sickly looking, with shaggy shoulder length hair, and piercing blue eyes. and he's been getting too close to damian.

this guy is totally not good enough for damian. he barely even tries in his classes and he takes everything said to him as a stupid joke! Damian is way out of his league. and NO, jon is not jealous KON. he simply knows what his best friend likes!! Just like he knows that the new kid (danny feltin? or something) is not and will never be good enough for Damian! in fact, Jon would be the better choice

back to the battle of the bands. like he said, jon would have ignored it. IF he hadn't found out that Danny would also be competing. AND, if he hadn't found out that damian would be one of the judges, as it was being sponsored by wayne co. and they needed a student judge.

so with gritted teeth, jon signs up, putting his name right next to danny's!

only to learn that the tournament enforced the anonymity of the performers to encourage more people to sign up, and the only way to be allowed to reveal his identity was to either wait for the tournament to end OR make it into the semi-finals (something platforming young artists).

well he cant quit now, forget the semi-finals.. jon would be first place! he'd prove that he could be better than danny! HE'S NOT JEALOUS SHUT UP KON

on the flip side. . .

danny wasnt really enthused about being dragged halfway across the country to go to an embarassingly rich kid school, but Ember had said that Gotham generated enough ectoplasm on its own that danny wouldn't need frequent trips to the ghost zone in risk of his ghostly side taking over and almost killing him (being in and out of the yeti's domain was tiring, and he could never hate frostbite but seeing the yeti's face drop everytime he had to be brought back to life -literally- does something to a guy y'know?)

anyways, ember said he just had to deal with it until he graduated and by then hopefully his core would be stable enough to start recycling his own ectoplasm again (he kinda felt like danni. she was right, having everyone fret over you while you know you cant do anything except wait really is tiring). which he could deal with, especially after ember rescued him from h̶̤̓́̕ĭ̴̲̮̣̭͆͒̀̔̽s̷̳̿̈́͌ ̸̢̞͚̻͐͊̿p̵̛̘̣͙͉̺͎͐̊̓̓͝ǟ̷̖̗̮̺̀̾͝ŕ̵̨̤̦̹̦̻̅̉ḛ̷͋ǹ̸͈͑̌̀ͅẗ̴̢̰́'̴̰͖̽̈́͂͌͆͝s̶̪̤̈̔̒̀̕͝ Maddie and Jack.

they weren't lying when they said molecule by molecule

so yeah, he'd do as she said. he owed her that much (and more, so much more. but this would have to do. for now).

then one day, a way to repay her fell right into his lap! literally! his new friend Damian (and Damian's friend, jon. danny thinks he's cool, but he has a little bit of a staring problem it always made him blush whenever someone stared at him so intensely) was complainign about some "inane project" his "dreadfully dull" older brother, Tim was making him do. and, danny being a good friend, asked what was bothering him.

turns out theres a musical tournament happening! its like this was made for danny! after all, what would be better in repaying ember than winning a battle of the bands in her honor! everthing was turning up fenton! or- uh.. was it McLain now..?

and on the other flip side!!

damian is soooo done. he was ready for his senior year to be nice and peaceful (as peaceful that it could be in gotham) but nooooo. his stupid, idiotic brothers just had to stick their noses where they didn't belong and volunteer damian for the student judge position for the ridiculous battle of the bands.

though... those two singers who have taken to serenading him do sound quite nice..

___________________________________________

Things I think would be funny for this

•Competitors have a teamwork round where they perform together= Jon and Danny singing into the same mic at Damian

•Jon's one sided romantic rivalry with Danny who thinks he's just really enthusiastic about music

•Tim and Kon's witty banter in the background

•side plot where Danny uses some of his powers during a performance because he got too into it and Jon catching on immediately and being suspicious as fuck

•Damian being whipped for the two masked singers who keep looking at him specifically when it's their time on stage

•Danny flirting with Jon and Jon just combusting

•Ember figuring out how to parent

•Johnny and Kitty become babysitters for Danny because he's too sick to be this reckless (and that's coming from them)

•Danny rides a motorcycle

•Jon is totally in love with Danny too btw he just has no idea how to expresses so he unconsciously emulates what Damian does when he is faced with something he doesn't understand

•Normal school time where Jon tries so hard not to spill the beans to Damian that fanny is weird and that he is totally better AND that he's a contestant

•Danny trying to hide being a contestant from ember so that he can surprise her when he wins

•Bruce unfortunately witnesses his son being flirted with via song

that's it, I'll think of something else later

anyone can use this as a prompt btw just mention me lol I wanna see

[himasgod]

NRC STAFF AND YUU

Where they find out that Yuu is self-harming

I was going to add a warning and a lil comf message as always in this type of fanfics, but I think annonie explains it pretty well <3

responding to this request

It was Grim who approached him—nervously, voice urgent.

“You gotta talk to Yuu, Professor. They’ve been… off. They flinch when I get too loud, and the other day I saw bandages I know weren’t there before. I don’t get it… why would they do that?”

Crewel paused.

He had graded over fifty exams last night, scolded a third-year for exploding a cauldron... But that one sentence stopped everything.

He didn't scold Grim. He didn't panic. He nodded once and said,

“Thank you for telling me. You did the right thing, pup.”

That night, Crewel stayed up researching.

He was poring through psychology journals. His brow furrowed as he read about pain, coping mechanisms, and invisible wounds.

The next morning, he requested Yuu stay after class. Not in front of the others—he simply handed them a folded slip during potion lab, saying, “Come see me after last bell. No rush.”

When Yuu arrived, they looked uneasy, shoulders high with tension.

“I’m not in trouble, am I?”

“No. Sit. Please.”

They did, eyes darting to the ingredients shelf, then to the floor. Crewel sat across from them, hands folded on his desk, voice softer than they’d ever heard it.

“Grim spoke to me.”

Yuu froze. Crewel continued gently.

“He’s worried about you. And now, so am I.”

Silence. Yuu’s throat tightened.

“I’m sorry—” they blurted, eyes starting to burn.

“I didn’t want anyone to know— I was just— I didn’t know how else to deal with everything and—”

“Stop.”

Not a harsh command. Crewel stood and walked around the desk. He knelt beside them, one gloved hand hovering over their shaky hands .

“You have nothing to apologize for. Pain is not a moral failure. It doesn’t make you shameful. It makes you human.”

Yuu’s breath hitched.

“I’m not here to fix you. I can’t wave a magical pen and erase what you’ve felt. But I can promise you this: you’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”

He rose, placed a hand over his heart.

“You’re a part of this college. My student. And I take care of what’s mine.”

From then on, Crewel didn’t hover—but he checked in.

When Yuu looked withdrawn in class, he’d ask them to help sort ingredients. I

f they were dissociating, he’d say, “Mind walking with me to the greenhouse?”

Small tasks that let them breathe.

And he never pushed. Never pried.

Only left the door open—always open.

Crowley had a knack for dramatics. He thrived on being the center of the room.

But when Grim nervously shuffled into his office one rainy afternoon and said, “I think Yuu’s in trouble,” the headmage's feathers metaphorically dropped.

He didn't say a word at first. Just listened.

Later, he knocked on Ramshackle’s door himself.

Yuu answered, surprised. “Headmage?”

He took off his mask.

“May I come in?”

They blinked.

Crowley never took off his mask.

Never.

Crowley stood in the entryway.

“I hear you’ve been struggling. And before you say anything—I’m not here as your headmage.”

He placed the mask gently on a dusty table.

“I’m here as someone who once felt like a ghost too.”

Yuu swallowed hard.

“I know it’s hard, adjusting to this place,” he continued. “You’ve had to survive here without magic, without family, without answers. And you’ve done it all without a safety net.”

His voice wavered.

“Perhaps I should’ve given you one sooner.”

Yuu stared at him. Crowley’s eyes, usually behind his mask, were steady.

“Can I show you something?” he asked.

He led them to a storage room near the staff quarters. There, behind old uniforms and spell books, was a small chest. He opened it.

Inside were journals.

Dozens of them, worn at the edges.

“I wrote these when I was your age. A long, long, long.... long time ago.” he said quietly.

“When I didn’t understand the world, or my place in it. When I thought maybe… the world would be better off without me.”

Yuu’s breath caught.

“You’re not weak for needing help,” he said, turning to them. “You’re wise for accepting it.”

From then on, when he saw them anxious in a hallway, he didn’t sweep them away with flair.

He’d tap their shoulder, whisper, “There’s tea in my office. Let’s get some air.”

And on days when Yuu couldn’t speak at all, Crowley would sit beside them in silence. No mask. Just himself.

In time, Yuu came to understand that even the loudest voices sometimes scream just to be heard.

And Crowley?

He’d make sure Yuu never had to scream alone again.

It started with a quiet knock on the side door of Mystery Shop one evening after lights-out.

“Hey, little imp,” he said without turning around“Didn’t expect you tonight.”

But when Yuu stepped inside, their energy wasn’t curious about the items. It was heavy.

Sam finally looked over, smile fading as he saw their eyes red rimmed, hands tucked in their sleeves.

“Something happened?”

“I relapsed.”

Sam didn’t recoil, didn’t gasp.

He just set down the crystal orb he’d been polishing and stepped out from behind the counter.

“Come sit,” he said gently, guiding them to the little seating nook near the incense shelf. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t know,” Yuu whispered. “I just—Grim told the others, and everyone’s being kind, but I feel like I’m broken again. Like I failed.”

Sam reached over and pulled a tiny wooden box from a shelf behind him.

“Know what this is?” he asked, resting it in their lap.

Yuu shook their head.

“This box came from a spirit walker in the Scalding Sands. It’s over four hundred years old,” Sam explained. “Used to carry healing charms, notes of love, little promises folks made to themselves when they were hurting.”

He opened it slowly.

Inside were slips of folded paper—some new, some brittle with age.

Sam added one more—his own. He held it out to Yuu.

“Write one. Anything you want. Doesn’t have to be big. Could be: ‘I want to breathe tomorrow.’ Or: ‘I want to see the sun.’”

Yuu stared, then shakily took the pen.

After a long pause, they wrote:

“I want to believe I’ll be okay again.”

Sam tucked it inside the box, sealed it, and whispered, “Now it’s kept safe. No refunds, no backsies. That promise is real now.”

Yuu smiled weakly.

From that night forward, Sam always had a space open at the back of the shop.

If Yuu was overwhelmed in class, they’d sometimes find a handmade “delivery” waiting in their dorm room: a spell charm for calm dreams, a candle, or a simple note that read:

“Healing ain’t linear. But I’ve seen how stubborn you are. You’ll get there.”

Professor Trein stood at the front, chalk still in hand, yet his eyes had wandered from the blackboard.

He watched Yuu—slumped at their desk, shoulders taut, eyes unfocused. Not bored. Not distracted. Disassociated.

Lucius had already leapt from his desk perch and was weaving around Yuu’s chair. Trein set the chalk down.

“Yuu,” he said calmly, “Could you assist me in the archive room for a moment?”

There was no reason to doubt the request. It was casual enough.

No alarm in his tone. No heads turned. Yuu nodded numbly, rising without protest as the class barely took notice.

Trein’s pace was slow as he led them to a quiet hall—far from noise.

He closed the door behind them.

“Would you like to sit?” he offered, pulling out a chair from a reading desk.

Yuu did. But their gaze remained lowered.

Trein sat across from them, hands folded.

“There are lessons one cannot find in any curriculum,” he began, “Lessons about how to exist in a world that often refuses to make space for our pain.”

Silence.

“You don’t need to speak right away. I only ask that you listen.”

Yuu nodded once—just enough to let him know they were still with him.

“I’ve seen the signs,” he said. “The trembling. The vacant stares. The way your hands fidget when you believe no one is watching.”

“I want you to know I do not pity you. Pity can be shallow and cruel. What I feel is respect.”

Yuu looked up, confused.

“It takes strength to face each day knowing you’re at war with your own thoughts. It takes courage to survive when the world you knew has been torn from you and replaced with a place that doesn’t always feel real.”

Trein continued, “Grim came to me out of concern. And I assure you, Yuu… there is no shame in stumbling during recovery. Only in believing you must do it alone.”

Lucius jumped into Yuu’s lap then, curling up. Yuu slowly let a hand drift to stroke his back.

Trein gave a faint smile.

“Even Lucius knows who needs grounding.”

He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bound notebook—aged but blank.

“This is for you. Write what hurts. What confuses you. Or write nothing at all. You may tear out the pages, burn them, or never show a soul. But sometimes, the mind cannot quiet until its burdens are given a place to rest.”

Yuu took it gently.

Down the road, Trein never hovered. But he always noticed.

If Yuu’s answers in class were shorter than usual, he’d adjust the lesson pace. If he saw their breathing stutter when voices around grew loud, he’d assign a solo reading task and lead the others elsewhere—shielding them with normalcy.

“Oi! You’re not gettin’ out of PE that easy!”

Yuu had hoped to sneak past the training field.

But Vargas spotted them with that hawk gaze of his and jogged over, waving enthusiastically.

They braced for a lecture about attendance, but he paused as he got closer.

“You okay?” he asked—less gruffly than usual.

Yuu tried to shrug it off, but Vargas tilted his head.

“I know I ain’t always the most gentle guy. But I do notice when one of my students looks like they’re carryin’ a boulder on their back.”

He crossed his arms.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

Yuu blinked. “You’re not gonna make me run laps?”

“Nope. Today we walk. Slowly. No sweat.”

So they did—around the track, where Vargas usually shouted drills.

His voice was calm, explaining how, even in physical training, injuries sometimes come from inside.

“Used to have a friend back in my rookie days,” he said. “Tough guy. Strong as hell. But he had demons in his head that none of us could see.”

He glanced at Yuu.

“Pain ain’t just broken bones and bruises. You can be fightin’ for your life, and no one will know unless they look close enough.”

Yuu swallowed. “I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You didn’t,” Vargas said, dead serious. “You’re still standin’. You showed up today. That takes guts.”

They stopped near the bleachers, and Vargas handed them something—a pair of weight gloves.

“These are yours now, not for lifting. Not for workouts. Just a reminder. You’re stronger than you think.”

From then on, Vargas kept an eye on them.

If Yuu’s breathing quickened during group drills, he’d subtly call a “water break.” If they looked spaced out, he’d shout, “Hey! Wanna time me on the sprint?”

[kaiasky]

just me or is this article.... bad. even as an introduction for/advocacy for close reading?

Granted, 'here's how to do close reading' is a hard task given that the core flaw of close reading is that it's not a method, it's at best a style to imitate & a gesture at what ought to be analyzed. & i recognize that the article is giving that example in the form of his own close reading My Struggle and and a gesture at Mimesis. These are... odd choices, no? Like. Mimesis is doing comparative literature. The example given is

Rather, in the kind of inversion that has become routine in the humanities, but nevertheless in Auerbach’s hands still dazzles, “The concept of God held by the Jews is less a cause than a symptom of their manner of comprehending and representing things.”. ... We can learn about a people through its style, its literature, which bears an ineradicable record of its version of reality.

Now look, first off. Personally I would be really hesitant in 2025 to endorse "by reading the Bible against other works, we can come to understand the racialized mind of a people or ethnicity". But like--more crucially, it seems really odd to use a historical & comparative analysis as an example when you are simultaneously talking about the origins of close reading in New Criticism?

... Richards printed poems with their authors redacted, sent them home with his students, and asked them to produce commentary. They did, and their commentary, from these otherwise good students, was riddled with errors. Without the context of who wrote the poems or when, the students failed to make out the plain sense.

Like--there's a largely unacknowledged contradiction here about what close reading is! There's a huge swathe of literary criticism that would outright say that "the reader's surprise" or "Homer" or "the Jewish mind" have absolutely 0 place in a close reading of the text.

Again, not to say that Auerbach isn't doing a close reading, but if I was writing an introduction to close reading, I feel like I would choose something uncomplicated that highlighted the *method* of close reading. instead of the sweeping conclusion I found most profound. (of course, Sinykin isn't actually writing a guide to close reading here, he's sucking his own dick about how good he is at writing/reading & how profound close reading lets u be.)

Beyond that. Does Sinykin even believe the thing he wrote about "We can learn about a people through its style"? Because he ALSO says that close reading is non-virtuous and non-productive. It simply cannot be both--either close reading is a tool to understand the truth of texts, and through them, truth about material reality (this makes it incredibly useful and productive) OR it is a fun intellectual game to play with fríends (so you just said some antisemitic shit with zero fucking evidence, for fun).

But close reading is not just for academics, and it deserves a bigger audience. Not because it’s virtuous. Not because it makes us better people. (I know some great close readers who are real assholes.) But because it’s a thrilling way to think with others, to claw back some of the time taken from us daily by tech oligarchs (I have looked at Twitter impulsively several times while writing this pointedly long, difficult sentence), and relearn some of our capacity, atrophied into passivity by algorithms, for aesthetics, a term that arose in modernity to name a storehouse of values in dialectical opposition to those of capitalism: above all, treating texts as ends in themselves rather than as means to productive ends—treating them, that is, as art. 

look like. i get it right. oooh complicated sentence it will confuse people, they will slow down and pay attention to the actual words. they will, without even knowing it, be doing the start of a close reading.

if u were going to do this. u didn't need to point out that u were doing it. his fuckin dick is out & he's looking at u the reader sadly going won't anybody suck me or am I gonna have to do it myself?? 🥺. pathetic. deeply deeply embarrassing. I read this paragraph and realized that I needed to come here and spend an hour writing about how much I hate this stupid fucking essay.

if u needed to point it out u should have done it at the end. this is more clever arrangement of the terrible bit he's doing

world record champion for most unsupported assertions fit into a single paragraph of all time. does truth or evidence for ur claims matter?? evidently not

I rly don't relate to his description of "relearning our capacity for aesthetics". If I'm close reading something I already know how it sat with me as an aesthetic object. when I'm close reading it I'm interested in it as a technical object--at best I'm trying to understand why it hit me some way

again. fuck you

I think it's interesting to look at the presumed "bad reader" placed opposite the noble sports-star close-reader. Roughly: Somebody who reads the wrong books (perhaps even self-published ones!) in a familiar comfort-zone, for the plot instead of the beauty of the written word, enjoys it instead of being ~intellectually stimulated~. Oh look it's some stupid mishmash of old "genre fiction" stereotypes & "booktok" stereotypes.

This is, to be clear, pathetic. But it's also a hugely missed opportunity! Like look. It's fucking insane to say that genre lit fans are not paying attention to details. I do not think brandon sanderson fans are known for particularly insightful commentary but damn if they haven't scrutinized and theorized about every kind of what if A and B were mixed together. Is this close reading?? Or more interestingly--why do close reading instead/in addition?

You must acknowledge that its words are how they are for a reason, their placement is purposeful, thus meaningful. Every word is a clue.

There really is no shortage of 'reading for details' that i have no doubt Sinykin would not consider "close reading" that nonetheless follows this! powerscaling! finding 100% definitive proof of ur ship being canon! tvtropes! matpat voice "but thats just a theory...a LITERATURE theory."! cinemasins ding! finding every microaggression the author could plausibly be blamed for and taking them to task on twitter!

Or yknow... one particularly striking example--hey do u ever carefully look at each word and how they go together to determine if something is written by chatgpt? hey that might be an interes--

Every day, AI produces more of the words we come across, making it hard—maybe impossible—to care about reading them.

no, you dipshit, says Dan Sinykin. not only is it sososo important to know biographical details about the author to understand the text (it cannot stand on its own w/o the context surrounding its creation) (btw this method was invented by new critics). but fundamentally you CANNOT do a close reading of it.

If you're writing an article (ostensibly) advocating for everybody to practice close reading & some tips to get started. A baseline respect for ur presumed non-close-reader audience i think should compel you to at least address why you think close reading offers something to expand or improve the reading and interpretation they're already doing. That shouldn't be hard, since close reading IS great! Alright, Dan, knock it home!

Nunez, by publishing her cryptic novel, confesses her faith that readers persist, and that if fiction works it is thanks to those readers. Not just any readers, but those with faith, in turn, in art: close readers.

christ. i mean thats a thesis statement i woulda been embarrassed to turn in as a high schooler. this is the final demonstration of the vaunted power of the close reader!?! And putting aside the analysis of the book--as a conclusion to the article? Literally just fart-huffing praise for close-readers and lazy, incurious contempt for everybody else.

shoulda stuck to sports.

Close reading is untimely. It bristles against today’s universities, which treat students as customers to please and as future workers to train rather than as people in pursuit of human flourishing. Jeff Bezos’ empire—Amazon; Goodreads; Kindle Direct Publishing, which dominates the perfervid world of self-publishing—encourages readers to “talk about a book as if it were just another thing, like a dish, or a product like an electronic device.” Social media compels us to attend to what we’re seeing for as long as it takes to scroll by. Every day, AI produces more of the words we come across, making it hard—maybe impossible—to care about reading them. I’m sure there were college courses this semester where students completed their work with AI and professors graded it with AI, cutting humans from the loop. It’s easy to see why close reading, which demands patience, openness to others, and slow, careful thought, is having a moment among academics. (...)

How would you begin if you’ve never taken a literature course—or if it’s been a decade or three? You must acknowledge that its words are how they are for a reason, their placement is purposeful, thus meaningful. Every word is a clue. No skimming. You must (metaphorically) listen to the text: what is it trying to do—to you. You might start with a poem or a novel you’ve read before, one you’d like to understand better. You might already have hunches about what it’s about. These might be confirmed upon rereading, or pleasingly foiled. As you read, a line might hit you. You feel struck. You pause. Here’s where close reading happens. Hold up. Linger with that line. Read it again, a few more times. What gives it its force here in its immediate moment? Work out its power. Does it reveal something about the text’s project?

[chilling-seavey]

Lessons in Lust and Other Illicit Desires (gr63) —TWENTY-ONE

↳ A/N I'm just going to leave this here

↳ Series Summary: Sensible, wise, and a hopeless dreamer, Rosaline was used to men not giving her a second glance. She soon discovered it was merely those mundane college boys who were nothing more than simply intimidated by her intellect. What she needed was a man — someone who could impart knowledge beyond the Classics and guide her in discovering her own confidence as a woman. The thrill of sneaking around with the ever-so-charmingly handsome Professor Russell was certainly a bonus.

↳ Pairings: OxfordProfessor!George Russell x Innocent!Student!OC, Max Verstappen x Charles Leclerc (background)

↳ Chapter Word Count: 3.5k

↳ Chapter Warnings: Angst?

Rosaline didn’t remember the walk to George’s house from Regent’s Park College. One moment she was standing outside the Dean’s office, and the next, she was staring blankly at the familiar front door, her fingers clenched tight around the strap of her bag. Her umbrella dangled uselessly from her hand, her hair soaked, as if she hadn’t even registered the rain storm still blistering around her until that moment. A gust of bitter air blew past her and sliced through her thin jacket like glass. 

Her breath shook as she inhaled, struggling to hold herself together on this hellish day. All she wanted was the comfort of George, of his home, the warmth of his fireplace and perhaps a cup of tea. 

She hadn’t texted or even called to warn him she was coming over. After her original text had gone unanswered, she couldn’t stomach another silence; she had enough of a struggle holding herself together after the meeting with the Dean and all that sickening weight that it carried. In a fit of desperation, she raised her fist and knocked twice on the door, sheltered by the cramped front porch of the white brick townhome. 

She had barely blinked and the door was opened, revealed George on the other side. 

He was in his usual slacks and a white button up shirt, except the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and two more buttons were undone from the top, accentuating the frazzledness of his tousled hair and the furrow of his eyebrows that appeared so deep they could almost have been permanently like that. Once he saw it was her on the other side—standing, rain soaked and pathetic, on his front porch—his face didn’t even soften like it usually did. He stared down his nose at her, that unsettling frown still ever present. There was a tense pause between them. 

“What are you doing here?” George asked firmly, glancing to the street as if she would have been followed by the Dean himself. 

“Can I come in?” she asked timidly, her voice quivering and unfamiliar. 

“No, you can’t come in, Rosaline,” George almost snapped, “You have some nerve coming here, you know that?”

His out-of-character sternness had her taking a half step back in surprise. This was how he would speak to students in his class who’d slack off or cause disruptions, never her. Never her.

George’s voice was clipped, “Did Dean Stewart call you in?”

“Yes, I…I just came from his office.” Rosaline forced out, trying to hold her own. She reached a hand up to wipe the raindrops from her glasses, smudging the water across the lenses. It only made it worse.

“So you know that the Univeristy fucking knows then? That they forced me to step back from my classes until the Board makes a decision?”

He had every right to be angry, Rosaline knew that, but the fact that his hostility was being directed towards her was alarming. Weren’t they in this together? They were just as blindsided as the other, they were supposed to be forming a united front, weren’t they? Perhaps it all boiled down to the fact that she had made the first move all those weeks ago, pressured him into kissing her, into touching her, into forming whatever strange relationship they started to have since then. 

She was desperate to make this right, “Yes. Yes, but I told Dean Stewart that it wasn’t your fault and that it was all me, okay? It was all me. And I can tell that to the board too!”

But George wasn’t hearing it. He asked her sternly, accusatorily, “Did you tell anyone? Your friends? Who submitted the report?”

“I…I told my friends last week but they wouldn’t ever do that—”

George let out a humourless laugh, setting his hands on his hips as he dropped his head back for a second as if to compose himself at least somewhat. Then, he raised a hand to rub his forehead in exasperation before speaking, “Rosaline, you are an intelligent young woman, undoubtedly going to be top of your graduating class, but sometimes, you are so fucking naïve, you know that?”

“My friends wouldn’t do that—”

“Then who else?” George snapped, his voice raising just a little, “Huh? I told you to tell no one. I trusted you just as much as you trusted me. And you went behind my back.”

“That’s not fair!”

“No, it’s not fair.” 

George, despite his anger, was frustratingly calm. Chillingly calm. Perhaps it was due to the fact that they were having this heated discussion right on his front porch or perhaps it was just in his nature to express himself as reasonably level headed no matter how angry he got. He was immensely stern but he was unmistakably steady. Regardless, Rosaline could see the true emotion in his every word, in his expression, in the tension of his jaw and his shoulders and the fold of his arms. 

“My career and my reputation are on the line. Everything I worked my whole life for is about to go up in smoke for what?” 

“For me!” she cried, voice cracking, “For us!”

“There was no ‘us,’ Rosaline. Come on. Don’t do that.” George scolded. 

She felt as if a bucket of cold water was poured all over her, drenching her more than the rain had. The realization that perhaps all her feelings were one-sided hit hard and, as if it were her final moments, a flurry of memories passed behind her teary eyes. 

George continued without missing a beat, “This was an agreement—albeit a downright foolish one—but it was meant to help you…safely, discreetly. And it’s over. You can’t come here anymore. You can’t contact me anymore—”

“Was all of this just some big game to you?” Rosaline asked loudly, cutting him off, her voice filled with emotional desperation as she felt her heart cracking in her chest, “You said college boys would just use me and toss me aside—you said that. And now look at what you’re doing.”

“I never used you and you know that.” George said, almost immediately, “My feelings for you were…are…genuine. But right now, I have to focus on salvaging what’s left of my career more than anything else. That is my priority. That will always be my priority.”

She was foolish to think she was any different than the women he spoke about in his past; that she would finally be the one he would choose over his career. His precious, hard-earned career. He couldn’t have gotten to where he was without being selfish but maybe that was just an innate part of him that she hadn’t realized until that very moment. It certainly didn’t make it hurt any less.

“How can you say that to me?” she choked out, “After everything I gave you? Everything I trusted you with?”

“I told you from the start what the rules were,” he warned firmly, “And you agreed. So don’t stand there and make me out to be the villain.”

Her hand curled into a fist around the strap of her bag, “So what, then? This was never going to go anywhere, is that it?”

George didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was flat, filled with a sickening sense of finality, “I’m your professor. I’m twelve years older than you. We’re in two completely different worlds, Rosaline. This was always going to end. And I think, deep down, you knew that.”

Rosaline, a literary, a writer, a lover of words, never knew that they could hurt so damn much. She stood there on his front porch in the momentary silence that was heavy with the words that lingered between them, the heavy beating of her heart muted by the rain on the asphalt. It didn’t feel fair, any of it. She wanted to scream at him, cry, grab him by the front of his shirt and shake him until he admitted that he didn’t mean it. Until he told her it wasn’t all over, not like that. 

But in her silence, as he stared at her from over the threshold, a heartbreaking realization settled on her consciousness: she had been chasing an impossible fantasy. She was foolish to ever think that her story would be different from all those silly romance novels she read and penned—he would always just end up being the professor who awakened her desires but could never fully commit to her. Yes, she felt riddled with guilt and shame and embarrassment but she forced herself to straighten, to hold only what was left of her pride. 

She had given him every part of her, but he wasn’t going to get the satisfaction of taking this. 

“You could’ve just said you were scared,” she said quietly, but with a reverence that was unmissable.

George’s eyebrows raised, “Scared?”

She could barely muster a nod, a brief tilt of her chin, “Scared of letting me in…in fear of what everyone else would think when they found out. Scared of changing your priorities or realizing that life is more than just your job; clearly you have issues letting people in, trusting, giving your whole self. And now you’re pushing me away because it all became too real, too inconvenient for you.”

George’s jaw ticked and he looked to the side. She felt a flicker of pride in her chest, as if she realized she had struck some semblance of the truth buried deep within him. He wasn’t the only good analyzer between them; she had written enough flawed characters to uncover what lay buried beneath. 

“I didn’t mean to ruin your career, that wasn’t my intention no matter how much you may think it was,” Rosaline continued flatly, “And I will continue to plead your case to the Dean and the Board, because I know you’re a wonderful professor, an impressive educator, and you deserve your position here at Oxford.”

George looked at her, but still didn’t speak.

“But you know the worst part?” Rosaline exhaled, unable to keep her voice from cracking despite her best efforts to put up a strong front, “You didn’t even ask if I was okay. You didn’t come to find me or even just sent me a text to make sure I was all right after your meeting with the Dean this morning. You just cut me off like I was nothing. Like I was a burden. You only care about saving yourself.”

“I do care about you,” he said quietly, “But that doesn’t mean this isn’t the right thing to do. I have to be careful—”

“You were the first person who ever made me feel desirable,” she said firmly, despite the way her voice quivered, “But I don’t need you. I don’t need some…man to make me feel worthy. And I hope you remember that while you’re trying to pretend none of this ever happened.”

George sighed, “Rose—”

But her mind was made up. She took a step back with a simple, “Enjoy the rest of your safe, discreet, careful life, Professor Russell.”

She turned before he could respond, before she could see his reaction, and she walked down the three stone steps of his front porch and into the haze of the stormy afternoon. She could barely hear the click of the front door closing behind her through the rain. Her trembling hand raised to her mouth to smother the sob that she had been holding back for hours. 

Rosaline barely remembered sending an SOS message to her groupchat on her way back to the dorms that afternoon. Everything felt like a strange dream, something nightmarish, trudging through the University grounds towards Pembroke College by foot, umbrella closed at her side, as if drowning in the rain would be sufficient punishment for her tormented mind. She ended up collapsing onto the floor of her dorm room the second she got in, having ignored the stares from fellow students as she navigated the hallways in tears. 

Soaked and sorrowful, Rosaline curled herself into a ball on her rug, pulling her legs to her chest as she sat against the side of her bed on the floor. The same bed where in which George had gone down on her for the first time, where she had touched herself to the memory of him, where she dreamt about him. Her one safe space on the whole campus wasn’t even entirely hers anymore. She pressed her hands to her mouth to try and smother her sobs. 

Tabitha arrived first since she, too, lived in Pembroke College. Rosaline didn’t even recall her gentle knock on the door before she had let herself in, hurrying across the cramped room to crouch in front of her heartbroken best friend. Never before had Rosaline shown such an intense show of emotion, outwardly sobbing until she could hardly breathe. Tabitha didn’t quite know what to do. 

“Hey,” she said gently, setting her hands on Rosaline’s knees to give her a comforting caress, “Hey, I’m here. It’s alright.”

Rosaline, through rain streaked glasses, raised her gaze to her best friend, her body trembling under the weight of her distress. Sleeves tugged over her hands, she gripped the fabric tightly—knuckles white, lip quivering beneath the wool, her flushed cheeks burning with shame.

Tabitha sighed in concern and got up to fetch her a tissue from her bedside table before kneeling back down in front of Rosaline and gently coaxing her hands down.

“You don’t have to hide,” she said quietly.

With care, Tabitha dabbed away the smudged mascara and tear tracks, though Rosaline’s own hand soon rose, swiping clumsily at her face and only making things worse.

“The university knows!” Rosaline sniffled wetly, her voice broken through her jagged tears, “A-And George…he…he just pushed me away. It’s…it’s over and…”

“Oh, Rose…” Tabitha breathed, her voice filled with helpless sympathy.

Rosaline only sobbed in response, burying her face in her knees as if she wanted to curl in on herself and just disappear. 

Just then, there was another knock on her door and Max and Charles stepped inside, both with mirrored expressions of concern on their faces. They took one look at Rosaline in tears on the floor and then glanced at Tabitha who was still crouched in front of her. Tabitha just offered them a tight-lipped smile and the faintest shake of her head.

“Mon cœur,” Charles cooed gently as he stepped forward first, shrugging off his rain-slicked jacket and draping it over the back of her desk chair before lowering himself beside them, “what has happened?”

Max took his time closing the door behind them, sealing their little room in the privacy of Rosaline’s dorm room, and he lingered just a pace away, arms folded across his chest, listening. 

Rosaline broke like a dam, spilling everything to them that had happened since that morning. From the new professor to the meeting with the Dean and the receipts he had and, of course, her conversation with George and the way his words seemed to put a nail in her coffin. She was so beside herself that her sentences were more sobs than words but her friends, after years together, were able to make sense of it all. They stayed quiet and listened the whole way through, Tabitha with her hand on her knee and Charles stroking her arm and Max with his steadfast protective presence looming over them. 

Once she was done, Max muttered a ‘fuck’ under his breath. Tabitha hung her head with a shake in disbelief. 

“C’est un vrai connard, (he’s a real asshole)” Charles grumbled as he shifted to sit beside Rosaline and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder to bring her into his side. He pressed a kiss to her temple and she rested her head on his shoulder with a sob. 

“It hurts so bad,” Rosaline cried. She rubbed a hand over her chest as if the physical pain in her heart was too much to bear. It truly and honestly felt like he had plunged a dagger into her chest, sipping her heartstrings one by one until she was left with nothing but the shell of what she once was. She had read and written about heartbreak more times than she could count but feeling it for herself was a pain unlike any other.

“I know,” Tabitha muttered, reaching for the entire box of tissues from the nearby bedside table and she offered them out to her again, “I can imagine.”

Charles plucked a tissue from the box, but when Rosaline turned her head and buried her face in his shoulder, he didn’t protest—despite her using his shirt as a tissue more than the one in his hand. Gently, he wiped at what parts of her cheek he could reach, offering a light, “Well, you wanted to experience everything, and now you experienced the heartbreak also.”

Rosaline let out the faintest shaky chuckle against him and he tightened his arm around her, pressing another kiss to her head. He held her without expectation, solid and calm as she cried, offering quiet comfort in the way only someone who truly cared could. And for that, she was deeply, unspeakably grateful. She was so lucky she had her friends.

Finally, from his spot in the middle of the cramped dorm room, Max spoke, low, firmly, “I’ll fucking kill him.”

The trio on the floor looked up at him, almost as if they had forgotten he was there for a moment. 

Charles tutted, “No, you will not.”

Ignoring his boyfriend, Max continued, planting his hands on his hips as he went off in a furious rant, “He did exactly what I thought he’d do, you know? He took complete advantage of you, Rose! He took your kind, caring, incredible heart and he ripped it out like it was his. He stole everything that was special to you and left you with nothing…then he spoke to you like you were nothing and just tossed you aside. He took what he wanted and then just threw you away. I’m not going to stand here and pretend that it’s okay!”

“Merde…” Charles sighed.

Without another word, Max crouched down with them on the floor, weaseling right between Charles and Tabitha so he could look Rosaline right in the eye, “Anything you want, Rose, I’ll do it. Key his car? Slash his tires? You name it.”

“Max…” Rosaline chuckled wetly, lifting her head from Charles’ shoulder and she wiped at her damp eyes, “You don’t need to do all that.”

“He can’t get away with this.” Max insisted, his expression firm, begging to be heard.

Rosaline sighed, “He’s already in risk of losing his career.”

“Good!” Max replied sharply. 

Tabitha elbowed him with a frown. 

“Not good. It’s my fault.” Rosaline muttered. 

Tabitha reached to squeeze her knee, “It’s not your fault.”

“I was the one who pleaded for us to have this stupid agreement in the first place. I assured him that everything was going to be fine every time he warned me about the rules and the consequences.” 

“And he is a grown man who made his decision.” Tabitha reminded her, “He knew the risks. He said yes anyway.”

Max added curtly, “And then he turned around and blamed you for it.”

“I’m not the victim!” Rosaline said loudly, defensively, sitting up straighter as her finger pressed against her chest insistently, “I’m tired of everyone making me out to be some damsel in distress! Dean Stewart did it too! No one listens!”

“Okay,” Charles hushed her with a rub of her back, “Okay, Rose, we are not pointing our fingers or calling you a victim. We’re just angry because you’re hurting. That is all.”

“I don’t want to think about him anymore!” Rosaline declared, “I just want to finish the term and graduate and move on.”

Tabitha offered a small, reassuring smile, trying to find the silver lining, “And get that book of yours published, yeah?”

Rosaline’s eyes filled with tears again in sudden realization that the end of her relationship with George meant no more mentorship meetings and, thus, no more reviews of her manuscript. She choked out a pathetic, “I didn’t even get a full review on my novel!”

And just like that, the grief came rushing back—less about love now, and more about everything she’d lost in the wreckage as it fell to pieces around her. 

Charles curled his arm tighter around her, Max laid a quiet hand on her shoulder, and Tabitha gave her knee one more firm squeeze. The presence of her friends acted as a desperate consolation amidst the capricious feelings that swirled within her. The four of them stayed like that on Rosaline’s dorm room floor for a while, offering her the comfort she so desperately needed.

“You’ll still finish your novel,” Tabitha said gently after a moment, “And you’ll do it on your own terms. Just like you always have.”

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[yuuuraaa]

𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎, 𝓂𝑒

Letter7! ~ {my heart's like a labyrinth}

𝔟𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔰𝔢… y/n receives a letter in her locker one day, under the initials 𝓝. she becomes overjoyed and decides to write a letter back, but she didn't know where to leave it. so she left it at the back of the classroom, with a note saying, for 𝓝.

[🎤]artist ~ niki x reader! [💿]album type ~ strangers to lovers! [🎧]genre ~ fluff featured artist! @orimuraa @rikimuraaaa @14raeriluv @lonelylandofan @deezbutz28 @monniemons @yangwoniez @anormieee @rikihyph divider by @uzmacchiato!! <3

all letters!

(﹙˓🎧ྀིloading music...🎧ྀི﹚)

(﹙˓🎧ྀིloading complete!🎧ྀི﹚)

ʟᴏᴀᴅɪɴɢ.........

since when did heeseung care about badminton?

did he too, like riki, have feelings for y/n?

he did notice for quite some time that heeseung would gush about her when they were younger... how long ago was it?

oh yeah, 3 years ago.

there was still a chance heeseung still liked y/n. and riki was not about to let him get away with it.

or so he thought.

because for the past few weeks he was sick in bed. not because of heartbreak, no that doesn't happen to people, it's because after playing volleyball, he passed out. so he hasn't been writing y/n letters much. and he can't really get the letters from school either.

but as soon as he came back, he was shocked to hear rumors that y/n and heeseung were dating. students claim that they saw them on cafe dates all the time he was sick.

ˋ°•*⁀➷⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖➴｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

"what..?" riki's voice slightly broke after hearing this from jungwon and haerin.

"yeah! the whole school thinks that heeseung and y/n are dating!" jungwon told riki, haerin chiming in her opinion as well.

"and to think that they were at each other's throats for a few years. could it possible that all that anger was just their way of showing love?" haerin said as she looked at jungwon.

"who knows, it's just rumors after all." jungwon said as he and haerin walked away.

riki hasn't seen y/n in forever, he missed all of her practices, and he hadn't even wrote her a single letter! but it's just rumors, as jungwon said, so riki should ask her sister, hyein, if y/n is really dating someone.

ˋ°•*⁀➷⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖➴｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

"oh? my little sister? i actually did see her getting ready to go on a date once... but she never told me she was dating someone!" hyein told riki after being asked by him.

"really? not once did you ever see those two holding hands or acting all lovey-dovey like jungwon and haerin?" riki asked once more, causing hyein to refrain from eating her sandwich and answer him again.

"i don't know, okay? go ask her yourself if you're really that interested..." hyein said angrily as she ate her sanwich.

ask y/n himself?

ˋ°•*⁀➷⸝⸝💌⊹。°˖➴｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

"that's rude to ask someone! you know?" riki got scolded by jake and sunghoon as he tried to ask them if he should ask y/n if she has a boyfriend.

"but i say, go for it!" jake said to encourage riki, getting a punch to the shoulder from sunghoon.

"really...?'' riki replied sheepishly, his ears turning red.

"no harm in doing so! what's the worst that could happen, hm?" jake continued.

"alright! i'll go ask her!" riki told them, raising his voice ever so slightly.

"ask who?" y/n asked as she passed by, her arms wrapped around heeseung's.

"hey riki! hope you're feeling better! we still have to attend sportsfest next week!" heeseung said happily as he ruffled riki's hair.

"is she your girlfriend?" jake asked for riki, causing heeseung to chuckle.

"why wouldn't y/n be my girlfriend?" heeseung joked.

so it was true. heeseung and y/n were dating.

"for how long?" riki's voice broke. and so did heeseung's. because he cared for riki, and he knew how much riki liked y/n, but he couldn't say no to y/n asking him to be her boyfriend.

"weren't you there? we told the volleyball team first!" y/n asked.

"no, i was sick." riki simply answered, looking down at the floor.

"hm.... well, i guess now you know!" y/n smiled happily, the same smile that was for him every time she read riki's letters.

riki forced his smile.

y/n had his heart, but heeseung threw it away.

CHAPTER END!!!

previous!/all letters!/next!

©yura 2025

[aventoru]

Undeserving of Our Blessings

ft. anaxa

tags : anaxa’s death, 3.2 quest spoilers, grief, angst

series masterlist / general masterlist

anaxa knew the grove was in danger before it even arrived. well, danger was always imminent considering he was its pseudo-leader. even so, the concept of “tomorrow” seemed much more bleak now that the black tide had taken over various parts of amphoreus. reaching the grove was no longer a matter of if, it was simply a matter of when.

you knew it too, that disaster would strike eventually. but anaxa’s pretty face and brilliant genius pulled you in like a moth to a flame. the professor was by no means a hopeless romantic, but you knew he appreciated you in his own way. you were the one who he acknowledged and made his assistant. you were the one he entrusted with his knowledge and research. it was your name that was printed next to his on published findings. you were the only one given the priviledge to call him anaxa.

your journey with the infamous scholar started from being his classmate, then his colleague, and now…something more. anaxa treated you like you meant something to him, and it was about time he came to admit it.

“i know you love me, and you know i love you,” you said exasperatedly.

“of course. i deduced that a long time ago idiot,” he replied.

“then what’s stopping us?”

“me,” he deadpanned.

anaxa wasn’t stupid. he wasn’t going to put you through danger for his short-term bliss of being your lover. his love language, if he even had one, was to protect you, not to pull you into the fire with him. unfortunately, the stubborn professor had met his match, for you refused to back down from your desire for his love. you were adamant, and he only had so much fight left in him after the endless plans and preparations for defending the grove.

after an intense stare-off, he blinked, gaze softening ever so slightly. “fine, do whatever you wish,” the scholar sighed, caving at last, “but don’t put the blame on me once you come to regret this.”

“i would never,” you intertwined your hands with his.

anaxa was unsurprised when flame reaver’s next target was the grove. he had predicted this after all. he followed standard protocol and evacuated everyone before they could even bid him a proper farewell. you felt utterly helpless watching anaxa shoulder all the pain as he fused himself with the coreflame of reason. his colleagues, his students, had passed and left. there was nothing you could do besides stay. as soon as flame reaver touched down, the professor and you set foot towards okhema together, his tired frame leaning on your sagging shoulders.

you stood right by his side as he negotiated with aglaea the future of the ticking time bomb planted in his chest. anaxa, forever the reckless problem-solver, proposed to sacrifice his own life to retrieve the coreflame. aglaea and the other chrysos heirs could not believe that was the only possible course of action. you could only offer an apologetic smile. you’d gotten used to this.

that night, you rested within the accommodation aglaea had kindly arranged, getting comfortable on the soft bed and fluffy pillow. anaxa laid facing the moonlit window and you laid facing his back. you shifted closer, gently wrapping your arms around him from behind as if he were made of glass. your actions managed, albeit briefly, to disperse the thick clouds in his mind and swirling pain in his heart.

“we will weather this storm,” you said.

no, we won’t, anaxa thought, smirking. perhaps his judgement of you was wrong. perhaps you really weren’t as smart as he thought you were. ���is that your hypothesis?” he asked.

“no, it’s my conclusion,” you murmured, snuggling closer and closing your eyes. you slept peacefully that night, satisfied at your perfect deception. this would be the first and only time you outsmarted him.

no, we won’t, you knew.

“when the time comes, i shall return this coreflame to the chrysos heirs. that is my final decision,” anaxa announced to you the next morning.

he knew this wasn’t what you wanted. he always made decisions by himself, unregarding of you and your feelings but anaxa was stuck between a rock and a hard place. in every hero epic, sacrifices need to be made for the better of humanity. it was just that this time, the sacrifice was him. he had half-expected your emotions to finally burst, for you to stand up and give him a peace of your mind. but the anger never came, and anaxa realized it was only him who would ever do that.

“i understand,” you nodded supportively.

you don’t deserve them, cerces whispered next to him. he turned to glare daggers at her, but deep down he knew she was right. you were always gentle and understanding, never raising your voice. you were above the petty arguments and brawls over the truth about amphoreus, or the origin of the titans. you always thought twice when it came to words and actions, thrice when it came to him. you stayed with him when no one did, when he was deemed blasphemous, selfish, brooding. you were truly too good for him.

“i never gave you peace.”

“you’re here with me. and that’s enough.” for someone so intelligent, anaxa had failed to understand your true emotions. you never cared for peace. you only ever cared for him.

so once more, you watched silently at the vortex of genesis as he reached into his chest and pulled out the coreflame, cutting his heart off its life support. his lifeline was gone, and so was yours. a blinding green flashed before your eyes as your lover faded away into dust, quickly and quietly. you stayed true to your word and bid him goodbye with no regrets, but a completely different emotion took over.

you will die, and grief will engulf me. that was my true conclusion. you swallowed the growing lump in your throat, eyes brimming with tears.

the rain had come, at last.

a/n : this concept fits anaxa so well 😭 like he's always aiming for more while you js stand there helplessly watching him from afar 💔💔💔

[exy-and-i-know-it]

I just work here

Based on this post by @all-for-the-things-breathing on Tumblr

Neil works at Exites because it's as good as he knows his Exy career will get, and he knows that for his safety, it must stay that way until one day, the Queen of Exy decides he simply must have him. (This is sort of a crack fic, but I can't write crack to save my life, so it's pretty serious until the very end. I'm also fairly new to writing in the past tense, so there is that.)

Note: The author of this prompt wrote a fic for this themselves, but I didn't see that at the time of my writing this (5th June). I haven't read it, but if you like this fic, you should probably check it out on their Tumblr @all-for-the-things-breathing.

A regular uni student, that’s what Neil Josten was. Absolutely, very, totally extremely, every word in the thesaurus, ordinary, that was for sure. Well, as ordinary as you can get with a serial killer for a father and mobster for a mother. Still, he’d managed quite well on his own he thought, managing to procure a job, just so it wasn’t too suspicious how he was so easily affording school. Okay, maybe a job as a sales clerk at a sporting goods store was that good a cover for his stolen cash, but jobs are hard to find!

And, in his defence, Exties was just any sporting goods store, no, no, no. Exites was a speciality store. They sold gear for one sport and one sport only: Exy. This happened to be the sport that Neil lived and breathed by, as much as he could anyway. He’d played Little League up until junior high, but that was all it was ever going to be for him. Having a team meant committing for a year, meant putting down roots which he couldn’t do when on the run, where he might need to skip town at a moment’s notice. He certainly couldn’t pick up the sport in uni, that would only force upon him the very notoriety he’d been trying to avoid all his life. He’d made his peace with that and this life in general. But he could watch, and he could dream.

This was as close to Exy as he was going to get, and that was good enough (it wasn’t), it had to be. And he did get to play some (barely, not really), when customers were trying out new racquets and needed someone to practise against. He’d copped to his junior high experience in his interview, it was the most honest he’d been in awhile and his head spun when the manager hired him on the spot. Apparently the rest of the staff were just more broke kids taking whatever they could get. There were a few little league coaches that helped and some highschool coahes that came in to advise on peanles the store held ocassionally, but they were never around reliably, so demonstrations and “try-ons” fell, nearly exclusively, to Neil. If he was a bit proud of that, he didn’t have to bring it up. Either way, the staff were glad to have him around. (If it didn’t make sense to him why someone would work in a shop selling gear for a sport they’d never even tried, he kept himself from saying so.)

And life in South Carolina wasn’t bad. The weather was good, in all but the peak of winter in December and January, and when it got hot, the aircon in the store would be on blast anyway. It wasn’t bad at all. On break, he’d chip away at the seemingly endless amounts of maths homework, or, if he was particularly tired, breeze through the Spanish with ease. He’d never tried the language before, but after years of living nearly everywhere, language came easily to him, a survival skill. And gaining a new one was comforting.

Truthfully, he’d never imagined university, never though he’d make it, couldn’t imagine it. When it had crossed his mind, he’d though of somewhere farther away, but international meant paperwork, and money didn’t grown on trees. But he’d needed to go. He justified it with the reasoning that he’d eventually need a job, even a low or mid-levle one, and a big crowd would be easier to hide in, plus it was guaranteed housing for four years, though he planned to graduate as quickly as possible. Right now, he was sorley wishing he had consistent enough transcripts that he could have done dual enrollment and graduated in two years instead. While he was glad for some creature comforts, the thought of staying in one place for so long honestly made him nauseous. He settled for taking an enormous classload instead, and with this job, and perhaps some work on the side (using skills he’d picked up on the run… this was far enough away for word not to get back to his father’s men, right?) he could even do summer classes again like he did last year before he’d had to get as stingy with his money. As he puzzled it out the idea when the bell chimed.

“Store closes in 30 minutes.” he said out of habit. 

There was no answer. He was tempted to look up, but he was so close to finishing his revision pamphlet that he didn’t want to break his concetraction.

When it was done he sighed and glanced at his watch. ‘Still 25 minutes until closing.’ The store had gotten a delivery earlier, maybe he could play with the news model of racquets.

Benefits of being a favourite was that the manager pretended not to notice if Neil stayed a few minutes after closeup just to feel a racquet in his hand. He’d asked him once, why he didn’t play for real. Neil said told the man he wasn’t good enough. That was probably true.

Even still, he liked it, loved it. Here, he’d gotten to “spar” with all kinds of players almost every day. Between that, early moring jogs, and making it to the school’s gym when he could, he’d managed to stay in pretty decent shape despite all the time he spent sitting at a desk. It helped that food wasn’t in abundance with the skimpy meal plan he’d chosen.

“Neil!” The sound of his name jolts Neil out of his thoughts.

“Yeah- uh, yes?”

“Need you up here for a try-out.” The manager shouted down from the top story. The store was so empty that his voice carried fine. His tone was light, and he was only in his early thirties, so Neil didn’t flinch.

“Coming!”

Perhaps a little too eager, Neil bounded up the steps.

The manager clapped him on the shoulder when he got to the top, saying not quietly enough, “Thoese are university athletes, the real deal. Be careful.”

Neil couldn’t make hismelf care, he wanted to play, even if just a few swings. “Oh, yeah, thanks. I’m locking up?”

“Sure,” he handed Neil the keys, “Have a good night, Neil.” Then he turned and added, “Study hard!”

It was swet that he’d remembered the test Neil had mentioned off-hand yesterday. “Yes, Mr. Thompson.”

Warmed, Neil walk towards the minicourt and faced the customers. He opened his mouth to give the usual spiel, but nothing came out.

He didn’t need to tell these people what to do, who was he kidding. One face stuck out, burned, like a memory, like a cigarett, like a car, like the balde of axe in his stomach.

Kevin Day. Holding a light racquet in his right hand.

‘Fuck.’

If he hadn’t just spoken to the manager, he would’ve used his English accent, but he’s been stupid, let his guard down, forgotten to observe his surroundings, and thus limited his options. ‘Dammit!’

From experience, he knew he had about five seconds to act normal before making his incredible awkward and potential very, very dangerous. Pretend to be clueless. Random bullshit, go!

“You all ready to test out the racquet? Have you found everything alright so far?” It sounded stupid, stupidly bland in front of this audience, but what choice did he have?

Kevin just gave a stilted, “Yes, it’s fine.” He looked almost as relieved as Neil felt not to be recognised. Weird. There’s no way that was possible. His eyes darted towards the court, but he couldn’t be as eager as Neil? No way. As calmly as possible, because this is what he was good at, Neil began unlocking the court.

The member of Palmetto State’s Exy team had brought his own gear, obviously. This was only a practice round to get a feel for the new racquet, but that didn’t make the Exy balls any softer. While he put it on, Neil took advantage of his distraction to steady himself as he put on his own gear. He took a breath, reminding himself of burning rubber and bone. As if he could ever forget. Those were the stakes, he needed to tread with utmost caution or be dragged back to Baltimore to be laid out like a pig on some stolen lab table, bled then gutted. Maybe his father would be quick.

“You coming, I don’t have all day.”

Neil jumps at Kevin’s voice, so familiar, so distant. This isn’t at all like the Kevin Day whose every interview he’d watched when he could, no, this person was all rough edges, and empty.

“Yeah.”

Shaking it off as best he could (Why couldn’t he? He’d seen worse.), he grabbed his racquet, (well it belonged to the store, but for this purpose, the manager had written his name on a piece of painter’s tape and stuck it on) and headed inside.  Unlike most courts, this one locked from the inside for liability purposes.

It was strange to watch Kevin grip the racquet with his other hand, like the earth had shifted its axis.

Then Kevin swung. It was gentler than Neil expected, like he was testing his hand, making sure it could bear the racquet’s weight. The sight was a little sad. Kevin adjusted quickly, he wouldn’t be here if he couldn’t, and tossed the ball to Neil.

Reminding himself to focus, Neil tossed the ball robotically back. A human pitching machine, that’s what he had to be. Sure, he had a little fun showing off in front of younger customers and even casual high school players, but there was no way he could pull that on the Queen of Exy. And even if he could, Kevin didn’t need that. Neil was sure he was already feeling terrible about his skiing accident already. If Neil couldn’t himself play Exy he should be glad Kevin was at least getting a chance back on the court.

Kevin’s gaze was intense, and Neil was very glad for his helmet obscuring at least part of his face.

Neil had learnt that sometimes, as much as it pained him, the best way to appear unsuspicious was to not worry at all, so he threw himself into the game. Every thought consumed with the trajectory of the ball. How weird would it look if he blocked that? How weird would it look if he didn’t. He’d never played while so carefully calculating his every move and it was at once terrifying, painful, and brilliant. He’s not sure he ever wanted to do it again. He would be glad when Kevin left. He was supposed to ask questions while the customer tried out the racquet, but he thought it was fair to assume Kevin could judge the feel for himself, even in his other hand.

Eventually, Neil lost track of time. It could have been five or ten minutes that had passed, maybe less, maybe more. Exy always did that to him, that’s why it was so dangerous.

When he looked, really looked at Kevin’s face for the first time in a while, a frightening smile sat there, a wicked grin, pure Exy adrenaline. Neil was jealous, so jealous.

And then the fun started. Kevin’s shots became tighter, more precise, more forceful, less a try-out and more something you see in a game. Goal after goal, the red lights must have been working overtime. Neil was worried that the off-brand walls of Exites’ court wouldn’t be able to take too much of this. Should he be blocking more of the shots? He could, but… Kevin’s expression was somewhat manic, not scary, not after all Neil had seen, but overzealous for sure. 

It was instinct, self defense almost. Everything in Neil’s body screamed not to let him lose. Every time those damned lights blinked red, it sent a prickle of anger through his chest. As Kevin’s shots increased in speed, Neil found himself matching pace, or rather didn’t find himself. He was completely lost in the game.

And the ball was coming towards him once more, the strongest shot yet. Fucking brilliant. Neil jumped, just a little, it was muscle memory at this point, and sent the ball flying back in the other direction. He was surprised, and yet not when it slammed into “Away-court”’s goal, exciting the red lights. He wasn’t bad but this was Kevin Day. Shit. What now? He could easily enough dismiss it as a fluke (he knew he couldn’t). As he considered it, he walked, at what he could best determine to be a reasonable pace, to retrieve the ball.

Ball now in hand, he made himself face Kevin, or rather his back. 

Kevin was completely still.

The only noise Neil would swear was a chuckle, probably coming from one of the guys that had come in with Kevin. “Interesting,” one of them said, but he sounded bored.

“Sir?” It felt wrong to call him that, but what else could Neil do? “Are you alright? Is the racquet suitable? You can try another if you like.” The suggestions were hollow, miserable.

“Five minutes.”was Kevin’s only reply.

“What?”

“Five minutes. You scored on me in five minutes, closer to three if you count the way you were barely trying before. Trust me, you think I didn’t notice? Do you know who I am?”

Internally, Neil was asking the very same question.

Kevin’s words weren’t arrogant, just incredulous. 

Neil shook his head, still readying his vocal chords for more lies. Under Kevin’s stare, he relaised he had to say something. “Uh, the manager said you guys were college athletes.” At last, Neil made himself look at Kevin’s three companions. Two blonds close to Neil’s height and the third, a brunet closer to Kevin’s.

“Sir, no smoking in the store.” the words fell out automatically at the sight of the cigarette after a year and a half of working here, but he wished he’d said nothing.

A hand grabs his shoulder and he’s ready to fight, his racquet is on the other sid eof the court, but the ball is heavy enough. 

He’s lucky Kevin still has his helmet on.

“Jeez, he’s a flighty one. Strange for what he just did to Kevi.” one of the guys whispers not quietly enough, the tall one, maybe, Neil guessed.

“I’m sorry!” The apology is acidic on his tongue; this is survival, there is no time for sorry, but he means it. 

“You’re sorry?” Kevin still looks dazed.

Time to paly dumb. “Yes, of course. I don’t normally hit customer’s I swear, you can ask Manager Thompson. You just startled me is all.” yeah that was about as convincing as a sales proposition for the brooklyn bridge. Neil lived a life of lies, so why now…

Kevin rolled his eyes, looking rather like he’d forgotten he had his helmet on when he went to smack his palm to his forehead. With a slight flush, he took it off, holding it like one would a basket ball against his side. Oh, well, Neil hated simpering anyway, he was relieved honestly. And if he just remembered he needed to take his own helmet off, that was no one’s business but his own.

“You really don’t know?”

Now Neil could be annoyed. It was clar from the look on Kevin’s face he didn’t suspect a thing. Maybe he could try to sell him the bridge now, but either way he could afford some false ire now.

“No.” The word was sharp and stubborn in a way that contradicted his previous show of floundery, but it felt real on his lips. Still, there was no reason to go off on Kevin, not now, best to stay under the radar as he always had. He shrugged, imagining taking a file to his edges, the rough grating sound resulting in something smooth, pleasant. “No, I don’t really follow the professional stuff.” Of all the lies Neil had told in his ten and eight years, that was somehow the biggest.

Kevin actually seemed to calm down at this, “I’m a striker for Palmetto State University,” He paused after that. Of course the words felt foreign, until recently he’d been a Raven working under the founder of Exy himself. Neil knew from experience his face would give nothing away. He was gald for that, to be honest, he was surprised Kevin hadn’t said his name, maybe he to was secretly hoping for some anonymity. Kevin cleared his throat, “the Foxes.”

Neil nodded, not sure where this was going. Did Kevin think he was dumb? Well, he hadn’t exactly given him a reason not to think so.

“Why haven’t you tried out?!” The words are sudden, an explosion of confusion, like it was the strangest thing in the world, or at least Kevin’s expression would have made anyone think so.

“What?” This time, his confusion wasn’t a lie.

“You go to Palmetto, right?”

It was then that Neil looked down at himself. Underneath his Exites uniform vest, he wore a t-shirt in Palmetto’s ostentatious orange. He lived by saving money and blending in, before now he would’ve never chosen such a colour, but in a university town he blended right in, and this was one of his newest shirts, so even the cheap rough cotton was a nice change. 

In fact, he hadn’t even looked at what it said really, it had come from some charity event and a girl with dyed rainbow tips had been so sweet when handing them out that he couldn’t say no, so he’d dropped a five into the collection box (for an orphanage, maybe?) and taken a medium and been grateful. The benefit of a huge sports university like Palmetto was that there was always some event or another with free swag.

Shit. he’d taken too long to answer. “Yeah. What of it?” Was that too snappy? But why wouldn’t Levin just go already? He could have checked out two minutes ago but here he was falunting Neil’s dream in front of him like a matador in a bullring. He ouldn’t help it, of course, being Mr. Exy himself but…

“So, why haven’t you tried out for the team?”

Neil was tempted to ask, “What team?” but selfishly didn’t want Kevin’s opinion of his intellect to stoop any lower, so he said, “I’m not a sports guy.” It’s true, he was an applied mathematics major. “And my schedule is already way to full for anything else.” Also true. “I want to graduate as quickly as possible,” Painfully true. “I don’t have time for any of that useless stuff, this is just what I do for extra cash.” Three gut-wrenching truths and two, terrible, terrible lies.

The words hurt. The honesty of revealing his crunched graduation schedule and the insult of Exy. But he had to do something to get Kevin out of here before he recognised him, before Neil’s dreams could settle too deep into his bones. He’d worked so hard to force them down, to scrub them out, to burn them away alongside his mother’s blood.

He heard someone suck in a sharp breath, as if bracing for something, and turned to Kevin’s group. “Sorry.” but it didn’t sound at all like he meant it.

He pushed as much boredom as he could into his tone and made sure to get a head start towards the register as he asked, “Are you ready to check out now?” 

In his periphery, Kevin still hadn’t moved. “But- but you have talent!”

“Thank you. Will you be paying in cash or credit?” The dead-pan came easily after so many years.

One of the blonds began to howl with laughter that sounded slightly inhuman. Neil ignored him, instead preparing the point-of-sales device. “Can I get a name for the transaction? If you haven’t got an account, I can start one for you. I’ll just need a mobile number or email.”

The howling got louder. What sound did foxes make, again?

“But you have to! You can’t just sit on talent like that!”

“Oh sure you can. I do.” the blond chimed in through his laughter. The reassurance would have been nice if the laughter and arrogance weren’t a bit unsettling.

“Not. Fucking. Now, Minyard. I’ll deal with you later.” Kevin’s voice was a growl, but he didn’t even look at the blond. 

Minyard, or rather Minyards, plural. The twins: 05 and 03. Andrew or Aaron, Neil wondered vaguely. Who was he kidding? It had to be Andrew. His behaviour was the reason the Foxes got so much coverage last year. Neil knows he shouldn’t look at the brunet (who must be Nicky Hemmick), if he looks he’ll only be darwin into this conversation.

“Can you bring me the racquet, I don’t have the product ID memorised so I’ll have to scan the sticker.” Neil asked innocently, holding his hand out to Kevin who’d finally come off the court.

“Well, give him the damn racquet, Day, since he asked so nicely.” Andrew was laughing again, or still.

Kevin did. Neil was surprised. But when he got to the register he reached over the counter and grabbed an old recite and a pen and started scribbling before Neil could stop him. 

“Here.” he shoved the paper towards Neil, “the dates and locations for the try-out. I’ll confirm it with the coach tonight.”

What? Wh- 

Neil begged himself not to agree right then and there. Oh, he needed a cigarette, just to remind him, to remind him why he-

He let the paper fall hen pushed it cooly back across the counter, “That’s very generous of you, but no thank you.”

Kevin pressed on, sounding distressed now. “Why?”

“I already told you my reasons. Now may I get a name for the transaction, or an account number if you have one. I’d be happy to start one if you don’t, but keep in mind we’re about to close. Unless you’re out of here with this by nine pm, you’ll have to come back tomorrow, I don’t care who you are, that’s the manager’s rule, not mine.” He crossed his arms, suddenly feeling childish. But, it was necessary, saying yes would feel so good, too good, and would only get him dragged back to the very man he’d be trying to escape for so long. “And I’ve got homework.” He added, a bit petulantly.

Kevin opened his mouth again, but was stopped when the brunet stepped up, placing a hand right over his face and smoothly taking the racquet. He placed the racquet across the counter with a curtsy that seemed more than a little sarcastic, “I’m so sorry about him, he was born with a racquet up his ass. The account should be under Wymack, that’s W-Y-M-A-C-K, first name David and we’ll be using credit.” When Neil finished entering the racquet’s information, he looked between the two men, before deciding it would be faster to give the form to the brunet.

The brunet gave him a smile that seemed just a bit too friendly and began to fill the form with a bright orange pen he’d pulled from behind his ear. He frowned when Neil didn’t seem impressed with the trick. It was only because his mother had spilt all the secrets of sleight of hand to him years ago. 

Thankfully the brunet was quick, when the information regarding colour and design was entered, Neil gave him the thumbs up. “Thanks. I assume that will be all. May I get a name for the order, or just Wymack?”

And damn if it wasn;’t just a little satisfying to see a look of surprise cross Kevin’s face. Neil had told him he didn’t know, but he guessed it hadn’t quite sunk in.

“Day, Kevin.” the brunet supplied, placing his hand back over Kevin’s face pushing him away, back towards the blonds. Thank goodness. Maybe he could go to a game, just once, just to cheer this guy on. He could bring a big sign saying “Thanks for saving my life!” yeah, no.

Meanwhile, Andrew still had the look on his face like all of this was the funniest thing in the whole wide world.

“Okay. The other two should be here in a week, would you like a box or bag for this one?”

“Nah, save the turtles and all, thanks though.”

Neil almost laughed at that, almost. Thankfully he kept it in, or Kevin might have started talking again. And, it was almost nine. He really did have homework.

The group left as loudly as they came, all making fun of Kevin. And when they were clearly out of earshot, Neil laughed harder than he had in as long as he could remember, and when the laughter became coughing and then the acrid remains of tears he could no longer cry, he locked up and went back to the dorms.

He was alone on the bus, which was good. At night, the drivers drove faster than they probably should, so he made great time, and the jolt of every pothole kept him from thinking, imagining where he might be if he’d taken that paper. The group had left it there. He’d wanted to throw it away, so desperate, but like the miserable bastard he was, he pocketed it, just so later, when his luck inevitably ran out and he was being dragged towards a painful death he could remind himself that Kevin Day had wanted him, even if it wasn’t really him.

Thumbing the paper in the pocket of his ratty jeans as he climbed the steps to his dorm made him realise he had less dignity than Kevin. Of course he did, he’d killed men. And he would have begged the exact same way if he’d been in Kevin’s place, everything and anything for the game. It wasn’t even a question.

At midnight, there was a knock on his door. His roommate didn’t stir, of course not, it was Friday night, so the man was probably near black-out drunk. In fact, Neil was surprised he came back so early. A power nap before hitting the club in an hour or two maybe? This must be his friends coming to collect him. 

Eye-roll at the ready, Neil opened the door. It wasn’t his roommate’s friends. Neil rolled his eyes anyway.

“Why are you here?” was pointless.

“You found my room number? Stalker. Leave or I’m calling campus police.”

“No, you won’t.” the blond frome earlier, Andrew stepped out from behind Kevin. Neil hadn’t noticed him, he was so short.

“And why not?” Neil was already shutting the door.

Andrew jammed a racquet against the frame, preventing it from closing all the way. “Because you don’t want shit to do with pigs, I can tell.”

“Campus police hardly count.”

“No, they’ve got the real deal now, after Kevin’s transfer and all.”

Right, of course. Raven’s fans hadn’t been happy about the ordeal, nor had they been kind and theyw eren’t subtle about either. He’d heard rumours of the vandalism whispered in the corridors.

Dammit, why did this guy know exactly what to say. Did- Did Kevin recognise him? Was he sitting in the car thinking, and then boom, he made the connection? Had the dye and contacts ever been enough? Or was Neil just deluding himself? Did Kevin bring Andrew here as muscle to knock him out? He hadn’t seen what car they were driving, but it must have been roomy to fit the four of them. They’d probably already called his father-

There was a fire escape just across the room behind him. Neil bolted. For once, he was too slow. Andrew shoved the racquet through the door, opening it wide and sending Neil sprawling. He lay, frozen on the floor, awaiting doom.

He grit his teeth, “I won’t go.”

Confusingly, Andrew stepped away, back towards the door, and took a place by Kevin in the doorway. As he went, he sighed theatrically. “Jesus, fucking christ, Josten -yeah we got your name from the lady too- what the hell did stickball do to —Fuck you!" he turned back to Neil, "Not you- no, no, actually you too.” Andrew bent over, clutching his ribs.

Kevin had taken the racquet and shoved it into Andrew’s side to shut him up. Neil squirmed upright in time to see the glint of a knife at Kevin’s throat.

“I have ears, fuckwad.”

“And yet you never use them.”

The blade moved upwards, “Would you like to never use yours again?”

Kevin glared, but Neil guessed that was some understanding between them he wasn’t seeing because he shoved Andrew away like he wasn’t about to get the double Van Goh. No ears, one hand, they’d have to call him Number One then.

He walked towards Neil. Neil tensed. Fuck Exites’ metal detectors because no he had no weapon.

But Kevin just said, “Please.”

Please?

Oh yes, please go back to your father and get chopped up, just for me. Pretty please with a cherry on top. 

“Go fuck yourself.” Neil Josten wouldn’t have said that, wouldn’t have started a confrontation, but if he was going abc to Baltimore, he wasn’t going back without a fight.

Kevin groaned. “Great there’s two of you.”

What? Was he seeing double? Was he drunk?

“Andrew’s just like this you know, join and maybe you can find a friend.” Kevin turned to Andrew for backup. Andrew didn’t even acknowledge him, didn’t want to grace the plea with an answer.

“What?”

“Play Exy for the Foxes You have to,”

Neil tried to say he didn’t have to do a single damned thin for anyone, tried to ask what this had to do with anything. Was this some sort of deal with his father? Do well here, then make him money playing Pro-Exy and Neil could live in peace? But Kevin didn’t let him get a word in.

“I can’t watch your talent go to waste like this. It hurts! Don’t you know what you could be? Don’t you want it? You should. You should want it like air to breathe. You could be Court for god’s sake!-” 

This went on for so long, that Neil stopped listening (he couldn’t, it hurt to much, it felt too good) and instead wondered if his roommate wasn’t really dead. Then he, Kevin Day, actually dropped to his knees and begged. Granted, Neil was still on the floor, but…

When Kevin finally took a breath, curse that athletic stamina, Neil stood up. It was so quick he was a bit dizzy, and the room was lit up with spots for a moment. He regained his bearings quickly though when Kevin grabbed his legs, reminding him of his original purpose.

“Holy shit jackass, can you pretend to have some dignity??”

Kevin had no answer but, “I think he really wants you to play Exy with him.” Neil turned his head so fast it hurt. He’d forgotten Andrew was there. But he was, very, there, casually turning a lit lighter in his hands barely illuminating his cocked eyebrow and twisted grin.

It went against everything he lived by, it was everything he lived for. It was everything he’d given up long ago, it was everything he could still be. It would get Kevin to shut up.

But what really sold him… “Join. See how long you can keep his attention. You won’t have to stay long. I’ll be done with you by spring, but maybe he’ll keep you around till summer.” And Andrew stepped forward, yanked Kevin up and turned to go, “You still have our paper, don’t you?” The question dripped with faux pity.

Neil was at The Foxhole Court at 4:30 am the next morning.

(A/N: This was supposed to be crack, but it got kind of internal dialogue heavy. I’m sorry. Also it is a bit longer than I intended because I suck at one-shots. The ending got tricky, because I wasn’t too inspired on what to write for the actual dialogue bits of Kevin’s pleas, and I didn’t want to rehash too much of Neil’s thought process against joining, since we already know that, so if it sounds weird, that's why. I kinda feel like everyone was a bit out of character, but this is only my second AFTG fic, so… idk.)

[the-edge-of-truth-and-deciet]

Shadow Milk x Gn! Puppeteer reader

Okay so I’ve seen many portrayals of beasts x readers. Sooo I wanted to give it a go keep in mind I’m making the reader up in a way that I would believe the beasts would have the best chance of loving. It may not be totally healthy at times but then neither are the beasts.

When one knows all, what is there left to even lie about?

Shadow milks mind was an ever expanding labyrinth. The truth, bitter worse than any medicine could be.

He was saving everyone, he was saving them all!

His words sweet as sugar to the tongue, akin to music to other cookies ears.

It was healing. He was doing much better than the the witches would have.Much better than they would have cared too.

But still…. cookies found a way to be ungrateful.

Disguised in primroses his dough smelling of sweets, paper and gloss. Bows in his hair shadow milk was amongst cookie kind again. So incredibly bored.

He had heard of his other half..His soul jam taken. His thoughts turned like an endless carousel. Shadow Milk’s heels beautiful deceitful and shiny. Clicking across the kingdoms floor.

He hadn’t bothered to learn the name.

This place was so beautiful, so fragile like cookies minds..

He watched as men wandered late for work putting so much stock in their mundane lives.

As if any of it mattered at all.

Their names wouldn’t even make a margin in a book..yet they lived so full of joy..ignorance was a bliss he was never allowed.

So he watched that was all he was ever did, in his early days as a Sage gazing upon his students. Watching as they to learnt new concepts excitement bleeding into their jam.

In a way he would never get to experience. He had been baked with it, full of it from the beginning, written by witches and encased by purpose.

He watched with detachment, or perhaps a cruel amusement?

This kingdom

Watching …the king parade around helping people best he could ..people smiling brightly at him..oh how revolting.

One whisper here…

An uprising disguised as a protest.

Distrust would fester as deep as the very caramel that bound some of them together.

He had watched it a thousand times.

It held no novelty to make this place fall.

Perhaps he’d get Black sapphire to do it..

He loved watching how proud he’d get..the way he’d try to hide it, lie to the master of deceit could you believe that..? Unlike Candy apple cookie, he played indifferent.

But he was far to easy to read.

Like students he’d had in the past.

Regardless, he passed a bakery, fresh bread wafting around. He’d never need to eat.. Star jellies, an unnecessary indulgence for him. Though his dough protested.

It never used to

He stumbled.

A few cookies turned, concerned or allured. His disguise. It was amazing after all, He was a dainty young lady loosing her balance. His hair fluttering by his face.Shadow Milks eyes shut. Teeth grit. when he got his hands on that Faerie’s blasted kingdom..death was to kind for that elder…his sanctuary should fall quick and fast.

The clink of wood broke his thoughts, he had fallen to a bench it was covered with ornate wooden carvings of bear jellies, done recently..by sugar gnomes.. Feet throbbing his dough weakened beyond belief, he cursed he simply couldn’t float! It would ruin his act and Shadow Milk was everything but a bad actor.

When his eyes opened ornate and cerulean. He saw you..A tall cookie, your fingers long and slender holding strings attached to puppets..they were beautiful and detailed steeped in talent. Painted well, wooden in nature. Shadow milk’s interest was peeked. Stories..stories were always a treasure.

As the Sage he had never been one for them..he could usually guess the ending.. now a days he still could, cookies were so predictable the same tale again and again. Always one of heroism..to make themselves feel good, to lie to themselves. To pretend the world was worth saving once more.

Regardless his eyes were focused on you, on the street performer.

You were stunning in your execution, each finger moved with prescieian as your characters. Your puppets bent to you. A story on a humble stage the curtains red and hand made hot glue still clinging to the edges. Your face screwed in concentration as you told the tale old and practised.

A knight a dragon and a princess at play, children swarmed you your hat on the well paved road collecting gold from exasperated parents and ecstatic children desperate to see how it ends.

Shadow Milk scoffed his eyes straying once more, just another redundant tale.

It didn’t matter how glossy your lips looked, how your voice changed for every character that you played. Deep and commanding for the dragon, sweet and high for the princess and young and brave for the prince.

The end would be the same he had seen it before.

So he shut his eyes once more, yet he couldn’t burn you form his brain the way you smiled at every child’s excitement like a novelty the way you seemed so invested in your story. He found a smirk on his face when your voice ramped up for the conclusion.

The swish of crude curtains, a light hint of the fragrance you had used.

The children’s excited voices, their yells reached him here..he grimaced they sounded like Candy apple cookie..heavens that girl wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Tell us! Does the princess escape?”

“Is the prince okay?”

“The dragon must feel really bad huh?”

Your laugh rang over them all as you concluded the tale, your fingers nimble the sound of wood hitting Shadow Milks ears with finality. As the dragon slammed against the humbly crafted stage, the children clapped and parents handed you the gold you were owed..

Some exasperated, others happy to get going..the rare few enjoying it. The coins glittered in the moonlight amongst your hat you smiled, dusk was turning to a cool starry night it was about time to leave.

Shadow Milk watched as you stood, hands nimble and gentle like the worlds most beautiful sculpture had gained sentience and moved. Brushing the coins into your pocket, hat firmly on your head. You began to pack up each puppet. Strings smoothened with such care..

Shadow Milk didn’t know what possessed him to stand, still as a beautiful lady his intentions concealed and hidden behind charm..Perhaps it was your content. Such a basic story..

Your skill was being wasted . Yes that was it! Obviously he couldn’t stand seeing a fellow puppeteer be satisfied with such a boorish tale..He’d show you a whole new world of story’s and eventually a whole new world of lies..

You’ll forget wether one begins and one ends.

It was your skill that was all. Nothing to do with your radiance..Nothing to do with the fact that you were a simple cookie, nothing like him at all, and yet his eyes still lingered.

On the curve of your lip

the lilt of your voice

the hue of your eyes

the way the moon reflected across your skin.

It had nothing to do with that at all. He was above such things after all he knew all.

So when the beautiful “Lady Milk crown” approached you..and complained of a cake hound attack, her legs oh so weak to walk. You picked her up with no strain offering to get her home..

Only for her to proclaim her noble status, her fascination with you.

Asking if you’d perform in her court with her stories.

Your stomachs flipped you hadn’t been able to land stable employment for a while..Sure spinning stories was a passion..But gold kept the jelly on the table..

So without a shred of doubt in your eyes you nodded ecstatic.

This lady was offering you to be a jester!

Little did you know you were already speaking to one.

You didn’t know when your legs carried you off to your own home instead of hers. Her words soft in your ear unable to be ignored.

When did “Lady Milk crown” settle on your couch..Why were you offering her your bed?Rambling about its comfort level compared to the couch?

Why did she take you up on that?

Regardless you were giddy someone liked your performance!

Someone wanted you to perform for them. Someone stunning and sweet, someone who would pay you for your creativity. That same creativity that flowed easier than the soda streams on far away islands.

Shadow Milk couldn’t wait..

A world of stories corruption was in your future, all at his hand..

He’d hope you keep looking at him with such reverence even when you knew the truth of it all..

Then again watching your face crumple in confusion the deceit having poisoned your mind. As he revealed himself to be the beast he was..that was good too.

[is-the-fire-real]

Conversion student, Masorti tradition, with a Sephardic community and an Ashkenazi Rabbi.

I've struggled a LOT with the concept of G-d. I have a differing perspective than most of the Jews you're talking about, though, for obvious reasons.

I was raised in a Christian-ish cult. This cult was extremely centered on a Heavenly Father. They are obsessed with him. They taught me a lot about how to pray and how to worship and so forth. They used my belief in Heavenly Father to trap me further into the cult. I wanted to believe in a Heavenly Father because a lot of really horrible things happened to me as a child. I wanted to feel like someone cared about me. No one in my life did, including cult members, so I figured Heavenly Father was obliged to.

I prayed a lot as a child. Until once I prayed for a miracle, a miracle my elders promised me would absolutely happen because my faith was pure and I was loyal and Heavenly Father was real and he would listen, and...

... nothing happened.

Nothing ever happened.

For a long time, I took that personally: as G-d simply not listening or caring. But eventually, long after I left the cult, I finally started thinking: It's because there's no G-d.

I engaged with neopaganism for a while. Nothing ever happened. I engaged with Buddhism for far longer. Nothing ever happened. I would still periodically pray when I was at my extremes of stress or pain or strife, and...

... nothing. ever. happened.

Religious trauma's damage cannot be overstated. It's not just the obvious and headline-grabbing stuff; it's stuff like what happened to me. Taking a child's natural sense of trust and twisting it for the purposes of cruel or indifferent humans. Building my expectations so high, and then blaming me whenever they failed. Taking lonely kids who have zero friends and telling them that G-d will be their friend, and then, when G-d isn't your friend... well, it makes sense nobody else likes you, right? After all, you've even been rejected by G-d Himself.

You don't just feel abandoned, you feel foolish for trusting G-d or anyone, and you feel foolish as an adult whenever you try to trust anyone. Anyone mentions G-d and you struggle not to roll your eyes because oh yeah this crap again, you're just trying to trick me into turning off my brain, I won't fall for it this time.

So why am I converting? What do I get out of it?

I started out mostly an atheist who admired so much of Jewish culture and thought that, to be honest, I was okay with being around people who talked about Hashem as though He spoke to them personally. I figured that if Jews pray the Shema, I ought to pray the Shema, and even if I didn't know how to feel about the subject of the Shema, it was important to do. That is how I have approached a lot of my conversion so far.

But. Like. In the past month or so? I think maybe I'm starting to glimpse Someone. I feel like learning about the real purpose of prayer has helped me to pray more effectively. The more I learn about how Jews as a people view G-d, the more that G-d seems like someone I could follow, and the more I start to suspect that maybe, possibly, He's there.

So much of the Torah describes Israel as a lover and G-d as a wooer. Well, how do you fall in love with someone if you never have a single disagreement with them, ever? If you never bicker? Maybe some folks are struggling with G-d as a concept because they want to know who they'd be loving, if the vulnerability is worth it. (Apologies to the aromantics out there.)

By wrestling with the concept of G-d, I came around to a better understanding of G-d, and feel far differently about Him than if I'd just been told at the outset "believe in Hashem or else you can't be a Jew".

Anyway, I have no idea if this will clarify anything for you, but it's what came to mind when I read your query. I would gently suggest it's not so much a Reform thing as a "humans that have been hurt very badly by other humans" thing.

I’m genuinely so confused at where this idea that Jews have this tradition of grappling with the concept of G-D comes from like?? Last time I checked like the most important thing in Judaism is to believe in Hashem ?? Like am I missing something cause I’m so ??? over this

[anime-in-new-albion]

Otome Game ~ Idia Shroud

Summary: It was Idia's idea to game with you. But when you ask him for help with your otome game, he can't help but notice some similarities between him and your favorite character...

Pairing: Idia Shroud X Fem!Reader

Genre: Fluffy Oneshot

Word Count: 1004

Warning: Otome gaming

Masterlist

It was Idia's idea to game with you, although he only asked because you mentioned that you had a new game that you haven't gotten around to playing yet. You were sure he had ulterior motives when he asked you to hang out, but you didn't bring it up with him as you didn't want to scare him off. Instead, you simply grabbed your game and met him at his dorm.

Ortho was more than excited to see you. You always held a special affection to Idia's little brother that didn't go unnoticed by both parties. On more than one occasion when you weren't around, Ortho would beg his brother to finally ask you out. But Idia was far too terrified to approach you with a romantic relationship. So he simply settled for a friendship that he would never ever, ever, EVER take advantage of.

Idia made sure to clean his room before you arrived and you were pleasantly surprised. Whenever you crashed the Board Game Club meetings, Azul would go on and on about how filthy his room was. Still, you didn't point it out to him. You didn't want to make him feel any more self-conscious than he already was.

After exchanging some casual pleasantries, the two of you fell into your gaming. It was calm and relaxing. You found yourself enjoying your time with the dorm leader of Ignihyde more than you anticipated. He was considerate about your own gaming experience and kept his reactions to his game quiet. Every so often you would look up and watch what he was doing, asking questions when you felt it was appropriate. He answered all of your questions with ease and even reciprocated by asking questions about your game. All and all, it was the perfect afternoon with one of your favorite people.

Then you hit a rough patch in your game. Your sigh of frustration alerted Idia, who knew exactly what it meant: you needed help. Now, Idia doesn't like to boast about his exceptional skills when it comes to video games, but surely he could appear like your knight in shining armor and lend you a hand?

"What's wrong?" He softly asks, his gaze still trained on the game he was playing.

"I'm stuck. I don't know which boyfriend to choose." You mumble, flicking through the different options in your otome game.

Idia thought it was a good thing you weren't paying attention to him as his hair flickered pink for a brief moment. He fumbled with his control to pause his game before finally addressing your issue.

"What, what do you mean?"

You showed him the screen of your game console. "So my new game is an otome game. I have seven boys to choose from. I just completed the intro and now I have to pick one, but I don't know who to choose."

He frowned and looked at your options. "Why don't you just pick one that you like and then do the other routes later."

"That's the problem. You can only choose once. If I want to complete the other routes, I have to buy another game. It's a major capitalism scheme, but I thought the game looked fun." You shrug. "Any idea who I should choose?"

"Uh... why don't you tell me about them and then I'll help you decide."

You nod with a smile that makes the tips of his hair turn pink again. "Okay in order here you have: Ryushi, the strict student body president who just needs someone to soften his edges, Ietsuna, the lazy slacker who only cares about you, Amane, the bad boy who likes to tease and torment, Kobo, the golden retriever who is the fan favorite, Michinori, the cultured exchange student who is a little fruity in my opinion, Masanobu, the secret prince of the school who would do anything for you, and Ichibei, the otaku with a heart of gold."

"Wow." He's surprised with how typical the choices are like every other otome game. He would normally say pick the one you're most interested in as they're pretty average, but considering you can only make one choice, you have to be careful. "I guess I'd have to say the choice is up to you."

You give him a pout. "You're really going to make me make such a tough decision all on my own? You're so mean, Idia!"

He panics at your words, not meaning to make you upset with him. "Well I mean it's your game! You should pick the boy you feel is the most special to you! I can't really help you make that decision."

"I suppose you're right..."

"Who do you feel is special?"

You shrug and glance back at your choices. "Well, I first thought about Masanobu because who wouldn't want to be a princess? But I felt he was trying too hard in the prologue to try and gain your favor. So I went through the options again and I'm stuck on two: Amane and Ichibei."

He tried to not let you know how surprised and flustered he was. "Oh?"

You nod. "I mean, I'm so like other girls when I say I love a bad boy, but Ichibei... he seemed so sweet and shy. I couldn't help but be drawn to him. I think he might be my favorite."

Your explanation was not helping the poor boy's rapidly beating heart. Based on your little description about him, Idia couldn't help but see similarities between him and Ichibei. Was this your subtle way of saying he was your favorite too? Was it too much to hope that that was true?

"I think you should go with your favorite."

You beamed at his words and his heart skipped several beats. "I think you're absolutely correct! Thank you Idia!"

"You're welcome." He mumbled and tried to return to his game. But he was distracted. Your words and your choice hit him harder than he anticipated. Perhaps Ortho was right. He should ask you out…

[katyspersonal]

Don't know if this was asked before but since it will soon me a year since its release, what are your thoughts on sote and radahn?

I've been rewatching jack play sote and I love everything about it but radahn, like I just can't put my finger on it (this isn't even about godwyn cause it's impossible for it to be him) it just kinda feels like (to me at least) I wish we got more about Miq and Radahn in base game to really build off the reveal, doesn't help that the final boss makes me want to throw my controller lol. I guess that's like the main thing bugging me about sote, everything else was really good. Would love to read your thoughts on this.

Yet again, I am very simple about the "no foreshadowing" situation, so it's time to pull out the Ol' Reliable:

(From this ( x ) interview)

I think that they've always wanted to make Radahn and Miquella an (involuntary) item but completely omitted the plot from the base game, with the exception of Aeonia Battle happening at all, because it would just be not worth it without the full ascension plot! Like how in base Bloodborne, Maria was not foreshadowed at all and was simply referred to as a nameless Old Hunter and a student of Gehrman. Because Doll being a grief ornament of Maria would just be not worth it without actually meeting her!

It was not just a callback to Lorian and Lothric either, because... well, Malenia and Miquella are actual callback to Lorian and Lothric. x) Younger sibling born so cursed that older one helps to lift their curse, and they basically exchange; Miquella's golden blood makes up 3.5 of Malenia's limbs, and he in turn also gets touched by the Scarlet Rot:

(Cleanrot Knight's wings reference by Youtuber Zullie the Witch ( x ))

Like, with SO much story and connection between Malenia and Miquella, there was no other reason to have it be Radahn unless they simply planned it to be Radahn from the start and now went "damn, we actually can bring it back now"! Like, yes, lolrandom ship but you go girl, as long as it is not forced fanservice (remember SVTFOE Starco nonsense to DIE instantly) I'll just accept it sooner or later! I remember it took some time to digest the PCR thing at first, but mostly because it was not a very good look for Malenia + Miquella felt like the type to embrace everyone, without picking favourite to me.

Miquella and Malenia being inspired by Radahn to aspire to be kinder and stronger respectively when they were young is also beliveable! Like, it fits into the story considering all characters and relationships, not to mention that Miquella carving his way to be compassionate and king is cooler than being "born good"! Besides, it means that Godwyn was not fit to inspire the twins to work on themselves, and what it means is that something was whack with the "perfect golden guy advertisement of how cool Erdtree is" underneath, even if he was still loved dearly. And I am all here for it! Radahn's inclusion is random without the foreshadowing, but getting him involved in the family drama even more than just the Aeonia Battle contributes, in my opinion! It offers interesting ideas, insights and interactions! "I like what I can do with this information" is the best way I can describe it.

Like, yes, they could have found a way to make PCR battle go in a more interesting way. Like it going wrong since Stage 2 because Radahn is using Mohg's body and it could break free and cause havoc and messed up mutations or something. The only flaw of the pair itself is literally lack of foreshadowing, and I already said that you just have to accept that Fromsoft does this thing consistently because their ideas never agree with their absurd deadlines xD

[erwinsarmrest]

i think that the sole reason that gojo wasn’t at the school during the final fight in jjk0 is because after yuuta kissed the big ass curse monster on the mouth in front of everyone gojo and geto would have looked at eachother the way best friends do and would have immediately burst out laughing so hard that the fight wouldn’t be able to go on

[dailykugisaki]

Day 355 | id in alt

I was out here just "Wow I should color this so they know I'm gonna put air Jordans on Kugisaki Nobara fortnite tomorrow" then I didn't and just slapped some random shit on. She looks nice though.

[itspileofgoodthings]

one of the funniest things I did in my early teaching days was, when I was calling out a class for bad/rowdy behavior, I also paused to call out the quiet kids who took advantage of the bad/rowdy behavior to do whatever they wanted.

[b0amagination]

fucking obsessed with a chair in the bathroom in a whump scene. the kind that belongs in a dining room or a kitchen.

this chair Does Not Belong Here. something Wrong is happening here. why is so much time being spent in this room that a chair is suddenly so necessary that one would drag it from The Other Room

sitting on the toilet simply would not suffice, no no no. it's CHAIR TIME

[thingsmethinks]

Talking to [leftist/socialist/progressive/whatever] white people as a brown girl is always an experience